Chapter 03 : "The Crimson Guardian and the Shadowed Prophecy"

In an expansive world where the sky shimmers in shades of violet beneath an ever-present sun, a towering city rises, encircled by high black stone walls etched with enigmatic carvings. At its heart, Andalusian palaces stand tall, as if sculpted from moonlight itself, adorned with intricate engravings and fountains that spill silver water, reflecting the glow of lanterns hanging from arched gates. Before these grand palaces, guards clad in gleaming golden armor stand motionless, resembling statues carved by the hands of an ancient deity. Yet, their eyes—entirely red, devoid of whites—betray a secret beyond human comprehension. In their hands, they grip swords forged from pure gold, their hilts adorned with meticulous carvings that whisper the tales of forgotten ages.

As one moves away from the palaces toward the gently sloping lands, a village brimming with life emerges. Its buildings are modest yet elegant, constructed from gray stone with small wooden windows draped in colorful curtains. The winding alleys between the homes carry the scent of fresh bread and exotic spices. The villagers, in stark contrast to the palace guards, possess warm, lively expressions, their eyes filled with vitality. They wear loose-fitting garments embroidered with silver threads. Barefoot children run through the streets, laughing, while elders sit outside their homes, recounting ancient tales. At the heart of the village, a small market bustles with merchants displaying their goods on wooden stalls—vividly colored fruits of unknown origin and mysterious artifacts whose history remains untold.

This world, with its peculiar blend of grandeur and simplicity, feels as though it has stepped out of the pages of an ancient book yet to be read.

In a small cottage, nestled deep within the vast forest, an elderly man sat with his granddaughter at a simple wooden table. The dim candlelight flickered gently, casting shadows on the worn-out furniture and the modest meal before them. Though poverty was evident in every corner of the room, happiness lingered in the air, as if it had chosen to reside with them, untouched by the burdens of the world.

The young girl, petite in stature, with emerald-green eyes that gleamed like rare gemstones, reached out and held her grandfather's wrinkled hand. Her voice, tinged with sorrow, trembled as she spoke:

Grandfather, I have grown weary of Jiria's rule and his men… Weary of solitude. I long to feel love, to experience romance. I want to find someone who can extinguish the fire of hatred and loneliness in my heart."

The old man gazed at her with wise, knowing eyes before letting out a deep sigh, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the table. Then, in a voice calm yet laced with an air of mystery, he said:

"There is an ancient prophecy, my dear… One whispered by sages and seers for centuries. A prophecy of a man who will come into this world, yet he is no ordinary man. He was given a choice—himself, his soul, his family. He lost everything… yet in his loss, he found strength. In his pain, his destiny was forged. This man… will change the kingdom itself."

The girl's brows furrowed in surprise as she asked, her voice barely above a whisper:

"And what do I have to do with any of this?"

Her grandfather smiled faintly, as if holding a secret that had been waiting for the right moment to be unveiled. Leaning closer, he whispered:

"Because you… are the only one who can change him."

A shiver ran down her spine as she stared into her grandfather's candlelit eyes. For a fleeting moment, she felt as if she was glimpsing a future she had never imagined. Her heart pounded, her mind racing.

Who was this man? Could she truly change his fate, or had destiny already carved its path?

That night, beneath the flickering glow of the candles, a story began—one yet to be written. A tale of love and destiny, of fate and freedom, of a heart searching for the one who could tame its fire.

The grandfather and his granddaughter, Aona, sat at the wooden table, eating their meal in eerie silence. Only the whispering wind outside the small cottage and the flickering candlelight disturbed the stillness, casting restless shadows across the ancient walls. Suddenly, the old man broke the silence, his voice low but heavy with years of wisdom:

"Aona... I felt his presence."

Aona lifted her head swiftly, her emerald-green eyes widening, glowing with the same fierce light that had burned in her heart since birth.

"Who, Grandfather?"

The old man sighed, as though carrying the weight of an age-old prophecy upon his shoulders, before answering:

"The man spoken of in the prophecy… but he is not alone. I sense a dark energy surrounding him, something unnatural. It would be best for you to leave me now and go find him."

Aona did not hesitate. She rose gracefully from her seat and strode to an old wooden chest in the corner of the cottage. Lifting its heavy lid, she retrieved a light leather breastplate, a belt carrying a silver dagger, and a sword with a gleaming, blood-red edge. She changed into sleek black battle attire, her slender yet strong frame poised for action. Her straight, fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders like calm flames before the storm. In that moment, she looked like a warrior from a forgotten legend—a woman carrying an unquenchable fire in her heart.

She stepped toward the door, her grip tightening around her sword hilt, and declared firmly:

"I will find him, Grandfather."

The old man nodded and spoke in a voice filled with both warmth and urgency:

"Be the mountain that shields him from the wind. Without you, he has no hope in this world."

Aona met his gaze with unwavering determination.

"I will not allow Jiria's or his men to harm him."

The old man chuckled softly, then gave her a knowing look.

"You misunderstand me, my dear… Jiria has no chance against him. I speak of the force within him, the power that seeks to control him. If that power succeeds… we will witness another Jiria being born."

Aona froze, her eyes widening in shock.

"You mean… Jiria was once like him?"

The grandfather nodded slowly, his voice filled with the weight of truth.

"Yes. They come from the same world. A human, born among men, but he chose power over love… and lost everything that once made him human."

Aona felt her heart hammer in her chest, but she clenched her fists and declared with fiery resolve:

"Fear not, Grandfather… I will be his guardian angel. I will sacrifice myself for him if I must."

The old man smiled, his voice carrying rare warmth.

"I believe in you and your strength… Now go. He is in the dark forest, at the witch's cottage."

Aona's grip on her sword tightened, her emerald eyes flashing with unshakable resolve. She muttered under her breath:

"Damn it… I need to hurry."

She pushed open the wooden door, and a gust of cold wind burst into the cottage as if the world itself was sending her off. Then, in the blink of an eye, she launched forward, her movement beyond human limits. Like a bullet fired through time, she barely touched the ground, leaving a trail of scattered leaves and torn air in her wake. She was a crimson blur cutting through the dark forest, moving at a speed that defied logic—almost as if she were reaching the speed of sound itself.

Her journey had begun.