Once, in a life painted by blood and shadows, Zack was a student under the wing of a renowned bounty hunter—a legend whose name whispered through the alleys of criminals and kings alike.
Under his guidance, Zack honed his skills with precision, growing sharp and capable long before most boys learned to steady a blade.
He wasn't just a student; he was a partner in countless hunts, shadowing his mentor through peril and profit.
Every scar, every breathless escape, every victory etched into his bones the lessons of survival.
But when the old hunter hung up his weapons and retired, Zack found himself adrift.
The path that had once been so clear now forked into uncertainty.
With no one left to follow, he walked forward alone, embracing the title of bounty hunter not out of desire—but out of habit.
Then came the wedding.
His former mentor stood at the altar, laughter spilling from a face once carved in stone.
The woman beside him radiated warmth, and for the first time, Zack saw the man not as a hunter—but as a human being, capable of joy.
That moment changed everything.
Zack wanted that too—something real, something tender. So after the celebration ended and the music faded into memory, he made a quiet vow: to leave the world of blades behind, and seek a life of peace.
He found her soon after.
A woman who didn't flinch at his past, who listened with her heart, who smiled even when his world was perpetually grey.
She loved him—truly—and in her gaze, Zack found a kind of acceptance that no victory had ever given him.
They married, and together they built a quiet life.
Arguments were rare, laughter frequent, and love constant. Zack became a butcher—honest work that stained his hands not with violence, but with purpose. It paid the bills.
It fed his family. It was enough.
His wife was beautiful. Their daughter, a mirror of her, was just as radiant.
And though Zack's eyes could not distinguish a single color—not red from blue, not dusk from dawn—he saw them more clearly than anything else in his world.
"Even in a colorless world," he once whispered to them, "you shine brighter than any hue."
And in that quiet, ordinary life, Zack finally found the kind of peace he never knew he was searching for.
But there is no such thing as eternal peace.
One day, he returned home with good news. A large order had come in—chicken and beef enough to keep the shop busy for days.
He smiled to himself, gripping the paper bag of leftovers.
"Tomorrow, I'll take them on a picnic," he said aloud, his voice filled with hope. "Just the three of us and the sunlight."
He pushed the door open.
"Sweetheart, I'm home!" he called.
Silence greeted him.
He frowned. The house was too quiet. He stepped into the kitchen—and time shattered.
His wife was there. On the floor. Her body splayed awkwardly, her apron soaked in red.
Blood pooled beneath her like spilled paint—color he could not see, but somehow, this shade bled into his soul.
"No…" he whispered, his voice trembling as he fell to his knees.
He gathered her in his arms, brushing her hair back, searching her pale face for warmth.
"Mirael?" he choked out. His fingers pressed against her neck. No pulse. Nothing.
"No, no, no—Mirael!" he screamed, cradling her closer, as if sheer will could bring her back.
Then it hit him.
Zayra.
He bolted up the stairs like a madman, screaming, "Zayra! Baby, where are you?!"
Her room was ajar. Empty.
But something on the wardrobe caught his eye—gouges in the wood, deep and violent.
Panic clawed at his throat as he stumbled forward and threw the doors open.
Inside, tucked beneath hanging dresses, was his daughter.
Still. Small. A single stab wound in her stomach. Her little hand was reaching out—as if she'd tried to call for him.
"Zayra…"
His knees buckled. He fell beside her, unable to breathe.
Tears streamed down his face, falling onto her motionless cheeks. He held her gently, as if afraid to wake her from a cruel dream.
But there was no waking from this.
There was no tomorrow.
Only silence… and the haunting question of why.
"Oh? Are you her father?"
The voice came from behind—smooth, casual, like someone commenting on the weather.
Zack turned on instinct, eyes sharp despite the tears still clinging to his lashes.
There stood a man. Tall. Calm. A blade dangled from his hand, fresh blood still dripping from its edge.
Zack's breath caught in his throat. The rage surged before the grief could finish its sentence.
"You bastard!" he roared. "Why did you do this?!"
The man tilted his head slightly, as if bored. "She saw me. I was stealing product—drugs, to be specific. And I don't leave witnesses."
