Deep in the mountain's crushing darkness, where shadows breathed like grave dust, a single torch flickered against cold stone walls carved by forgotten hands.
The Elder sat hunched on his obsidian throne, a withered husk clinging to life. His eyes burned beneath his cowl—like a dying star refusing to fade. Around him, five priests stood motionless, pale masks lost in the gloom.
His breath rattled.
"Our paths… shall collide again… when the mountains rise…"
Silence answered him. Only the torch cracked and spat light.
Then—
"Go."
The word fell like a sentence carved into stone.
"Bring more sacrifices. These droplets… are not enough. The vessel thirsts." A skeletal hand slowly emerged from the shadows. "His summoning demands an ocean."
A long pause followed, as if even the darkness was listening.
"The world will not remain blind forever…" the Elder murmured, almost to himself. "So we must finish before it opens its eyes."
The command echoed into the abyss.
Beyond the throne's suffocating aura, High Marshal Zandrok stood still.
His white cape—marked with a coiled violet dragon—shifted as he turned. Torchlight slid across his silver helmet, but never reached his face. He did not step into the Elder's domain. He didn't need to. He was already the will that followed it.
He turned sharply.
Boots struck stone.
He walked toward the great hall.
Hundreds waited.
Rows upon rows of Order soldiers stood in perfect formation—dark steel, hardened leather, breath held in unison. Not an army that questioned. An army that waited.
Zandrok passed through them like a shadow given command.
He stopped.
Raised a gauntleted hand.
Silence collapsed instantly.
"The Elder thirsts!" His voice cut through the hall like iron. "The ritual nears completion—but the offering is insufficient!"
A pause.
Then colder.
"You hunt tonight."
A ripple moved through the ranks—barely contained anticipation.
"Scour the villages hidden in the snows. Far from their fragile society. Take everything. Leave nothing."
His voice lowered.
"No elder too frail. No woman too weak. Not even the crying child shall be spared."
A beat.
"Their fear is incense. Their blood… the wine."
He stepped forward slightly.
"Go."
"Bring the offering."
A roar exploded through the hall.
Steel shifted as one body.
The Order surged forward—boots striking stone, weapons drawn, eyes ignited with blind devotion. A river of black iron poured out into the corridors, spilling into the open gates.
Outside, the world was already drowning in winter.
Snow struck their armor like ash.
And without hesitation, they marched into it.
Toward a sleeping village.
Toward silence.
Toward slaughter.
Two motorcycles tore across the frozen landscape, engines screaming.
Ash rode point, raven hair whipping in the frigid wind. He glanced back, grinning. "Just forget it, Chain. You're way too far behind!"
Chain hit the nitro.
Both bikes blurred forward, eating up the final stretch. They crossed together—so close the finish was invisible.
Jorden stood waiting, stopwatch in hand. His green eyes narrowed. "Ash wins. By 0.03 seconds."
Ash swaggered over, clapping Chain's shoulder hard. "Told ya! Too slow, old timer!"
Chain knocked his hand away. "Old timer? Says the guy whose brain hasn't updated in twenty-five years."
"Another loss, Chain?" Ash's grin widened. "Starting to think you enjoy the view from behind."
Chain's jaw tightened. "Next race, we race to death."
"Bet."
They pulled into the gas station, the argument fading as Chain filled his tank. Ash stretched, pleased with himself. Jorden had gone inside.
Then Chain noticed—silence.
Gas stations were never quiet. But now, a small crowd stood frozen inside the convenience store, eyes locked on the TV mounted near the counter.
Something was wrong.
"Hey, Ash." Chain nodded toward the store. "Let's check it out."
Inside, the warmth hit them. So did the tension.
Truckers, drivers, the cashier—all motionless. Faces worried. Eyes on the screen.
A man stood at a podium. Golden hair. Sharp honey-colored eyes. Dressed in silver armor etched with the False Sun insignia.
"I am Leox Heves, the 100th Commander of the False Sun Knights."
His voice filled the small store.
"You know us. For a thousand years, we've protected you. But now… we face something worse than stories. Worse than beasts."
He paused.
"People are disappearing. Kidnappings. Sacrifices. The Order of the Convened Heart has turned from guardianship to damnation."
Jorden returned, face pale. "The Order? Why is he talking about them?"
Chain's voice went hard. "That's our job."
"People only care when they're getting attacked," Ash muttered.
"That's not the point, idiot." Chain's eyes narrowed. "I'm talking about why Leox is doing this."
Then it clicked.
"Damn you, Leox."
On screen, Leox continued. "The lives we've lost were taken brutally—elderly women, innocent children, none were spared. But the Knights stand ready. We will save you from the demon summoners, no matter the cost."
The crowd applauded.
"Now we show you how justice is done."
Knights dragged five figures forward—purple robes, priest garments. Order soldiers. Forced to their knees.
Leox drew his sword.
It glowed. Shimmered.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. "The rumors are true." "The Sacred Sword Eques… it exists."
Leox raised the blade.
He swung.
Blood sprayed across the crowd's faces.
Stunned silence.
Jorden stood frozen, watching his friends' reactions. Ash's expression was a storm—worry, frustration. Chain's face twisted into pure fury.
On screen, Leox moved to the next prisoner. His face drenched in blood, he executed them one by one with ruthless efficiency.
The crowd watched in silence.
Then—applause.
Chilling. Thunderous. Approval.
Chain turned and walked out without a word