In the heart of the frozen continent, where the world was buried beneath endless sheets of ice, a lone figure stumbled across the wasteland. Each step left a trail of blood on the snow, a crimson path swallowed by the howling wind. His breath tore from his chest in jagged bursts.
Huff… huff…
He lurched against a jagged spire of black stone, the only scar upon the endless white. His fingers, stiff with frost, smeared it red as he clung for balance. Blood ran freely from the gash along his side, soaking his black hair until it clung to his face in sticky strands. He lifted his gaze to the bleak sky, a void of steel-gray clouds swirling above, and a laugh—hoarse, bitter, almost mad—escaped his cracked lips.
"So… this is where it ends, huh?"
The answer came in sound before sight: a tremor beneath the ice, the growing thunder of pursuit. Then the clamor of steel rose like a dirge—the synchronized march of a hundred armored knights. Their footfalls hammered the frozen ground, their iron shod boots grinding in unison. The clash of metal upon metal sang in the wind, a grim, inevitable chorus.
They were closing in.
Following the dreadful clamor, a battalion of knights emerged from the swirling veil of snow. Their formation was ironclad, shields and blades catching what little light broke through the storm. Yet all of them seemed like shadows compared to the man who led them.
At the forefront strode a figure clad in black armor so dark it seemed to drink the light around it, leaving a void where a man should have stood. Frost clung to his pauldrons, and each step echoed like a death knell across the frozen plain.
"Vern Kael."
The name rang cold and final as the commander advanced, a scroll unfurling in his gauntleted hands. His voice cut through the wind like a blade as he began to read.
"By order of the Elders' Council, I, Cyan Draken, successor of House Draken, am tasked with ending your life. Should you have any last words…"
He paused, lowering the scroll, his eyes—hard and merciless—locking onto the blood-soaked man before him.
"…you may speak them now."
"Last words?" Vern echoed inwardly, leaning back against the jagged stone. His lips curled, though whether it was a smile or a grimace even he didn't know. What last words are there for me?
He had been defeated—forced to flee like a beaten dog. And now, here he stood, cornered, waiting for the blade to fall. Executed not merely for his downfall, but for the sins that trailed behind him like shadows.
Sins… He almost laughed. Yes, he had committed many. Countless, even. His hands were stained in blood, in betrayal, in deeds too foul to name. But so what?
So what if I've sinned?
Should I regret them? Vern's lips twitched into something between a sneer and a smile. No. I regret nothing. If there is anything I despise, it is this—dying here, in the snow, without my permission.
His chest heaved as he tilted his head back to the sky, breath rising in pale clouds. In this world, every human pursues something. Greed, love, power, survival… all of them chase their pitiful dreams. And I was no different.
A glimmer of madness shone in his bloodshot eyes. I pursued divinity. To cast off weakness, to become more than man… to become a god. That was my path.
The wind howled, as though mocking him, as the truth seared through his mind. And yet, here I am, at the end. My dream shattered. My path cut short. In the end, all I lacked… was strength.
Vern's gaze locked onto Cyan, cold and unwavering despite the blood soaking his body. His voice came out hoarse, but steady, as he spat the words like venom.
"Cyan Draken… I have no last words. You can kill me."
For a moment, silence hung heavy over the frozen plain, broken only by the moaning wind. Then Cyan nodded once, expression hard as steel.
"Very well. I shall end your life."
He pulled his sword from its sheath, the steel whispering as it slid free. The blade gleamed with a merciless light, reflecting the pale glow of the snow. Step by step, he approached Vern, each stride deliberate, the crunch of his boots echoing across the wasteland.
When he finally stood before him, Cyan raised the sword high, his voice ringing like a final judgment.
"In the name of Cyan Draken, heir of House Draken, I shall end your life."
And with that, the blade came down in a swift, decisive arc.
Slow… why does it feel so slow? Vern wondered as the blade arced toward him, each fraction of a second stretching into eternity. Is it because I'm dying? Hm?
The edge of death hovered before him, cold and inevitable. Yet even as it came, his thoughts burned clear. But this is the end, isn't it? Still… if I were given another chance, would I live differently?
A faint, twisted smile touched his lips. No. I wouldn't. I would walk the same path. If anything… I would commit even more sins to grasp what I desired.
With that conviction, Vern let his eyes fall shut, surrendering himself to the frozen silence.
Chkk—
With a single, fluid stroke, Cyan's blade swept clean. Vern's head separated from his body, a crimson arc staining the snow. His lifeless form toppled, collapsing into the ice with a dull thud.
The wind carried his blood across the white expanse, as though erasing the last trace of the man named Vern Kael.
Wiping the blood from his blade with a measured swipe, Cyan turned his gaze to the line of knights standing at attention behind him. His voice was calm, but carried an edge of command that brooked no hesitation.
