Ahead

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Warning

The following novel contains material that may be harmful or traumatic to some readers.It contains graphic descriptions of murder, violence, and other unpleasant text.

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* images in "Characters" section are AI Generated Images and serve as inspiration and may not fully represent the author's vision. *

For a better experience, I recommend opening the Characters section so you can visualize the character as accurately as possible. The descriptions here will not be very detailed.

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Ereboreth steps cautiously into the crypt, his movements slow and deliberate. As he moves deeper into the chamber, he can feel it—the ancient magic that had protected this place for millions of years...

Was gone.

The room is empty. Not a soul in sight. Even the black book that had transported Timothee into the unknown has vanished. Ereboreth, still treading carefully, moves toward the wall directly opposite the entrance.

The wall is made of black stone, appearing no different from the others. But appearances can be deceiving...

He reaches out, pressing his hand against the stone. The moment his fingers make contact, the wall begins to crumble, disintegrating piece by piece.

...

After a brief moment, Ereboreth steps back. Where the wall once stood, there is now only emptiness—an abyss filled with powerful, sinister shadows. The moment these entities glimpse the light... they hunger to consume it. They surge toward Ereboreth... but more than that, they crave escape. Escape from their void.

Thousands of shadowy beings rush toward him, their whispers carrying the echoes of death itself, resonating from the abyss as they push forward into the world of the living.

Yet Ereboreth remains unnervingly calm. His expression is composed but commanding as he faces the encroaching darkness.

(Boom.)

The shadows collide against an unseen, holy barrier. Instantly, the barrier ignites with a radiant, divine glow, its overwhelming light pulsing with sacred power. The very force of it repels the creatures back into the abyss.

Ereboreth now stands before the very soul of Diabolus.

His master.

He waits... as if expecting his master's arrival. Instead, he listens to the chilling voices echoing from the void, speaking in a deadly, ancient tongue—a language he understands.

Then, silence.

And in the far reaches of the darkness, a pair of crimson eyes flicker open.

Ereboreth immediately bows his head.

From within the abyss, vibrations pulse outward, rippling through the crypt. The entire chamber hums in dark harmony.

Ereboreth closes his eyes, clutching his head... as if those vibrations are a form of... communication. He listens intently.

Even the faintest whispers can be heard from the abyss. But only faintly...

...

When the vibrations cease, shock overtakes Ereboreth's face. The abyss seals itself shut, once again replaced by solid stone.

Ereboreth remains frozen, his expression still locked in disbelief.

"That much?!" he mutters aloud... before a sudden surge of dark, auric energy floods the space behind him.

He spins around instantly—only to see a black rift splitting through reality itself.

Through it, he glimpses Timothee.

Ereboreth, alarmed, rushes toward the rift. Timothee's unconscious body tumbles from within. Ereboreth catches him in his arms...

And immediately notices the black marks spreading across his face. Across his body.

Marks that breathe. That writhe upon his skin. Marks that pulse with a darkness deeper than darkness itself. A living void.

Ereboreth can feel something from them—something beyond words. The shock in his expression deepens. As if witnessing a loved one's death... only to lose another moments later.

Without hesitation, he rises, Timothee in his arms, and hastens toward the exit.

Timothee stands at the precipice of his second trial.

And now, it is up to him—

To determine whether he will survive.

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Scarlet Square, Ekpesu's Ghetto, Ekpesu

Celestis Calendar: Day 12, Month of Raphaelis (3/9)

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7 Hours Later, Morning

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A rainy morning had descended upon Scarlet Square... A square teeming with people.

The living...

And the dead, scattered across the ground.

All around, remnants of buildings still stand, adorned with the ashes of a fire long extinguished. Now, they are nothing but smoldering ruins.

The entire perimeter of the square, including every possible entry point, is heavily guarded. Soldiers in yellow-silver armor stand watch, their attire bearing the blue-and-gold heraldry of House Ulbridge.

The air reeks of death, the sky weeps with sorrow. From the ground rises pain, and from the people...

Fear.

Fear of what they are witnessing.

