Husk

He wasn't wrong for thinking it like that. 

"Verse" was just the name that the people came up with, and they did hell of a good job. He could feel his flame threading through him like lines of poetry written into the soul.

Now, empty slots like Epithet and Relics remained. He could roughly guess what Epithet meant, like a title, and Relics were common sense.

Relics were considered mythical and magical items of the Shattered Realm, different from man-made ones. He'd never seen or even touched one, but he knew that Relics could be summoned or dismissed freely—just like these runes.

In any case, the runes were helpful, but there was no need to dwell on it for long. His first priority was to figure out how to use the flame and how to live from now on.

He wasn't just a stray scraping for food and killing to stay alive anymore. He was a true Resonator—an anomaly, at that.

Having a Verse would make his life much easier, but it also posed great challenges—such as hiding himself from the Federation.

'Actually, that's the hardest part.' 

If he wanted to make good money, he needed to go into the Districts, which boasted high security and surveillance. The Federation was essentially a military nation ruled by the Grand Marshal, a supreme military leader.

While he'd heard that the current Grand Marshal was considered one of the greatest out of the twenty-five generations, the Federation was still the Federation.

The propaganda of the Outlands being ungovernable, unstable, and contaminated by Hollow Energy had been passed around for centuries.

Not to mention, the District citizens saw Outlanders as savages, criminals, or dangerous vessels for soul corruption, so Luciel had to either sneak in or wait until he turned sixteen.

But he didn't want to wait. 

He'd been given a chance to redo his life with the scarlet flame, and he'd always desired peace and comfort—even if it was just for a month, a minute.

Sure, the Federation was a golden prison. He might regret moving into the Districts.

However, he refused to stay stagnant in the Outlands. His life had been as meaningless and dull as it could get. Just a cycle of killing and surviving.

Luciel shifted his gaze to the corpse at the cave entrance. He certainly didn't want to end up like that—not before he could find a meaning to the life he'd been living. 

Or at least, he wanted to become the opposite of what this cruel life had shaped him into.

He slowly stood up and approached the corpse.

Flame appeared on his palm and beautifully flickered.

"May you find peace within yourself," he solemnly said.

The scarlet flame drifted in the air and landed on the body. It burned not with rage, but with mercy.

It didn't roar. It breathed.

Ash curled upward like a final exhale, and for a moment, Luciel felt the stillness of a soul, like it had been waiting for this rite of passage.

He watched the ash fade into the snow. The stubborn flame simply stayed and watched also.

Then—

A familiar voice echoed, gentle and ancient, like warmth curling through old embers.

[You have unchained a soul, and offered it peace.]

The runes surfaced in silence, ember-red and reverent, along with the voice.

[Your flame breathes in silence.]

[A Charred Cinder settles in your soul.]

Luciel stayed still, eyes fixed on the scorched remains in front of him. Trails of smoke curled off the body in thin strands and painted the mist a darker glamour. The ground around it had blackened. Heat lingered, but the fire was gone.

The voice of the soul still echoed in his ears, and the hovering runes had faded into the ashen mist.

But then another appeared.

The shimmering runes surfaced once again.

[Soul Cinders: 25/500].

'It increased? How?'

Soul Cinders was a concept he couldn't understand no matter how many conjectures he made. 

He didn't know how he'd just obtained a Charred Cinder or why it had increased by that much. Was one Charred Cinder equal to twenty-five Soul Cinders? Probably.

But something had definitely changed within his body and soul. He felt a slight change—not as power, but pressure. As if something beneath his skin had thickened and solidified.

Strange. He hadn't fought for this. He hadn't even struggled.

Yet, why did it feel like his soul had gained weight?

'If it was some kind of game, shouldn't I have to defeat a boss first before gaining this much?'

He then replayed the message in his mind. 'You have unchained a soul, and offered it peace.' 

He didn't understand it, not fully. But he felt seen. Like something had seen what he did, and answered.

Luciel crouched beside the roasted corpse, his hand hovering over scorched earth. The warmth was faint, almost gentle. Now that he thought about it, the wild flicker of power and stubbornness didn't resist him. The flame had answered him, and he felt as if he became one with it for just a moment.

He remembered what he'd said. 'May you find peace within yourself.' 

It hadn't been just for show. The words had come on their own—his own emotions and feelings. And the flame had responded not as a weapon, but as something quieter, stirring within his soul.

Luciel lowered his hand.

"So that's enough, then?" he murmured. "A few words, and the fire listens?"

As soon as he said that, the Stigma on his wrist pulsed faintly but chaotically. Luciel raised his brow, not knowing what this unusual power was thinking of.

And then the corpse twitched.

Luciel froze.

He thought he'd seen something wrong. The twitch had been small—a spasm in the hand, no more than a reflex. But the body was burned thoroughly; bones cracked through charred skin. There shouldn't be anything left to move.

Yet something within the charred body had stirred again. The motion was disjointed, spasmodic, more a puppet than intent.

He then realized what was happening.

'A Husk...'

Before he could even process it, black mist began to gather from the hollowed chest. It didn't rise like smoke but sank and curled inward like some unseen current was drawing it back in.

Then its ribs started to crack. Its jawbone shifted. The torso flexed once, then dragged itself off the ground in slow, crooked intervals.

That thing wasn't human anymore.

It was a Husk—a lifeless, corrupted creature born from a soulless body or from a soul without Echo Essence. Devoid of will, memory, and soul, it moved by instinct, and the influence of Hollow Energy maintained the corruption.

'Unchained a soul? You couldn't just get rid of the body?' he blamed the flame. Luciel had purified the soul, but the Realm's Hollow Energy corrupted the body instead. How ironic. He should've just turned it into ash faster.

Still, unlike true Hollows, Husks were just animated shells without intelligence.

Luciel stepped backward once to control the distance. His movements were quiet and exact, like a seasoned survivalist. One eye flicked to the ground for footing, then back to the Husk rising in front of him.

The creature then lunged on all limbs and lurching weight. Its charred fingers clawed through ash, leaving grooves behind. One arm hung loosely at the socket, while the other struck with erratic force, nearly catching his side.

Luciel pivoted left without wasted motion, dodging the blow cleanly. His palm opened, ready to ignite.

But the flame didn't wait for him.

Before he could will it forward, heat had already surged beneath his skin, and his arm had snapped forward as if pulled. His wrist flared in scarlet red as the ethereal flame burst from his hand in a violent arc and collided with the Husk.

The blast lifted the creature into the air and carved a hole through its torso. It didn't offer any resistance or agony—just a silent scream.

Luciel skidded back a half-step, eyes locked on the collapsing Husk. The vessel convulsed once more, miasma writhing and burning away. It tried to rise again. It didn't know of pain. A pure puppet of the Shattered Realm.

Another pulse of flame erupted, but it wasn't on his command. It struck with less control and more intensity, hammering the remains into earth.

A sudden surge of sharp pain coursed through his body.

'Damn. That hurt.'

The uncontrollable flame had reduced the corpse to ash. Bones had melted. Mist dispersed.

Luciel lowered his arm and looked down at his palm. 'Why is this flame just acting how it wants?' He sighed.

The flame had acted of its own accord and gave him a taste of backlash. His skin was red, scorched along the edge of the Stigma. The pain was sharp but not foreign, as if his body had already accommodated it.

He didn't understand why, but he felt like the flame had just protected him. It was drawn to the rot, not his will.

As Luciel thought about it, the familiar voice echoed in his ears again, just like the last time.

[You have released a vessel tainted by the Realm.]

Alongside the voice, the runes faintly appeared.

[Your flame accepts necessity.]

[A Flickering Cinder settles in your soul.]