Suffering
For six months, Allen trained under Barron in the remote peaks beyond Xarion. Time passed slowly, each day carved into his bones like runes of suffering.
Enhancement. Emission. Transmutation.
Every lesson was war.
The morning air bit like frost. Allen woke before the sun. Barron had him run up jagged slopes with weights on his ankles, bare-chested, while storms raged around him.
"Faster, sparkplug! If you trip again, I'll feed you to the hawks!"
Allen tripped. Again.
Barron laughed.
Next came SERRA control. Emission drills at the edge of cliffs—holding precise shapes mid-air while being pelted with flaming stones Barron launched like a gleeful lunatic.
"Make a shield!"
WHAM.
"Make a sword!"
BAM.
"Make a damn umbrella at least!"
Allen crawled, smoking.
Transmutation followed. It was brutal. Barron revealed that elemental affinity was partially genetic, but also rooted in personality, instincts, and soul resonance. Allen had to enter the soul state and pour his SERRA into unique crystals designed to awaken his elemental nature.
"You might get fire. Or wind. Or if you're lucky, one of the rare types. Gravity. Time. Chaos. But don't hope too much."
Allen shattered two crystals just trying to light them up.
"You call that focus?! My grandmother has better SERRA control, and she's a jar of ashes!"
By the end of the third month, Allen was a walking bruise. But something had changed. His strikes became sharper. His body tougher. His energy more stable.
And the fear of his own power—the fear of the Darkness—remained buried, untouched.
One morning, Barron tossed him a towel and said, "You're done."
Allen blinked. "What?"
"We're taking a break. One week."
"No way! I can keep going. I—"
"That wasn't a suggestion. Rest your mind, Allen. Before it cracks."
Allen grumbled but obeyed.
Barron descended toward the capital.
At the castle gates, a man waited for him. Broad-shouldered, clad in silver and black armor.
Zephran.
Ikki's current left hand.
Barron's former right.
"King Barron," Zephran greeted.
"I'm no king," Barron said.
Zephran smiled. "Old habits."
He handed over a sealed letter.
Barron read it. His expression didn't change. But something in his eyes dimmed.
It was from Ikki.
Zephran watched him closely. "You don't look surprised."
"I'm not. I'm disturbed. This isn't like him."
"Is it not? Maybe the weight finally caught up to him."
Barron crumpled the letter.
"No. Ikki would never ask this. Not unless... something's wrong."
Zephran placed a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever he wrote, it must matter. We already lost All Against One. We can't afford more delay."
Barron looked out over the kingdom. The wind tugged at his coat.
"...I'll handle it."
The shadows beneath the castle stretched long.
And something old stirred beneath them.
Allen
The streets of Xarion glowed beneath the bleeding sky. Lanterns hung like miniature suns, casting golden halos over towers, walkways, and crumbling stone. Allen moved through the crowd with a cloak brushing his ankles, eyes sharp, thoughts wide open.
The noise was always there thoughts, secrets, whispers.
But after six months of soul-grinding training with Barron, it no longer shattered him. His mind could walk through it like fog. Sometimes, it even amused him.
"If I drink one more cup of wine, I'll become wine."
"She's cute. He's cute. Gods, help me."
"I bet Allen dyes his hair blue to look like Ikki. Loser."
Allen smirked.
"Still better than talking to you idiots."
He ducked into a side alley. The sky above turned to strips of purple and fire.
Then
One voice broke through the blur.
It was small.
And afraid.
Please... please help. Don't scream. Don't move...
A child's thought. A girl's.
Allen's body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He moved like lightning through narrow alleys, leaping over carts, ducking under gates. Past a butcher's side door. Through storage crates.
Then
A cellar.
Half-buried. Cold. Reeking of spoiled wine and sweat.
Inside: three noble boys, half-drunk, and a girl barely thirteen. Her dress torn. Knees bruised. Hair matted.
Her eyes met Allen's.
They begged him. Do something.
Allen stepped in.
His voice was steel.
"Back. Away. From her."
The boys turned, bleary-eyed. Then sneering.
"Well, well," one said. "If it isn't the Iron-less wonder."
"Didn't you lose your Chain on your sixteenth birthday?" another laughed. "Now you're just a stray dog."
Allen didn't blink.
"I won't say it again."
