The moon was silver.
Suspended above the battlefield, cold and immaculate, it cast a pale light over the ravaged land. Yet to Sumi's eyes, it burned crimson. Blood streamed down his face, mingling with sweat and tears, seeping into his eyelids and staining the world red.
He blinked.
The moon remained red.
Blood gathered at his chin before dripping into the mud with a dull, intimate sound. Each drop felt like a second passing. The air was saturated with scents that refused to separate. Burnt flesh. Scorched metal. Fresh blood. A lethal alchemy that clung to his throat and lungs.
The battlefield stretched around him like an open wound.
Thirty human bodies lay scattered across the ground. Some intact. Others barely recognizable. Farther away, ten more figures rested in the dirt. Ten of his own. Ten comrades who had stood against a force three times their number.
Thirty against ten.They called it a cleansing operation.
Sumi stood motionless, bare-chested, his body covered in open wounds, still-smoking burns, and old scars layered like pages of a book no one wanted to read. Beneath his skin, something pulsed.
Dark veins glimmered faintly.
They traced symmetrical patterns across his torso, elegant in a cruel way, like calligraphy carved into flesh. They began at his abdomen, climbed his chest, and flowed into his right arm.
An arm entirely black.
Not burned.Not corrupted.
But shaped from a silent, unfathomable substance.
Ink.
A wet, choking rattle shattered the silence.
Sumi lowered his gaze.
A few meters away, a man was still crawling. His armor had been torn apart, his breathing uneven and broken, each movement leaving behind a dark trail. A blade of ink was embedded deep in his back. It trembled faintly, as if it were still alive.
The man turned his head with great effort.
His eyes met Sumi's.
Fear struck him instantly.
"Monster…" he whispered.
The word lingered in the air, worn thin by centuries of repetition.
Sumi stepped forward.
His feet sank into blood-soaked mud. Every movement was slow. Deliberate. There was no need to rush.
"You know," Sumi said calmly, almost gently, "this is always how it begins."
The man tried to retreat. His body refused to obey.
"You come with your orders," Sumi continued. "Your banners. Your prayers. You speak of justice. Of safety. Of purification."
He stopped in front of him.
"Tell me," Sumi asked, tilting his head slightly, "who taught you that killing was a solution?"
The man coughed and spat blood.
"You… you're not human."
Sumi was silent for a moment.
Then he smiled faintly.
"No," he replied. "But I've lived among you long enough to understand how you think."
He looked out over the battlefield.
"You saw our villages. You saw our children. And you were afraid."
His voice hardened.
"So you called us a threat."
He gestured toward the corpses.
"Men sent to die on the front lines. Children locked away in camps. Women broken and sold in the name of order."
He looked back down at the man.
"And when we answer… you call us monsters."
Silence fell.
The man trembled.
"We… we had to…"
"I know," Sumi interrupted softly. "You were following orders."
He raised his hand slowly.
Ink stirred around his fingers, thick and heavy, drawn to his will. A blade formed in the air.
"Noiriel."
The blade drove itself into the man's left foot.
A scream tore through the night.
"He was the youngest," Sumi said. "He laughed even when he was afraid."
A second blade appeared.
"Kaen."
It pierced the man's right calf.
"He dreamed of leaving the battlefield."
The third.
"Lys."
Into the thigh.
"She could heal better than anyone."
The fourth.
"Orun."
Through the shoulder.
"He always guarded the rear."
The screams broke down, turning hoarse.
The fifth.
"Vale."
Into the ribs.
"He sang before every battle."
The sixth.
"Mira."
Through the forearm.
"She still believed in peace."
The seventh.
"Thorn."
Into the other shoulder.
"He never retreated."
The eighth.
"Ash."
Into the hip.
"He was afraid. But he advanced anyway."
The ninth.
"Seren."
Into the side.
"She wanted to go home."
The man wept. Begged. His words dissolved into nothing.
The tenth blade formed.
Larger. Darker.
"And him," Sumi murmured, "his name was Ikar."
He drove the blade into the man's chest.
Silence returned.
Heavy. Absolute.
Sumi remained still, his arm extended. Blood continued to run down his face. Above him, the moon remained silver… red through his blood-soaked vision.
This is the cycle, he thought.Fear breeds violence. Violence demands vengeance. And everyone calls it justice.
