Chapter 12: The Cycle of Cruelty

The Fall of Duè Condàn

Time flowed like an unceasing river, indifferent to the lives it carried forward. Was existence merely a sequence of changes, a shifting of moments from one to the next? I no longer recalled the day I was born, nor did I think much of my birthdays. But today, I turned eighteen.

My brother, now seventeen, had grown stronger—stronger than I had ever anticipated. Perhaps, in due time, he would surpass me. The thought lingered in my mind, an inevitability rather than a mere possibility.

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Yet, elsewhere in the vast lands of the Xuan Continent, the world moved on in its own unpredictable course.

Beneath the dim glow of lanterns, a transaction was taking place.

A wealthy merchant, his robes woven with golden thread, his demeanor slick with calculated charm, sat across from a silent figure clad in black. The merchant's voice was smooth, persuasive—a serpent's whisper that promised prosperity to those who listened. His audience, however, remained unmoved.

The masked figure, known only by the name Evermore, exuded an unsettling stillness. He spoke little, his words measured, devoid of excess. The agreement was reached swiftly, ink meeting parchment in a silent contract. No voices were raised, no celebration was had.

Business was business.

The merchant, pleased with himself, returned to his hometown—Duè Condàn, a place of tradition, religion, and activism. It was a town unlike most in the Xuan Continent, its people distinct in their ways, their beliefs, their very existence. The moment he arrived, he was greeted not as a mere merchant but as a hero.

For thirty minutes, the town rejoiced.

They sang his praises, called his name with reverence, showered him in admiration. Candles illuminated the streets, flickering against the twilight sky, as if the heavens themselves acknowledged his success. He basked in the warmth of their love, drunk on the illusion of safety.

And then—a scream.

It was sharp, piercing through the festivities like a blade slicing through silk.

An arrow had lodged itself deep into the chest of a young man standing in the crowd. His body staggered before crumpling to the ground, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him. His expression held no understanding, only shock—as if he had yet to comprehend his own death.

Then came another arrow.

And another.

Within moments, the skies rained death. Hundreds of arrows whistled through the air, cutting down men, women, and children alike. The joyous festival turned into a slaughterhouse, the scent of incense replaced by the metallic tang of blood. The town, once filled with song, now echoed with cries of agony.

The merchant, his once-proud demeanor reduced to sheer terror, scrambled for cover. He stumbled into a barn, its wooden walls shaking with each impact from the outside world. He hid beneath storage crates, heart pounding against his ribs, breath shallow as he listened.

What he heard was not the clash of warriors, nor the defiant roars of his people.

Instead, he heard laughter.

It was distant at first, but it grew—soft chuckles turning into full-bodied amusement. And then, among the madness, he saw them. Figures clad in black, their faces concealed behind masks.

They were not simply killing.

They were playing.

They set fire to homes, watched as the flames consumed the structures and the people inside them. They dragged men into the streets, bound and forced to watch as their families were slaughtered before them. The merchants' own eyes widened in horror as he caught sight of them torturing the barn animals, their cruelty extending even to those incapable of understanding their malice.

This was not just a raid.

This was extermination.

A genocide against Duè Condàn.

The cries of the people became weaker, their resistance crushed under the weight of overwhelming force. Blood pooled along the cobblestone streets, flowing down into the gutters like a river of crimson.

By the time the fires began to die down, nothing remained but ruin.

The town was ransacked. Its treasures plundered, its homes reduced to ash, its people either slaughtered or left to suffer fates worse than death. Even the king, a ruler once beloved, was not spared.

His head was placed atop a broken altar, a grotesque declaration of regicide.

And as the rain began to fall, washing away the blood, only one figure remained standing amidst the carnage.

A lone, masked individual.

He stood where the town square once was, his black robes untouched by the grime of destruction. The firelight reflected off his mask, a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounded him.

This was [Constellation: Evermore].

And as the last embers of Duè Condàn faded into the night, "he" turned and vanished—like a specter, like a god, like something beyond human comprehension.

The Aftermath of Duè Condàn

The fires had long since died down, leaving behind the skeletal remains of a once-thriving town. The streets, once filled with laughter and devotion, were now stained with the blood of its people. Ash clung to the wind, drifting like the lost souls of the slain, whispering silent laments through the hollow ruins.

