"LIVE FOR THE CLAN."
Those were the words my father drilled into me from the cradle. Desire nothing for yourself. Stand as a shadow beside your brother, Aschel Vert, the shining heir. His glory is your glory. His triumphs, your purpose. I lived by that creed, a silent blade in the darkness, carving paths for him through blood and intrigue.
The battlefield reeked of iron and scorched earth. Bodies of white-armored knights littered the ground, their swords plunged into the soil like grave markers. Their capes, once pristine symbols of the Empire's light, were now stained crimson. I lay among them, face down in a pool of my own blood, my black cloak torn and heavy with the weight of betrayal. My body screamed in agony, ribs cracked, wounds weeping from the ambush that had felled me.
A voice slithered through the haze, mocking and triumphant. "What a priceless sight... A knight holding off the continent's strongest commanders single-handedly. As expected of that man's brother. Very interesting... Indeed!"
I lifted my head, vision blurring, and spat blood. "Clan Vert!" the voice crowed, followed by a manic laugh. Boris. That snake in knight's clothing. He stood there, grinning like a demon, his armor gleaming under the dying sun.
With a surge of will, I materialized my dagger from the ether, the air shimmering as it coalesced in my grip. A red-black aura erupted from my body, coiling like venomous smoke. "Who made you do this? Was it the Emperor?"
Boris recoiled, covering his mouth and nose against the fog. "That sickening black mist... You... It's just like the rumors said." His eyes widened as the aura intensified, swirling thicker, darker. "You are an assassin from the Mist."
The Mist—an organization shrouded in legend, elusive as fog to the self-righteous Knights of Light. We were the shadows that toppled empires, the unseen hand that ensured survival in a world of cultivators and conquerors.
Boris sneered, drawing his sword. "The Mist is a blight on our order. I'll report to the higher-ups that I purged an impure being affiliated with the heathens."
I gripped my dagger tighter, the aura pulsing with my rage. "Sure, go ahead—if you even have a mouth left after this. I guarantee you won't have a tooth remaining when I'm done."
He grinned, stance guarded. "If you intend to unleash your secret power, give up now. There's a 9th-star magic barrier cast here!"
My mind raced. I needed to escape, to warn Aschel of this treachery. The clan depended on it. "A barrier? I'll tear it to bits!"
From the shadows, a commanding voice cut through. "That's enough, Cyan." Boris bowed low as a figure emerged, clad in commander's armor—white and gold, resplendent under the blood-red sky.
Shock rooted me in place. "Brother... Aschel?"
"LIVE FOR THE CLAN." Father's words echoed. "YOUR BROTHER ASCHEL IS BY EXTENSION THE CLAN. ASCHEL VERT'S SUCCESS IS CYAN VERT'S SUCCESS."
Aschel stepped forward, his long, ornate sword dragging a trail in the dirt. His face, usually stern but kind in my memories, was twisted in cold calculation. The culprit behind this slaughter... was my own blood.
I fell to my knees, devastated. "It seems you're confused that I'm here," he said, his voice laced with false pity.
"What is the meaning of this...?"
Aschel sighed, as if burdened. "Cyan, you've carried out your duties for the clan, for the people... and for me." His words hung like a noose. I stared, the mist around me flickering uncertainly. He continued, "Therefore, I'm just trying to take the burden off your shoulders."
"I... I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?" The aura began to fade, my confusion sapping its strength.
"Wrong? That ominous fog... You're nothing more than a murderer. I can't even call you human anymore. You've fooled us long enough. Can you really say you don't know your sins?"
Murderer? Sins? What madness was this?
The memories flooded back—the succession fights within the Empire, where I assassinated rivals in the dead of night. The Demon King's raid, where I poisoned their wells and slit throats under cover of darkness. The war to unify the continents, where I infiltrated enemy lines, leaving trails of bodies for Aschel's armies to claim victory.
I helped you achieve all that you began. Because serving you was my life.
But now... you're abandoning me? After twenty years of toil, like a dog at your heel?
Rage ignited within me, the aura surging back, darker and more violent. My eyes turned white, pupils vanishing in a storm of fury. The mist enveloped me, thickening into a shroud that choked the air.
A nearby soldier gasped. "He still has that much mana left? It's impossible... That's no human!"
In my enraged state, my hair ignited into flames of dark crimson, writhing like serpents. "How silly," I snarled, voice echoing unnaturally. "The hero is trying to kill his younger brother because he's afraid... Aren't you ashamed?"
Aschel's face contorted in anger, his grip tightening on his sword. I lunged, dagger slashing twice in a blur. He blocked, the clash sending sparks flying, the ground cracking under the force. I leaped into the air, twisting mid-flight. *One hit. Just one to his weak point—he won't regenerate.*
I struck at his blind spot, dagger aimed for the chink in his armor. But a shimmering barrier erupted—Boris's magic, the 9th-star ward flaring to life. My blade bounced off, flying from my hand.
In that instant, Aschel's sword pierced my torso, cold steel twisting through flesh and bone. Pain exploded, a guttural groan escaping my lips. "You poor bastard," he hissed, face inches from mine. "I wanted to grant you a painless death, for old times' sake. But you've shown your true colors."
He wrenched the blade deeper. "I knew what you were from the start—a demon. Good thing I never trusted you."
Shock numbed me further. Never trusted? After all I'd sacrificed?
He kicked me off his sword, and I crumpled, blood pooling. "Let's go, Boris. This ends here."
Dammit. Is this my end? What a foolish life—stupid, blind loyalty.
Rage propelled me up one last time. I summoned a hidden dagger, ambushing from behind with a primal scream. The blade grazed his throat—
But Aschel whirled, his sword slashing across my back in a devastating arc. Flesh parted, spine screaming. The world tilted, darkness rushing in.
Blackout.
...
"Young Master..."
"Young Master Cyan!"
I bolted upright, breathing heavily, sweat soaking the sheets. A familiar face hovered over me—Emily, the maid, her expression a mix of concern and exasperation. "How long do you intend to sleep? Get it together; you need to get ready, Young Master."
"Emily? Why are you here?" My voice cracked, high and childish. I glanced around—the ornate furniture, the sunlit room from my youth. She looked exactly as she had twenty years ago, untouched by time.
Why is she here? I haven't seen her since... Wait. My hands—small, unscarred. The mirror across the room reflected a boy's face, wide-eyed and innocent.
I'm back. Back to being a child.
But how? Regression? A second chance? Father's words echoed once more: "LIVE FOR THE CLAN."
This time, I wouldn't be the shadow. I'd forge my own path—and make Aschel pay.
Yet as I swung my legs out of bed, a faint whisper slithered through my mind, unbidden: "The Mist never forgets. Welcome back, Cyan... The game begins anew."
What was that? Before I could ponder, the door creaked open, and a figure stepped in—Aschel, young and smiling, but his eyes held a shadow I now recognized.
"Brother," he said warmly. "Time to train. For the clan."
My blood ran cold. Had he returned too?