— Pilot —

Author's note!

I'm not sure if I want to continue writing this story or let it go, so consider this a pilot chapter for feedback. If you think I should keep going, please let me know!

Otherwise, I'll likely move on from it. ^^

—————————-

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed through the muddy path leading to the village of Viti. A lone traveler pressed forward, his combat boots sinking into the rain-soaked earth with each step. The dense forest loomed around him, its gnarled branches twisting overhead as if conspiring against his journey. Rain poured relentlessly, drumming against the canopy and cascading onto the hood of his tattered black cloak. Ahead, a weathered wooden sign stood crookedly at the edge of the path, its ink faded but its message clear:

"Fear death, for all who trespass."

The young man barely spared it a glance. Warnings meant nothing to him. Without hesitation, he pressed forward.

A distant sound broke through the rain—hoofbeats, growing louder by the second. Instinctively, he halted and turned. Emerging from the mist was a worn-down carriage, its wooden wheels splashing through the thick mud. As it neared, the driver—a rugged man in his late forties, with damp, receding brown hair and a thick, unkempt beard—pulled the reins, bringing the horses to a stop beside him.

The old man studied the traveler before speaking. "What's a youngster like you doin' out here? A warrior, I presume?" His voice was hoarse, like someone who had seen too many battles and drank to forget them.

The young man, his jet-black hair clinging to his face, dripping with rainwater, nodded. "Yes."

The driver squinted at him before gesturing to the carriage. "Why don't you hop on, lad? Roads ain't safe, not in this weather."

Without a word, the young man accepted the offer, stepping onto the wooden carriage with practiced ease. He pulled his cloak aside, revealing the weapon strapped to his waist. As he settled in, he unsheathed it—a messer sword, its single-edged blade gleaming despite the gloom. He set it beside him, always within reach.

[A/N: Messers are single-edged swords mounted on knife-like hilts. They vary in length, blade shape, and curvature, sometimes featuring fullers.]

The driver cast a glance at the weapon. "Out huntin' demons, are ya? For revenge? Hate? Or is it just a job?"

The young man's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. "That is not something I wish to discuss."

The old man shrugged. "Suit yourself."

The storm showed no sign of relenting. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the road ahead turned into a treacherous stretch of thick, clinging mud. The horses trudged forward, their hooves struggling against the earth until—suddenly—the carriage lurched to a halt, one of its wheels sinking deep into the mire.

With a sigh, the old man climbed down, muttering curses under his breath. He braced himself against the wooden frame, trying to push it free. Seeing his struggle, the young man wordlessly stepped off, rain soaking his tattered cloak as he moved to assist. Together, they pushed against the carriage, muscles straining against the mud's resistance.

Then, a sharp gasp.

The old man staggered, his eyes wide with shock. Something had latched onto his leg.

Reacting instantly, the young warrior's hand flew to his sword. With a swift, precise strike, he severed the grotesque limb that clung to the old man's ankle. A twisted, clawed hand recoiled into the shadows, writhing before vanishing into the night. The young man turned, his grip tightening around his weapon. Emerging from the rain-soaked darkness was a Murmux—a nocturnal demon that thrived in storms, striking unseen and retreating before its prey could react.

The creature wasted no time. In a blink, it lunged at the old man, knocking him to the ground. Before the young warrior could intervene, the demon's essence seeped into its victim like a parasite. The old man's body twitched violently before rising—his eyes clouded, his limbs jerking unnaturally. Possessed.

With an inhuman snarl, the Murmux-controlled body charged at the young man. But the warrior was faster. In a single, fluid motion, he sidestepped the attack and swung his blade. The sharp edge met flesh, severing the old man's leg with a sickening crack.

The body collapsed, motionless.

For a moment, silence filled the air, save for the relentless downpour. The Murmux, sensing danger, abandoned its host. A shadowy blur darted into the night, vanishing into the forest as quickly as it had come.

The young man stood over the old man's lifeless body, his expression unreadable. There was no sadness, no remorse. Just quiet acceptance. The old man's eyes, once weary but alive, were now hollow and empty.

