Chapter 2

The air smelled of burning wood and blood. Ashen stood frozen, his breath ragged, staring at the bodies of those who had taken him in. Men and women who had taught him how to survive in the wastelands, who had given him food when he had nothing, now lay scattered around him like discarded dolls. The fire cast flickering shadows over Zephyr's figure, his blade still wet with their blood.

"Why?" Ashen's voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

Zephyr turned slightly, his scarred face unreadable. "Because this was always going to happen."

Ashen clenched his fists. His legs felt weak, trembling under the weight of what he was seeing. His mind screamed at him that this was a nightmare, a twisted illusion, but the cold air biting his skin reminded him that this was real.

"You..." Ashen's throat tightened, anger and grief choking him. "You said the Forsaken were a family. That we had no place in the world, so we would make one together."

Zephyr sighed, wiping his blade on the torn cloth of a fallen warrior. "And you believed that?" He scoffed, turning fully toward Ashen. "We were never family, boy. We were survivors. And survivors know when to discard dead weight."

Dead weight.

Ashen's heart pounded. His nails dug into his palms so hard that his skin broke. He could barely breathe, but through the haze of his emotions, he forced himself to speak. "Then why did you spare me? Why take me in if you were just going to kill them?"

Zephyr sheathed his sword, eyes sharp as a predator's. "Because I wanted to see if you could prove fate wrong."

The fire crackled, sending embers drifting into the wind. The corpses at Ashen's feet were still warm, their blood soaking into the ground. The Forsaken were strong. They had survived things most people wouldn't even imagine. And yet, they had fallen like nothing.

Zephyr had done this alone.

"How...?" Ashen whispered, his voice barely audible.

Zephyr smirked, tilting his head. "Because strength is all that matters. And they had none."

Ashen's stomach twisted. A part of him wanted to run. Another part of him wanted to lunge at Zephyr and tear his throat out with his bare hands. But he was weak. He had no Celestial Sigil. No technique. No strength.

Zephyr stepped forward. Ashen flinched but held his ground.

"You feel it, don't you?" Zephyr said, his voice softer now. "That rage. That helplessness. That desperation to change."

Ashen gritted his teeth, his body trembling.

Zephyr crouched slightly, looking him directly in the eye. "I did this for you."

Ashen's breath caught in his throat.

Zephyr gestured toward the dead. "You would have spent your whole life as their pet. A weak little cub among wolves. You would have trained and fought and bled, but no matter what, they would have always looked at you with pity."

Ashen thought back to the way the Forsaken treated him. The way they let him train but never truly believed in him. The way they gave him scraps of knowledge but never the real thing. Even the blade Zephyr had tossed him—the rusted, broken sword—had been a test. A test they thought he would never pass.

"You were their child," Zephyr continued. "Their little stray. But I don't need a child." His eyes darkened. "I need a monster."

Ashen's breath came in sharp gasps. The air around him felt heavy, suffocating.

Zephyr stood. "So I'll give you a choice, Ashen Kael."

Ashen tensed.

"Die here with the weak." Zephyr spread his arms toward the corpses. "Or stand up and prove to me that you were worth sparing."

The world seemed to shrink around Ashen. His thoughts were a whirlwind, his chest tight with a storm of emotions he couldn't contain. His mother's face flashed in his mind. The terrified whispers of the villagers. The way the Forsaken had always looked at him—not as an equal, but as something broken.

And then, the words Zephyr had just spoken.

"I need a monster."

Something deep inside Ashen stirred.

A fire that had never existed before.

Slowly, he raised his head. His gray eyes, once dull, burned with something new.

"Fine," he whispered. "If a monster is what you want..." He clenched his fists. "Then I'll become one."

Zephyr grinned. "Good."

And then he drew his sword again.

"Prove it."

Before Ashen could react, Zephyr moved.

It was too fast.

A blur of motion, a gust of wind—then pain exploded in Ashen's side as a boot slammed into his ribs. He flew backward, crashing into the dirt, rolling over the bodies of his fallen comrades. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself up.

Zephyr was already in front of him.

A fist drove into Ashen's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. He choked, falling to his knees.

"Too slow," Zephyr muttered.

Ashen coughed violently. He tried to push himself up, but another strike hit his jaw, sending him sprawling.

Everything spun.

He tasted blood.

"I can't win."

Zephyr loomed over him. "This is the difference between us."

Ashen gasped for breath, his fingers digging into the dirt. His body screamed at him to stay down. To give up.

But something inside him refused.

His body didn't matter. His bones, his muscles, his wounds—they were irrelevant.

Only one thing mattered now.

He would not die here.

With a raw, broken growl, he forced himself to his feet.

Zephyr's eyes flashed with something—amusement? Satisfaction? It didn't matter.

Ashen lunged.

The next second was a blur. A twist of motion, the glint of metal, and then—pain.

Zephyr's sword was at his throat.

Ashen froze, his breath shallow.

Zephyr smirked. "Not bad. But not enough."

The blade withdrew. Ashen gasped, clutching his throat.

Zephyr turned away. "You're not ready to kill me yet."

Ashen's fists trembled.

Zephyr began walking. "Survive. Become strong. Then come find me."

Ashen said nothing.

He would not beg.

He would not break.

He only watched as Zephyr vanished into the night.

And when he was alone, standing among the dead, he swore three things:

One. He would never be weak again.

Two. He would carve his own fate.

Three. He would kill Zephyr.

And so, the monster was born.