He turned away slowly.
Behind him, the man exhaled his final breath.
Sumi walked on.
Warrior of ink.Bearer of names.Witness to a world that confuses justice with extermination.
***
Sumi walked west.
The sky was beginning to pale, slowly, as if dawn itself hesitated to look upon what the night had left behind. The wind was weak. It did not cleanse. It merely shifted ash from one place to another, uncovering dried blood here, a discarded piece of armor there.
Sumi moved without haste.
Each step was deliberate.Measured.
He already knew he was not alone.
An uneven rhythm.Breathing out of sync.Footsteps without discipline.
Someone was fleeing.
He stopped.
He did not hide. He did not pursue. He simply waited.
The young man emerged between two charred trees. Blond hair matted with sweat and soot. His Imperial uniform hung loosely from his frame, torn, stained with mud and blood. When he saw Sumi, his body froze instantly, as if instinct had seized control before thought could catch up.
Silence settled.
Long.Heavy.
The young man slowly raised his hands.
"I don't want to fight," he said at last. His voice trembled, though he forced himself to speak clearly. "I'm just… trying to leave."
Sumi looked at him without replying.
His gray gaze moved slowly over the boy, from his mud-caked boots to his dirt-smeared face. He took in every detail. The clenched fingers. The rigid shoulders. The eyes already searching for escape.
"Leave," Sumi repeated calmly.
He took one step forward.
The young man immediately stepped back.
"I don't have any weapons," he added quickly. "I threw them away. I swear."
"I can see that," Sumi replied.
His voice was low. Steady. Free of threat.
The young man seemed unsettled by the tone.
"My unit is dead," he said after a moment. "All of them. I… I couldn't—"
"Follow them," Sumi finished.
The blond man nodded slowly.
"I want to go home."
The words lingered between them.
"Home," Sumi repeated.
He turned his head slightly toward the horizon, where thin columns of smoke still rose.
"Tell me," he said, "what do you call home?"
The young man hesitated.
"A village," he answered. "Near the coast. My mother runs an inn there."
A pause.
"Is she a good cook?" Sumi asked.
The young man blinked, caught off guard.
"Yes," he said after a moment. "She… she says it's the only thing she knows how to do."
Sumi nodded slowly.
"Then you understand," he said. "You understand what it means to want to protect something simple."
The young man swallowed.
"I didn't want this," he murmured. "They told us you were dangerous. That if we didn't strike first—"
"We would," Sumi finished.
He moved closer again, very slowly, until only a few steps separated them.
"Tell me," Sumi asked, "at what point did you stop thinking for yourself?"
The young man clenched his fists.
"I'm just a soldier," he said. "I didn't choose this war."
"No one chooses it," Sumi replied. "But everyone helps it move forward."
He lowered his gaze to his blackened arm.
"You see this?" he asked.
The young man nodded, despite himself.
"Do you know what it is?"
"A curse," he answered cautiously.
Sumi shook his head.
"No," he said. "It's what remains when there's no room left for words."
Silence returned.
The blond man drew a shaky breath.
"I'm sorry," he said. This time, the words carried weight. "I know that doesn't fix anything."
"No," Sumi answered. "It never does."
He lifted his gaze.
"If I let you go," he asked, "what will you say when you return?"
The young man hesitated for a long time.
"The truth," he said at last.
Sumi stared at him.
"No," he replied calmly. "You'll say whatever lets you sleep."
The young man lowered his head.
"I'll say you're monsters," he whispered.
Sumi closed his eyes briefly.
They always say the same thing.
A blade of ink formed slowly in his hand. Not violently. Not in anger. Like a conclusion taking shape.
The young man fell to his knees.
"Please," he said, his voice breaking. "I don't want to hate anymore. I don't want to be part of this."
Sumi watched the trembling body for a long moment.
Then the blade dissolved.
"Go," he said.
The young man looked up, disbelief flooding his face.
"Go," Sumi repeated. "And if you ever hear the word purification again… remember this field."
The blond man rose unsteadily. Took a step back. Then turned and ran, disappearing between the trees.
Sumi remained alone.
Daylight finally crept across the land, revealing every scar the night had carved into it.
"One day," he murmured, without anger, "there will be no one left to run."
He resumed walking.
Westward.
Hatred walked with him.