Chapter 1: Truth is Death
The northern grounds of agaony country had fallen silent.
The war that raged through the day had ended, but its shadow lingered in the blood-soaked soil, in the torn banners fluttering weakly against the dusk wind, and in the hungry birds circling above, awaiting their feast.
Silence was no mercy here—it was only another form of torment.
Through this land of ruin walked a solitary figure.
A hooded man.
His robe draped low, shadowing his face until only the faint line of his mouth was visible. It gave him an unsettling air, as though he did not need eyes to witness the world—only the downward glance of a wanderer who seemed to study the ground rather than the sky. His steps were steady, too steady, for one moving through fields of corpses and whispers of despair.
Fresh blood turned the sand into dark mud beneath his boots. Bodies sprawled across the battlefield, their once-proud armor broken and dented, their faces stripped of all the fire they once carried into battle. Some still clung to life, their eyes glassy with exhaustion, their cracked lips whispering silent prayers for a drop of water, for a final breath of mercy.
Yet the hooded man did not stop.
He did not glance at them.
He moved forward with the cold indifference of one whose heart had already died long before this war.
For the broken soldiers, it was not his silence that crushed them. It was his detachment. In his presence, their last scraps of dignity withered, and what stared back at them in his shadow was the miserable truth: they were nothing more than forgotten wretches.
Still, his steps faltered—just once.
A voice reached him, weak and trembling, no different from the countless cries he had ignored on his way. And yet, his body stopped as if guided by something deeper, instinct or fate. He did not turn, did not flinch, but he listened. His stillness was that of a rooted tree in a storm, waiting for something unseen.
---
Not far away, a young soldier crawled through the dirt. His armor was stained in a muddied crimson, so saturated with blood it was impossible to tell whose it was—his own, or those he had slain. Both of his legs were gone, severed in the chaos of battle. Blood poured from him like snow melting into a spring river. Yet still he dragged himself forward, clawing at the earth until he collapsed, gasping.
Through the blur of tears and sweat, the boy turned his head.
At his side, sprawled like a dying mountain, was a massive man clad in a ruined, ornamented armor. His frame was unyielding, his breath shallow but defiant.
The boy gave him a broken smile.
"Brother Bossele... is this your lost war? For me, it surely is. But even so, I envy you." His voice cracked, torn between laughter and sobs. "Do you know why?"
The giant said nothing, his chest rising and falling with effort. The boy sighed, forcing himself to continue in dry mouth.
"Because you lived. You had a wife. Children. Glory in your name. I never wanted glory, yet here I am. My miserable father sent me to die for his foolish pride. And now... now I won't even see tomorrow. Tell me, what greater curse is there?"
Tears streamed down his face, but he still tried to twist his lips into a smile, desperate to leave behind courage instead of cowardice.
Bossele's voice, hoarse and heavy, finally broke the silence.
"I... I too have a young son like you sariyo . I told him to fight alongside me. He refused, with that same stubborn fire in his eyes. For once, I did not force him. He has always been like that—distant, unreadable. In my rage and pride, I never understood him. And now, here I lie... dying in a nameless land, for another man's glory. Perhaps... perhaps he was right all along."
His words dragged into silence, as though he had glimpsed a truth too late.
The boy gave a weak laugh. "Young as me, perhaps... but from your words, he sounds far older in spirit. A hot-blooded teenager, maybe? Tell me... what's his name?"
Bossele lifted his head, eyes tracing the burning horizon as if searching for memory in the sky. A faint smile touched his bloodstained lips.
"Laryoal Leo Ronshy... I gave him the name of our mountain god. My youngest son. And my daughter, Silvia—so wise, so capable. She will carry more strength than I ever did."
His voice softened, almost as if speaking to himself.
The boy listened quietly, then reached to his chest plate. His trembling fingers slid over a beaten mark of the burning tree symbol and underneath that was a hidden compartment in the armor. His expression darkened, sorrow and purpose mingling, but his voice failed him. He only pressed his palm against it, as though it held the last truth of his short life.
---
The hooded man resumed walking, as if waking from a trance. His steps pressed deeper into the bloodied earth.
He whispered a single word under his breath—
"Laryoal."
With the name grinding in his mouth some thoughts wondered in his mind "again ...with a new name ....I must meet that man name rayon as Kashi said "
Then he continued, disappearing into the glow of the drowning sun.
---
Bossele turned his weary head toward a ruined temple nearby. His lips curved with a bitter smile.
"My son once told me... 'I don't want to be remembered as a number. I don't want to be a stage for another man's glory. Don't drag me with you, old man.'"
A laugh, dry and broken, rattled through his chest.
"I never understood. I thought it arrogance. But now... now I see. Still, I wonder... will he survive, all alone in that house? Or will he curse me, as I cursed my father before?"
His words dwindled as he realized the boy beside him had gone still. The young soldier's face was frozen in a half-smile, half-wail, death catching him in between.
Bossele did not mourn.
He only lifted his gaze to the darkening sky. His sigh was long, weary, and then he closed his eyes. His face showed nothing—neither fear nor regret. Only the emptiness of a man who had given his life's work to a cause without value.
A work for no value, but for passion.
---
Night fell.
The moon rose, casting its cold silver light upon the carnage. The dead were no longer burned by the sun's rage but instead bathed in a pale mercy. The wind howled low, carrying the stench of blood and rot.
Out of the mist, a man appeared.
He wore a linen robe, solemn as a priest, his expression calm as though in prayer. Without hesitation, he stepped among the corpses and sat before the ruined temple. His eyes closed, and he breathed a prayer, muttering like one seeking to guide the wandering souls into peace.
When his ritual ended, he rose and walked to the body of the young soldier. His hand pressed against the boy's chest, finding the hidden compartment. Slowly, he drew out a faded silver crystal, shaped like a heart yet sharp as a blade of truth. Its glow was dim, almost dead, yet it pulsed with something beyond mortal hands.
The priest slipped it into his robe and vanished into the mist, leaving the battlefield in silence.
And so the land returned to its stillness.
Not truth.
Not glory.
Only death.
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End of chapter 1