All eyes are fixed on the wooden platform at the square's center. Soldiers stand atop it, surrounding over a dozen prisoners—each one shackled, their heads forced against execution blocks by heavy chains.

Bound like dogs... awaiting the gates of hell. The gates of death.

The gathered crowd watches in hushed terror. Some avert their gaze. Others keep looking...

Until the first execution begins.

A ripple of energy—both in sound and presence—suddenly tears through the assembled masses. A force unlike any other.

The source of this disturbance emerges from within a formation.

A group of dozens of men, encircling a lone figure, moving steadily toward the platform.

...

Moments later, they reach the stairs. And there, only a single pair of feet ascend...

Feet clad in golden armor.

The moment the people lay eyes on this figure, all hatred... all defiance... fades.

Replaced by respect.

And above all—fear.

For they are witnessing the arrival of none other than...

Alandr Ulbridge.

A man of undeniable authority. His very presence serves as a grim reminder of the weight of the moment.

The eye he lost in the revolution years ago remains a testament to his hatred—hatred for the Ghetto.

And more than anything... hatred for Gideon.

He comes to a halt behind the captives, his gaze shifting toward the people watching him. In his eyes, they are filth—vermin of the heavens. He tries to mask his disdain, but the effort is futile. His piercing stare lingers on each of them, but in the end, to him... they are nothing more than things.

"ALANDR!!"

A desperate cry shatters the silence. One of the condemned prisoners—his voice raw with rage.

But Alandr's gaze does not waver. He merely watches, as though witnessing dirt struggling to cleanse itself from the world.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAVE US! YOU PROMISED PURIFICATION—SALVATION FOR OUR SOULS!"

"INSTEAD, YOU ABANDONED US AS FOULLY AS YOUR DAMNED FAMILY DID IN THE PAST!"

"MAY YOUR FATHER PISS INTO THE MOUTHS OF ANGELS!"

"MAY YOUR GRANDFATHER, YOUR GREAT-GRANDFATHER, AND ALL THOSE BEFORE YOU ROT IN—"

A flash of steel.

Before the wind can even carry his words away, Alandr's blade has already found its mark. A clean, merciless strike. The head tumbles to the ground, lifeless.

A name wiped from existence. A soul purified.

"You got what you wanted... purification." Alandr's voice is ice-cold, devoid of emotion.

With a swift flick of his wrist, he casts the blood from his sword before sliding it back into its sheath.

Then, he raises his voice—

"DO YOU WISH TO BE PURIFIED?!"

His words thunder across the square, demanding the attention of every trembling soul.

"THIS WRETCH—THIS FILTH—HAS JUST BEEN CLEANSED!"

"DEATH... IS THE ONLY JUSTICE THAT AWAITS YOU!"

He scans the crowd, watching their reactions. Some flinch, some look away. But they all listen.

"MANY OF YOU ARE SYMPATHIZERS OF THAT ROTTEN SWINE—GIDEON VOSS. I OFFER YOU A CHANCE."

"DRAG HIM FROM HIS HIDING PLACE! BRING HIM TO ME, AND YOU SHALL BE SPARED!"

His voice remains eerily calm, yet it drips with unshaken cruelty. His sharp gaze studies the hesitating citizens of the Ghetto.

...

'You never make things easy, do you?'

Alandr exhales sharply.

"IF NONE OF YOU BRING GIDEON TO JUSTICE..."

His tone darkens, his presence suffocating.

"THEN EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU WILL DIE SLOWLY... YOUR DEATHS WILL BE DISTANT, BUT YOUR SUFFERING—ENDLESS!"

"I WILL SLAUGHTER YOUR TAINTED CHILDREN... YOUR PARENTS... YOUR FAMILIES... EVERYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR!"

His words slice through the fear-stricken air like a blade through flesh.

"IS THE LIFE OF ONE VULTURIST WORTH YOUR OWN?"

Alandr's voice booms, resonating like a divine decree.

A deafening silence.

Alandr raises his hand—a single, calculated motion.

The signal for execution.

