S: Frozen by Fear

Sarion stood frozen, the words reverberating in his mind like a terrible echo. "The Black Tower is here."

The room seemed to grow impossibly still, as if the air itself had thickened. Sarion's heart hammered against his chest, each beat a loud, frantic thump that drowned out everything else. His mind raced, but his thoughts were disconnected, jumbled, as though a fog had settled over them.

Impossible. He blinked, his eyes wide, trying to process the words his father had just spoken. The Black Tower? Here? In their village?

He couldn't bring himself to believe it. He had heard stories—horrible, chilling stories—about the Black Tower. Stories of the Arts Users they sent out, ruthless and unyielding, tearing through villages, leaving only destruction in their wake. Stories of families lost, homes destroyed, lives erased. They didn't care about anything—nothing mattered except their twisted mission.

But this? This was their home. Their village. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't real.

His father was a Rank 2 Arts User, barely above average, and the chief of guards who had just entered was no stronger—a Rank 2 Fighter at best. The Black Tower didn't send Fighters. They only sent Arts Users. And they didn't send weak ones. No, they sent Rank 2s, at the very least, along with a whole army of Rank 1s and 0s to overwhelm their enemies. And even the weakest Arts Users were powerful beyond reason.

No. No, this couldn't be true. If it was, what hope did they have?

Sarion's breath hitched, the panic rising in his throat. What would happen to them? To his family? To his village? The weight of the realization crushed down on him, and his mind reeled. His father had to be lying. There was no other explanation. His father, the man who had always seemed like a calm, steady pillar, couldn't be serious.

"Father... this isn't real," Sarion whispered, his voice trembling, barely audible. His words came out without meaning, a desperate plea to deny the terrible truth. His gaze flickered from his father to the chief of guards, both standing rigid, unmoving. They didn't seem like they were joking.

But how could it be?

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, unable to speak for a moment. The fear was suffocating, settling in his chest like a stone. His father was only Rank 2. He wasn't strong enough to protect them from the Black Tower. His guards, too, were hardly fighters. Sarion had grown up hearing about how a single Rank 2 Arts User could tear through a Fighter like tissue paper. The difference in power was too vast, too overwhelming.

No. This couldn't be real. If it was, then everything he knew, everything he had believed, was wrong. His world had just shattered.

He forced himself to look at his father again, his eyes wide with disbelief, his voice catching in his throat. "You—you're sure? They're really here? Right now?"

His father nodded, his face grave. The seriousness in his expression only made the fear tightening around Sarion's heart worse.

"But…" Sarion stumbled over his words. "We—we can't fight them. They're…" He trailed off, his mind too full of horror to finish the sentence.

The chief of guards stepped forward, breaking the silence with a solemn nod. "It's true. We've received reports. It's happening."

Sarion's head spun. His thoughts were no longer his own, spinning into chaos. The Black Tower was here, and there was nothing they could do about it. No one could stand against Arts Users with their terrifying power. Not them, not the villagers, not anyone.

His chest tightened, his breath coming out in short, shallow gasps. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. This couldn't be happening. They had to be wrong. This couldn't be happening to them, to him, to his family.

His father's voice cut through the silence, low and steady. "Prepare yourself, Sarion. You need to understand… this is only the beginning."

Sarion's thoughts were still swirling in disbelief, but his father's voice snapped him back to the present. "Sarion, listen to me," his father said, his tone suddenly sharp, commanding.

Sarion glanced up, still feeling the crushing weight of uncertainty.

His mother, pale as a ghost, placed her hand on the table, trying to steady herself. Her gaze flickered nervously toward the window, her thoughts clearly racing. She sat up straighter, wiping her trembling hands on her lap as if to compose herself. "We'll be fine," she whispered softly to herself, though it sounded more like a plea than reassurance. "You must be strong. You are a lady. This is not the time to fall apart."

Lilia, on the other hand, sat at the table with a mouthful of food, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. Her innocence hung thick in the air as she could only feel the intensity of the room. The serious atmosphere made her uneasy, but she couldn't understand why everyone was so on edge. The somber silence pressed down on her, making her squirm in her seat. "What's happening?" she asked innocently, her voice barely above a whisper, her little hands gripping her fork tightly.

"Stay calm, Lilia," their mother said in a strained voice, still trying to maintain composure despite the fear gnawing at her.

Sarion could feel his own anxiety rising again. His father's expression had shifted—gone was the calm demeanor, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.

