The world felt wrong.
Not silent—no, silence would have been mercy—but empty, like something had swallowed sound itself and left only echoes behind. Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction, thick and suffocating, clinging to the land like rot. The ground beneath his feet cracked with every step, dry and lifeless, as if nothing had touched it for centuries. Even the shadows felt alive, shifting just at the edge of vision, warping the distance, making it impossible to tell how far anything truly was.
Above him, the sky burned.
A massive, blood-red moon hung unnaturally low, its presence oppressive, almost watching. Its crimson light bled across the land, staining everything it touched. His golden hair caught that light as he ran, turning into streaks of molten fire against the darkness. His blue eyes—wide, sharp, alert—cut through the dim, filled not just with fear, but calculation. He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
The weight on his back shifted with each step—the axe, strapped tight, worn from use. Familiar. Reliable. But even with it, he ran. Because whatever was behind him… was not something he could face head-on. Not here. Not like this.
A sharp whistle split the air.
His body reacted before his mind did.
He threw himself sideways, boots scraping against the cracked ground as an arrow tore past his face—so close he felt the wind of it brush his skin.
"Damn those Dusks…" he muttered, breath uneven as he twisted mid-motion, his gaze snapping behind him.
Black-armoured figures moved through the darkness like they belonged to it, their forms blending into the night itself. Only the faint gleam of their weapons and the unnatural precision of their movements gave them away. Where his vision faltered, theirs thrived. The darkness wasn't an obstacle to them—
It was home.
He pushed forward again, this time faster.
A split second later, something slammed into the ground behind him—a dense sphere of void energy, collapsing inward before exploding outward in a violent shockwave.
The impact hit him like a hammer.
"—!"
His body was thrown forward, slamming face-first into the ground as the breath was ripped from his lungs. Pain flared across his back, his arms, his chest—but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop, there was no other option.
Cursing under his breath, he forced himself up just as a blade carved through the space where his neck had been.
CLANG.
His axe met it just in time.
The fact that he could see them was a problem, he couldn't see far in the dark and so, the figures had to be close to him, and unlike the golden haired boy, they could perfectly see in the dark.
The force of the impact travelled up his arms, sharp and jarring, but he held firm. The weapon in front of him was wrong—long, straight, black as the void itself, its surface swallowing even the red light of the moon.
A Void blade.
With a sharp twist of his wrist, he deflected the strike to the side, stepping in instead of back. The moment the enemy overextended, he leaned forward and struck. The axe in his hands ignited with a sudden burst of orange light, heat blooming along its edge as he drove it forward with everything he had.
Armour split like it was nothing, the glow burning through metal and flesh alike as the blade buried itself deep into the man's chest. The figure jerked, then went still to his relief as he pulled the axe free but the relief was immediately washed away.
Another strike came from his blind side.
He dropped low, letting the second blade pass just above him, the cold edge grazing strands of his hair. The moment he moved, he ran again—faster now, pushing his body harder, ignoring the strain screaming through his muscles.
Then pain exploded in his leg as he saw down to see a arrow deep in his leg.
'Damn it.'
He stumbled, nearly collapsing, but forced himself upright. His hand shot down, gripping the shaft, and in one brutal motion he ripped it out, tossing it aside without a second thought.
He looked down. Black...It spread unnaturally from the wound, veins darkening, skin twisting as if something beneath it was trying to crawl out. His leg bent slightly—wrong, unnatural, no longer fully under his control.
A dark figure lunged toward him.
He met it head-on.
Their bodies collided, momentum carrying them forward as he drove into the enemy, stealing the Void blade from his grip in the same motion.
And then with not even a hint of fear, turned the blade on himself...The blade came down clean and precise and with no wasted movement.
Then pain tore through him like fire.
His leg separated below the knee, the corrupted flesh falling away as he staggered, nearly collapsing from the shock.
But he didn't stop, couldn't stop.
With one leg, he pushed forward—faster than before, faster than he had any right to be—his body moving on instinct alone as he drove the blade into another approaching soldier, ending him in a single motion.
Far away, through a floating crystal screen, a young woman watched.
Her lips curled into a wide, unsettling smile, stretching just a bit too far as she observed the scene. Her eyes gleamed with interest—no, fascination—as the boy continued to fight despite everything.
"Ah… how brave," she murmured softly.
Her smile however was short-lived as the scene in front of her changed,
Dozens of sharp, gleaming spikes tore through the air, descending like a storm. They pierced through her soldiers without mercy, shattering formations, cutting them down before they could react.
Ice spikes.
In that moment of distraction, the boy moved forward and somehow leapt high into the air, his body carried by sheer will alone, and struck down another before the air itself seemed to twist around him.
As an invisible force lifted him, and carried him into the sky, an ugly scowl made its way onto the delicate woman's face.
He was gone.
"…Too bad," she muttered. Her gaze shifted slightly, distant now, as if listening to something unseen.
"He escaped, mother," she whispered. Silence answered her.
Her mother was no where near her, and year she was everywhere. This was her kingdom after all, and she was everywhere.
She was absolute in her kingdom. Nothing could hide from her in the kingdom, and yet the handsome boy had escaped her.
It was due to a very complicated set of fortunate coincidences. First of all, at this particular month, her mother was asleep, and as such, she was weaker. Yes, she was still the strongest but her physical body was as weak as a corpse.