Panic erupts among the condemned. They thrash, they struggle, their bodies convulsing in futile resistance. The sickening sound of flesh, trembling in its final moments of life, fills the air. For the onlookers, it is unbearable. Many begin to weep. Many clasp their hands in desperate prayer.

Alandr's sharp gaze sweeps across the crowd.

And then, he sees him.

A boy, hands clasped tightly, eyes shut, murmuring words of devotion.

He doesn't need to hear him. By reading his lips alone, Alandr immediately recognizes the passage—

Verse 5.

"Despair not, but have faith. The Lord is merciful and will claim as His children even those who have sinned for survival. But those who forced you to suffer shall fall as swiftly as darkness flees before the light of God."

—Jeremiah, Verse 5

Alandr is surprised by the boy's knowledge. So much so...

That it is dangerous to let him roam freely in the Ghetto.

Without hesitation, he gestures for his capture. The soldiers obey immediately.

As they advance toward the boy, the executions continue. One by one, heads are severed in swift, merciless strokes.

"NO, PLEASE—" Death.

"MERCIFU—" Death.

The crowd recoils in terror, stepping aside as the soldiers move forward.

Then, the boy stops praying. He notices them. He sees them coming for him.

In an instant, rough hands seize him. He is yanked away, dragged toward captivity.

"FERDO, NOOO!"

A woman's anguished scream pierces the air. From the crowd, she bursts forth, sprinting toward the soldiers.

"LET GO OF MY SON, YOU BASTARDS!"

She strikes at them wildly, her fists pounding against their armor. One arm reaches desperately, clawing for her child.

Alandr watches. Emotionless. Cold.

He blinks once.

"Prepare an arrow."

His voice is firm, absolute.

From the ranks behind him, a soldier steps forward, bow in hand.

He draws.

Tension coils in the air.

The people nearest the platform begin to plead.

"Please! Don't do this! They're innocent!"

Alandr hears them. He does not care.

"Fire."

...

(Bowstring snaps.)

...

"FERDO, MY—"

(CRACK.)

The arrow strikes.

Straight through the woman's eye.

The sickening squelch of ruptured flesh. The brittle snap of a shattered skull as the arrow bursts through the back of her head.

A horrid, grotesque display.

All of it—

Before her son's very eyes.

His mother collapses to the ground. The heavy thud of her body striking the ground marks the final note of her desperate fight for her son.

The boy, paralyzed in shock, no longer resists. His face is frozen—engraved with a horror that will never leave him. A wound not of flesh, but of the soul.

The soldiers drag him up onto the platform.

Among the crowd, fear festers. But something else lingers beneath it.

Hatred.

A hatred on the edge of spilling over.

Now standing beside Alandr, the boy does not move. Alandr watches him, taking in his expression of pure, shattered disbelief. He crouches down to the child's level, gripping his chin and forcing him to look him in the eye.

"Hatred? Is that what consumes you now?"

His voice is smooth, deliberate.

"Prayers from the tainted only stain the heavens themselves..."

Alandr straightens, turning his gaze back toward the restless crowd.

Then, he makes his decree.

"AND FOR THAT, I PUNISH YOU... WITH DEATH!"

The square erupts into horror. Gasps and cries of disbelief ring out like a storm breaking.

The soldier restraining the boy immediately tightens his grip around his throat.

The boy instinctively claws at the massive hand crushing his windpipe—but it is futile.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

"ARE YOU INSANE?! HE'S JUST A CHILD!"

"YOU MONSTERS!"

The fury of the people boils over. Debris, scraps of wood, stones—whatever they can find—are hurled onto the platform.

Alandr merely smirks. He lets the filth of the slums pelt against his armor, unbothered.

Behind him, the boy's struggle weakens.

His face turns red.

His eyes, bloodshot.

The fight in his hands—his desperate attempts to pry away the soldier's grip—slows.

Alandr watches, approaching the boy once more. He crouches beside him, speaking softly—almost as if in kindness.

"Thank the angels for this death, boy."

His voice is low, steady.

