The old man licked his thumb and flipped the page, the brittle parchment crackling softly in the quiet room.
Firelight flickered across the worn ink, casting dancing shadows on the walls like whispers from another time.
Beside him, a small boy with messy white hair leaned in closer, his red eyes wide with that boundless excitement only kids could muster. "What happened next, Gramps?" Bell asked, practically vibrating on the edge of his seat, tiny fists clenched in anticipation.
The old man chuckled, a low rumble that carried the weight of years. "Patience, Bell. A hero's story isn't something you rush."
Bell puffed out his cheeks in mock protest but didn't push, his gaze locked on the book's pages like they held the secrets of the world.
The cover rested heavy in the old man's gnarled hands, its title etched in faded gold:
Chronicles of Noel Xerlectus.
His expression softened, a faint nostalgia tugging at the corners of his eyes. He turned back to the page and began to read aloud, voice steady and warm, like a storyteller weaving magic from memory.
"At the age of twenty-two... after five years of relentless training... the boy stood before the boulder one final time, shattering it with one punch."
Bell leaned forward even more, nearly toppling into the old man's lap. "Was he strong, Gramps?"
The old man smiled faintly, the fire reflecting in his wise eyes. "No," he said simply.
Bell blinked, tilting his head. "No? But why hero's are super duper strong"
The old man chucked slightly, shook his head gently, his finger tracing the line of text as if reliving it himself. "He wasn't strong," he repeated, his tone soft but firm. "Not at first."
Bell's brow furrowed, but he hung on every word.
"But he refused to stay weak," the old man continued, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.
The fire crackled in the hearth, embers popping like distant applause.
The page turned with a soft sigh.
And somewhere far in the past.
The boy who would one day become legend took his next step.
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Arthur stood in silence, the morning air biting with its familiar chill, but it barely registered. His eyes lingered on the shattered remains of the boulder.
What had once been an unyielding sentinel, now reduced to rubble at the feet of the boy he'd raised.
No. Not a boy anymore. A man.
He exhaled slowly, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest, the kind he hadn't let himself feel in ages. Pride, raw and unbidden, for the stubborn kid who'd turned into something unbreakable.
He watched Noel from a distance, shoulders heaving with heavy breaths, staring down at his trembling hands like he couldn't believe it was real. Arthur remembered those hands all too well—small and fragile once, barely able to grip a blade without shaking. The bloodied knuckles, the hidden frustration, the tears Noel thought he'd kept secret. And yet, through it all, those hands had never stopped pushing forward.
"...You did it," Arthur murmured, his voice softer than usual, carrying a hint of that warmth he rarely showed.
Noel stiffened slightly, turning with a mix of surprise and uncertainty, like the words were too much to accept.
Arthur stepped closer, just a pace, and let a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
The kind that said more than any lecture ever could. He said nothing else, just stood there beside him, a solid presence in the quiet dawn. Because sometimes, moments like this didn't need filling. They just needed sharing.
The days that followed were quieter than usual, a gentle hush settling over the farm. Arthur didn't rouse him at sunrise with gruff commands. Didn't nitpick his stance or bark for another rep. Instead, he watched from the porch with his coffee, or from the treeline as he tended the chores, stealing glances when Noel wasn't looking.
And he saw it clear as day: Noel wasn't training out of obligation anymore. He was strong—truly strong—and now he was preparing. Gearing up to leave.
Arthur had known this day was coming from the start. He just hadn't figured on it stinging quite like this, like a good ache after a long day's work. Too soon, but right all the same.
It was early, the sun just peeking over the horizon, when Arthur finally made his move. He reached into his coat, fingers closing around the pendant, cold metal worn smooth by years of quiet companionship, not display.
He stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing its surface, and like always, the memories flooded back.
Her laugh, bright as sunlight. Her voice, steady and kind. Her hand in his, warm and real. It had been meant for their child—a future ripped away before it could take root. For so long, he'd carried it without aim, not to cling to the past, but because letting go felt like losing her all over again.
Arthur lifted his eyes. Noel was in the yard, wrapping up his morning routine out of habit, movements fluid and sure. He didn't need guidance anymore. Hadn't for months.
Arthur walked over, his steps deliberate. "...Noel."