The first boy lunged.
Allen caught his wrist, twisted it back with a crack.
Screams.
The second drew a dagger.
Allen ducked, disarmed him, and drove a knee into his gut. The boy folded.
The third tried to flee.
Allen was faster. He slammed him into the wall.
Then turned to the girl.
She was breathing. Shaking. Not speaking.
He reached to help her up.
And she screamed.
Six shadows dropped from above. Fast. Precise. Deadly.
Allen stepped back, hands raised. "Wait!"
Too late.
A bolt of lightning slammed into his chest.
He flew into the street, crashing through a cart and rolling into a crowded square.
Groaning, Allen stood. His cloak was scorched. His ribs screamed.
People stared.
Gasps. Whispers.
The six surrounded him, weapons drawn.
The Disciples of the Six Knights.
At the center: Serenya Kaelith. Tall. Regal. Eyes like sharpened steel.
"You disgust me," she said.
Allen coughed blood. "I saved her. They were going to!"
Lyra Kaelith emerged from behind her sister. Her face pale. Her body trembling.
She looked at Allen.
Then at Serenya.
"Lyra," Serenya said softly.
Lyra opened her mouth.
"She was unconscious!" Allen shouted. "She doesn't remember ask her again!"
But Serenya's grip on Lyra's shoulder silenced her.
"She said you attacked her," Serenya said coldly.
"That's a lie!"
The crowd surged with noise.
"Knew it."
"Ikki's brother? Of course it's him."
"He's always been dangerous."
"Pervert."
"Trash."
Then the final knife:
The three noble boys reappeared, bandaged, bruised.
"That's him!" one shouted. "We tried to stop him. He used dirty tricks!"
Allen's mouth dropped open.
"You were the ones!"
But no one cared.
The boys were nobles.
Allen was nothing.
He grabbed the spear slung over his back , a gift from his brother.
The disciples didn't wait.
Lightning from Thorne Vessan.
Wind blades from Callis Moren.
Water whips from Rika Solden.
Flame arcs from Veyla Dran.
Shield charges from Juno Grell.
Allen fought back not to harm, but to survive. Every movement was instinct. Parry, duck, strike, breathe. He could have killed them all.
But he didn't.
They didn't want truth.
They wanted blood.
Then Serenya raised her finger SERRA glowing at the tip.
"End this," she said.
The force that hit Allen blew him across the square. He smashed through a fountain.
Water. Blood. Stone.
He lay still.
Then slowly he stood.
The crowd gasped.
"How is he still alive?" Veyla whispered.
Allen swayed, soaked and bleeding, Peace trembling in his hand.
"You think this is strength?" he said, voice hoarse. "Beating someone because of lies?"
Serenya's lip curled.
"You think we don't know what you are?"
"I don't care what you think," Allen snapped. "I know what I did."
The Darkness inside him stirred.
"Use me."
He felt it visions flashing through his mind.
Fire raining.
Knights screaming.
Serenya begging.
The crowd turned to dust.
He clenched his fists. Breathing hard.
It would be so easy.
But then
He whispered, "No."
And let the Darkness fall back again into silence.
He even rejected the Iron Chain.
Juno slammed him to the ground.
Serenya spat at his feet.
"Coward."
"Useless," Rika muttered.
They dragged him across the plaza.
The crowd cheered.
They threw dirt and spit on him.
"Filth!"
Then
A sting in his neck.
Poison.
Fast. Expert. Silencing.
He collapsed to his knees, blood and spit dripping from his face.
He looked up.
His voice was weak.
But clear.
"I tried to do good."
Serenya stared down at him.
"You think that matters?"
Allen laughed bitterly.
"You judged me for my name. My past. You didn't even try to see the truth."
He scanned the faces of the crowd.
Dead eyes. Silent mouths.
Then, he said it:
"Shame on you all," Allen said.
The silence froze.
He looked at the six.
Then back at the crowd.
And, with a voice like ice:
"One day, you'll wish I had fought back."
No one replied.
But in the pit of his soul, a whisper rose:
They took your honor.
Soon, they'll beg for mercy.
As Allen collapsed into the dirt
He thought:
In the end, it wasn't power I lacked. It was trust."
My name was Allen. Brother to a king. A chosen wielder.
Now it's just ash.