"I thought your death might enrage the crowd enough to make them act."

He stares into the boy's lifeless eyes.

Cold. Empty.

"But it seems... your death was meaningless."

The soldier releases his grip.

The boy's body collapses onto the wooden platform, hitting face-first with a sickening thud. Blood pools beneath him, seeping from his broken nose and lifeless mouth.

...

(ARROWS.)

Arrows whistle through the air, aimed straight at Alandr and the soldiers on the platform.

Alandr grins.

"Finally!"

His eyes dart toward the source—Gideon's men. Positioned within the buildings at the right corner of the square, their bows fire relentlessly, cutting through the chaos.

Alandr's gaze shifts toward the main street leading out of the square.

"EIGHTH SQUAD, ATTACK!"

His command is instant.

From the street, over two hundred soldiers emerge. They move swiftly, keeping close to the walls before charging toward the buildings where their enemies lie in wait.

Panic grips the civilians.

Screams fill the air as the crowd scatters, desperate to escape the crossfire.

Alandr watches with pride.

A brutal victory.

A victory paid for with the life of an innocent boy.

Turning away, he prepares to leave—

But then, he pauses.

His gaze falls upon the child's lifeless body, sprawled across the wooden platform.

For the first time...

Alandr feels something.

Is it regret?

Pity for a filthy Ghetto-born brat?

Or sorrow for a boy who believed in the light of angels while trapped in this hell?

He exhales sharply, shaking the thought from his mind.

"Tossi!"

One of his Decurion's (Captain) immediately steps forward, head bowed in obedience.

"My lord?"

Alandr hesitates.

Then, his command comes.

"Have his body buried on the grounds of the Ekpesian church."

The order stuns the officer.

"But sir... the church won't—"

"The church can go to hell, Tossi. Just do it."

Alandr's voice is cold, unwavering.

Tossi doesn't argue further. "Roger that, my lord." He rushes off to carry out the command.

But Alandr is already focused elsewhere.

His sharp eyes catch something—

A figure.

Standing atop the gate leading to the main road.

Cloaked in black, too far to identify.

But there's something... off about them.

Synn's men?

Or one of Gideon's men?

Alandr narrows his eyes, then glances back at Tossi.

"Before you take the boy, bring a few men and investi—"

He turns back toward the gate—

The figure is gone.

Alandr stiffens. His senses sharpen.

"Never mind..." he mutters. He steps down from the platform, prepared to—

"LOOK OUT!!!"

(BOOOOM!)

An explosion erupts.

A violent shockwave tears through the square, knocking everyone to the ground—including Alandr.

The earth quakes beneath them.

Ruins tremble.

Buildings that had barely been standing collapse under the force.

Dust and smoke choke the air.

The world around them shatters.

Debris and shattered remains of buildings whirl through the air—

Along with pieces of flesh. Bone. Limbs torn from bodies.

Alandr, disoriented, forces himself to sit up. His vision swims, blurred by dust and smoke as the thick, suffocating cloud rolls toward him.

His fingers brush against his forehead—wet. Blood seeps from a shallow wound.

Soldiers immediately rush to his side.

They surround him, some shielding him with their own bodies, while others grasp his arms, attempting to pull him to his feet.

Still in the fog of shock, Alandr's mind catches up—

And realization hits him like a blade.

"D-DEVIL'S POWDER?!"

His breath hitches.

His eyes widen, bloodshot with fury. Veins bulge against his temples as his rage erupts.

"HOW THE HELL—" His voice rises into a thunderous roar, directed straight at Tossi. "HOW THE HELL DOES GHETTO SCUM HAVE ACCESS TO THIS ABOMINATION?!"

Tossi wastes no time—he grabs Alandr by the arm, trying to pull him back toward safety.

But from the two remaining streets leading into the square—

More soldiers appear.

Two full squads. Hundreds of reinforcements—their sole mission: Protect their lord.

Gideon had chosen the path of bloodshed.

And he was willing to burn for it.

From within the smoke, dozens of Gideon's warriors emerge—

Dark armor. Blades gleaming, hungry for slaughter.

