"Marcus… Marcus… Marcus…"
The name echoed through the void, a whisper carried by a wind that did not exist.
He opened his eyes to a world turned upside down — a castle hanging in the air like the carcass of some dead god. The stones of its walls bled darkness, and the sky above was neither night nor dawn, but something in between — a place where time had forgotten how to move.
A pounding ache split his skull. Somewhere beyond the fog, a woman's voice called his name again, faint and trembling, like a memory struggling to stay alive.
Am I dreaming? Or have I fallen into a nightmare that refuses to end?
Then came the sound of a bell — low, distant, tolling like the death of hope. With it rose whispers, slithering along the broken ground, seeping into his bones. A door appeared from nothingness. Its frame was shadow, its hinges groaning with unseen sorrow.
Marcus stepped closer, every heartbeat a thunder in his chest. He pushed the door open—
and the world collapsed.
His village lay before him, bathed in cold moonlight. Every home burned in silence.
Bodies littered the streets—men, women, children—some charred, others torn apart, all dead. The stench of iron and ash hung in the air.
And atop the mound of corpses sat himself—a perfect reflection—motionless, hollow-eyed, drenched in blood.
Behind that reflection stood a creature of horror: part man, part wolf, a beast of immense stature, its eyes glowing with a light too cruel to be called human.
Marcus fell to his knees. His breath caught in his throat as despair took form before him.
He knew, with the certainty of a curse, that this thing was his future—his destiny devouring him from within.
Blood began to stream from his eyes, his mouth, his ears. He screamed—a raw, broken sound—
and then a voice cut through the void.
"Marcus! Brother Marcus! Wake up!"
The nightmare shattered.
He gasped, sitting upright in his bed. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart a hammer in his chest. Before him stood his sister, Mary, her eyes red with tears, her hands trembling as she shook him.
Marcus: "Mary… why are you crying?"
Mary: "You were screaming, brother. You said you'd kill everyone in the village… you terrified me."
Marcus: "I said that…?"
Mary: "Yes. It must've been a terrible dream."
He forced a smile, thin and brittle, a mask to hide the dread gnawing at his soul.
Marcus: "Just a dream, then."
Mary: "Wash your face and come down for breakfast. Everyone's waiting. Oh—and Arnold's back from the Royal Guard. He's downstairs with Mother, Father, and little Hans."
Marcus stared at his reflection in the mirror as cold water ran down his face.
That dream… no, that vision. What was it trying to tell me?
Downstairs, the morning felt too bright.
Arnold: "Brother! How are you?"
Marcus: "Alive, I suppose. And you? Serving the crown must weigh heavy."
Arnold (smiling): "Tiring, yes—but it's my duty as the Royal Guard's vice-captain. I wear the burden proudly."
Marcus (to himself): That smile—it hides more chains than pride.
Marcus: "Then I'm glad for you, Arnold. Truly."
Julius (their father): "Look at your brother, Marcus. Seventeen years old, and already a commander's right hand. You're twenty—and still a disappointment."
Marcus: "Oh? And who tends your fields at night? You only remember me when you need someone to blame."
Lina (their mother): "Enough! This is breakfast, not a battlefield!"
Hans (the youngest): "Hehe! Father and Marcus are fighting again!"
Mary: "By the way, old Duncan came by. He said if Marcus wakes, he should visit the forge."
Marcus: "That old blacksmith again… he probably wants my help."
Arnold: "You should go. You're strong—he must see something in you."
Marcus: "…It doesn't matter."
Arnold: "Then answer me, Marcus. Why won't you join the Royal Guard?"
Marcus: "Because I refuse to live as a puppet."
The table fell silent.
Marcus: "Those men you serve—they follow the king without question. They call it duty. I call it a cage.
A man who doesn't live by his own will dies first, and he dies empty.
That is the curse of duty."
No one spoke. Even Arnold looked away.
And in that silence—unseen by any of them—fate began to turn its wheel.
The tale of Lord of Monster had begun.
—To be continued.