Zack lunged forward, but the man only chuckled. "I'd kill you too," he said coolly, "but I'm out of time."
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a small object at the floor. It hissed before erupting in a cloud of smoke. Zack stumbled back, coughing and waving the fog away.
When it cleared, the man was gone—like a ghost never meant to be caught.
"Coward!" Zack howled into the empty hallway. "Come back here, you asshole!"
But it was useless. He was gone.
Zack fell to his knees again, the silence of the house louder than ever. All he could do was cry—loud, broken, endless cries that echoed off the walls.
He buried them both with trembling hands, dirt and tears mixing as he whispered every memory, every regret, into the earth.
He cried for a full day. Maybe more. Time stopped mattering.
But grief alone couldn't carry him.
Eventually, something inside him snapped—not cleanly like a string, but jagged like glass.
He stood, picked up his old hunting knife, and stared at it as if seeing an old friend.
He had laid this weapon down once, dreaming of peace.
But peace had betrayed him.
So Zack, once a loving husband, once a doting father, once a butcher who laughed under the morning sun—was no more.
He walked away from the grave with new resolve in his heart.
Not as a man.
But as a hitman.
He re-entered the underworld without hesitation. No one recognized him at first—his face was harder now, eyes colder, his silence deeper than before. But soon, they came to fear him again.
Zack hunted criminals not for coin, but for names. One name.
He carved through syndicates, mercenaries, corrupt officials. Blood painted his path, yet he felt nothing.
Every man he killed was a whisper closer to the one he truly sought.
And then—after years of ash and steel—he found something.
A lead.
The killer of his wife and daughter had ties to a secretive organization: Lunar Ascendance.
No name. Just a shadowy trail soaked in more blood than he could count.
He pursued it endlessly, obsessively. The world moved on. But Zack lived in a frozen moment—forever holding the weight of a wife and daughter he could never save.
Hatred became his only heartbeat.
But everything began to shift the day Zack met him—a thief, but not like the others.
This one didn't steal for greed or survival. He was something else entirely. A ghost in the night who targeted only the corrupt.
A whisper among slums. He would slip into the vaults of dirty tycoons and vanish with their ill-gotten wealth.
He stole from thieves who preyed on the weak, and returned what had been taken.
Whatever he couldn't return, he sold—and used the gold to feed the hungry and clothe the cold.
He was infamous in the underworld. Feared by the greedy, adored by the forgotten.
And strangely… he became Zack's friend.
The thief with a grin that could melt ice and blades that danced like shadows.
He didn't speak much of justice, but his actions spoke louder than most saints ever dared to.
Through him, Zack's world—once drowned in grief and rage—began to shift.
The colors didn't return to his eyes, but the darkness no longer suffocated him.
There was something strangely healing about chasing danger beside someone who laughed in its face.
"Arche," Zack called quietly.
"Hm?" I turned to look at him, catching his gaze through the dim stairwell.
He didn't say anything. Just stood there, his lips parted slightly, as if the words had lost their way.
"What?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Why'd you call me like that?"
Zack blinked and chuckled softly. "No reason. Just… I'm glad we found the stairs. After this floor, it's only one more, right?"
I gave a small nod. "Yeah. Just one more."
We both started climbing again, boots echoing against concrete, breaths heavy but steady.
"Alright… one more floor," I muttered, exhaling.
"You want to take another break?" Zack asked, glancing sideways.
"Tempting," I admitted, "but no. We have to hurry. You know that."
He chuckled, low and dry. "You're right."
Then, the air shifted.
Smoke began curling up from the cracks along the stairwell walls, thick and unnatural.
My grip tightened on my dual blades as I drew them with a smooth motion.
Zack followed, pulling out his knife with practiced ease.
He glanced around, then smirked faintly. "Weird," he muttered. "I don't remember today being my birthday."
The smoke thinned just enough to reveal a figure waiting for us at the top of the stairs—faceless in the haze, yet unmistakably waiting.
Then came the voice. Calm. Confident. Cruel.
"Welcome to this floor, you two."
We both turned at the sound of footsteps.
There—at the top of the staircase—stood Valtherion.
My old teacher.