They charge.

Their goal is clear—kill Alandr.

Tossi immediately reacts—

"MURUM CUSTODES!!"

A desperate command. The order for the shield wall—

But the enemy is too fast.

Before the heavy infantry can form ranks, Gideon's men crash into them, steel meeting flesh in a brutal clash.

The shield bearers falter. And in that moment of chaos—

The massacre begins.

Tossi spins to Alandr, his voice urgent—

"MY LORD! QUICKLY—"

(CRUSH.)

The arrow pierces through the back of his skull.

Blood sprays in a gruesome arc, splattering onto the soldiers around him.

Tossi's body stiffens—then collapses lifelessly at Alandr's feet.

Alandr stares, stunned. His officer. His strategist. Dead.

For a brief second, the world stands still.

Then—

Alandr shoves the soldiers supporting him aside.

"DO NOT RETREAT!" His voice is like a whip, searing through the ranks. "ANY MAN WHO FLEES WILL FACE EXECUTION!"

(CRUSH.)

Pain.

Alandr staggers—

An arrow embedded deep in his shoulder.

Agony rips through his body, but before he can react—

His men surround him again.

"SIR! WE CAN'T HOLD THEM MUCH LONGER—WE MUST FALL BACK!"

One of his other Decurion's (Captain) shouts, desperation in his tone.

But Alandr's mind is elsewhere.

A filthy arrow.

From filthy hands.

His body... tainted.

The thought disgusts him.

With a single, savage motion, he slams the arrow deeper into his flesh—

Forcing the tip through his back.

Then, gripping the shaft, he snaps it in half.

"GET THIS DAMN THING OUT OF ME!" He growls, his breathing ragged.

A soldier obeys instantly, ripping the broken arrow from his shoulder.

But Alandr's attention is already elsewhere.

His men are falling.

The battlefield is chaos—his soldiers and the enemy both dropping like insects.

Then—he notices something disturbing.

The enemy archers—

They aren't just shooting at his forces.

They're hitting their own.

That explosion.

That smoke.

It was all planned.

The archers are everywhere.

Unseen.

This...

This was dangerous.

"RETREAT! FALL BACK BEHIND THE WALLS—NOW!"

Alandr's voice booms across the battlefield, cutting through the chaos.

His soldiers immediately obey, their once steadfast advance now turning into a full withdrawal.

Alandr moves with them, his steps driven by pain and fury.

His body aches. The wound in his shoulder burns. But the hatred in his gaze overshadows all of it.

Hatred—for the Ghetto.

For Gideon.

For this humiliation.

His thoughts twist into darker, crueler paths.

What to do with the Ghetto?

How to make them suffer?

The taste of victory had been on his tongue. And yet—

Defeat.

The rebellion was far from crushed. It was rising again.

And he had not anticipated this.

Alandr's fists clenched tight as they neared the city gates.

"Once we return to Cedrion—" his voice was low, but brimming with anger, "summon General Thorne the Younger. Immediately."

His men nodded, too focused on the retreat to question him.

"This situation..." he muttered to himself, breathing heavy, "is worse than it was years ago."

His mind spun.

Where did that filthy swine get so many resources?!

His fingers twitched.

And how did it all get here?!

One name burned into his thoughts.

Morian Thorne.

His General.

What the hell happened?

The questions would have to wait.

For now, his only goal—

Was to return to Cedrion.

The Castle of House Ulbridge. The heart of Ekpesu.

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Castle of Cedrion, Ekpesu

Celestis Calendar: Day 12, Month of Raphaelis (3/9)

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One hour later

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Alandr sits on the edge of a bed, his upper body bare, exposing the deep wound where the arrow had pierced his flesh.

Several physicians surround him, carefully treating the injury.

The room is immaculate—

Polished marble walls. Shining floors. Expensive medical tools.

Even the infirmary of Cedrion speaks of House Ulbridge's wealth and dominance.

Most men would be writhing in pain under such treatment.

But Alandr?

He feels nothing but pure, boiling hatred.

