I won't claim to be brave.
I won't pretend that truth always rested on my tongue.
I never gave my all, not once—not in training, not in study, not even in life.
Greed gnawed at me, laziness ruled me, and that, I believed, made me nothing more than an ordinary man.
At least, that's what I told myself.
I lived as if the world owed me its riches. Days bled into nights in drunken laughter, in games of chance where I tossed away my father's sweat-earned coin as though it were dust. I never sharpened my body, never tempered my mind. While others chased glory—scholarship, swordsmanship, the pursuit of something greater—I squandered everything on fleeting pleasures.
I thought that was all I was destined for: a life wasted, a name forgotten.
But fate… had other plans.
But that incident… it carved regret so deep into me that even now it gnaws at my heart, threatening to shatter it a thousand times over. The weight of my own mistakes became chains—chains of self-blame heavy enough to drive a lesser man into madness.
That night, Leon lay sprawled in his bed, half-asleep and half-dreaming, when a sound stirred him. A murmur. A shuffle. Voices—low and strange—slipping through the silence of the midnight hour.
He was twenty-eight, a man in years but not in deeds. Work had never touched his hands. His father's sweat and labor had bought them comfort: a modest two-story home with a quiet little courtyard. Cozy, ordinary… safe. Or so Leon believed.
Irritated, he swung his legs from the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Tch… who the hell is making noise at this hour? Don't they know I'm trying to sleep?"
Grumbling, he descended the stairs one step at a time. But as the voices grew clearer, his annoyance curdled into unease. And when his eyes finally fell upon the scene below—
Leon's heart froze. His breath caught.
And the world he knew… shattered.
Leon was the only son of his parents.
His father, Alfred Sears, had spent his life as a village guard. Age had bent his back, silvered his hair, but never broken his resolve. No matter how weary his body grew, he clung to duty—for his family, for the son who gave him more shame than pride. Even then, Alfred's love never faltered. A father's heart, after all, beats stronger than disappointment.
His mother, Emma Sears, was a gentle woman, once renowned for her beauty. Time had stolen the luster from her face, but not the warmth in her eyes. She lived for her son, smothering him with care that crossed into indulgence. Perhaps it was that unyielding kindness, that refusal to let him stumble, which had spoiled Leon into the man he became.
Leon's breath caught as his eyes landed on the figure sprawled across the carpet.
His father. Alfred.
The old man's eyes were wide, frozen in a final moment of terror—eyes that once burned with resolve now hollow, leaking a helplessness so deep it clawed straight into Leon's soul. His limbs were gone. Severed. Blood gushed from the ruin of his throat, spilling in torrents that soaked the floorboards and spread into a dark, glistening pool.
The sight crushed Leon's chest. His heart seemed to stop, his thoughts scattering into panic and disbelief. He wanted to scream, to deny what lay before him, but no sound came—only ragged gasps as though the air itself had turned to stone.
That was his father. His father—gone.
Slowly, trembling, Leon lifted his gaze. Four figures stood ahead, cloaked in black, blades glinting under the dim light. The closest one held a sword still dripping with fresh crimson. His father's blood.
A storm of emotions churned inside Leon—confusion, shock, fear, and a rising tide of anger that threatened to drown him. His chest heaved, each breath harsh and uneven, as though the very air around him had turned poisonous.
Still, no matter how many times he blinked, his eyes refused to deny the reality before him. His father lay sprawled on the carpet, lifeless, mutilated beyond recognition.
Why? The question thundered in his mind. Why would anyone go so far, descending to such depths of cruelty?
This was not just murder. This was butchery—deliberate, merciless. Whoever did this had taken their time, as though savoring each wound, each slice, each scream. His father's limbs had been severed with monstrous precision, and at the very end, his throat had been slit open, the crimson flow pooling around him like some grotesque offering.
It did not look like the act of someone driven by necessity or vengeance alone. No—this bore the mark of someone who had either harbored a hatred deeper than blood, or worse, someone who reveled in the suffering of others.
Leon's heart twisted painfully at the thought. His father had been no enemy to anyone. He was a man respected across the village, a figure admired for his honesty and relentless hard work.
Though he lacked the ability to cultivate like the commander or the elite guards, he had risen through sheer determination, becoming one of the strongest and most dependable wardens of the village. Yet, for all his strength, what people remembered most was his kindness.
He never turned his back on those in need, never spoke cruelly, never abandoned his duty. He was not just a soldier—he was a good man. An honest man.
And now… he was nothing more than a broken body.
The sight carved a wound into Leon's soul, one that would never close. His father's glassy eyes, wide and forever frozen in terror, stared into the void, as though even in death they demanded an answer that would never come.
But what truly froze Leon's blood was not the body. It was the four presence clad in black standing beside it.
The murderer had not fled. He lingered, looming over his father's corpse like a shadow made flesh, his gaze fixed entirely on Leon. Cold, unblinking, unfeeling.
It was as if he had been waiting, expecting this very moment—for Leon to arrive, to see, to break.
And in that silence, as their eyes locked, Leon felt something far darker than fear. He felt the weight of inevitability, as though the nightmare had only just begun.