"Chief, prepare the guards," his father barked, his eyes scanning the room, locking onto the chief of guards. "Gather whoever you can and move them into position. We can't wait any longer."

The chief of guards nodded grimly, his face set in grim determination. "I'll rally the others at once. We won't let them breach the estate."

The moment those words left the chief's mouth, everything happened so quickly that Sarion didn't even have time to react. The air felt heavier, the room almost too still, as though the world held its breath. A sudden pressure built up, an unnatural force that seemed to linger in the very air around them.

Then, with no warning, the world erupted.

The wall with the window—the one his father had been looking through only seconds before—was obliterated in an instant. The very fabric of the house seemed to tremble under the force of it. Stone, wood, glass, and debris exploded outward, raining down on them with a deafening roar. The shockwave hit like a freight train, sending Sarion crashing back against the wall, his body recoiling from the impact.

But then, just as the world around him seemed to collapse into chaos, Sarion felt it. A pressure in the air, something solid that surrounded him like an invisible barrier. He glanced up, his breath shallow, and saw his father, standing firm beside him. His father had created a wall of air—a shield of force—that held them in place, keeping them from being thrown into the destruction.

Through the haze of dust and debris, Sarion saw his mother and Lilia fall. The ground beneath them split wide open, a massive crack tearing through the room. His mother's terrified scream echoed as she and Lilia vanished into the gaping void that had opened up in the floor, falling into the backyard below. The chief of guards, too, was flung backward, struggling to keep his balance.

Sarion's heart pounded in his chest, the terror of losing his family freezing him in place. His father's grip on him tightened, pulling him to his feet.

"Father!" Sarion shouted, his voice desperate. "What about them? Mother? Lilia?"

But his father didn't answer immediately. His focus was razor-sharp as he scanned the room, his eyes piercing through the destruction, and then he gave his order.

"Run," his father commanded, his voice fierce and resolute.

Sarion's chest tightened. His mind screamed to ask why his father wasn't coming with him, why he wasn't running too, but before the question could leave his lips, his eyes were drawn toward the window—what was left of it. He looked outside and his heart froze.

In the space where the wall had been, standing in the wreckage, was a figure. Cloaked in black, their presence seemed to drain the very light from the air. The figure floated just above the ground, their black cloak billowing unnaturally around them, despite the lack of wind. A member of the Black Tower. The one responsible for the destruction.

The figure's gaze met Sarion's through the dust and ruin, their face obscured by the shadows of their hood. But the power radiating from them was undeniable, suffocating, and unmistakable.

"Go, Sarion," his father urged again, his tone sharp. "Now!"

Sarion didn't need to hear it twice. His father's voice snapped him back to reality. He turned on his heel, his legs trembling, but he didn't stop. His mind burned with the question of why his father wasn't coming with him, but there was no time. The figure in black was closing in, and his father had already made his choice. Sarion ran.

...

The figure in black floated closer, its presence darkening the air, suffocating it. The cloaked figure didn't land, didn't need to. The power radiating from them alone was enough to twist the air, enough to make the ground tremble beneath his feet.

His heart raced, a storm of emotions crashing inside him, his thoughts fractured, scattered. His wife—his beautiful, strong wife—had fallen, along with Lilia. His heart twisted with the memory of their terrified faces as they plunged into the abyss. His stomach churned with the helplessness of it all. And yet, through the anguish, through the overwhelming fear and grief, he knew there was no time to mourn, not yet.

The Black Tower was here. In his village. The one he had spent his life building from the ground up. He could hear the screams in the distance—painful, agonizing screams that tore through the very fabric of the village. His home, the people he had protected, now consumed by fire and chaos.

He could smell the smoke, feel the heat licking at the edges of the air around him. The world he had known was being torn apart in an instant. It was too much. Too much to bear. His life's work was crumbling. Everything he had built, everything he had fought for, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

And yet… there was still a flicker of defiance in his heart. A burning need to protect his son, to give Sarion a chance, no matter what the cost. He couldn't just stand there. He couldn't let it all end like this. Not yet.

His fists clenched, his body trembling, not just with fear, but with a deep, unshakable resolve. He had to do something. Anything. For Sarion.

His eyes met the cold, hollow gaze of the Black Tower member floating before him. The figure's eyes were full of nothing but contempt, as though this moment was already decided in their mind. They didn't care about his struggles, his family, his village. They were just here to destroy.