Without another word, the warrior turned away. His gaze fell upon the horses—strong, swift, and untethered. He climbed into the saddle, gripping the reins with steady hands.

"It was foolish of you to travel on a carriage," he thought as he spurred the animal forward. "Horses are Faster. More efficient. You only made life harder for yourself."

As the storm raged on, the lone rider pressed toward Viti, leaving the past behind him in the mud and rain.

As the young man rode into the village of Viti, the silence was the first thing he noticed.

No voices. No distant chatter. No signs of life.

The village was deserted. The only sounds were the relentless downpour and the occasional groan of wooden buildings under the weight of the storm. The streets, lined with crooked houses and abandoned market stalls, were slick with mud and littered with overturned carts. Rain pooled in the cracks of the cobblestone paths, reflecting the dim light of flickering lanterns that somehow still clung to life.

The young man slowed his horse to a halt, his dark eyes scanning the area. Not a single soul in sight.

Swinging his leg over the saddle, he dismounted, boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. He walked forward, his cloak heavy with rain as it trailed behind him. Moving cautiously, he approached one of the fences that divided the village homes, placing a hand on the damp wood before vaulting over it with practiced ease.

Then—he heard it.

A sound. Muffled by the storm, but unmistakable.

Crying.

His head snapped toward one of the houses, its wooden door slightly ajar, swaying weakly in the wind. The sound of sobs carried through the gaps, raw and desperate. Without hesitation, the young man strode toward the entrance, pushing the door open with the back of his hand. It creaked loudly, revealing the dimly lit interior.

His gaze landed on the source of the cries.

A child.

No—an elf.

A small elf girl, barely the size of a dog, curled up against the far wall. Her hair, a delicate shade of light violet, clung to her face, soaked from rain and tears. Her large violet eyes, wide with fear, shimmered in the dim firelight. She trembled violently, her tiny hands gripping at the fabric of her ragged dress.

The young man stepped inside, his sharp gaze shifting past her. Then, he saw them.

Two bodies.

Two adult elves lay sprawled on the wooden floor, their forms twisted unnaturally. Their backs were ripped open, flesh torn as if something had clawed its way inside and tunneled out. Blood pooled beneath them, blackened by the dim light. Their vacant eyes stared at nothing.

The Murmux had already been here.

His jaw tensed. So, he was too late.

The elf girl sniffled, her cries reducing to soft, uneven gasps as she noticed him. She was afraid. Of course she was.

The young man remained still, assessing the situation.

The girl's parents were dead. The village was abandoned. The storm raged on.

What should I do?

He had no intention of leaving her behind. A child, alone, would only die. Either from the elements or from something far worse. The logical solution was clear.

Take her.

Without a word, the young man moved forward.

The elf girl let out a sharp gasp, her small body pressing further into the corner. But before she could scream, his hand clamped over her mouth.

She struggled, kicking wildly, but he lifted her with ease, her tiny frame weighing nothing in his grasp. He worked quickly, wrapping her in his cloak before tying a rope around her wrists and ankles—not tightly enough to cut off circulation, but firm enough to prevent her from lashing out.

The girl squirmed against his grip, but when her wide, terrified eyes caught sight of the messer sword at his hip, she went still.

Smart girl.

The young man carried her outside, the storm immediately soaking them both. He walked to his horse and hoisted her onto the saddle, securing her in front of him. The cloak shielded her from the worst of the rain, but she still shivered, hiccuping from the cold.

"Wh-who—*hiccup*—who are you?" she stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

The young man adjusted his hold on the reins, his tone curt.

"Kael Solis. Address me as Sunny."

Then, without another word, he spurred the horse forward, disappearing into the storm. 

Riding through the storm, the young man kept his gaze fixed ahead, his mind already set on a plan. The elf girl, wrapped in his cloak, was barely more than a weight against his chest as the horse carried them forward through the relentless tempest. His grip on the reins was firm, unwavering, even as the wind howled and the rain pelted his skin like tiny knives.

