The smell of iron and smoke hung in the wind. Even years later, Orven Kale could remember it clearly—the sharp sting of fire mixed with something metallic and warm. That night was etched into his memory, burned into his mind like the ruins that had once been his home.
He was only nine, a small, quiet boy. He had never thought of himself as special. He was just another child from a nameless border village, a place too small to appear on most maps. Life there was simple. Mornings brought the lowing of cattle and the chirping of cicadas. Afternoons smelled of bread from the baker's stone oven, and nights glowed softly from lanterns.
That night, everything changed.
Orven woke to screams—sharp and filled with a terror he did not yet understand. He sat up in bed, clutching the thin blanket, and blinked at the flickering orange light creeping through the cracks in the door. Fire. The whole house was filled with smoke. Before he could stand, a loud crash shook the walls, followed by another scream, closer this time, abruptly cut short. His heart raced in his chest as his father burst into the room.
"Orven! Get outside!" his father shouted, gripping his arm. His face was sweaty and streaked with soot.
"What's happening?" Orven asked, his voice shaking.
"Raiders or soldiers. I—I don't know. Just run, boy!"
The next moments blurred into chaos. His father pushed him toward the back door, shouting orders to his mother. The crackling of fire filled Orven's ears, drowning out everything else. When the door slammed behind him, he saw a scene that felt like hell. His village burned, cottages reduced to charred shells, livestock slaughtered where they stood. Shadows moved between the flames, armored men cutting down anyone trying to escape.
Orven ran, barefoot and trembling despite the heat. The smoke clawed at his throat. Somewhere in the chaos, he heard his mother scream his name. He turned and saw her silhouette through the flames. She was running toward him—then an arrow hit her chest, and she collapsed.
Time froze.
Something inside Orven broke that night. He stumbled forward, choking on sobs, but another explosion of fire nearby threw him to the ground. His vision blurred with tears and smoke, and that was when he felt it.
The pressure.
It began in his chest, like something trying to break free, a heat that wasn't from the fire. He gasped, clutching his shirt as pain coursed through his veins. The air became thick and heavy enough to make him gag, and then the ground trembled. The raiders turned toward him, shouting in confusion, but their voices were drowned out by the roar that erupted from within him.
Orven didn't remember what happened next. All he knew was the pain, the screaming, and the blinding light that swallowed everything. When he woke, it was dawn.
The fire had burned out, leaving only smoldering ruins. The bodies of villagers and raiders lay scattered, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the gray sky. Even the air felt dead, drained of life.
Orven stumbled through the destruction, barefoot, his white hair matted with blood and ash. His once-deep brown eyes were now pale and lifeless, completely drained of color. The change frightened him almost as much as the silence. He searched for his parents, his neighbors, anyone—but no one was left alive.
Though no one saw him unleash that wave of destruction, he knew it was his fault. He felt it in his bones, in the emptiness that filled him. He was a child who had killed everything he loved.
The Jade Kingdom blamed the massacre on the Asura Empire, while the Empire claimed it was the Jade's fault. Neither cared for the truth. Soldiers arrived days later, picked through the wreckage, and left. No one questioned the lone boy found among the ashes. No one bothered to take him in. In the chaos of the border wars, a nameless orphan was no one's concern.
Orven wandered after that, living off scraps and kindness when he could find it. He grew quiet and withdrawn, his pale eyes unsettling to those who saw them. Children taunted him, called him a ghost, a corpse. Adults avoided him. Hunger became his only companion, gnawing at him day and night.
By the time he turned twelve, he had learned to fight—not through formal training—he had no master or teacher, but through desperation. He stole knives, sharpened sticks into spears, and taught himself to hunt. He learned to move silently, to scavenge from camps, and avoid patrols. When cornered, he learned to kill.
At thirteen, he found a dying mercenary slumped against a tree, a crossbow bolt lodged in his chest. The man gave Orven a dagger and a half-empty coin pouch before dying. That night, Orven buried him beneath a pile of rocks and decided to keep the man's weapons. For the first time, he felt armed, dangerous.
He started taking odd jobs, hauling crates, tracking game, or delivering letters for wandering merchants. The work barely fed him, but it taught him about money and whispers. As the war between the Asura Empire and Jade Kingdom grew, the demand for hired blades skyrocketed. By fourteen, Orven took his first real contract. It was a simple job: kill a bandit leader terrorizing caravans. The pay was enough for a month's food, and he carried it out with precision, strangling the man in his sleep with a wire he'd made himself.
That night, he realized he was good at killing.
The jobs became more dangerous. He hunted deserters, traitors, thieves. His employers were merchants, soldiers, nobles—anyone with enough coin. He built a reputation, not through his name or face, but through his methods. Orven never met his clients in person. He used carrier pigeons, trained over the years, to exchange messages and payment. To most, he was a phantom, a nameless killer who struck swiftly and vanished.
His weapons were cheap and crude, often scavenged from bodies or bought secondhand. He had no illusions of grandeur, no ornate blades or custom armor. He fought with thin wires, sharp enough to cut flesh, and knives he could easily replace. For armor, he wore whatever he could patch together.
What made him truly dangerous wasn't his tools—it was his silence, his patience, and his absolute determination to survive.
Now seventeen, Orven moved through the shadows of a war-torn world. His pale hair and colorless eyes had become his mask, unsettling those who caught a glimpse of him. He rarely spoke and rarely felt.
Yet, deep inside, he still carried the guilt of that night, the weight of every life lost in the fire he had unleashed. That guilt shaped him and drove him. He became a mercenary not for glory or wealth, but because killing felt natural to him now. It was all he knew.
The pigeons perched on his shoulder were his only companions, their soft coos filling the silence that haunted him. Through them, contracts found him, and through them, he vanished into legend.
But even legends bleed.
And Orven Kale's story was only just beginning.