The father's jaw tightened, his body brimming with conflicting emotions. Pain. Rage. Fear. But underneath it all, there was something stronger—something that refused to be crushed by this overwhelming despair.

The father took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly, trying to push away the overwhelming chaos of his emotions. His trembling hands steadied, his heart began to slow, and he focused on the figure in front of him. There was no room for fear now, no space for despair. His family, his village, everything was slipping away—but he couldn't afford to break down. Not yet.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his voice calm, almost detached, though his eyes burned with the weight of the question. "What do you want?"

The Black Tower member's lips twitched, curling into a small, almost amused smile. It was a cruel, empty expression. "We're here to collect," the figure said, his voice smooth, devoid of emotion. "To collect your corpses."

The father felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. He froze for a moment, the understanding settling in his chest like ice. He had heard the rumors—the stories of the Black Tower's atrocities. They didn't just raid and kill. No. They took the dead with them. Entire villages massacred, and the bodies were carted away, disappearing into the unknown.

No one knew what the Black Tower did with the corpses, but it didn't matter. The idea of it was enough. They couldn't even let the bodies rest in peace. They took everything. Even that.

The father clenched his fists, his jaw tightening, a renewed fire sparking in his eyes. He would not let them desecrate what remained of his people.

The father stood still, his breath steady despite the storm of emotions within. The air around him began to stir, vibrating with tension. With a sudden flick of his wrist, a compressed gust of wind shot forward, cutting through the space between them with surgical precision. The Black Tower member, however, reacted instantly. His hand raised, and the air around him shifted into a tight, almost invisible barrier that deflected the attack with ease, not even disturbing the dust at his feet.

The father's expression hardened, but he made no move to rush. Instead, he focused, gathering the air around him. He shot forward, his body a blur as he launched a series of quick strikes, each gust of wind more precise than the last. The Black Tower member danced around each one, effortlessly sidestepping and countering with calculated ease. His movements were fluid, almost inhuman.

The father's next move came as a low, sweeping arc of wind, aimed to knock the enemy off balance. The Black Tower member responded by raising his hands, gathering the air into a powerful vortex that swallowed the father's attack and bent it back towards him with a vicious twist. The force of it slammed into the father, but he recovered quickly, using the momentum to spin and launch a counterattack—this time, a focused blast aimed directly at the Black Tower member's chest.

The wind split in front of the Black Tower member as he shifted with unnatural precision, his eyes locked onto the father's every movement. The attack barely grazed him, but the sheer intensity of it forced him to retreat a step, eyes narrowing with a hint of surprise. It was clear now—the father was not unskilled, but the difference between them was undeniable.

The father adjusted his stance, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. A small grin tugged at his lips despite the situation. "You're good," he muttered to himself, his tone more relaxed than it had any right to be. Then, he cracked his knuckles. "But so am I."

With a flick of his hand, the air around him twisted violently, coiling into a turbulent whirlwind that surged forward with a deafening roar. The Black Tower member didn't flinch, but instead, he raised his hands in front of him, summoning a barrier of air that absorbed the impact of the whirlwind. The ground beneath them trembled as the winds collided, creating a blur of force, but the father pushed harder, feeding more power into his attack.

The Black Tower member stood his ground, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, a slight narrowing of his eyes that told the father all he needed to know. This was the true extent of his skill, and it was stronger than anything the father could muster. His arts were good, but not enough to truly challenge this opponent.

Despite the overwhelming odds, the father's smile deepened, his resolve hardening. "It's been some time since I've needed to go all out." His voice was steady, calm—he had already accepted his disadvantage, but that didn't mean he was backing down without a fight.

...

Sarion's heart hammered in his chest as he ran down the dark, silent hallways of his home. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of something wrong, something that sent chills creeping down his spine.

The flickering of distant torches cast strange, long shadows along the walls, but the silence... it was unnatural. No servants scurrying about, no guards patrolling the halls, no voices murmuring in the distance. Just the oppressive silence that seemed to echo in the empty space.

He ran faster, his breath quickening, the urge to escape pulling him forward. His mind raced, barely able to keep up with the terror that clung to him like a second skin. Where was everyone? Why wasn't anyone responding? He reached a corner and skidded to a stop.

Something caught his eye.

At first, it was a glimmer—a small reflection in the moonlight pouring through the window, shining down onto the ground. Sarion's eyes narrowed as he looked closer, and then it hit him like a punch to the gut. The wetness on the ground wasn't water.