The plan was simple. Take her. Train her. Make her strong. Make her fight.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and calculated. She shall be my finest warrior.

Not once did he consider her feelings, her desires, or even her right to choose. It didn't matter. In this world, the weak had only two options—become strong or be crushed. That was the natural law, the only rule that dictated survival. She was weak now, but she wouldn't stay that way.

His horse trudged forward through the downpour, hooves sinking into the muddy ground, until finally, he spotted shelter—a cave nestled within the dense forest. Without hesitation, he pulled on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop beneath the twisted canopy of trees.

The young man swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, his boots splashing against the wet earth. He moved swiftly, tying the horse to a sturdy tree before reaching up and grabbing the elf girl. She let out a small, involuntary whimper as he lifted her, but she didn't fight back. She was exhausted, cold, and afraid—just as expected.

Without a word, he carried her inside the cave.

The inside was dark, but dry. The walls were damp, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and earth. He set her down near the back, where the cave was deepest, away from the wind and rain. Then, without ceremony, he lowered himself to the ground, the weight of his soaked cloak pooling around him. Droplets of rainwater dripped from the fabric, forming small puddles on the stone.

The storm raged on outside, the wind shrieking through the trees, but inside, it was silent.

The young man's sharp eyes flicked toward the elf girl.

"Name?" he asked, his tone devoid of warmth.

The girl sat curled in on herself, trembling, her small hands still bound in front of her. She was trying not to cry, but the occasional hiccup betrayed her. When she didn't answer fast enough, he spoke again, voice edged with impatience.

"I'll give you one if you don't talk."

That seemed to startle her. She flinched, shoulders stiff, before hurriedly stammering out, "A-Aglaea…"

The name was soft, fragile, much like the girl herself.

The young man—Sunny—leaned back against the cave wall, saying nothing.

The minutes passed in silence, save for the occasional distant rumble of thunder. Slowly, Aglaea's hiccups began to subside, reduced to quiet sniffles. She kept her violet eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look at him.

She was still afraid. Good. Fear was the first step toward understanding.

Then, suddenly, Sunny broke the silence.

"When was the village of Viti attacked?"

Aglaea flinched at the question. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly before closing again. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she answered.

"Last… last night…"

She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

The way her voice wavered, the way her small hands clenched into fists—it was clear. She was too traumatized to speak about it. Sunny watched her for a moment longer, unreadable. Then, without another word, he closed his eyes, letting the sound of the storm fill the silence once more.

The village of Viti—an isolated settlement on the western edge of the island of Ovalau—was once a place of quiet reverence, its people bound by faith, their lives guided by the whispers of the sun. Only one could hear its voice, the High Priestess Sena Vakalagi, the sole interpreter of divine warnings. 

But now, she was dead. The sacred connection was severed. The village had fallen silent. Nothing remained but echoes of the past. Kael—known only as Sunny—sat in the dim light of the cave, his thoughts cold and calculating. If the High Priestess is dead, then the people of Viti are already lost. 

Outside, the storm had begun to wane, its wrath fading into nothing but a damp, miserable silence. Hours passed. The rain had stopped, but the ground remained slick with mud, the scent of wet earth thick in the air.

The elf girl—Aglaea—stood hesitantly as he turned to her. "Leader dead?" His voice was quiet but firm, piercing through the stillness. She gave a small, almost reluctant nod. There was no emotion in her eyes—only exhaustion. Sunny exhaled, gripping the worn hilt of his sword. The blade was tattered, chipped from battle, its once-keen edge dulled by the endless slaughter. 

'I'll need a new one…' he thought, his gaze darkening. 'There might be an armory in the village.' Without another word, he lifted Aglaea with ease, placing her onto the saddle before climbing up behind her. The horse's muscles tensed beneath them as he spurred it forward, guiding it through the wet terrain, the ruined village looming once more in the distance.