His thoughts are elsewhere.

On the Ghetto.

On its destruction.

Standing across the room is an older man—

A figure of great stature and even greater respect.

General Varkas Thorne.

The man responsible for the city's security beyond the Ghetto walls.

And the man who oversees the training of the kingdom's basic forces.

One of the most experienced soldiers in all of Ekpesu.

A warrior who had once served his father—Harald Ulbridge.

Behind General Thorne, four more officers stand at attention—

Centurions.

Commanders of large military divisions, directly answering to the Generals. Each of them holds authority over different sections of the city's forces.

Thorne speaks first, his voice steady despite the anger radiating from Alandr.

"My lord... Eighth Squad has been completely wiped out."

"Along with them, Seventh and Ninth Squads suffered severe losses—

Dozens of men are dead."

Alandr's expression remains dark, unmoving.

Thorne exhales. "The only good news...

Your personal guard—forty men from the First Legio Aurum—suffered almost no casualties."

"I have also given orders for Legio Aurum to—"

Alandr raises his hand.

Silence.

Thorne stops immediately.

Alandr sighs.

"The loss of the Eighth Squad... irritates me so fucking much... They were good soldiers—ones who knew those filthy streets better than anyone."

He clenches his jaw.

"But what infuriates me even more...

Is that they died dishonorably."

"To that cursed, godforsaken substance..."

His mind flashes back to the explosion.

The towering pillar of black smoke, reaching for the heavens like the hand of a vengeful god.

The horrific sound of destruction.

Devil's Powder.

A weapon of nightmares.

A highly controversial substance across the kingdoms. Only the Supremans possess the expertise to manipulate it with such mastery.

Alandr's gaze snaps back to Thorne.

His voice drops—low, furious.

"How is it even possible...?"

And then, he erupts.

"HOW THE HELL DO THOSE RATS HAVE DEVIL'S POWDER?!"

His body jerks forward in rage—

And at that moment, a physician's hand slips.

The needle sinks too deep into Alandr's wound.

A sharp sting.

Alandr whirls toward the doctor—

The man freezes.

Eyes wide.

Hands shaking.

"I— I'm sorry, my lord—!"

(SLAP.)

Alandr's hand strikes across his face.

The doctor stumbles, a strangled gasp escaping his lips.

"Get the hell out!" Alandr snarls.

The entire medical staff flees without hesitation.

The room is silent, save for the heavy breathing of those still inside.

Thorne, ever composed, speaks again.

"My lord... you should allow the treatment to be completed."

Alandr ignores him.

He grabs his shirt, forcing it over his shoulders despite the obvious struggle.

"My body has endured worse, Varkas."

His one remaining eye locks onto the General.

A cold. Deadly. Unrelenting stare.

"This is nothing compared to—"

He buttons the last clasp.

His expression hardens.

"What they will endure."

(DOOR OPENS.)

The heavy wooden doors swing wide—

A young man enters.

His armor polished, adorned with intricate detailing that reflects his status and prestige.

General Morian Thorne.

With visible respect, he steps forward, approaching Alandr.

Then, he bows.

"My lord, I am deeply sorry for what has happened to you."

Morian speaks first, his voice trembling under the weight of the situation.

Alandr stares at him—his lone eye cold, unreadable. Then, slowly, he sits back down.

"So, you finally came..."

For a moment, silence lingers.

Alandr studies his General, feeling the tension radiating from the man's very being.

And he has every reason to be nervous.

Because right now, Alandr is furious.

Furious at Morian's incompetence. Furious that he failed.

Alandr's voice is calm. Too calm.

"Tell me, Morian..."

His fingers tap against the armrest.

"Did you hear the explosion?"

A faint drop of sweat slips from Morian's brow, falling onto the polished floor. His breath is shaky.

"Y... yes." His voice barely escapes him.

"AND HOW THE HELL IS THAT POSSIBLE?!"

Alandr's roar shakes the room.

Morian flinches.

"YOU HAD ONE DAMN ORDER—"

"TO KEEP THAT FILTHY PART OF THE CITY AWAY FROM THE REST OF THE WORLD!"