Next, the golden haired boy somehow gained the help of people outside the kingdom...and lastly, his Bonus.
Special, the boy was too special.
*************************************
"Before kingdoms rose… before mortals learned to name the sky…There existed twelve.
Not rulers or creators but constants, they did not make the world, neither did they rule it but they defined it, made it habitable.
They were twelve unknown mortals who went beyond the reaches of their kind and set themselves as Gods.
And though they no longer walk among mortals…their will seeps through everything, define everything and bless everything.
They were known as—
The Twelve Sovereigns."
*********************************************
The golden-haired boy stirred at last, consciousness returning to him in slow, uneven waves. For a moment, he lay still, his mind foggy, his body heavy against the soft embrace of the mattress beneath him. Warmth pooled around him, unfamiliar yet comforting.
A thin beam of sunlight slipped through a nearby window, stretching across the room until it found him. It brushed gently over his skin—smooth and pale like polished ivory—tracing the lines of his shoulder, his collarbone, and the rise and fall of his chest. The warmth felt real… grounding. He was alive.
His brows furrowed faintly as memory began to piece itself together. The escape. The pain. The moment everything had gone dark.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, the sheets shifting beneath him. His eyes wandered, taking in his surroundings for the first time—a quiet room, modest but clean, with soft light filtering through drawn curtains. It felt safe… strangely so.
Then, almost absently, he glanced down at himself, and went still.
For a split second, his mind refused to process it. But reality caught up quickly enough, sending a flush racing up his neck to his face.
He was completely naked.
His hands instinctively moved, as if to cover himself, though there was no one there to see him—at least, he thought so. The embarrassment hit him fast, sharp and undeniable. How long had he been like this? Who had brought him here?
But just as quickly, something else overtook that embarrassment.
His leg.
Both of them, not one.
His breath caught as he stared, disbelief replacing everything else. Slowly, almost cautiously, he moved them. No pain. No weakness. Nothing broken, nothing missing.
He was… whole.
Relief flooded through him so intensely it almost made him dizzy. For a moment, nothing else mattered.
Then his gaze shifted upward, drawn to something unfamiliar.
There, on his chest, just above his heart, was a mark.
A flame—if it could be called that. Its shape twisted unnaturally, formed from a blackness so deep it seemed to swallow the light around it. It didn't look like ink or a scar. It looked… wrong. As if it didn't belong to the world he knew.
His expression darkened slightly as he traced it with his eyes, unease creeping in. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed it off—made some light hearted remark about it looking like a dramatic tattoo.
But there was nothing amusing about it.
Swallowing his thoughts, he cleared his throat, his voice sounding rough from disuse.
"Um… can anyone bring me some clothes?" he called out, glancing awkwardly toward the door. "And… why was I sleeping without even a blanket?"
There was a brief pause.
Then the door opened just enough for a woman to step in, her expression unreadable as she tossed a neatly folded set of clothes toward him.
"They're there," she said casually.
He barely caught them, fumbling slightly, still caught off guard.
As she turned to leave, she paused at the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder with a faint, teasing smile.
"Why though? You look fine without clothes," she remarked lightly. "Or do you still harbor feelings for that… girl?"
Before he could respond—before he could even process the comment—the door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving him alone once more.
And very, very aware of his current state.
"Bastard girl." He muttered under his breath before sighing.
For a moment, he simply sat there, clutching the folded clothes, listening to the faint echo of the door closing. Then, with a quiet exhale, he moved.
The fabric felt soft in his hands—light, almost weightless. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a simple outfit: a loose white robe that slipped over the head like a long tunic, paired with equally loose, flowing pants. It wasn't elaborate, nor particularly fashionable, but it looked… comfortable.
Still slightly flustered, he dressed quickly. The robe draped over his frame with ease, the fabric brushing gently against his skin, the white contrasting sharply with his golden hair. The pants tied loosely at the waist, giving him freedom of movement he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.
Once finished, he hesitated.
Then his eyes caught sight of a mirror across the room.
Drawn to it, he stepped closer.
For a moment, he barely recognized the person staring back at him.
The boy in the reflection stood tall—steady. No sign remained of the injuries that had once crippled him. His posture, though still adjusting, carried a quiet strength. His ivory skin seemed almost luminous under the soft daylight, and his golden hair, slightly tousled, framed his face in a way that made him look both younger and more distant at the same time.
The white robe hung loosely from his shoulders, simple yet almost ethereal in how it moved with him. It gave him an oddly serene appearance… one that felt at odds with the storm of thoughts behind his eyes.
Slowly, his gaze dropped.
There it was again.
That mark.
The black flame rested over his chest, stark and unnatural against the pale canvas of his skin. Even through the thin fabric, he could see its faint outline, like a shadow that refused to be hidden.
His reflection stared back at him in silence, as if waiting for him to understand something he couldn't yet grasp.
"…What even are you?" he murmured under his breath, not entirely sure if he was speaking to the mark—or to himself.
But he already knew the answer, he just needed time to accept it.
Walking back to his mattress, he sat down and exhaled again.
'It's finally over.' He thought then shook his head with a chuckle and stood up again, walking to the door his steps were light and made almost no sound, pulling the robe tighter to hide the mark on his chest he looked once more at the mirror, satisfied with how well he hid the mark.
Then he opened the door and went out.