3

The Thousand Valley of the North.

A land of legend. A graveyard of ambition.

The valley stretched vast and endless, a labyrinth of jagged cliffs, gnarled roots, and thick mist that clung to the earth like ghostly fingers. It was said that no light from the heavens ever fully touched this land. The shadows ran too deep, the sins that slept here too old.

Every five years, warriors, mercenaries, assassins, and lunatics gathered from across the world, all for the same reason: to claim one of the Seven Sins.

The Sins were not objects to be stolen, nor gifts to be won. They were forces—living remnants of ancient power. To earn the blessing of a Sin, one had to embody its essence. A glutton had to gorge. A sloth had to surrender to inaction. A wrathful heart had to spill blood without hesitation.

But desire was a dangerous thing. Where hundreds gathered in pursuit of power, death was inevitable. Blood coated the valley floor long before the true contest had even begun.

For some, the prize was worth it. Immortality, dominion, the strength to alter fate.

For others, it was something simpler. Revenge. Redemption. Survival.

Nine and Aya had spent a month crossing war-torn lands and lawless roads to reach the valley's edge. The journey had been relentless—bandits, feral beasts, sleepless nights spent listening to the distant howls of things that should not exist.

Through it all, Nine had kept them alive.

Not by luck.

By skill.

He was not like the nobles and warriors who trained under grandmasters, learning disciplined forms passed down through generations. Nine had built himself through necessity. He had stolen martial totems, devouring their knowledge, molding them into something uniquely his own. His techniques were brutal, unrefined, but lethal.

But Nine hadn't come for glory.

He had come for the Sins.

The Village at the Edge of Chaos

"It's too dangerous for you to follow me into the valley," Nine said, his voice even, his sharp gaze scanning their surroundings.

They had arrived at a small, battered village nestled on the valley's outskirts. It was little more than a cluster of old stone buildings, their walls worn with time and violence. Strangers loitered along the streets—warriors, mercenaries, desperate souls hoping for a miracle.

Aya clutched his cloak tightly. "With what money?"

Nine smirked. "I'm an artisan, remember?"

"An illegal drug artisan," Aya corrected, eyes narrowing.

Nine chuckled, unfazed. He reached out and lightly pinched her cheeks. "You're so adorable!"

Aya slapped his hand away, frowning, but she couldn't deny the warmth his teasing brought.

The two made their way into a dimly lit pub, where the air was thick with the scent of stale ale and suspicion. All around them, men and women sat hunched over drinks, their weapons within reach. Some eyes lingered too long on Aya, but Nine's presence beside her was enough to deter any thoughts of approach.

They reached the bar, and Nine slid a single gold coin across the counter.

"A cup of milk and a shot of rum," he said casually.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a missing eye, looked down at the coin. His fingers twitched slightly before he wordlessly prepared the drinks. He placed them on the counter and swiped the coin away.

Nine nudged the milk toward Aya before speaking again, his tone light but firm.

"I'm looking for a mercenary."

The bartender didn't react immediately. He wiped the counter lazily, his gaze unreadable. "We've got a few."

"I need a woman," Nine clarified. "Not some bitch. Someone dependable."

The bartender's hands stilled. There was a flicker of hesitation, but when Nine added another gold coin to the counter, his priorities shifted.

"Colla!" he called.

A woman emerged from the back—a striking figure with sharp eyes and an easy smile. Unlike the hardened killers that filled the tavern, she carried an air of warmth.

"New mission?" she asked, her voice lighthearted as she approached.

"What do you think?" Nine turned to Aya, gesturing toward Colla.

Aya studied her quietly. Unlike the other mercenaries she had seen—cold, empty-eyed killers—Colla's warmth was disarming. Almost… out of place.

"…She seems okay," Aya finally said.

Nine nodded. "Good enough. You'll just have to keep her alive."

Colla grinned, saluting playfully. "Got it, boss!"

She tilted her head, studying them both. "Are you two siblings?"

Nine and Aya stared at her, unimpressed.

"Tch," Nine scoffed, brushing past the question. "We need a room with two beds."

The bartender handed over a key, and Nine paid without hesitation.

Colla leaned in closer, still grinning. "Sooo, when do I start?"

"Now," Nine said. "What's your rate?"

Colla held up a badge from her belt. "I'm a beginner! But I'm skilled! Five gold a day?"

Nine smirked, pushing the shot of rum toward her. "I'll pay you ten. Don't disappoint me."

Colla's jaw dropped. "Ten?! Oh, you won't regret it!" She downed the rum instantly.

Nine turned to Aya, nudging her forward. "Go with her."

Aya hesitated, her fingers tightening around the fabric of his cloak.

Nine sighed, adjusting his own hood. "I'll be back soon."

Aya's grip tightened.

"No, you won't," she whispered.

Nine frowned slightly, crouching so their eyes met. His expression softened. "Aya…"

She turned away before he could say anything else.

Nine exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Aya, we've talked about this. A hundred times."

Aya shook her head, her grip unrelenting.

"Colla," Nine said, his voice sharp. "Take her to the room."

Before Aya could react, Colla wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her with ease.

"No!" Aya cried out, struggling, her hand desperately clutching at Nine's cloak.

Tear!

A piece of dark fabric ripped free in her grasp. Aya's breath caught as she watched Nine turn away without hesitation, his figure disappearing into the night.

"Nine!" she sobbed, her voice breaking.

The pub fell silent as the other patrons watched.

Colla carried her up the stairs, murmuring soft reassurances, but Aya barely heard them.

She was still holding the torn scrap of Nine's cloak, her fingers clutching it like a lifeline.

By the time they reached the room, Aya collapsed onto the floor, tears streaking down her face.

Colla sighed, kneeling beside her. "I'm sorry," she said, her tone filled with rare sincerity.

Aya said nothing.

Her mind was trapped in one unshakable truth.

Nine was gone.

And the man who returned—if he ever returned—would not be the same.