Ezmelral stood transfixed, her eyes locked on the sword hovering in the air—a masterpiece born from chaos, its silver blade gleaming with an otherworldly sharpness, the hilt a seamless fusion of earth and root that pulsed faintly with the essence of the elements. It hummed softly, as if alive, drawing her closer like a siren's call. "W-what is it?" she whispered, her hand inching forward, her mind racing. This can't be any ordinary sword... it's something more, something ancient.
Raiking watched in silence, making no move to stop her as temptation coiled in her chest, urging her on. Just a touch, she thought. What harm could it do? Her fingers brushed the blade's cool surface.
Her eyes snapped shut as a surge of power coursed through her—like lightning threading her veins, warm and electric, pulling her under. When they fluttered open, she was home. Seated at the familiar table, the air thick with the scent of baking cake and her mother's gentle humming from the kitchen. Her father sat nearby, his axe delicately carving a small wooden figure, his face lit with quiet focus. Joy bubbled in her chest, pure and overwhelming—the cake, the surprise, everything's perfect!
Mother emerged, setting the golden cake on the table with a warm smile. "Come on, dear—put that down and join us."
Father chuckled, obeying as he rose and walked toward them, his steps light.
But then Ezmelral glanced down—her hands and clothes were smeared with blood, stark crimson against the homely scene. Horror spiked through her; she jerked back, slamming into something solid. Her father—no—a blade pierced his heart, blood blooming like a deadly flower. The protective boulder around them crumbled to dust. The night of horror replayed: Mother, knife in hand, her face twisted in unnatural gray, stabbing with mechanical fury.
"Dad!!!" Ezmelral screamed, lunging forward to stop it.
The vision shattered—reset. Back at the table, mother cooking, father carving. Memories wiped clean, the happiness fresh and untainted. It began again.
And again.
The cake on the table. Father's walk. Blood on her hands. The stab. The scream.
Over and over, an endless loop of torment, each cycle carving deeper into her soul—helpless, trapped, watching her world fracture eternally.
Until a firm hand touched her shoulder. The nightmare dissolved like mist under sun, yanking her back to the present. Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting; she whirled, grabbing Raiking's cloak, burying her sobs into his chest, drenching the fabric. "I-I saw them," she choked out, voice muffled and broken. "My parents... that night. Over and over. I couldn't stop it—couldn't help them. Why? Why couldn't I save them?"
Raiking stood still, letting her pour out the storm—the knot of grief unraveling in wrenching waves, the buried anguish spilling free like a dam finally breached. He said nothing, his presence a silent anchor amid her tempest.
After what felt like an eternity, her sobs ebbed; she pulled back, wiping her tear-streaked face with trembling hands, her eyes red and swollen. She turned to the sword, still hovering serenely. "Was... was it the sword's doing?"
"Yes," Raiking replied softly. "Unless your heart is unburdened—free of shadows—you cannot wield it. The blade reveals what festers within."
"Wield it?" she echoed, surprise cutting through her grief. "Is... is the blade for me?"
He nodded. "If you are my disciple, you must learn to fight." His gaze lifted to the stars, vast and indifferent overhead. "I won't be around forever."
Her eyes widened, a mix of awe and resolve flickering in their depths. The sword's power, her father's memory, the endless fight ahead—it all swirled in her mind, a path forward from the ruins of her past.
Ezmelral's resolve hardened like tempered steel, her small frame straightening as she met Raiking's unyielding gaze. "What must I do?" she asked, her voice steady despite the storm raging within. "To wield it... to make its power my own?"
"You must conquer your inner corruption," he replied, his tone grave, the sword still hovering between them like a silent judge. "You have seven years."
Seven years... The number echoed in her mind, clicking into place. She'd be eighteen then—the age when her Essence Core would manifest, awakening the power dormant in her blood. "Does it... have something to do with that? My Core awakening?"
He nodded, the faint hum of the blade underscoring his words. "Yes. Children, innocent of right and wrong, are spared an Essence Core. Without it, no Seed of Corruption can take root and bear its poisoned fruit."
She absorbed this, her fingers twitching at her sides. "What exactly am I meant to fight? To overcome?"
"That," he said, his crimson eyes piercing hers, "is for you to uncover."
Ezmelral blinked, confusion furrowing her brow. "But—"
"Remember all you've seen," he added, a hint threading his voice like a hidden path through fog. "The answer lies buried in the chaos."
All that I've seen... she muttered to herself, fragments flashing: the slave market's chains, the arena's bloodlust, the marketplace's indifference. Chaos, yes—but a pattern? She glanced at the sword, its silver edge gleaming with unspoken promise. "I'll try," she vowed, nodding with quiet determination.
She reached for it then, her hand trembling as it closed around the hilt. The world lurched—the familiar surge pulling her under, eyes snapping shut against the flood. When they opened, she was trapped once more: the hut, the cake, her father's carving, mother's gentle hum. Joy, then blood, betrayal, endless loops of that fateful night, each cycle carving deeper into her soul, forcing her to relive the horror without end, without mercy.
Meanwhile, as Ezmelral battled her deepest traumas in the sword's unyielding grip, far across the wilds In the opulent throne room of Dawnfall Palace, where golden tapestries depicted ancient victories and crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, the King and Queen sat side by side on their elevated thrones. The air was heavy with tension, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down like an invisible crown. Before them knelt a guard, his armor polished but bearing the scuffs of haste, head bowed in deference.
"What news do you have?" the Queen asked first, her voice steady but laced with quiet urgency, her eyes sharp as she leaned forward slightly.
The guard straightened just enough to produce an Emergency Tier 3 Essence Scroll from his pouch, its seal glowing faintly with urgent runes. "Your Majesties," he began, his tone grave, "earlier today, the patrols we dispatched eastward reported their findings."
The King nodded, his expression a mask of regal calm, though his fingers tightened on the throne's armrest. "Speak."
"Yes, my lord." The guard unrolled the scroll, its parchment crackling in the hush, and read aloud. "At first, the journey showed no signs of disturbance—no traces of conflict along the roads. But as they neared the town, they found it in utter ruin. Bodies littered the streets, mauled as if by savage beasts—deep claw marks raking flesh and bone. Some bore puncture wounds, but not from any sword or spear we've known."
The King and Queen exchanged a glance, a silent storm passing between them—worry etching lines into their composed features.
The guard pressed on, his voice dropping lower. "But what troubled them most... the buildings. They were cleaved in half, clean through, as if by some impossible force."
"All of them?" the Queen interjected, her brow furrowing.
The guard nodded solemnly. "Every one, Your Majesty."
The King leaned back, his mind racing. "How is that even possible?"
"General Kennedy has already acted," the guard continued. "He's dispatched his protégé, Shannon, to examine the blade marks—or whatever caused them."
The Queen and King shared another look, this one laced with a flicker of relief. "A wise move," the Queen murmured. "Shannon's the finest swordsman in the realm. If it's a blade's work, she'll uncover it—or reveal if it's something far worse."
The King agreed with a curt nod, then addressed the guard. "Instruct the patrols to press on. Full authorization for Tier 3 Essence Scrolls—no matter the report's severity. Spare nothing."
"Yes, my lord." The guard rose, fist thumping against his chest in a sharp salute, his posture ramrod straight. He turned on his heel, boots echoing as he strode toward the grand doors.
In that brief pause, the Queen caught it—a subtle grind of the King's teeth, his usual unflappable demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath, a storm brewing in the depths of his royal calm.