It was blood.

His stomach churned, his throat closing up as his hand instinctively reached for the wall to steady himself. The blood—dark and thick—streaked across the floor, trailing in a path that led to a slightly open door down the hallway. His mind screamed at him to run, to turn around and get away from this nightmare, but his feet refused to obey. They were rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his ears.

Sarion almost screamed but forced himself to stop, biting his lip until the taste of copper filled his mouth. He gulped, his throat tight, and his legs shook as he slowly turned toward the door, the blood trail unmistakably leading inside.

Every fiber of his being told him to turn and never look back, but instead, he found himself pushing the door open with trembling hands. The door creaked in protest, its noise sharp in the silence of the house. The air inside the room was thick, heavy with the stench of iron, and it hit him like a wave.

The moment he stepped inside, his eyes immediately landed on the body.

There, in the center of the room, sprawled across the floor, was the chef. His wide, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness, his body grotesque and twisted in a way that made Sarion's stomach churn. His chest was torn open, blood pooling around him, the wounds ragged and brutal. The sight was beyond anything Sarion had ever seen. He had watched cattle be butchered for dinner, had seen the butchery of animals, but this... this was different. This was human. A person.

The same man who had butchered the chickens and cows for their meals was now the one lying butchered on the floor, his own blood staining the ground.

Sarion's body froze, his mind unable to comprehend the horror before him. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his legs wobbled as though they might give way at any moment. He stared at the corpse, unable to tear his eyes away, unable to process what he was seeing.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not in their home.

A voice cut through the thick silence, its tone dripping with mockery.

"Are you just as petrified by it as I am?"

Sarion froze, his blood turning cold at the sound of the voice. Slowly, his heart began to race again, but this time it was with a deep, primal fear. He turned his head, the voice echoing in his mind as he tried to make sense of it.

And then his heart stopped.

There, standing in the doorway, was a young man. His features were partially obscured by the darkness, but there was no mistaking the blonde hair. The figure was cloaked entirely in shadow, but Sarion recognized the cloak, the very same one worn by members of the Black Tower. A chill ran down Sarion's spine, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

The figure smiled from within the blackness, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement.

"You know," the figure continued, his voice silky and calm, yet dripping with something darker, something unhinged, "just like you, I love this too. I think this is what true art should be about. You can't get more real than this after all—death, an unescapable truth we all face at some point in life. The end of it all."

Sarion's blood ran even colder. His legs trembled, and his body went rigid, as though he were caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape. The words, the way the man spoke so casually about such brutality, made his stomach churn. This wasn't just a member of the Black Tower—it was someone who reveled in the pain, the destruction, in the very thing that had just torn apart everything Sarion had known.

A part of him wanted to scream, to run, to fight back. But another part... the part that saw his dead chef on the floor, the part that heard the sinister echo in the man's voice, was frozen in place, paralyzed by the sheer madness that now filled the room.

The young man's voice was calm, too calm, as he continued, each word dripping with unsettling amusement.

"You know, I kinda like you, I think. You didn't scream at all. Instead, your expression... It's way better like this, in my opinion. I find it dull when people just scream and shout, crying and scrambling to escape. But you... you're different. Rare. It's not often I come across someone like you—someone frozen in fear."

Sarion felt his chest tighten, the words wrapping around him like chains. His body still shook, his mind struggling to process the horror he'd just witnessed. But the man's voice—it was like a constant, chilling presence, dragging him back into the present.

"So..." The young man clicked his fingers together, the sound sharp in the stillness of the hallway. A spark of fire appeared, flaring up and vanishing just as quickly, a small demonstration of power, a cruel reminder of what he could do. "How about this? I'll give you a chance to live. Come with me, and please, don't try anything. We both know that if you do, it'll end very badly for you, don't we?"

The fire, brief but potent, sent a shiver down Sarion's spine. He nodded, unable to form any words, his throat constricting with a mix of terror and helplessness. His legs moved on their own, his body seeming to obey the young man's command without thinking. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to escape, but there was no escape. Not from this. The man was too dangerous, too unhinged.

Sarion's mind, still reeling from the sight of the chef's mutilated body, almost forgot the corpse entirely as a new fear overtook him. Fear of the unknown, fear of the Black Tower, and fear of what would happen if he didn't comply.

He stepped into the hallway, following the young man, each step heavier than the last. His thoughts were a blur, but the fear—the icy grip of it—was all too clear.

—End of Chapter.