"Pick up the body. It must be delivered to the Kael house."
"Yes captain"
The knights moved at once, their armor clanking as they advanced toward Vern's fallen form.
Cyan, meanwhile, stepped aside to an open patch of ice. From his subspace, he drew a slender black flute, its surface etched with faint runes that glimmered against the pale light. Lifting it to his lips, he played a sharp, haunting note that cut through the howling wind.
Moments later, the sky stirred. Out of the storm descended a massive eagle, its wings beating with thunderous force. Snow scattered in its wake as it circled once before landing on Cyan's arm with practiced ease.
Cyan drew a folded sheet of parchment from his subspace and produced a quill. With steady strokes, he scrawled a brief message, his expression never wavering. Once finished, he rolled the paper tight and bound it securely to the eagle's leg with a strip of cord.
Bracing the great bird with both hands, he prepared to send it into the storm.
And then—
BOOM.
The ground trembled, snow erupting into the air as a deafening roar split the frozen silence.
Cyan spun around, his eyes narrowing—only for his breath to catch in his throat.
Where Vern's corpse had fallen, the snow was now painted red… but it was not his body that lay there anymore. Instead, the ground was littered with the lifeless forms of the knights who had stood by only moments ago, their armor shattered, their blood steaming in the frost.
And from the place where Vern's severed body should have been, a blinding column of light erupted skyward. It tore through the storm, piercing the heavens, a brilliance so fierce it seemed to bind earth and sky together. The air thrummed with power, a force both divine and terrifying, as though the heavens themselves had answered Vern Kael's death.
"Wh… what's this? What… what is happening?" Cyan stammered, his voice cracking as he stepped cautiously toward the fallen knights. The sight that met him froze his blood.
Every knight who had accompanied him lay sprawled on the snow, lifeless. Not a single one had screamed. Not a whisper, not a cry—death had come so swiftly and utterly that even sound had been denied them.
Only Cyan remained standing, the air heavy around him, trembling from the residual force that had erupted from Vern's corpse. His armored gauntlets clenched in disbelief.
"How… how is this possible? What… what was that?"
The light from where Vern had fallen still pierced the storm above, unrelenting, as though the heavens themselves had been rent open. Cyan's mind raced, trying to grasp even a fragment of what he had just witnessed.
"Hey… David, are you alright?" Cyan's voice cracked as he knelt beside one of the knights, his gauntleted hands shaking as he checked for a pulse.
"Rokaz… wake up, buddy," he urged, desperation threading every word.
But there was no response. Not from Rokaz, not from any of them.
"Tinvo… no… no! Why? Why is this happening? What have you done, you cursed human?!" Cyan's voice rose to a shout, but it was swallowed by the roaring wind. Tears streaked down his cheeks, hot against the freezing cold, as despair clawed at his chest.
And through it all, the light from Vern's fallen form did not waver—it burned brighter, fiercer, as though mocking their helplessness. The column of brilliance surged, casting long, twisted shadows across the snow, a silent testament to the impossible power that had just been unleashed.
Cyan clutched his head, despair gnawing at him with unbearable force. No… no! This can't be happening!
Then he noticed—his armor was melting. Slowly, impossibly, the obsidian plates dripped from his limbs like liquid shadow. His hands and legs began to fade, becoming translucent, as if he were dissolving into nothing.
And then came the worst part.
His memories. They weren't just disappearing—they were being replaced. Faces he recognized, moments he had lived, names he had sworn to protect—all were overwritten by foreign images, foreign lives, foreign emotions.
What is happening to me?! he screamed inwardly. Whose memories are these? They feel mine… but they aren't!
A raw, guttural cry tore from his throat. "What have you done, you bastard?!"
His mind twisted under the assault, a storm of alien thoughts and sensations that refused comprehension. Every fragment of who he was dissolved, leaving only terror, confusion, and the creeping horror of something new taking root where he had once existed.
Cyan forced himself upright, trembling, every muscle screaming in protest. He stumbled forward, each step heavier than the last, as if the frozen ground itself resisted him. The closer he drew to the blinding light that erupted from Vern's corpse, the more unbearable the weight on his limbs became—each movement like dragging lead through ice.
He reached out, eyes burning with fury and despair, raising his weapon to strike at the source of the impossible brilliance. But just as his sword was about to pierce the light…
he vanished.
A cruel, unseen force tore him from existence, leaving nothing but a hollow echo where he had stood.
"Curse you… Vern Kael!" His voice rang out in fury and disbelief, carried away by the howling wind, unanswered and meaningless against the overwhelming power that had consumed him.
The light above did not fade. It pulsed, alive and untouchable, a testament to Vern's will—and the futility of opposing him.