5 Years ago
In the dead of night, Lyon Village slept under a heavy silence, broken only by the quiet lapping of the lake nearby—as if the world itself was holding its breath. The trees stood still under a silver moon, its pale light casting long shadows across the forest floor. Inside a small wooden home near the lake's edge, laughter broke through the stillness.
Anami and Asuma had just finished dinner with their grandfather, Guyu. The meal was simple, but the warmth it brought was real. Anami had spent most of the evening bragging about the traps she'd set to try and outsmart him during their daily sparring sessions. Guyu laughed, amused by her determination, while Asuma rolled his eyes, used to the routine.
"How many more times are you going to try, Anami?" Guyu asked, leaning back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Until I win," Anami declared, hopping onto the table like a child claiming a throne.
"Get down, stupid," Asuma said, yanking her back to the floor with a sigh. To him, this was just another evening in their small, cloistered family.
Anami folded her arms and plopped into a chair. "When are we going outside the village?"
Guyu's expression shifted slightly—barely noticeable, but enough. "If you defeat me," he said, "I'll take you outside."
That answer wasn't new. For as long as they could remember, Anami and Asuma had never stepped beyond the borders of Lyon Village. Their world was confined to familiar paths, worn-out trails, and guarded routines. Why their grandfather kept them isolated was a question that surfaced often, always met with silence or vague promises.
Before they could press further, the ground rumbled.
A deep, thunderous boom shattered the night—loud, violent, and close. It sounded like the earth itself had cracked open. The windows rattled. Plates shook. The air shifted.
"Grandfather! What was that?" Anami cried out, her voice laced with fear.
Guyu's face hardened. He stood quickly, stepping toward the window. "Stay here," he said without turning back.
Guyu's home sat atop a small mountain, perched like a silent guardian watching over Lyon Village below. From this height, he could see everything—every lantern flicker, every smoke trail from a chimney. But tonight, what he saw struck him still.
The village was burning.
Thick, black smoke curled violently into the sky. Fires roared through homes like a living beast, swallowing wood and stone without mercy. It didn't look like an accident—it looked like a massacre.
Guyu's jaw clenched. His eyes, once calm, now burned with alarm. He turned from the window, heart pounding.
"Stay here," he told his grandchildren, his voice low but firm.
Anami stood up fast, fists balled. "What's going on? Why aren't you telling us anything?"
But he didn't answer. He crossed the room in long strides and grabbed the old woodcutter's axe by the door—its handle worn smooth from years of use. Without another word, he pushed open the door and dashed down the slope, the axe swinging at his side.
He didn't know what he would find—but he feared the worst.
When he reached the village, his fears became real. The scene was like something torn from a nightmare.
Bodies impaled on long, crude spikes lined the main road. Some were still smoldering. Others hung limp, silhouetted by the glow of the fires. The air reeked of blood and burning flesh.
In the heart of the chaos stood a group cloaked in black robes, each marked with strange, ancient symbols that pulsed faintly in the firelight. Their faces were hidden behind grotesque, demonic masks—twisted grins, hollow eyes, animalistic fangs.
"Look. Someone survived," one of them said, spotting him.
"Wait… isn't that the old man from the picture?" another asked.
"It is," a third confirmed. "Finally. We found him."
They didn't wait for a response. In an instant, they charged, drawing long, curved swords gleaming with intent.
The first attacker lunged—but Guyu moved faster.
He sidestepped the blade and drove his axe into the man's torso, cleaving through with brutal force. Blood sprayed, and the masked figure dropped lifelessly to the ground. The others hesitated for half a beat—just enough.
Guyu struck again. And again. His axe tore through flesh and bone, a blur of vengeance and precision. Years of discipline, strength, and something deeper—something furious—took over.
When the last of the attackers fell, only one remained, crawling backward in terror.
"You're not human," he whimpered, shaking.
Guyu said nothing. His eyes were cold.
With one final swing, he brought the axe down, splitting the man's skull clean in two.
Suddenly, slow, deliberate clapping echoed through the blaze.
Clap… clap… clap…
The sound cut through the burning silence like a taunt, growing louder with each step. Guyu turned toward it, axe still dripping with blood.