I hated to admit it, but even after all this time, his presence still made my shoulders stiffen.
And standing beside him was a stranger—dressed head to toe in green, from his long coat to his gloves.
His hair, green with streaks of something unnatural, framed a face I didn't recognize.
Before I could speak, Zack bolted forward like a bullet, blade already drawn.
Steel met steel with a deafening clang as the stranger revealed a knife of his own, blocking Zack's strike with terrifying ease.
Valtherion, caught off guard, took a step back. "Whoa… easy there."
But Zack wasn't listening.
"I'll kill you!" he snarled, fury pouring from every syllable. "I'll avenge my wife and daughter!"
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My eyes flicked from Zack to the man in green, and then to Valth. The tension twisted tighter.
Zack's rage wasn't blind. It was personal.
I clenched my jaw. "Valth… what is this?"
"We need to leave," Valtherion said grimly, his eyes locked on the unfolding clash. "Now."
I hesitated, torn between the weight of the moment and the mission we were here for—but then I nodded.
Without another word, Valth turned and strode down the corridor.
I followed close behind, casting one last glance over my shoulder.
"I remember your face now," the man in green said with a faint smile, eyes gleaming like a snake in the dark.
"You're that husband, aren't you?"
Zack stepped back, blade pointed at the man's chest. "Tell me your name," he growled.
The stranger tilted his head slightly. "Dravherion," he replied, almost amused.
Zack tightened his grip. "Zack."
"And I will bring you death."
Dravherion smirked, unbothered. "Just try it."
They locked eyes—two bladesmen, two killers, each one reading the other like a riddle written in blood.
Without a word, they stepped forward, mirroring each other's movements with surgical precision.
Their front feet pressed close, tension crackling between them like a storm waiting to break.
In a blur, Dravh struck first, his blade flashing toward Zack's torso—but Zack twisted just in time, the steel barely grazing his jacket.
Dravh followed up, aiming a ruthless slash toward Zack's head. But Zack caught the attack mid-air, steel meeting steel with a sharp clang, and countered with a vicious riposte.
Dravh leapt back, just in time to avoid the fatal follow-up.
Zack didn't give him room to breathe. He surged forward, bringing his blade in a deadly arc from low to high.
Dravh blocked with his forearm out of instinct—the edge sliced into his skin, blood blooming like a crimson flower.
Gritting his teeth, Dravh retaliated with a sudden stab aimed at Zack's gut—a surprise maneuver meant to end it quickly.
But Zack deflected it downward with the flat of his knife, sparks flying from the clash.
Then came Dravh's fist, slamming into Zack's face with raw desperation.
The pain in his wounded arm was obvious, but the hit landed—Zack's lip split open, a thin line of red dripping down his chin.
Both men jumped back simultaneously, breathing hard, blades lowered but minds racing.
They circled, calculating, watching—two predators waiting for the other to blink.
Zack exhaled slowly. He had to stay calm—fighting Dravh with rage would only lead to his death.
He straightened his posture, shoulders squared, and stepped toward Dravh.
The air between them thickened as they stood face to face once more, eyes locked like rival beasts on the verge of tearing each other apart.
Dravh struck first again, lunging low with intent to stab Zack's thigh.
Zack caught his wrist mid-motion, muscles tensing—but not fast enough.
The blade pierced flesh.
"Ghh—!" Zack gritted his teeth, pain flaring as warm blood spread down his leg.
Without hesitation, he gripped the embedded knife, ripped it free from his thigh with a snarl, and shoved Dravh backward with brute force.
Dravh wasted no time, launching another attack—but Zack blocked it cleanly and retaliated with a brutal punch straight into Dravh's gut, knocking the air from his lungs.
But Dravh wasn't done. He came at Zack again, only for his arm to be caught mid-swing.
In one swift motion, Zack twisted, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him down onto the hard floor with a sickening thud.
Dravh rolled and shot back up to his feet with feral speed. Zack lunged with a stabbing thrust—but Dravh deflected it with a sharp parry.
The second thrust came just as fast, but this time, Dravh grabbed Zack's arm and pulled him downward, trying to force him into a vulnerable position.