Viti was still lifeless. The streets, slick with rain and mud, reflected the pale morning light, revealing the remnants of what had once been a thriving home to its people. At the village's heart stood the Veidrala—the Tree of Origins. 

A colossal banyan tree, its gnarled roots twisting deep into the earth, its towering form reaching 601 meters into the sky. Legends whispered that its roots stretched beyond the mortal world, piercing into the abyss of spirits and forgotten gods. 

Now, it stood as a monument to a dead village, its sacred presence offering nothing but an eerie stillness. The only sound was the rhythmic clop of his horse's hooves against the wet stone as he made his way toward the armory.

The building stood firm, its old stone walls slick with rain, its iron-bound doors creaking faintly as he stepped inside. The scent of rusted steel and damp wood filled the air. Inside, a collection of weapons lay untouched—blades, axes, hammers—forgotten relics of a place that had no warriors left to wield them. His sharp eyes scanned the armory, taking in the worn hilts of daggers, the dull gleam of swords resting upon wooden racks. 

' All of these are useful…' his mind assessed, cold and pragmatic. He spotted a bag, sturdy enough to carry what he needed. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and began filling it—axes, hammers, a sharpening tool—all shoved inside with methodical efficiency. 

As his eyes roamed the room, they landed on something more suited to him. A longsword, its blade still sharp, its leather grip worn but strong. He reached for it, testing the weight in his hands before securing it in a leather strap slung across his back. It would do.

Stepping back outside, the village remained deathly quiet, the emptiness pressing against him like a phantom presence. He mounted the horse once more, guiding it north—toward whatever remained of Viti's people. The inhabitants had followed the Tawa Matanitu, the Way of the Eternal Kingdom—a sacred code that dictated duty, honor, and sacrifice. But now, there was nothing eternal about it. 

Their honor was drowned in blood. Their sacrifice had been meaningless.

The horse's steady pace through the abandoned streets was suddenly interrupted—it stopped, frozen, its breath heavy with unease. Sunny tensed, his body reacting before his mind could process the danger. 

In one swift motion, he dismounted, his hand reaching for the hilt of his new longsword. The steel sang as he unsheathed it, the weight familiar in his grip. He took a battle stance, his senses sharpening. Then—the snap of twigs behind him.

Aglaea screamed.

A massive figure emerged from the mist and shadow, stepping forward with slow, deliberate strides. The horse stilled, its entire frame locked in fear. The creature approaching them was no ordinary man—it was a towering, eight-foot monster wrapped in pale, corpse-like flesh. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, ear to ear, revealing jagged, bloodstained teeth. The scent of rot clung to the air around it. In its massive hands, it held a battle-worn axe, the edges slick with fresh gore.

The monster grinned.

The monstrous figure lunged forward, its enormous, sinewy frame moving with unnatural speed. The earth trembled beneath its weight, mud splashing up as it closed the distance in the blink of an eye. Sunny barely had time to react. Instinct took over. He threw himself to the side, his cloak billowing in the wind as the massive battle-worn axe came crashing down, splitting the ground where he had stood just a moment before. The force of the impact sent cracks splintering through the stone beneath their feet, sending debris flying into the air.

Sunny landed in a crouch, gripping his longsword tightly. Active battle—this was where he thrived. The moment the monster overextended, Sunny retaliated. His blade slashed across its side—a precise, clean strike. But instead of cleaving through, the sword barely broke the flesh. A shallow, insignificant wound. Not enough.

"Shit. I should have taken a claymore."

The creature's grotesque grin widened, revealing jagged, blood-streaked teeth, its breath reeking of rot and death. Sunny adjusted his stance, tightening his grip. It was strong. Too strong. He needed to be smarter.

The monster swung again, but this time, instead of dodging, Sunny moved forward. He ducked under the blow, stabbing his sword directly into the creature's massive hand. Steel pierced flesh. The creature stopped—then laughed.

A deep, guttural, bone-chilling laugh.