Alandr's fists clench.

"AND THE FIRST THING I SMELL THE MOMENT I STEP ON THAT ROTTEN GROUND AFTER THE REVOLUTION IS—"

"DEVIL'S POWDER!"

His rage spills over.

"THAT SON OF A BITCH GIDEON HAS THE POWDER! HE HAS IT, AND HE USED IT!"

"WHO KNOWS?! MAYBE HE HAS EVEN MORE!"

His voice shakes the walls. Morian stumbles back.

Alandr exhales sharply, forcing himself to breathe.

He turns toward the grand window, overlooking the Ghetto.

Even from here, the black smoke still lingers, swirling like a curse upon the city.

"If they managed to smuggle Devil's Powder into the Ghetto..."

"That means they must have had people inside our walls."

His eye narrows.

"If that's the case... the entire city is in danger."

...

His orders come swiftly. There is no hesitation.

"First Legio Aurum will take position at the walls. Command of the Black Wall will be given to Centurion Zaurus."

"Their duty is to shoot anything that comes near the barricade."

"The waters beyond the Ghetto are treacherous. And as for the Forgotten Woods... no one would dare go there."

"The Black Fury Sea has long been abandoned by sailors."

"That leaves only one possible route..."

Alandr turns to a Morian.

His voice is deadly certain.

"Through the walls."

Morian's eyes dart across the faces of the other General, his father and Centurions. Then, hesitantly, he looks back at his lord.

"But... that's impossible, my lord!"

Alandr's brow lifts in amusement.

"Impossible?"

A chuckle.

A slow, mocking laugh.

"I also thought it was impossible...

For that swine to have such a weapon."

His grin vanishes.

"And yet... HE DOES."

Alandr rises from his seat.

His disgust is palpable.

"I gave you a chance, Morian."

"You were young. Full of potential."

"But I was wrong."

There is no anger in his voice anymore.

Only disappointment.

"So shut your irresponsible mouth."

Alandr steps forward.

"Your role is over."

His tone freezes the air.

"And be grateful..."

"That I do not crush your skull beneath my heel out of respect for your father."

Morian's breath catches.

A terror unlike any he has known grips his heart.

His eyes flicker toward General Thorne.

His father.

His mentor.

His only hope.

Thorne watches his son in silence.

His expression is unreadable—cold, like carved stone.

But deep within his eyes...

There is disappointment.

Not just in Morian.

But in himself.

Because—

This is his son.

Morian lowers his gaze. His voice is hollow.

"Understood."

Without another word, he turns and leaves.

Thorne watches him go, his face betraying no emotion.

Then—

He exhales.

A deep, tired sigh.

...

Alandr does not waste a second.

His focus remains sharp.

"The ship with the selected ones—where is it now?"

His gaze shifts back to General Thorne.

...

Thorne quickly regains his composure.

"The first ship is sailing to Dutan. By now, they should be somewhere in the Levodutan Sea, near the city of Dutanium."

"The second ship is expected to reach the Cliffs of Goat's Horn at any moment. The Voidwardens are already stationed there, waiting for them. From there, they will proceed toward Magnus Murus."

His report is precise, efficient.

Alandr nods.

Without another word, he turns and begins to make his way toward the exit...

...

"My lord, I have one more proposal."

Thorne's voice stops him.

Alandr halts at the door.

Thorne takes a step forward. His voice remains calm, but there is an unmistakable weight behind his words.

"Among the soldiers of the Second Legio Aurum... there is outrage."

"They want the Ghetto eradicated—out of loyalty to you, my lord. For what they have done to you."

Alandr remains still.

Thorne continues.

"Their Centurion... Rodrakon, has acknowledged and even encourages their resolve."

At the mention of Rodrakon, Thorne's tone shifts—slightly more measured. More respectful.

"He has asked me whether you would grant them an official order to enter...

The Ghetto."

Alandr tenses.

For a moment, he hesitates.

He thinks.

The Golden Legions exist only for the most critical of situations.

