Dawn crept upon the wasteland like a wounded animal — slow, trembling, uncertain. Smoke still drifted from the ruins of the village, weaving dark ribbons through the morning air. The scent of burnt wood and flesh mingled, refusing to die. Ethan stood amidst the ashes, barefoot, his face streaked with soot and silent tears. His sister slept beside a fallen cart, too exhausted to cry anymore.
He looked around him — to the charred remains of the square where laughter once danced, to the corpses that no longer had names. Everything he had ever known had vanished in one night.
And yet, amidst the ruin, something stirred within him.
Not despair. Not fear. But clarity.
He remembered the face of the armored shadow — that glimmer of steel, that unholy calm. That was no mere invader. It was a being of purpose, a hunter wearing the flesh of darkness. A servant of the occult — one of those forbidden orders whispered by old men in fear and superstition.
He clenched his fists. His body trembled, not from weakness, but from the birth of rage — a cold, measured rage. The kind that does not scream, but carves oaths into the soul.
He knelt upon the scorched earth. The heat bit his knees, but he did not move. Around him, the ashes rose like a silent congregation. He could almost hear their voices — the villagers, his mother, the lives devoured by the night.
He spoke then, voice low, hoarse, yet fierce enough to echo through the ruins.
"I swear… on your ashes, on your silence… I will find the truth behind this darkness. I will tear down their world — the cults, the demons, the nobles who feed on the forgotten. I will not rest until every shadow bleeds."
A sudden wind swept across the village, carrying with it embers still burning. They circled him like restless spirits, glowing brighter with every word he spoke. He did not flinch. The fire did not consume him — it accepted him.
For the first time, he felt it — a pulse, faint but alive, deep beneath the ground. The old exorcist's words returned to him, those whispered months before during the harvest night:
> "There are forces that answer to no gods. Only to will."
And Ethan's will had awakened.
He rose, his gaze no longer that of a child. His shadow stretched across the ruin like a scar. He turned toward his sleeping sister and whispered,
"We'll leave this place. But I will come back — not as I am, not as this broken boy. The next time I walk this land… the world will remember my name."
The sun broke through the smoke then, bathing the scene in crimson light. It was not warmth — it was promise.
The ashes stirred. The vow had been made.
And fate had begun to listen.