Knightbane

Riven stepped into the apartment, shutting the door with a soft thud.He placed his gun and knives on the dusty table near the entrance. The place was sparse—bare walls, creaking floorboards, and wooden shutters that trembled as the wind whispered through the trees outside.

The rustling leaves brushed against the shutters like ghostly fingers.

Without hesitation, he moved to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The icy water fell over him, washing away the dirt and blood—but never the weight.

When he stepped out, the flickering lantern cast long shadows across the cracked mirror. In its dim glow, his bare chest was revealed.

And there it was.

Names.

Dozens of them.Some large, others barely legible—etched into his skin like curses. Scar tissue formed letters that had never faded. Each one a wound.Each one, a memory.Each one, a life lost.

Riven stared into the mirror.The man looking back at him felt familiar—and foreign.

"These eyes… this face... they're mine now. But they weren't always."

His voice sounded heavier than he remembered. Like someone else's.

"This world… it still doesn't feel real," he muttered."And this body… it remembers things I didn't live. The hate—it's not mine, but it owns me."

Images surged up. Not his own.Pain. Anger. Screams. Fire. Blood. A woman's desperate cry. Children's laughter turning into silence.

He gripped the edges of the sink, breathing hard.

"When I touch this name... carved near my heart—"

His eyes dropped to the deepest scar, burned just above his chest:

Alric.

The moment his fingers brushed the carved name, His body convulsed. A scream tore from his throat, raw and uncontrolled.

He collapsed to his knees, clutching at his chest, his whole being ablaze with rage and grief that didn't belong to him—yet now, they were all he had.

Behind him, in the other room, something stirred.

Click.

The revolver on the table—his old, battered sidearm—shifted on its own.

Its chamber rotated slowly.A single round appeared where there had been none. No casing. No metal. Just a glowing mark, red like embers.

Riven turned his head, gasping, eyes wide.

The gun pulsed once—like a heartbeat.

A whisper echoed in his skull, low and ancient:

"Vesper."

He crawled toward it, drawn like a moth to flame. As his fingers wrapped around the grip, he felt it—The pain.The names.The rage.

They had poured into the weapon. Fed it.

And now… it had become.

Not a tool. Not a relic.

But a soulbound curse. A living thing forged from vengeance.

Soulforge Arsenal: Vesper Noctis.

His hand trembled. The weapon was warm. Almost... breathing.

Then, as if answering some unspoken call, a second round formed in the chamber. Cold and silver. Etched with a name.

Regret.

He didn't know how he knew. But he did.

This wasn't magic.

It was memory turned into destruction.

A system born not from spells—but from scars.

His hand trembled as he lifted Vesper.

It felt heavier than before—like it had drunk from his soul.

The chamber gleamed: one round inside. No powder. No metal. Just memory.

He stood, the gun now pulsing faintly in his grip. As he turned to the far wall, the names on his skin ached in silent agreement.

He aimed.

The revolver hummed. A chill raced down his spine. His finger hovered over the trigger.

Then—

BANG.

No flash. No recoil.

Just silence.

And then the wall cracked.

A perfect hole appeared—no scorch, no smoke. Just a missing piece, like it had been erased from existence.

Riven lowered the gun slowly. The air tasted like ash and winter.

His ears rang, but there was no sound.

No echo.

"Requiem Bullet: Regret Hollow," a voice whispered in his mind."Forged from sorrow. Designed to pierce through purity. And past."

Riven stepped toward the wall, reaching out. The edges of the hole shimmered faintly.

Not burned. Not blasted.

Erased.

He looked back down at Vesper.

"...You're not just a weapon," he muttered. "You're a graveyard."

The gun didn't reply. It didn't need to.

Its presence had already sunk into his veins, carving its own name into his soul.

This was only the beginning.

And deep inside, he knew—

Each bullet would cost him something.

Each shot… would bring him closer to whatever he used to be.

Or whatever he was becoming.

Then, Riven saw the bed and walked over there and collapsed onto the creaking bed, gun still warm beside him.

Sleep came fast. Heavy. Unforgiving.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, across the village…

Krev sat alone at a corner table in the local inn, his fork scraping against a chipped plate, his meal half-forgotten. The room buzzed with quiet chatter, tankards clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter—but Krev heard none of it. His mind was elsewhere.

He'd been hearing whispers for years. The Knightbane—a shadow that moved through battlefields like death itself, cutting down royal knights with precision and fury. At first, it sounded like myth. A ghost story for the barracks. But the bodies were real. And the fear spreading among the kingdom's elite was very real.

Krev leaned back, letting his gaze drift toward the darkened window. Beyond it, the stars hung cold and distant over the village of Gravemire. The name felt fitting. The earth here felt heavy—like it had buried too many secrets.

Then came Riven. A stranger with a soldier's posture, a predator's silence. Eyes that didn't blink enough. Words that came sparingly, like each one cost him something.

Too calm. Too controlled.Too much like someone carrying a past soaked in blood.

Krev's fingers tapped against his mug. Slowly, a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth—not out of fear, but anticipation.

"He's not just another drifter," Krev murmured to himself. "He is the storm."

He finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushing the plate aside.

"The world's about to change," he said, low and certain. "And I'll be damned if I sit out the fun part."

His eyes gleamed with excitement.

"One man," he muttered, rising from his seat. "That's all it ever takes."

Outside, the wind howled through Gravemire's crooked trees. The Deadcrawlers had already started their march—drawn by blood, by magic, by fate.

The village wouldn't survive what was coming.

But Krev?

Krev would make damn sure he was standing beside the eye of the storm.