Uuff… uuff… ahh… ahhh… Regan ran through the mountain forest, his boots thudding hard against the dirt trail. Thud. Thud. Thud.
His breath was sharp and ragged.
"Uhh… what was that sound earlier? Like lightning…" he muttered. "Anyways… it's too late now. I left her alone… she might be dead."
Branches slapped his arms as he ran. Suddenly, the trees parted, and he stumbled out into a wide, rocky clearing.
Regan froze.
There were ten—maybe twelve—masked assassins standing there, wiping blood from their blades, preparing their weapons.
"Hey, look," one of them said, spotting him. "Someone showed up."
Oh crap… I'm finished, Regan thought. His heart slammed against his ribs. There's too many. I don't stand a chance.
One of the assassins chuckled. "Look at him… his eyes already gave up."
"Oh… oh god… I never wanted to be here," Regan muttered under his breath.
One of them stepped forward, sword glinting in the fading light.
"H-Hey! Don't come near me! I'll kill you!" Regan shouted, pointing his blade forward with trembling hands.
The assassin scoffed. "Kill me? You think this is a game, kid?"
"I… I will!" Regan said again, voice cracking.
The assassin didn't respond. He simply slammed his boot into Regan's gut.
THUD.
Regan dropped to the ground, his sword flying from his hand. "Ahhh! Don't kill me! Please, don't kill me!" he screamed.
The masked men burst into laughter.
Regan groaned, crawling toward his sword, dragging his elbows through the dirt. His fingers brushed the hilt—
A flash.
SLASH.
"AHHHHH!" Regan screamed. "My back! M-my back!"
He rolled onto his side, crying in pain.
"Look at him squirm," one assassin said.
"Cut his hand next!" someone shouted from behind.
"No, no—his legs!" another laughed.
Regan sobbed. "Please… god… someone help me… please…"
Their laughter grew louder—until suddenly…
Step.
Step.
Step.
The laughter stopped.
"Hey… someone's coming," one of them muttered.
Step. Step. Step.
Out of the shadows, a lone figure emerged.
It was Vairan.
Twin axes strapped to his back. Messy, windswept hair.
Dust caked on his face.
His eyes—
Dead. Cold. Unblinking.
He stopped, just a few feet from the scene.
And looked around.
Uninterested.
Silent.
"What the hell is going on here?" growled Vairan, eyes narrowing as he stepped into the clearing.
"V-Vairan! Help me! Please—they're going to kill me!" screamed Regan, crawling toward him with bloodied hands.
Vairan blinked. "You?" He scoffed. "The scaredy-cat?"
"Please!" Regan begged, eyes wide with panic. "I'm begging you!"
Vairan smirked. "Didn't you punch me earlier? That was cute." He turned his back. "Yeah, no thanks."
"WAIT—!"
Suddenly, one of the masked assassins lunged at Vairan from the shadows, roaring with bloodlust.
"Where do you think you're going?!"
CLANG!
Vairan blocked the strike with a single axe, not even flinching. His grin widened.
"Should I stay a little longer?" he asked coldly.
He twisted his body and delivered a crushing kick to the assassin's gut—sending him flying into a tree with a deafening THUD.
Another charged.
Steel met steel—Vairan's axe against the attacker's sword. But the difference in strength was laughable. With one push, Vairan sent him crashing into the dirt like a sack of bones.
From the ground, Regan gasped. "H-He's a monster..."
The assassin leader barked, "Kill him! All of you!"
Vairan sighed. "Tch... Boring."
Swords came from every direction. But Vairan weaved through them with lazy ease, dodging blades like they were flies.
His eyes were dull—staring up at the sky.
"This is disappointing..." he muttered.
"Cut him down!" someone roared.
A wide slash came for his chest. Vairan sidestepped it, then leaned back with a yawn.
"I swear, that bear I fought earlier wasmore entertaining than this circus."
The assassins faltered. "What... what did he say?"
Vairan looked down at the earth, his expression dim.
"Why do weaklings always come in groups?" he said, almost sadly.
Suddenly, something grabbed his leg.
"Please..." Regan whimpered, clinging to him. "Kill them... Save me..."
Vairan looked down slowly.
His smile vanished.
"Who the hell do you think you're giving orders to?"
"I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean—!"
"Pathetic."
But then... Vairan smiled again. A twisted, evil grin.
He sheathed both axes.
"W-What are you doing?" Regan asked, confused.
One of the assassins blinked. "Did he just throw away his weapons?"
"Is that brat mocking us?" another snarled.
Vairan ignored them. His eyes locked onto the assassin leader.
"I'm not going to fight..." he said, pointing at Regan, "until he dies."
"WHAT?!" the assassins blurted.
"You can kill me right now if you want," Vairan continued, eyes gleaming, "but if that idiot's still breathing, I won't lift a finger."
Regan stammered. "W-Why are you doing this?!"
Vairan grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him up.
"Because this is the only way you'll learn." His voice dropped to a chilling tone. "I told them I'd fight only when you're dead. But I never said who has to kill you..."
He dropped Regan in the dirt.
"So fight. Struggle. Or die."
"If I get bored dodging them for too long..." he said, glancing back at Regan, "then I'll kill you myself just to end the waiting."
"Take them both out!" shouted the assassin leader.
Vairan's smile widened. His muscles tensed.
"Finally..." he muttered. "The countdown begins."
Without waiting, he charged straight at the assassins—unarmed. His movements were fluid, weaving between blades with ease, laughter bubbling in his throat.
"Remember! Kill him first!" barked the leader, pointing at Vairan. "Let the little chicken watch—keep him alive." His eyes flicked toward Regan with mockery.