Before Sunny could react, a giant, calloused palm struck him with the force of a battering ram. The impact sent him flying. His body twisted in the air before he slammed into the mud, skidding several feet. His vision blurred for a moment. Aglaea let out a horrified whimper from where she sat frozen on the horse, her small hands gripping the reins so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

No hesitation. No pain. Move.

Sunny rolled to his feet instantly, yanking a dagger from his belt as the beast stepped forward. He had fought monsters before. The bigger they were, the more vital their senses. Eyes. Hearing. Movement. Take one out, and the battle shifts.

He threw the dagger with lethal precision.

The blade sliced through the creature's eye.

A wet, sickening schlk echoed through the night as the blade buried itself deep into the iris. A thick, blackened blood spurted from the wound, dripping down its pallid face. The monster let out a hideous, blood-curdling scream—a sound so inhuman, so raw with agony, that it sent chills racing down Aglaea's spine. She clutched her ears, tears mixing with the rain on her face.

Sunny didn't stop.

The moment the monster recoiled in pain, clutching at its bleeding eye, he moved. He grabbed onto its massive forearm and used its own agony to propel himself upward, his boots finding footing against its shoulder. One hand gripped the dagger still buried in its eye, and with all his strength, he twisted it.

Twisted it deeper.

The monster let out another soul-shaking shriek, thrashing wildly, but Sunny held on, blood spraying in every direction. The thick, boiling crimson soaked his cloak, his arms, his face. The metallic stench filled his nose, coating his tongue.

And then—the sky cracked open.

The storm returned in full force. The rain fell in thick sheets, washing away the blood. Cold water ran down Sunny's face as he yanked the dagger free, jumping off the creature's convulsing body. He wasn't done.

The monster staggered, one eye blind, its chest heaving. It gripped its axe with trembling hands, the weight suddenly too much for its faltering grip.

Sunny landed behind it.

With ruthless efficiency, he swung his sword.

Once. Twice. Three times. Each strike bit into its thick neck, blood pouring from the deepening wounds. The creature gurgled, dropping to its knees. The great monster of Viti—reduced to nothing but a dying beast.

In its final moments, its remaining eye flickered open—and locked onto Sunny's arm. The bandages he had worn for so long had fallen loose.

Revealing a mark burned into his flesh. A rhombus. A spiral sun in its center. The monster's breath hitched. A flash of recognition. And then—it collapsed.

The axe fell from its lifeless grip, embedding itself into the mud. The storm howled, lightning flashing overhead, illuminating the mark on Sunny's skin. Aglaea, still trembling on the horse, stared at him with wide, terrified violet eyes. She had thought the monster was the most terrifying thing she would witness tonight.

She had been wrong. The real monster stood before her. And his name was Sunny.

Beneath the darkened sky, the storm having passed yet leaving the air thick with moisture, Sunny rode northward, his horse's hooves sinking into the wet, uneven terrain. The Pearl of Lau awaited. It sat at the northernmost point of Viti, just northwest of the island of Ovalau, hidden beyond the knowledge of common men. Few had seen it. Fewer had returned.

Fourteen minutes of riding passed in silence, save for the rhythmic clop-clop of hooves and the distant rustling of branches shifting in the damp wind. Then, at last, it came into view.

The true Veidrala—the Tree of Origins.

A monolith of legend, it dwarfed everything around it, standing at a staggering 812 meters in height. The supposed Veidrala within Viti's village had been nothing but an illusion, a decoy to deceive outsiders and protect the sacred truth. The real one towered into the heavens, its colossal roots twisting into the ground, deeper than mortal comprehension.

Ancient myths claimed that its roots stretched into the Spirit World, an anchor between realms. Some whispered that Veidrala was not merely a tree, but a fragment of a divine force, a projection of something greater hidden within the abyss of the Spirit Realm itself.

The sight of it alone was enough to bring even the most hardened warriors to their knees. But Sunny? He merely looked upon it with the cold gaze of a man measuring an obstacle in his path.

Behind him, Aglaea moved.

Somehow, she had managed to loosen her bindings, slipping free. She took cautious, shuffling steps away from him, her breathing unsteady, violet eyes darting wildly for any chance of escape.