Would this warrant summoning the Second Golden Legion?

His mind wavers not because of the Legion...

But because of Rodrakon.

The only known user of Ethyrion in all of Ekpesu.

A brutal, fanatical warrior—

Loyal beyond question to House Ulbridge. To the Angels.

If Alandr gave the order...

The Ghetto would burn.

And with it—

The last remnants of his hatred for that filth would finally be cleansed.

But the consequences...?

The Archangel Jeremiah had always insisted that the Ghetto remain untouched—to serve its purpose, whatever that may be.

Even though Alandr himself could not comprehend why.

But a Patron cannot be defied.

And certainly not circumvented.

Alandr exhales slowly.

Then, his decision is made.

"Not yet."

His voice is firm.

"Tell Rodrakon to keep his men in line. For now."

A brief pause.

"And tell him to continue doing... what he does best."

The meaning is clear.

Rodrakon was a man of war. Of purification. Of Order.

But his blade would not be unleashed upon the Ghetto—

Yet.

Alandr's gaze darkens.

"This revolution must be crushed as quickly as possible."

"Then, we must immediately turn our attention to the threats beyond our borders."

With those final words, he turns away.

Without another glance, he strides toward the door.

And as he leaves—

(SLAM.)

The door shakes as he throws it shut behind him.

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Blackworn Ship, Rightdutan Sea, Near to a Goat Horn Peninsula

Celestis Calendar: Day 12, Month of Raphaelis (3/9)

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I wake up.

Finally, I wake up to the life of freedom!

I'm finally beyond the wall!

Finally, I've escaped that godforsaken place!

Tira Garana is free.

Free from that hell.

Thank the gods I was chosen for the slave ship.

I never wanted to be a soldier. I have no patience for their bullshit about discipline and loyalty.

Ha...

They can shove that straight up their asses.

But this damn ship...

The way it rocks back and forth... my stomach is churning.

I push myself up and swing open the small porthole beside my temporary bed in the ship's lower deck.

And there it is—

The Levodutan Sea!

Gorgeous, just like the stories beyond the wall said...

Back when I used to sneak around stealing, I'd hear those idiots talking about this sea...

Dutanium fish's... Dutanium Alfafish's near to Dutanium!

They meat is considered to be a best meat in a Continent!

I can't wait to reach Dutan! The main City of this fucking kingdom...

I inhale deeply—

The scent of the ocean.

A feeling I've never known.

"FOOD!"

A shout echoes through the ship.

Finally. I'm starving.

I step to the door, pull it open—

And thirty other poor bastards stare back at me.

All of them got the same chance I did.

A new life.

But...

Why the hell do they look scared?

Fear? Really?

A lot of them are from the Ghetto, yet they look like this?

Idiots.

With that thought, I follow them deeper into the lower deck.

Time for a good meal.

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Moments later

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I sit down at my assigned spot.

In front of me—

A bowl of bread... and meat?

I pick up the meat, sniffing it.

It doesn't smell like rat.

I lick it.

And—

It's... incredible.

FUCKING INCREDIBLE!

I devour it instantly, tearing into it like a starved wolf.

Oh, gods... fuck... this is so good!!

I can feel eyes on me, but I don't care.

They can stare all they want.

...

"For someone with such bad luck, you sure have an appetite."

A voice—

A girl's voice—speaks from beside me.

I glance at her, my mouth still greasy with food.

Short, black hair. Glasses. Chubby cheeks, but cute.

She hasn't touched her food.

I look around—

Most of them haven't.

...?

Why?

I swallow my mouthful of food.

"Bad luck? What bad luck, exactly?"

I smirk at Glasses Girl.

"We're heading to DUTAN!"

My voice is excited.

But—

She just... stares at me. Confused.

I take another bite of bread—

"Du... Dutan?"

She hesitates.

"I think... you're mistaken."

And then—

"We're going to Magnus Murus."

The name falls from her lips instantly.

I freeze.

The blood drains from my face.

My eyes widen.

I stare at her.

"Magnus..."

"Murus?!"

To be continued...

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