Dravh raised his blade high, aiming to plunge it down—but Zack ducked just in time, the blade slicing only through the air.
Dravh stumbled past him, but didn't miss a beat. He twisted, swinging a strike from above—only for Zack to raise his arm and block the attack once more.
Zack drove his blade straight into Dravh's stomach, twisting it deeper with grim resolve.
Dravh gasped—blood erupting from his mouth—before leaping backward in a desperate retreat.
The knife tore free from his gut, leaving a deep, burning wound. He staggered, clutching his side.
"You're not half bad…" Dravh admitted with a crooked smirk, his voice strained.
Zack stood tall, his tone as cold as steel. "I'd do anything… to avenge my wife and daughter."
Dravh chuckled weakly. "What, is having a family really that delightful?"
Zack's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. And you? You don't deserve to know what that feels like."
He knew Dravh was stalling. No hesitation. Zack lunged forward, launching a series of rapid, merciless slashes.
One after another—each cut meant to kill. But Dravh evaded every strike, barely keeping up.
He wasn't just another opponent.
He was a general.
Recently fallen or not, the title still meant something—and Dravh wasn't going down easily.
"I won't lose to the likes of you!" Zack growled.
Zack burst forward like a bullet, closing the distance in a flash. His blade came from below in a sharp upward slash—
—but Dravh was ready, steel clashing against steel as their knives met in a deadlock.
They pushed, blades grinding, eyes burning.
Zack suddenly dropped his blade down and went for Dravh's gut—but before it could land, Dravh drove his own knife into Zack's shoulder.
Zack growled in pain, his hand snapping up to grab Dravh's wrist. With a brutal yank, he tore the blade out of his flesh.
Blood dripped as he stumbled back, panting, but before he could catch his breath—Dravh was already there.
The knife came straight for Zack's stomach.
Or so Dravh thought.
Zack had caught his wrist again—fingers like a vice, stopping the fatal thrust inches from his body.
"Not that easy," Zack muttered, his crimson eyes locked onto Dravh's green ones with deadly calm.
And then—he began to push.
With all his strength, Zack forced Dravh's own hand back, driving the blade toward the man who wielded it.
Dravh's eyes widened in panic. "Damn it!" he spat, trying to wrench free—but Zack didn't let go.
In desperation, Dravh slammed his fist into Zack's gut.
Zack gasped, blood spilling from his mouth—but he didn't stop.
Instead, he took the very knife in his hand and jammed it into Dravh's arm—the same arm that had just struck him.
The blade pierced through flesh with a sickening crunch. Dravh screamed and jump back.
Dravh steadied his stance, exhaling slowly—his breath calm, controlled. And then—he moved.
In the blink of an eye, he shot forward with blistering speed, his figure blurring like a phantom across the battlefield. Zack's eyes widened—he couldn't track him.
Then came the strikes.
Slashes from every direction. Blades dancing in a deadly whirlwind.
Zack stumbled, trying to parry, but he was too slow—Dravh was already there, cutting, slicing, weaving around every attempt to defend.
His clothes tore open in ribbons, blood spraying across the ground as Dravh gave him no room to breathe. And before he could react—Dravh appeared directly in front of him.
A flash of silver.
The blade plunged into Zack's gut.
"Ggh...!" Zack growled in agony, his breath caught between clenched teeth.
His hand shot down into his pocket, fingers fumbling for the last hope he carried.
A teleport gem.
With one final push of will, he activated it.
A surge of light.
And then—he vanished.
Dravh's eyes went wide. "What—?!" he hissed, furious and stunned. "He escaped?!"
Dozens of meters away, Zack reappeared, staggering and gasping for air. Blood oozed from his wound as he fell to one knee.
He reached into his pouch, pulled out a vial of healing potion, and downed it with shaking hands.
Warmth rushed through his veins. The pain dulled—but didn't disappear.
No time.
Footsteps. Fast. Getting closer.
Dravh didn't wait.
He charged again, and this time, his attacks were relentless. Blades screamed through the air, one after another.
Zack took them all—his body a canvas of wounds—but he gritted his teeth and stayed standing, gulping down potion after potion as the world blurred around him.
Dravh finally leapt back, chest heaving, frustration twisting across his face.