Too slow. Too obvious.

Without even turning his head, Sunny's hand moved.

A dagger sliced through the air.

The cold steel embedded itself into the ground just inches from her foot. Aglaea froze, a choked gasp escaping her lips. The unspoken message was clear—run, and the next one won't miss.

Sunny walked toward her, his boots pressing into the damp earth, his steps measured, unhurried. She didn't fight as he reached down, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her back toward the massive, gnarled trunk of Veidrala.

"Where is the main gate to the Spirit World?" Sunny's voice was calm, cold, each word clipped with precision.

Aglaea trembled, her breathing ragged. "I—I do not know…" Her voice was a whisper, small, fragile, useless.

"Useless."

Sunny let go.

She hit the ground, her knee slamming against a jagged rock. A strangled whimper escaped her as a thin line of crimson formed, staining her already dirtied dress.

Sunny didn't spare her another glance.

His attention was on Veidrala. Stepping forward, he pressed a single gloved hand against its bark.

For a moment, nothing.

Then—light.

A spiral sun symbol ignited beneath his palm, golden rays burning like a celestial brand. The entire trunk shuddered, twisting unnaturally, as though something beneath the bark had awoken. The air itself rippled, distorting like heat rising off sun-scorched stone.

And then, with a low, groaning creak, a gate split open within the trunk.

A figure stepped out.

Sunny jumped back, longsword flashing into his grip, boots sliding into a stance.

The entity before him was armored from head to toe—a spirit knight, its form wreathed in ethereal mist, its presence heavy like a weight pressing against reality itself. It wore a tattered black cape, its edges burned as if by some ancient, unholy fire. In its gauntleted hand, it held a lance—jagged, cruelly designed, as if meant to pierce not only flesh but the soul itself.

For a moment, the two warriors stood in silence, each measuring the other, calculating.

Then, Sunny spoke.

"Come at me." He shifted into his stance—his left leg slid back, knees bent, his sword raised high above his head. His left fist remained tight, prepared to strike if the opportunity arose. The spirit knight moved.

A blur of speed. The lance hurled through the air with unnatural precision, screaming toward Sunny like a bolt of silver death. He barely had time to react.

At the last second, Sunny twisted his sword, bracing the flat of the blade against the impact. The force rattled through his bones, his boots skidding backward across the dirt, but he held firm.

Then—he countered. His hand lashed out, grabbing the lance mid-spin. In one smooth motion, he redirected it, twisting his body with the momentum and hurling it back. The blade speared through the spirit's shoulder.

A thick, luminous blue liquid—a twisted mockery of blood—spilled from the wound. The spirit knight staggered. Then—its body contorted. A horrific sound filled the air—bones snapping, flesh stretching. Two more arms erupted from its shoulders.

Four arms. Four lances. Sunny's grip on his sword tightened.

"…This looks unwinnable." His eyes flickered to Aglaea, still kneeling on the ground, her tiny form trembling. His expression remained neutral. Then—he moved. He grabbed the elf by the back of her collar—and threw her. Aglaea screamed.

The spirit knight caught her effortlessly, one of its new arms securing her in an iron grip. She kicked, struggled, sobbed, but the knight did not let go.But it had hesitated.

And that was all Sunny needed.

He moved like a shadow. In a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance, his blade flashing upward. The tip of his longsword plunged into the spirit knight's head. The spirit jerked violently, a distorted, broken voice escaping its hollow helmet.

"Sun—Stabby tabby…" Sunny twisted the blade. Then—he severed its head. The knight collapsed. Its body faded into mist, dissolving back into the Spirit Realm. The gate behind it shuddered once, then vanished completely, sealing once more within the bark of Veidrala.

Silence returned.Aglaea lay on the ground, sobbing, her small frame curled in on itself.Sunny wiped blue spirit blood off his blade, glancing down at her.

"You make a good distraction." His tone was flat, indifferent. Aglaea only wept harder.