Out of the smoke emerged another masked figure—but this one was different. He moved with purpose, not chaos. His presence bent the air around him. The aura he gave off was unnatural, humming with raw magical energy. And then there were his eyes—impossible to ignore. Beneath the mask, they glowed in shifting, iridescent hues—rainbow-colored and piercing. A jolt of recognition ran through Guyu's chest.
"Guyu… how have you been?" the figure asked calmly, voice smooth but laced with malice.
Guyu gritted his teeth. "Astir… How the hell did you find this place?" He raised his axe and pointed it squarely at the masked man.
Astir chuckled. "You did well to vanish, old friend. But did you really think you could escape the Guild? We are everywhere—hidden in every shadow of this empire."
"Tch." Guyu's grip on the axe tightened. "So someone gave me up… Was it him? That old fraud?"
"Does it matter now?" Astir stepped forward. "I'm here to reclaim what you stole. And I'll take them back by force, if I must."
"You'll have to go through me first," Guyu said, planting his stance. "You won't touch them."
Astir tilted his head. "Even better."
Without another word, he drew a sword that looked like it had been forged in the pits of hell—blackened steel, jagged edges, and still slick with blood. In an instant, he lunged, moving faster than anything human. The clash of his blade against Guyu's axe sent a deafening shockwave through the village.
Steel screamed against steel as the two warriors locked into combat.
They moved like shadows, their blades flashing in the firelight. Each blow was aimed with lethal intent, probing for weakness. Sparks flew with every strike. The ground beneath them cracked with the force of their duel, each impact creating small craters in the dirt and stone.
But Guyu—though fierce—was aging. His breath grew heavier, his movements slower. Astir, sensing the shift, began pressing harder. His attacks became more brutal, laced with bursts of magic that sent shockwaves through the burning ruins.
With one savage strike, Astir blasted Guyu off his feet, sending him skidding across the dirt.
Guyu grunted, coughing blood, but rose again. Fire flared from his fingertips as he channeled his strength into his axe. Flames engulfed the blade, and with a roar, he swung in a mighty arc, the ground splitting beneath him.
Astir narrowly dodged, flipping backward as the flaming axe tore a molten trench through the village. He retaliated instantly—one hand carving a black slash through the air. The slash tore forward like a storm, slicing buildings in half as it howled toward Guyu.
There was no time to dodge.
Guyu braced himself, taking the blow head-on. The force shattered his axe and severed his right arm in a burst of blood and flame.
He didn't have time to scream.
Another black arc followed. This time he dodged—but barely—only to be struck in the chest by a brutal kick from Astir, perfectly timed to catch him off-balance.
Guyu stumbled, and Astir surged forward, unleashing a barrage of sword strikes, each one precise, targeting old wounds and weakened joints. The old warrior staggered under the onslaught, blood soaking through his robes.
Desperate for distance, Guyu clenched his left hand and summoned a wall of fire between them. The flames roared up, blocking Astir's advance just long enough for Guyu to retreat, panting, bloodied, and one arm short—but still alive.
"Running, old man?" Astir called out, voice dripping with mockery as he stepped through the wall of dissipating flames.
Guyu didn't flinch. Blood poured from the stump where his arm had been, but his eyes still burned with the fury of a man who refused to die on his knees.
"Run? When have you ever seen Guyu run?" he growled.
With a sharp inhale, he summoned fire to his wound, searing the flesh shut in a painful burst of flame. The smell of burning skin filled the air. He gritted his teeth, then extended his remaining arm.
A sword of pure fire ignited in his hand, growing longer with each breath—alive, writhing, and crackling with rage. He raised it high, and with a single swing, unleashed a massive arc of flame that tore through what remained of the village.
The inferno howled across the ruins, ripping apart the earth, consuming wood, stone, and bone alike.
Astir barely evaded the strike, his robe scorched and his mask cracked at the edge. His smirk faded as he raised his hand and drew in the surrounding darkness. The shadows twisted and flowed toward him, spiraling into a dense orb in his palm.
"Destruction Magic: Extinguish," he whispered.
The orb pulsed—and suddenly, everything around it began to collapse inward. Light dimmed. Fire vanished. Ash, smoke, rubble—all pulled toward the growing black sphere like a star collapsing. It was as if the world itself was being devoured.
Guyu planted his flaming sword deep into the earth, anchoring himself as the pull intensified. The wind screamed past his ears. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the right moment to counter, to release one last unstoppable strike.