As the sadness that chained his heart gave way for a moment, a violent surge of anger rose within Leon. His vision blurred red, his small, frail body trembling as he clenched his fists. With a guttural cry, he launched himself toward the murderer, a child's desperate courage pushing him forward.
But the man did not even flinch. He stood rooted in place, unmoving, as though Leon's fury was nothing more than a breeze brushing past him.
Leon's charge faltered. His steps froze mid-way.
There—just beyond the murderer—his eyes fell upon his mother.
Her hands and feet were bound tightly with coarse rope, her mouth stuffed with cloth so no scream could escape her lips. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen with tears, and when one of the men at the side reached toward her, Leon's heart nearly stopped.
The cloth was ripped from her mouth.
Her lips trembled as she gasped for breath, her voice cracked and broken with terror and pain.
"S-son… r-run… run, they'll kill you… y-your father… w-uuuh…"
Every word was like a dagger, stabbing deep into Leon's heart. His chest constricted, his breath came in ragged bursts. He stretched his hand toward her with desperation.
"Mother!"
But before his fingers could even brush the air between them, the man beside her raised his blade.
The silver arc flashed once.
Her voice ended in silence.
With a sickening sound, her head separated cleanly from her shoulders, rolling across the wooden floor. It stopped only after a dull thud, staring lifelessly with the same eyes that once held warmth.
Leon's soul shattered.
His throat burned, his lungs strained, and then the sound came—a scream so raw, so broken, it seemed to tear the air apart.
"Motherrrrr! Motherrrr! Nooo! Noooooo!"
His legs buckled, but still he stumbled forward, collapsing beside her fallen body. His trembling hands hovered over her blood-soaked form, as though touching her would somehow bring her back. Tears fell in torrents, blinding his vision, soaking the floor beneath him.
"You… you heartless bastards!" His voice cracked, rising in pain and fury. "What did you do? Why? Why her, why him…? W-why!?"
His cries turned into wails, agonized and unending. The sound filled every corner of the house, heavy enough to crush any normal heart that heard it. It was the scream of a child whose world had been ripped apart in a single night, left with nothing but grief and despair.
Leon forced his trembling body upright, his knees shaking as though the ground itself rejected him. His eyes darted desperately, searching for anything to hold, anything to fight with.
His hand closed around a broken piece of wood—not even a weapon, barely more than scrap. But in that moment, it was all he had.
With a scream that cracked his throat, he lunged forward.
"Die, you bastard! Dieee! Aahhh—die!"
He swung wildly, arms flailing in a frenzy, as if sheer madness could make his strikes land. Each swing was clumsy, desperate, fueled not by skill but by grief and rage.
The man before him didn't even break posture. With effortless ease, he sidestepped every strike, watching the boy exhaust himself. To him, Leon's assault wasn't even a fight—it was the pathetic thrashing of a wounded animal.
"Pathetic."
The word was cold. Final.
Steel pierced flesh. The man's blade slid into Leon's chest with brutal precision. His body convulsed, blood bursting from his mouth in a crimson spray. His wide, trembling eyes locked onto the murderer's—those cold, unfeeling eyes, the only thing visible behind the mask of shadow.
His strength collapsed. The makeshift weapon slipped from his fingers.
"THUD."
Leon fell onto the floor, the sound dull and hollow. No scream followed, no cry of pain—only silence. His lips quivered, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above, as blood pooled beneath him.
Red tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks, mingling with the life that seeped from his chest. Slowly, his world blurred, fading into darkness.
"You shouldn't have insulted the young master," the man spoke coldly.
Then, as if they were nothing but shadows, they vanished—each of them dissolving into thin air, leaving behind only silence… and a dying boy drowning in his own regret.
Leon lay still, blood seeping from his chest, his breath shallow and ragged. His mind spun in fragments, thoughts flickering like fading embers.
So… it was all just for a careless insult…
A single remark. A fleeting moment of pride, a slip of his tongue aimed at the village head's spoiled son. Few even knew of it, yet it had sealed his family's fate.
And the village's so-called "elite guards"… instead of protecting, they had become executioners. Ordered to slaughter his father, his mother, and now him—all for the sake of one petty grudge.
Father was right… People with power decide the fate of others.
He coughed, blood trailing down his lips. His body felt heavier with each passing heartbeat. His vision dimmed, but his thoughts burned painfully clear.
Here I am… lying broken on the floor, unable to protect them… unable even to kill one man.
His gaze flickered toward where his parents' bodies lay. His chest tightened, the weight of guilt pressing harder than the blade had.
I have truly wasted my life. My mistakes brought them to this end. I couldn't protect Father… I couldn't save Mother. I am nothing but a pathetic son.
A tear, tinged with blood, rolled down his cheek. His hand twitched, reaching weakly toward the darkness above.
If only… If only I could return. If only I could make everything right.
The world blurred further, his vision narrowing into shadows.
I wish… I had another chance.
With that final thought, his eyelids sank shut. The last fragments of light slipped away. His body stilled. His regrets, unanswered, followed him into the void.
And so Leon fell into the silence of death—swallowed by the oblivion that awaited him.