It was a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly, casting a warm golden light across the land.
Aron finally woke up. His shoulder still broken and bandaged, but his mind was clear—he was ready to return to Norm's Valley.
He packed what little he had. Bart wasn't around—he assumed the old man had gone off somewhere. Without another thought, Aron set off.
He followed the trail beside the lake, reaching the bridge that connected the upper and lower valleys—the very same place where he had once fallen.
As he crossed, he paused at the edge, staring into the deep, rushing waters below. For a moment, he let the breeze hit his face. Then he moved on.
The sun continued to shine. Birds chirped in the trees, feeding their young in their nests. The world felt peaceful—but something inside Aron felt… wrong.
He grew thirsty, so he gently set down his bag, took out the water skin, and drank slowly. Then, placing it back, he resumed his journey.
Soon, he reached a familiar tree near the forest's edge. He looked back briefly, remembering the cave—the black blade was still in there, but with his shoulder injured, he couldn't draw it.
"I'll come back… once I'm healed," he whispered.
He turned back toward the forest, walking through the rustling leaves until the sunlight blinded his eyes—and then he saw it.
The camp. His home.
He ran. Faster. Faster.
But as he reached the kingdom… he froze.
The once vibrant and proud city had been reduced to ashes. Smoke still curled into the sky. Buildings—gone. The streets—silent.
Aron couldn't breathe. Not a single soul in sight. Panic and dread flooded his heart. He ran again, even with his broken shoulder, until—
CRACK!
He tripped on a rock and collapsed, screaming in pain.
But he didn't stop. He got up. And ran.
Until he reached the city gates.
And what he saw broke him.
Corpses.
Men. Women. Children. Piled like fallen trees. Spears impaled through bodies. Blood soaked into the ground like cursed roots.
He staggered forward, eyes wide in horror, until he reached the ruins of the castle.
He searched desperately—calling out for his mother.
No answer.
Then—
He saw her.
His legs gave way.
She lay beneath the broken pillars, half of her face burned… but still, to Aron, she looked like an angel.
He fell beside her. Slowly lifted her into his lap. Her head rested on his knees as his tears poured down like rain.
His shaking hands wiped the blood from her face with a cloth. Then her hands.
She was gone.
Silence.
Only memories filled his ears now.
Her voice. Her laughter. How she held him when he was sick. The way she whispered: "Create your own world."
Aron sobbed.
"How can I create a world... when mine has already ended?"
He hugged her tightly. Smelled her hair for the last time.
His heart was shattered.
His soul—broken.
Even with a torn shoulder, he lifted her onto his back. He walked for miles, searching for the perfect place to bury her.
Finally, he found it.
By a tree. Beside a calm lake. Near a grave that had already been dug long ago.
With bloody, cracked fingers, he dug a new grave. Beside it.
The sun watched silently.
He laid her down. Wrapped her in a cloth. And buried her gently—tear by tear.
The boy who had lost everything stood in silence, under a fading sun.
When morning came, he awoke lying on her grave.
He remembered everything—her smile, his siblings, the joy of a family that now only existed in memory.
But then—anger.
Pure, burning rage.
It took root deep within his chest.
Aron stood, fists clenched. He walked through the ruins. And then he saw it—countless corpses of the Norm soldiers, fallen defending the people.
He didn't leave them.
Instead, he dug.
Grave after grave. For every soldier.
Days passed. His hands blistered. His shoulder throbbed. But he never stopped.
By the end, a vast graveyard stood. A silent tribute to those who had died with honor.
His shoulder was healed now. He hadn't even unwrapped the bandage.
Then—Bart appeared.
He was stunned. His eyes scanned the endless graves.
"What... what have you been doing, Aron?"
Aron didn't speak.
He just stared.
A long, cold stare.
Bart felt a chill.
"Okay... sorry. I know it's been hard," Bart stammered. "But... something happened at the cave. The rocks crumbled days ago. Barely anything's left..."
Aron's heart sank. He clenched his jaw. He had felt it—that moment when his rage burned brightest...
Elsewhere—
Far away, deep in a dark throne room, Lyoth sat.
He lifted his head, sensing it—the aura of the black blade awakening.
A smirk faded from his face. Even he was uneasy.
He turned to the Reaper.
"Go," he commanded. "Bring me the blade."