The young man turned, wiping sweat from his brow. Arthur didn't waste time on words. He held out the pendant, palm open.
"Keep it," he said, his voice gruff but laced with that rare warmth, like an old fire stoked back to life.
Noel blinked, caught off guard. "...Gramps?"
Arthur's faint smile returned, softer this time. "It'll watch over you out there." A small lie, maybe, but one wrapped in truth—they both knew it was more than just metal.
Noel hesitated, then took it carefully, fingers closing around it like it was fragile, precious. Arthur reached out, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze—brief, but full of the unspoken affection he'd buried for years. "You've earned your path, lad. Don't waste it."
Noel didn't reply right away, but Arthur caught the quiet nod, the understanding in his eyes.
He turned away then, before the moment could stretch too thin, but not before stealing one last glance over his shoulder.
Behind him, the boy he'd saved was gone.
In his place stood a man ready to face the world, and Arthur couldn't have been prouder.
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Rain hammered the street like a vengeful god, sheets of water slamming down in relentless fury, carving crimson rivers through the cracked cobblestones.
Blood surged in thick, clotting torrents, bubbling up from the gutters, reeking of iron and rot as it mingled with the downpour. It refused to dilute, clinging stubbornly to everything—skin, stone, steel—like a living curse.
Bodies sprawled everywhere, a grotesque tapestry of slaughter.
Some heaped in tangled piles, limbs entangled in death's embrace, ribs cracked open like splintered crates, spilling glistening entrails that steamed in the cold air. Others lay isolated, contorted in agony: a man with his jaw ripped clean off, tongue lolling obscenely from the ragged hole, eyes bulging in perpetual shock. A woman frozen mid-scream, her throat slashed wide, fingers clawing at the gaping wound as if she could stitch it shut with sheer will. A guard slumped on his knees, sword jammed futilely into the mud, his helmet caved in, brain matter oozing gray and pink into the rain.
The storm raged over them, but it couldn't erase the horror—only smeared it, turning the scene into a slick, nightmarish slurry of flesh and filth.
Step.
His boot plunged into a puddle of viscera, the squelch wet and obscene, like crushing overripe fruit underfoot.
Step.
He strode through the carnage without a flicker of pause, kicking aside a severed arm that rolled into his path, its fingers still twitching faintly. A corpse shifted as he brushed past, its mangled face flopping toward him, one eye popped from its socket, dangling by a thread of optic nerve—as if begging for mercy it would never receive.
He ignored it all, untouched by the chaos. Not a speck of gore marred his immaculate coat. Not a drop adhered to his gloves. The rain itself seemed to cower, parting around him in unnatural deference, sluicing off the flawless porcelain of his mask like oil on glass.
Lightning tore the sky apart, turning night to blinding day for a heartbeat.
He stood at the epicenter, unmoving, a silhouette of elegant madness amid the ruin.
Listening.
His head cocked slightly, as if savoring a twisted symphony—the patter of rain on exposed bone, the gurgle of blood in draining throats.
Then—a chuckle escaped him.
Low. Fractured. Deliriously gleeful, like a child discovering a new toy in the guts of a broken doll.
He took another step.
"Tick tock..."
Another, his boot crunching through a shattered skull with casual indifference.
"Tick tock..."
He halted abruptly, head snapping toward the dark horizon, mask gleaming unnaturally in the storm.
A longer pause, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth.
"The capital's hands move forward..."
His voice dropped to a whisper, laced with manic delight.
Beneath the mask, his smile widened, feral and unhinged.
He chuckled again—drier, more unhinged, bubbling into a quiet, wheezing laugh that echoed off the blood-slick walls.
"Tick tock, tick tock..."
His head tilted further, unnaturally far, like a puppet with loosened strings.
"The capital's on the clock..."
He froze completely, body rigid in ecstatic anticipation.
Slowly, he turned—not to the mutilated dead, not to the ravaged street—but to something unseen, something only his deranged mind perceived.
His mask stared straight ahead.
Directly.
"...And you appear to be nothing but talk."
The silence hung thick, broken only by the rain's roar and the distant drip of blood from a dangling limb.
Then—he leaned in, curiosity twisting into sadistic glee.
"And who might you be?"