Yet, for some, death had not been granted.

Survivors of Duè Condàn were not permitted to grieve, nor were they given the mercy of swift execution. Instead, they were shackled, stripped of their names, their dignity, and the last remnants of their humanity. They were declared "war prisoners," though no war had ever been waged. There had been no army, no defenses—only an execution carried out under the guise of conflict.

These prisoners, men and women alike, were herded like cattle into the vast fields of roses that stretched endlessly beyond the ruins of their homeland. Their task was as cruel as it was impossible—to seek out the "Golden Rose."

It was a flower said to bloom only once every ten years, its petals gilded with an ethereal radiance, rumored to possess properties beyond mortal comprehension. Whether the stories were truth or myth mattered little. The prisoners were commanded to search ceaselessly, their hands torn and bleeding as they sifted through thorns, their bodies breaking under the weight of endless labor.

Those who faltered—who dared to slow, to question, to resist—were met with the lash.

The whips used were no ordinary instruments of punishment. Crafted from the jagged spikes of a creature known as the Unon, they tore through flesh with ease, embedding deep wounds that festered beneath the sweltering sun. Each strike carved pain into the bones of its victims, their cries of anguish swallowed by the desolate expanse of the fields.

But pain alone was not their only affliction.

Among them, some had begun to change.

The horrors inflicted upon the people of Duè Condàn had not ended with enslavement. Some were taken, experimented upon, their very bodies warped into grotesque forms. Once-human figures twisted into something else entirely—mutated beyond recognition, their flesh stretched, their limbs malformed, their screams unearthly. Some were driven mad, reduced to nothing more than shrieking creatures that roamed the wasteland of their ruined civilization.

And then, there were those who simply perished.

One such man, a laborer who had spent days without rest, collapsed beneath the weight of exhaustion. His hands, calloused and torn, had lost their strength. His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and he fell against the very roses he had been ordered to search through.

The rain had begun to fall, a soft drizzle at first, then a torrent, as if the heavens themselves wept for him. He did not beg, nor did he resist. Perhaps he had accepted his fate, or perhaps he had simply lost the will to fight.

The execution was swift.

A blade, cold and unfeeling, was driven into his spine.

His body crumpled to the earth, blood pooling around him, mixing with the rain and the petals of the cursed roses. His wife, Qing Shu, was dragged forward, forced to kneel before the lifeless corpse of the man she had once called her husband.

She did not scream.

She did not wail.

She merely watched, her expression unreadable, her body motionless even as the rain soaked through her garments. Perhaps she had already died alongside him, in some way.

Then, a voice broke through the storm.

"You are mine now."

The words came from none other than "Evermore."

The masked figure stood above her, a presence that seemed neither human nor divine—something beyond either. His declaration was not one of affection, nor of choice. It was law.

Qing Shu was wedded to him that very night, in a ceremony as empty as it was cruel. There was no love, no celebration—only subjugation. The act was not one of union, but of conquest, a declaration of ownership rather than devotion.

And in the solitude of his chambers, "Evermore" took her.

There was no tenderness, no gentleness, only a cold, mechanical assertion of power. She did not fight. Perhaps she knew there was no point, or perhaps she had already been broken beyond resistance.

In the months that followed, Qing Shu bore the weight of her torment. Her body swelled with child, a cruel reminder of the horrors inflicted upon her.

But her suffering did not end with the child's birth.

On the day she brought new life into the world, "Evermore" stood over her once more. His masked face revealed nothing—no malice, no remorse, no satisfaction.

He looked upon the newborn child, his own blood, his own flesh, and deemed it unworthy.

Without hesitation, he took a bayonet—its steel cold, unforgiving—and plunged it deep into her womb.

Qing Shu's scream shattered the silence, her body convulsing as the blade tore through her, the infant within her arms never given a chance to cry. Blood soaked the sheets, her vision darkened, and the last thing she saw before death claimed her was the masked figure before her, unmoving, unfeeling.

The child, too, was disposed of—erased from existence as if it had never been.

To "Evermore," it was a mere inconvenience.

A failed experiment.

And as the rain continued to fall over the cursed fields of roses, the cycle of cruelty continued, unbroken, unchallenged.