"UrghHHH," Veldra sighed.
They walked over the pool of blood, steady and indifferent, their footsteps making no sound as they passed over the cold, lifeless bodies strewn across the ruined market square. A faint trace of pity washed over them, thin and shallow like a ripple across still water, but it vanished almost as soon as it surfaced, swallowed by something far heavier and far more ancient. The dead were already beyond concern, and the living were no longer worth hesitation.
"Lucien, do you know the ruler of the square market?" Veldra asked, his voice calm, distant, the hem of his robe brushing against the crimson beneath his feet as though it were nothing more than damp earth.
"Yes, I do, my Lord, and in fact, maybe the two of you can be friends," Lucien replied, a faint smile escaping his lips, untouched by the lingering stench of blood and death.
"How? I have just killed his subordinates. How can he still forgive me?" Veldra asked, a rare flicker of bewilderment passing through his eyes, not guilt, but genuine curiosity, as though forgiveness itself were a strange and foreign concept.
"Don't worry about that, my Lord," Lucien said, his tone light, almost reassuring, as if such matters were trivial details in the flow of events already set in stone.
They soon reached the other end of the market, far from the lifeless bodies, leaving behind the sea of red and silence. Before them stood the palace of the market, tall and solemn, its white stone walls unmarred, its gates still standing as though ignorant of the catastrophe that had swallowed the square behind them. Guarding the entrance were armoured figures clad in the same white, gold-tinted armour as the Holy Order, their presence rigid and imposing, spears held upright with practised discipline.
"Stop right there!" they exclaimed in unison, stepping forward and pointing their spears ahead, the metal tips gleaming coldly in the light.
Lucien did not hesitate. "Sorry for the commotion. I would like to visit the palace master."
"No, that is not possible, as we do not know you!" they exclaimed with a sneering tone, eyes raking over Lucien and then settling on Veldra with thinly veiled contempt. "Although we might think about it if you give us your clothes." An ugly smile tore across their lips, greed and arrogance mixing freely with the authority they believed they possessed.
Veldra, however, was not having it.
He raised his hand, fingers forming an unfamiliar shape, a crude imitation of a weapon, casual, almost playful, as though mocking the very idea of resistance.
"What is this bastard doing? You think we are going to be scared of some measly-"
A white mist of formless smoke shot forward from Veldra's hand-pointed gun at immense speed, tearing through the air without sound or warning. It pierced straight through the guard's heart, leaving an insurmountable hollow where flesh and life had once existed. There was no explosion, no spectacle, only the sudden, overwhelming smell of cold dread escaping the body, followed by the slow, inevitable drip of blood leaking from the perfect void carved into his chest, outlining torn flesh and shattered existence.
The second guard collapsed almost simultaneously, his body striking the ground with a dull, meaningless thud.
They walked forward and pushed the doors open, stepping into the palace.The white glass doors parted soundlessly, opening into an interior so vast and radiant it felt detached from the massacre left behind. The hall glowed like a miniature sun contained within stone walls, torches lining every side, their flames burning endlessly, steady and unwavering, as though fed not by oil but by devotion itself. Their light bathed the palace in warm brilliance, masking the truth of the world beyond its walls. A red carpet stretched across the floor, deep and immaculate, its colour eerily mirroring the crimson blood they had stood upon not long ago, as if the palace itself were aware of what had transpired and chose not to deny it.
They walked upon the carpet slowly, coldly, indifferently, knowingly. Their footsteps echoed faintly as they ascended the grand staircase, each step deliberate, each movement unhurried, as though time itself bent to accommodate their presence. Reaching the upper chamber, they entered the room and pushed open the doors.
A man sat within.He was seated upon a grey chair behind a sturdy table and desk, posture straight, expression composed. White hair fell neatly around his shoulders, untouched by age, and his golden eyes shone with the clarity of authority and vigilance. A red and white robe fused with armour covered his body, ceremonial yet functional, marking him unmistakably as a ruler bound to both governance and force.
"Hello, friend," Lucien spoke casually, pulling one of the chairs beside him and sitting down without hesitation, as though he belonged there.
The man's eyes narrowed slightly. Scepticism flickered across his face. He did not recognise Lucien, yet something about him felt familiar, uncomfortably so, like a memory resurfacing without its name attached. He knew who he was, yet did not know who he was. Seeing the confusion, Lucien immediately smiled and leaned forward.
"Do you remember the wolf, the big wolf you almost killed? If not for your mercy, I would have died that day. But now I am much stronger than I previously was. My name is now Lucien. And this man beside me is my Lord, and he has come to apologise."
"Wolfy!" the man exclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair and stepping forward, grasping Lucien's hand firmly. The rigid composure he had maintained cracked, and a genuine smile slipped free. "It has been a long while, has it not?"
"Indeed," Lucien replied.
"And do you remember my name?" the man asked, golden eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Of course I do, Veldron. How could I forget your name?" Lucien said.
Veldron smiled again, warmth surfacing as he looked upon his long-lost friend. Yet the moment did not last. His expression shifted, the weight of responsibility returning as he straightened and stepped back.
"Do you know anything about the market massacre? The blood, the three hundred thousand people found dead?" His voice lowered, heavy with urgency. "Please help me find this criminal." His gaze then shifted toward Veldra. "But before that… who is that?"
"My name is Veldra," he said calmly. "And I am responsible for the market massacre. My bad."
The words fell without force, without hesitation, without remorse, heavy enough to bend his tone.
"I am sorry for the hundreds of thousands of deaths, but all is well now. I was just a little bit insane. Perhaps I was always like this, or perhaps because of some unknown effect, a little madness crept in. Or perhaps my consciousness became bedridden for a short amount of time, and the coldness of reality took control of me, burdening me with the painful sensation of distortion, illusions, and worms of madness and insanity. In fact, I even thought of a title for myself."
"And what would that be?" Veldron asked.
"The King of All Insanities, and the narrative imbalance of all positivity and all Negativity."
His eyes remained clear as he spoke, too clear, reflecting neither chaos nor regret, only certainty.
"But don't worry. I am completely sane now. No harm shall befall upon you or your so-called Holy Order. In fact, my friend here says I can be friends with you."
The torches continued to burn, the palace continued to glow, and the ruler of the market stood frozen between disbelief and dread, realising too late that the apology before him was not a plea for forgiveness, but a declaration of restraint.