Zack stood, barely holding himself together—but still on his feet.
"Why... won't you just fall?!" Dravh snarled, voice hoarse with disbelief.
Zack wiped the blood from his mouth, his red eyes burning through the haze of pain.
"Because…" he whispered, then raised his voice, steady and clear, "I have a friend who never gives up."
He gripped his blade tighter.
"And I refuse to be weaker than him."
Dravh's expression twisted into something darker—somewhere between rage and respect.
"You really are a pain to kill," he muttered.
Then, like lightning, he lunged forward.
Zack barely raised his blade in time. Steel crashed into steel, sparks flying as the impact rattled down his bones.
He was pushed back—one step, two steps—until his back hit the wall of jagged stone.
Cornered.
Dravh grinned.
"Nowhere to run."
The next flurry was a blur. Dravh's blade slashed left, right, then came down in a brutal overhead arc.
Zack blocked high, but Dravh swept low—cutting into his thigh. Blood sprayed.
Zack dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth, his breath coming out in ragged bursts.
Dravh didn't stop. He pressed forward, blade a silver blur of death.
Zack parried one blow, then another—barely. His arm trembled, every muscle screaming. One misstep, and it was over.
Dravh aimed straight for his chest.
Zack twisted, the blade grazing his ribs instead of piercing his heart—but it was still enough to stagger him.
"Just die already!" Dravh snarled, slamming a knee into Zack's stomach.
Zack gasped, coughing up blood, dropping to both knees now.
The world spun.
Dravh raised his blade again, towering over him. "This is it," he said coldly.
But Zack wasn't done.
His fingers, bloodied and trembling, gripped the hilt of his knife tighter. And through blurred vision, he saw it—
An opening.
Just a flicker. A shift in Dravh's footing.
Zack moved.
With a roar, he drove his blade upward—not for Dravh's heart, but for his weapon hand.
The steel carved through muscle. Dravh screamed, his grip loosening, his blade falling.
Zack surged up from his knees with everything he had left. One punch—straight to Dravh's jaw.
Another to his ribs. Then he grabbed Dravh by the collar and slammed him into the wall.
"I'm not dying here," Zack hissed, blood pouring down his side. "Not today."
Dravh coughed, struggling to breathe. But his eyes burned with fury. With his free hand, he drove a dagger straight into Zack's side.
The pain was blinding.
Zack's grip faltered—but only for a second.
He headbutted Dravh, cracking their foreheads together. Dravh stumbled back, dazed.
Both men stood there—bloody, gasping, barely alive.
"You're still standing just because you refuse to lose to your friend?!" Dravh roared, his voice cracking through the silence like thunder splitting the sky.
Zack just smirked, the corner of his lips twitching upward—not in joy, but in defiance.
"Heh."
His mind spiraled back into the abyss of memory. Back to the filth. Back to the bloodstained alleys and smoke-choked nights.
Back to the days when morality was a joke, and he was its punchline.
He remembered him. His friend—the thief with a crooked smile and a heart that still dared to believe in something good.
He stole, yes—but only for others. A sinner with the soul of a saint.
Once.
But even saints can break.
The day one of their own fellslaughtered like an animal by an enemy far too powerful—that man, that foolish idealist… snapped.
And when he broke, he shattered. He built walls of thorns around his soul, cursed the world, and declared himself untouchable.
He thought that pushing everyone away would protect him from loss.
But fate is cruel. Loss doesn't knock—it kicks the door down.
And when he lost again, when another comrade died right before his eyes, something inside him died too.
He drowned himself in liquor, bottle after bottle, as if alcohol could wash away blood
He gambled until he was nothing but debt in human skin. He toyed with women he never cared for, lied with the ease of breathing.
He didn't fall.
He plunged—headfirst into the abyss.
And when he reached the bottom, he dug deeper.
He became rot in human form.
A breathing wasteland.
A corpse with a heartbeat.
Trash?
No—less than that.
Zack couldn't bear to watch his friend spiral any further. He had to do something—anything—to stop him from drowning in his own darkness.
He stepped forward, voice shaking with urgency.