Regan slowly got to his feet, sword trembling in his hands. His legs were barely holding him up.
He stared at Vairan, who was laughing—dodging strikes like it was a game.
"H-How is he doing that?" Regan muttered. "He's not afraid of death… is he really that strong?"
He bit his lip.
"No… it's not the time to think. They're ignoring me. I'll… I'll get them from behind."
He gritted his teeth and rushed forward, sword raised—aiming for the nearest assassin's back.
But just as he swung, he hesitated. His body froze. The blade slowed.
The assassin sensed it and spun around, catching Regan's sword mid-air.
"Look at the kid," the assassin sneered. "Trying to kill me?"
"N-No! I didn't—" Regan stammered.
"Hah! You're still a chicken!" the assassin laughed darkly. "Soon your friend will die. Then it'll be your turn."
Meanwhile, Vairan was still gliding through blades—his breathing calm, his smile manic.
But then—whsshhh!—a fast strike came at his face from the blind spot.
He twisted his neck just in time. The blade missed—but not entirely.
A thin red line appeared across his cheek.
Vairan blinked. Then grinned.
"Oops." He let out a wild laugh.
"Hahaha… that was close."
Meanwhile, at the back gate of Hollowveil Village…
Step. Step. Step.
Kairoz ran through the dim, broken streets, his eyes darting between empty windows and cracked walls. The village was quiet—too quiet.
"There it is," he thought, spotting the rusted gate ahead. But something's wrong… Isn't Ironfang supposed to be posted here?
He slowed, scanning the area.
A flicker of movement.
To the left, near an abandoned campfire, a lone figure sat beside a faded tent—head tilted, unmoving.
Kairoz approached slowly, his boots crunching faintly on the gravel path. His eyes narrowed.
Something's off.
Step. Step.
"Hey, Penta," he called out. "Where are the others?"
No response.
Kairoz stopped a few paces away. "Hey! I asked you
something."
The man finally turned—and smiled.
It was Penta.
But his eyes were glassy. His expression… wrong. Too stiff. Too calm.
"Come. Sit here," Penta said softly, patting the stone next to him.
Kairoz didn't move.
"I don't have time for this. I heard something—loud—near the village center," he said, his voice tense.
Penta's smile didn't fade. " Kairoz… always chasing something."
That tone… that's not Penta. Kairoz's hand edged toward the hilt of his blade.
"Where is your squad?" he asked, more sharply now.
No answer. Just that same, lifeless grin.
"I said—where are the others?!"
"Sit here," Penta said again, still smiling. "It's peaceful tonight."
Kairoz's eyes narrowed. Tch. His eyes… He's being controlled. Possessed?
Kendra Energy? Illusion technique?
The moment he took a step back—
WHSSSH!
His instincts screamed.
A presence—from behind.
WHSSHH!
Kairoz twisted his body and dodged just in time.
A blade whistled past his neck, nearly slicing him open.
He landed in a low crouch, eyes flashing.
The attacker skidded to a halt in front of him—another Ironfang member.
Kairoz's heart sank.
"Tch… They're all possessed?" he muttered under his breath.
More figures emerged from the shadows—familiar faces from training… now expressionless, moving like puppets.
This isn't a fight I can win. Not without hurting them.
"I can't kill them," Kairoz growled. "They're my squadmates…"
BOOOM!
A sudden burst of Kendra Energy blasted out from the camp behind.
CRASH!
The shockwave slammed into Kairoz, flinging him through the air. He smashed into a stack of old wooden crates, splinters flying everywhere.
"Gah—! Damn it!"
He groaned, brushing blood from his lip. His uniform was torn, ribs aching.
He looked up—and froze.
Through the smoke and dust, a tall figure stepped forward.
Cold, glowing eyes.
Armor cracked with surging energy.
It was their squad captain—also possessed.
"For crying out loud," Kairoz spat, dragging himself upright. "Everyone in this damn squad knows only one trick—Tempest Strike. It's getting annoying."
The captain raised his hand—wind swirling around his palm like a brewing storm.
Kairoz tightened his grip on his sword.
"Tch… this is going to be a pain."
He stood tall now, bruised but ready.
With a quick flick, he drew his blade. The metal gleamed under the flickering torchlight.
Fine.
Kairoz tightened his grip on the sword, eyes locked on the possessed captain.
But then—
A voice echoed in his mind.
Cold. Arrogant. Familiar.
"Those who aren't nobles… are trash of Stromspire."
Another voice layered over it.
"Do not treat them as equals. Do not speak to them as brothers."
Faces appeared in his mind—blurred, but unmistakably familiar. Men and women in velvet robes, gathered around a long blackwood table. His family.
"We are warriors. Born to rule. This land… this country… it exists because of us."
"The rest? The peasants? The orphans? The common filth? They are property. To command. To use. To break."
"You can kill them. Crush them. And no one will question it."
Those words had been fed to him since he could walk—whispered in training halls, repeated over dinner, etched into scrolls.
This was the pride of House Nox.
Back then, as a child, he never questioned it.
He just obeyed.
But now…
Kairoz stared at the Ironfang soldiers before him—possessed, yes—but still his comrades. His equals in battle. His squadmates.
Kairoz stood still, blood on his lip, sword in hand, memories of his noble bloodline echoing in his ears.
His voice cut through the rising storm like a knife:
"I have no choice... but to clean the trash from Stromspire."
His eyes gleamed—not with pride, but with cold resolve.
No remorse.
No hesitation.
He lowered his blade, readying his stance.