But fate had other plans.
In the chaos, he never sensed her.
A woman slipped through the distortion, silent and swift as death. Her blade wasn't steel—it was a rippling, black liquid shaped into a dagger. She drove it straight into Guyu's chest from behind, then twisted.
His breath caught. Eyes wide in pain and shock, he whirled to face her—only to see a flash of obsidian steel before everything went dark.
His head hit the ground with a dull thud, eyes still open, staring in disbelief.
The woman stood over his body, calm, her presence cold and absolute. She flicked the blood from her weapon with a snap of her wrist.
"He was weak," she said flatly. "Why waste your time toying with an old man?"
Astir dropped to one knee. "Lady Karja… You didn't have to intervene."
She ignored the flattery. Her voice was curt. "Where are they?"
"His house is on the hill above the city," Astir replied.
Karja looked toward the mountain, then down at Guyu's severed head. Without hesitation, she picked it up by the hair, lifting it like a trophy.
"Let's go," she said.
And with that, they turned toward the hill—toward the only thing Guyu had truly fought to protect.
Meanwhile, smoke crept through the cracks in the wooden cabin, curling like fingers through the air. The scent of burning timber and scorched flesh hung thick around them. Inside, Asuma held his younger sister tightly, crouched near the door, shielding her from the growing heat and fear that pressed in from all sides.
"Brother… I'm scared," Anami whispered, her small hands clutching his shirt. "Is Grandfather okay?"
Asuma didn't answer.
Truth was, he didn't know. He didn't know what was happening outside. He didn't know if their grandfather was alive. But he couldn't let her see that fear. He had to be strong—for her. That's what being an older brother meant.
They huddled together in the corner, wrapped in silence and dread—until a knock echoed against the door.
A single, deliberate knock.
Anami jolted upright, eyes wide with hope. "Grandpa!"
"No—wait!" Asuma grabbed for her, but she was already at the door.
She threw it open—and screamed.
There, just beyond the threshold, stood a wooden stake. Mounted at its peak was their grandfather's severed head, eyes glazed over in death, mouth agape as if frozen mid-warning. Blood dripped slowly down the shaft, pooling at its base.
Anami stumbled backward, collapsing to the floor, screaming uncontrollably. Asuma rushed to her, shielding her face with trembling hands. His own vision blurred as tears streamed down his cheeks.
Then footsteps.
Heavy, slow, deliberate.
"Finally found you," said a voice like poison.
Astir stepped into the cabin, the firelight gleaming off his cracked mask. Behind him followed a taller figure—Lady Karja.
Her long, crimson hair shimmered like blood in the flames. Her sword dripped red, and her eyes—inhuman and reptilian—glowed with a cold intelligence. Whatever she was, it wasn't human.
Asuma sprang to his feet and stood in front of his sister, arms stretched wide, body trembling.
"Interesting," Karja said, her gaze piercing. "He hasn't awoken yet?"
"No," Astir replied. "So we're only taking the girl?"
"Yes. The boy can wait. He'll serve a different purpose later."
"You're not taking anyone!" Asuma shouted, voice cracking, but he didn't move.
Karja stepped forward, her presence suffocating. "Brave little thing. Your grandfather stood in my way too. Look how that turned out."
Astir chuckled. "You really think standing there will stop us?"
Asuma didn't care. He remembered what his grandfather had said: Protect her. No matter what. Even as his legs trembled and his arms felt like lead, he refused to step aside.
Karja tilted her head and smiled faintly. "Even while shaking, you stand tall. Admirable. But pointless."
She raised her hand and whispered something in a language that chilled the air.
Instantly, Asuma's body betrayed him. His hands went numb. His knees buckled. The weight of the world seemed to drop onto his shoulders. He turned, eyes wide, just in time to see Anami slump forward—unconscious.
"No—no, stay awake—!" he cried, reaching for her.
But his body collapsed before he could catch her.
Karja knelt beside him, placing a cold hand on his head.
"Magic is beautiful," she murmured, "once you learn how to wield it."
As darkness swallowed his mind, he heard her voice one last time.
"Sleep well, boy. By morning, your world will be unrecognizable."
Astir slung Anami over his shoulder. With one last glance at the fallen brother, he stepped through the flames, vanishing into the burning wreckage of Lyon Village—leaving only smoke, blood, and silence behind.