"ZACK! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND A DAMN THING ABOUT ME!" the thief roared, his voice raw with frustration, rage, and pain.
But Zack didn't flinch. "I understand more than you think," he said firmly.
"I lost my wife, my daughter… even the teacher I once cherished is gone." His voice trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of buried grief.
"Don't tell me I don't understand."
He stared at the young man in front of him—so full of fury, so desperate to be numb.
Zack was older. He had seen more. And it was his responsibility to stop this boy before he destroyed himself completely.
"Do you think the people who left you, the ones you loved… would be happy seeing what you've become?!" he shouted, stepping closer.
"This self-destruction, this rage you keep feeding—it's not healing you. It's eating you alive!"
His voice cracked as he yelled again. "Are you listening to me?! LOOK AT ME!"
The thief didn't answer.
He stood still—paralyzed, broken.
"ARCHE!" Zack called out his name, one final cry to reach the heart buried beneath layers of pain.
The name hit him like a sword through the soul.
The theif dropped to his knees, as if the weight of his sins finally became too much to carry.
His fingers clawed into his hair as his entire body trembled.
"...What have I even been doing all this time...?" he whispered, barely audible.
Shame.
Anger.
Self-hatred.
Disgust.
It all came flooding in at once.
From that moment on, he began to change—slowly, painfully—becoming once again the thief who stole not for himself, but for others, for justice, for something that resembled a soul.
Zack knew, of course, that beneath that worn-out smile and forced laughter, the man still carried a mountain of sin on his back.
A walking grave of mistakes. The kind of burden that no apology could lift. When Zack suggested he seek redemption, truly face his past and atone, the thief only scoffed with a bitter smirk and said,
"You don't understand, Zack… If you tally up everything I've done in this life—every betrayal, every lie, every sin—there's no redemption left for me."
But Zack never left his side. He watched over him like a hawk in the shadows, like a brother sworn not by blood, but by scars.
It wasn't just loyalty—it was duty. A duty born from a promise he once made to the wife of his old master.
And then, one day, the winds shifted. The whispers began. The thief… had retired. No longer hunted, no longer chasing shadows.
He had laid down his blades and vanished into the wilds—not to escape punishment, but to earn it. To atone.
And all because of a girl—a witch—who looked into his eyes and saw something still worth saving.
Zack couldn't contain his joy. A storm of pride and relief swelled in his chest.
He did it.
But the world doesn't forgive so easily. There were still those who wanted to pull him back into the darkness, to chain him to his old life and break him all over again.
Zack didn't hesitate.
He spilled blood in back alleys and quiet corners of cities no one would remember.
He carved a path of silence through anyone who tried to stop his friend's rebirth.
When he finally stood over the body of Albert—the smug bastard who kept feeding his friend missions, who treated him like a tool—Zack looked down at his twitching corpse and said, cold and low,
"I always knew you were rotten, Albert. From the inside out."
And for the first time, he felt peace.
Because his friend was free. No longer a thief. No longer a sinner.
Just a man… walking a long road toward redemption, step by agonizing step.
And Zack had never been prouder.
"If he can still stand… then I'd be ashamed if I couldn't!" Zack roared, hurling a smoke bomb at the ground.
The room instantly filled with thick gray smoke, swallowing everything from sight.
Dravh's vision vanished in an instant.
From behind, Zack struck—his blade piercing into Dravh's back. A guttural snarl escaped Dravh's throat, but Zack didn't hesitate. He yanked the blade out with a vicious pull.
As the smoke began to clear, Dravh retaliated with a fury unchained. Zack was forced on the defensive, parrying slashes and blocking wild, relentless strikes.
Sparks danced with each collision of steel. It was chaos—raw, explosive, and brutal.
In a misstep, Dravh stumbled backward—unaware he'd hit the window behind him. The glass cracked. He slipped.
Zack's eyes widened as Dravh fell. Without a second thought, Zack reached into his pocket, pulled out a teleport gem, and hurled it toward him.
Dravh caught it mid-fall. In that split-second, a memory flashed: how Zack had teleported earlier—by shattering the gem. Gritting his teeth, Dravh crushed it in his palm.
In a flash of green light, he reappeared on the upper floor, body still trembling from the sudden shift.
