Kiaria and Diala returned to the newly arranged camp for them and mercenary group by Princess. The camp stood silent beneath a pale dawn, its rows of tents shrouded in thin mist. Dew glimmered on the blades of grass, and faint embers flickered in the cold air from last night's fires. Beyond the horizon, the first light spilled across the plains, marking the final day before departure to Re Ze Lure–the Cemetery Island.
For the past two days, Kiaria and Diala had trained without rest.
The field behind the Sanctum had become their battleground. Sword clashes rang through the wind–metal meeting metal, spirit meeting will. Each strike Diala unleashed grew sharper, her footing more stable, her breathing more in rhythm with her heart. The faint energy lines running along her arms began to glow faintly with every swing, resonating with her martial soul.
Her improvement was astonishing. Two realms in two days–her body ached, her spirit trembled, but her will refused to yield.
Kiaria stood opposite her, his movements calm, precise, yet every blow carried hidden intent–pushing, shaping, guiding her growth. His healing energy silently threaded through her body whenever fatigue overtook her, knitting her torn meridians and soothing her exhaustion.
By the end of the second night, even the stars seemed to pulse in rhythm with their duel.
"Good," Kiaria said softly, lowering his blade. "But don't rely on instinct alone, Dia. Feel the world move before it strikes you."
Diala smiled faintly, panting, strands of hair stuck to her forehead. "You make it sound easy."
"It will be." He smiled, wiping her sweat away with the corner of his sleeve. "Soon."
She nodded, eyes glowing with quiet resolve.
That night, when the camp quieted, Kiaria left for a walk beneath the fading moonlight. The air was cool and sharp; wind whispered faintly through the grass. Ahead, he saw a peach garden–its blossoms silver beneath the starlight. But something about the place felt… wrong.
No sound of insects. No night birds. Even the air felt still.
Then, the world bent.
The stars dimmed, the wind ceased, and a dense miasma rose from the ground, coiling around the trees like smoke from another realm. Two vast, golden eyes appeared within it.
Kiaria froze as a colossal figure took form. But he felt familiarity.
The Golden Dragon Emperor.
The dragon's voice rumbled like thunder restrained. "Hahaha… impressive, child. Even when we break free from your consciousness, your mind endures. But remember this–if your will falters, even once, this sight shall be your last."
Kiaria exhaled slowly, steadying his heart. "Grandfather… why have you come?"
The dragon's laughter faded into solemn stillness. "To warn you. You tread toward a land that should have been erased from the history itself a long ago. Re Ze Lure is not a place–it is a scar upon the world."
The miasma thickened, swirling with distant echoes–wails, roars, whispers of the damned.
"Twenty-five millennia ago," the dragon continued, "after the meteor's descent, the living and the beasts twisted into horrors. They devoured fortune itself, draining the souls of the blessed. We captured them, imprisoned them upon that island. But the prison broke. A tide of monsters rose, the land itself screamed, and even our kind bled. We burned it all–sealed what we could. Yet, that place still breathes. That's how we two be like this."
His golden gaze dimmed. "Its soil remembers death, wind carries stench of the dead."
Kiaria's hands clenched. "If it's that dangerous, why let it remain?"
"Because destruction breeds creation," answered a deeper voice–the Azure Dragon Emperor emerging beside his brother. "Every generation must face what we could not finish. That island hungers for the brave–or the foolish."
Silence fell, broken only by Kiaria's calm voice. "Then I will go."
The dragons stirred. "You would risk that little girl's life for your pride?"
He met their gaze unflinching. "If I don't step forward, who will stop the next disaster? If the world needs a blade, then I'll be it."
For a long moment, the dragons said nothing. Then, they laughed–a sound like storms breaking apart.
"Good. Child, you have not disappointed us," the Golden Dragon said, pride flickering in his tone. "You carry the will of our line."
Their forms dissolved into mist, fading into the still air.
Kiaria stood alone beneath the ghostly blossoms. The weight of the dragons' words pressed heavy in his chest. He sighed and turned back to camp, the moonlight dim against his shadowed form.
He did not sleep that night. His thoughts were full of flames, blood, and the name of that forbidden island.
In midnight, exhaustion claimed him. When Diala awoke, sunlight brushed over his face–he had fallen asleep seated by the tent's entrance, his sword resting across his knees.
Diala smiled softly and tucked a stray lock of his hair behind his ear. "You always watch over everyone, even in sleep," she murmured.
When he woke, he carried something wrapped in black silk. "Dia," he said gently, "these are for you."
She blinked in surprise. "For… me?"
He unwrapped the cloth–revealing a silver-threaded armor set and a crimson curve blade that shimmered faintly like molten silk.
"This armor," he said, "was a gift from Big Sister. Mid-grade guardian type, light yet resilient. And this…" He handed her the sword. "A Red Velvet Light Sword. A spiritual weapon. Its power changes depending on the one it recognizes."
Her eyes widened, tears gathering. "You bought these for me?"
He smiled faintly. "I wanted you to be safe."
Diala took the sword in both hands. The blade gleamed–and then, without warning, crimson light erupted. A long, velvet ribbon unfurled from the hilt, circling her head like a divine nimbus. The ground trembled faintly.
Energy surged outward.
From nearby tents, Chief Staley, Ferlin, and Ellein rushed forward. The Elder of the mercenaries followed moments later, eyes widening at the sight.
Then, he laughed–a deep, thunderous sound. "You two! Who sold you this broken blade? You've been fooled!"
Diala and Kiaria turned in confusion.
The Elder bared his chest. Deep scars marred his skin, running like lightning strikes across his torso. "See this? That sword did this to me. I forged it myself–and I shattered it after it nearly killed me. It devours its wielder's life when overused."
Kiaria's expression fell, his face tightening. "I… didn't know."
He tried to heal the scars with his energy, but the Elder stopped him with a raised hand. "Don't waste it. Some wounds are meant to remind us what power costs."
The silence that followed was heavy. Kiaria's smile faded, replaced by a shadow of guilt.
Diala watched him quietly. She understood his silence–the self-blame in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped under invisible weight.
She stepped forward.
"Nothing in this world is perfect," she said softly. "Even the strongest steel is flawed. Look at us–we were born with flaws too. If perfection defined worth, neither of us would still be here."
Her voice grew stronger. "It's not the sword I rely on, Kiaria. It's you–the one who stands beside me even when I fall."
She reached for his hand and clasped it tightly.
For a moment, the camp fell quiet. Morning light spilled over them, catching the glint of the cursed blade and the shimmer of her new armor.
Kiaria looked at her and smiled–small, fragile, but real.
Even at the moment of pleasing words of Diala echoed in his mind, awaiting sacrifices and deadly dangers haunted his heart.