He barely had time to register what had happened.
Zack was already there.
Without a word, Zack grabbed his arm and slammed him hard into the floor. The impact shook the room.
Zack's expression was cold.
He didn't want Dravh to die from an accident.
If Dravh was going to die… it would be by Zack's hand—with the knife he held, and nothing less.
Dravh lay sprawled on the floor, dazed—until his eyes snapped to Zack, who was already lunging forward, blade aimed straight for his skull.
Dravh jerked his head to the side just in time—the knife stabbed into the floor with a violent crack beside him.
With no time to think, Dravh drove his fist into Zack's gut. The blow knocked the air out of him, forcing Zack to leap backward and regain his stance.
Dravh climbed to his feet, gripping his knife tighter. His eyes were locked on Zack.
He dashed forward, his movements swift and aggressive, thrusting again and again at Zack's head. Each strike was precise, lethal.
But Zack evaded them all with ease—bending, twisting, sidestepping like a ghost that couldn't be caught.
Then—one blade came dangerously close to Zack's face.
With a sharp clash of metal, Zack's knife deflected it upward at the last second.
Without warning, Zack drove his knee into Dravh's torso, staggering his balance—then followed up with a brutal kick to the chin.
Crack.
Dravh was launched into the air before crashing back down to the floor, his body skidding across the ground.
But he didn't stay down.
Fueled by adrenaline and fury, Dravh scrambled up and sprinted after Zack—who had already taken off down the hallway at full speed.
He rounded the corner, burst through a door—only to realize...
It was a bathroom.
And now, Dravh was right behind him.
Dravh lunged in blind desperation—but Zack moved like a phantom. With a swift sidestep, he hooked Dravh's ankle with surgical precision.
Dravh's body twisted mid-air before slamming into the bathroom floor. The cold tiles knocked the breath out of him.
Before he could even groan, Zack was on him.
A vicious hand yanked his hair—fingers like iron claws—and without a word, Zack plunged Dravh's face into the tub.
Water surged up his nose. His lungs screamed. Bubbles exploded to the surface as he flailed, kicking, convulsing—every nerve in his body lighting up with primal terror.
Then, Zack yanked him up—only for a heartbeat—CRACK!
Dravh's face was smashed into the mirror.
Glass shattered like a scream.
Shards tore into his skin, embedding in his cheeks, his brow, his lips.
Blood ran in rivers. His reflection—distorted and broken—mocked him from every jagged edge.
He collapsed in a heap. Twitching. Broken. Gasping. His legs refused to move.
Zack stood over him, breathing steady, face unreadable.
"Don't die on me yet, you worthless trash," he muttered coldly.
Then, without hesitation, he forced a healing potion into Dravh's mouth.
Magic surged through Dravh like fire. Muscles mended. Bones reformed. Skin sealed.
But nothing could heal the fear.
The moment Dravh could move, he scrambled to his feet and bolted, soaked, bleeding, choking back sobs. His mind raced with panic.
"What kind of monster is he?!"
He ran blindly, heart pounding like a war drum.
But just as he turned the corner—Zack was there.
Standing in silence. Unmoving. Unsmiling.
Teleport gem.
Of course.
Dravh's soul collapsed.
He fell backward to the floor like a broken puppet, eyes wide, breath shaking. The fear consumed him.
"P-P-P-Please… don't kill me!" he begged, voice cracking like glass under pressure.
"I—I didn't mean to! I only wanted to repay the general who once stood here! I-I thought I could be like him!"
Tears mixed with blood as he shook violently. "But I'm not like him! I'm not a genius! I'm—nothing!"
He pressed his forehead to the floor in surrender. "I'll do anything! I swear it—just please… please don't…!"
The proud warrior—now reduced to a stammering wreck.
"Get up," Zack ordered, his voice calm—but heavy, like the silence before a storm.
Dravh, trembling, obeyed. His legs were weak, barely holding him upright. Every instinct in him screamed to run, but instead—panic took over.
With a sudden burst of desperation, Dravh lunged forward and tried to stab Zack.
It was pitiful.
Zack, who wasn't clouded by fear or confusion, sidestepped the attempt like he'd seen it coming a mile away. Not even a scratch.
Dravh froze—his eyes wide, realizing the foolishness of what he'd just done.
His knife clattered to the floor.
"I-It was a reflex! I swear!" he gasped, stumbling backward. "I didn't mean to! I was scared—please—"
"I just... I just..."
Words failed him. He stood there, hollow, broken. Nothing left but a shattered shell of who he used to be.
Zack stepped forward, slow and quiet.
"This was all... for my wife and daughter," he whispered.
Before Dravh could even process it—
The blade was already in his gut.
A breathless gasp left Dravh's lips as blood spilled down his torso. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the floor hard.
But Zack wasn't done.
Kneeling beside him, Zack drove the blade into Dravh's stomach again.
And again.
And again.
Each thrust carried pain. Not just for Dravh—but for Zack. Pain he couldn't scream. Pain he'd buried under silence.
"For my daughter."
Stab.
"For my wife."
Stab.
"For the life you took from me."
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
He kept going—until the life in Dravh's eyes faded into nothing. Until the body stopped twitching. Until there was nothing left to fight or fear.
Only silence.
Zack stood up, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, the blood on his hands still warm.
He looked down at Dravh's lifeless body, lying in a pool of red.
But Zack wasn't done.
Not even close.
He stepped toward Dravh's mangled body, crouched down beside the corpse like a butcher admiring his work—and without a hint of hesitation, he grabbed Dravh's hair and slit his throat with a slow, deliberate stroke.
The sound was sickening. Wet. Final.
Blood gushed from the wound in pulsing waves, soaking the floor beneath like a grotesque offering.
And then—with a sickening crack—Zack ripped the head clean off.
Veins tore. Bone snapped. Tendons stretched and popped like wires under pressure.
He stood up, holding Dravh's severed head by the hair, blood still dripping from the neck like a leaking faucet.
Zack's eyes scanned the room—cold, clinical—and then locked on an open trash bin in the corner.
He stepped back, casually spun the head in his hand like a ball, lined up his stance, and launched it.
THUD.
Straight into the bin.
"Shoot in."
His voice was flat. Playful. Twisted.
"Venganza 9, Lunar Ascendance 0." he muttered.
Then he turned to the body.
The lifeless, ruined corpse of Dravh.
Zack crouched again—this time not to finish—but to destroy.
He carved, tore, ripped at the flesh like a madman with purpose. Limbs slashed open. Skin peeled. Ribs broken wide.
Blood painted the walls in grotesque streaks.
He took pieces of flesh, strips of muscle, bones cracked into fragments—and began arranging them on the walls.
Art.
A grotesque mural.
A celebration of horror.
"Free Halloween decorations," Zack muttered, stepping back to admire his macabre work.
He glanced at the clock. The minute hand ticked forward.
Midnight was almost here.
Zack fell to his knees.
His body trembled—not from pain, but from the silence that followed. The silence that always came after revenge.
Slowly, he sat on the blood-stained floor, his breaths shallow, as if the weight of everything he'd done had finally settled on his chest.
With shaking hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out an old, worn photo—faded around the edges from years of being held too tightly.
It was of him… smiling beside a woman and a little girl, their arms around him.
His wife.
His daughter.
"I did it," Zack whispered, voice cracking. "I've avenged you…"
He stared at the photo for a long time, his green eyes glistening—not with victory, but with sorrow.
"I know this isn't what you would've wanted," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"But I… I couldn't let it go. I did this because I love you. Because I couldn't live with the silence of your absence."
Tears welled in his eyes, but he smiled—a sad, broken smile—and gently kissed the photo.
"I miss you," he whispered.
A moment passed.
Then Zack stood, slow and deliberate. He slid the photo back into his coat—close to his heart.
"Huff…" He stretched his arms, his joints cracking like the tension in his soul. "Now I've got someone else to help."
He turned, eyes sharp again—but quieter now. Less fire. More purpose.
"No matter what…" He started to jog down the hallway, footsteps lighter than before.
"…he's the son of my teacher."
And with that, Zack broke into a run.
Not for revenge.
Not for blood.
But for something worth living for this time.