Rain drowned the world. Each drop fell like shards of glass, carving rivulets through the soot and blood that painted the streets. The sky was a molten bruise of black and violet, trembling with thunder that shook the bones of the dying city.
Flames roared from the rooftops, crackling like laughter — cruel, devouring laughter. Smoke billowed thick and black, swallowing the stars, swallowing the cries of the fallen. What was once a city of banners and bells had become a furnace of ash.
A child ran through it all.
Her feet were bare, raw and bleeding, splashing through puddles of crimson rainwater. Her torn cloak clung to her frame, heavy with mud and fear. Her breaths came short, ragged — like glass scraping against her throat. She stumbled past bodies half-burned, half-frozen in screams. The stench of charred flesh filled her nose, yet she couldn't stop. She couldn't look back.
Live on.
That was her mother's voice.Even through the storm, through the chaos, she could still hear it echo — gentle, trembling, full of love and despair. All pain will fade, all terror will end, as long as you live.
She clung to that voice as she ran through the burning alleys. The wind howled. The ground quaked as another home collapsed behind her. Sparks leapt from the fire, kissing her skin like embers from hell.
Then she saw it.
The gate.
Open.
Unguarded.
Freedom.
Her heart surged. She ran faster — faster than her lungs could bear, faster than her tears could fall. The rain blurred everything, but the gate burned clear in her sight like salvation itself. She reached out her trembling hand, almost there—
"You think I didn't see you?!"
The voice ripped through the downpour — rough, cruel, soaked in madness.
Before she could turn, something massive seized her cloak. Her world spun. The air left her lungs as her small body slammed into the wet ground. She gasped, coughing mud, her vision flashing white.
A shadow loomed above her — a hulking man wrapped in leather and blood, his eyes glinting yellow in the firelight. He laughed, the sound deep and guttural, echoing like a drumbeat of death.
"Thought you could crawl away, little rat?"
He grabbed her by the throat, his hand engulfing her neck. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, but he only squeezed harder. Her feet dangled, kicking helplessly in the rain.
Her lips parted — she tried to speak, to beg — but only a choked rasp escaped. Her eyes rolled, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked cheeks. The harder she fought, the tighter his grip became.
The rain ran down her face, mingling with blood, with tears, with the filth of a dying world.
And the man's laughter rose higher, booming through the storm, triumphant over the thunder itself.
"CHARGE!"
The cry tore through the storm. It wasn't just a shout — it was a war cry that split the rain itself. Even the thunder seemed to falter, swallowed by the roar of a single voice.
The burly man froze, his laughter cut short. He turned toward the city gate — and his blood ran cold.
Through the curtain of rain rode a figure on horseback, cloak whipping like a banner of vengeance. His spear gleamed gold against the storm, its tip trailing light as though the heavens themselves had blessed it. Behind him rode another warrior, silent, steady — the storm parting around their charge.
"T–That… that golden ribbon—!" the burly man stammered, choking on his words. He stumbled backward, eyes wide. The ribbon tied beneath the spearhead fluttered wildly, drenched but defiant, a mark of power — of doom.
The horse's hooves struck the earth like drumbeats of judgment. Each step closer thundered through the ground, shaking puddles into rings. Its breath came out in steam, its mane slick and black under the downpour. The rider's eyes gleamed beneath his soaked hood — cold, merciless.
"NO—!"
The burly man grabbed the little girl by the cloak and hurled her toward the oncoming horse.
Time fractured.
The rider leaned, one hand steady on the reins — the other shot out like lightning. He caught her mid-air, effortless, the child cradled against his chest. Not a single falter in his momentum.
With his next heartbeat, he raised his arm. The golden ribbon flickered once — and the spear left his hand.
It flew like a streak of divine wrath.
The weapon sang through the rain, slicing thunder itself — and buried deep into the burly man's skull. There was no scream, no sound — just a violent stillness as his body crumpled into the mud, the golden ribbon swaying gently above the corpse.
The horse slowed, hooves splashing. The warrior looked down at the girl — unconscious, drenched, trembling — then at the burning city behind them.
"Hold on," he muttered, voice low and steady, "you'll live."
And with that, he turned his horse toward the horizon, carrying her away from the dying city — into the storm that promised new beginnings.
The girl stirred in his arms, her vision blurred by rain and tears. Slowly, she looked up.
He was young — far too young to wear such a hardened face. His jaw was sharp, his skin smeared with soot and blood, and his eyes… those eyes burned with unyielding fire, the kind that devoured despair itself. There was chaos in his charm, danger in his smile — a storm given flesh.
"Lord Kazel, your order," the rider behind him called, his voice steady despite the downpour.
Kazel tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk carving across his lips. "Like we always do."
Then his gaze fell upon the girl again — fragile, trembling, yet clinging to life with desperate hands. For a moment, the fury in his eyes softened, replaced by something unreadable.
"Sorry, kid," he said, voice low but firm, the thunder almost drowning his words. "But you'll have to stay awake for this one."
Her lips quivered. She didn't understand — couldn't.
"I know you want to run," Kazel went on, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, "but… I'm not old enough to be wise."
He straightened his back, lifting the spear once more as the storm roared louder. "Right now—" his voice cracked into a shout, fierce and blazing— "watch us take revenge for you!"
He tugged the reins. The horse reared, neighing against the thunder, droplets exploding around them like shattered glass.
"Two against many!!"
The girl's pupils dilated — awe and terror blending into one. The world blurred into rain, fire, and the echo of hooves thundering toward the heart of hell.
Kazel's eyes shot open. His breath came ragged, and the first thing he saw was an unfamiliar ceiling — wooden beams carved with symbols he'd never seen before.
( Where…? )
He blinked hard, the fog of unconsciousness fading. The air smelled of herbs and faint incense, not blood or rain.
"You're awake," a voice echoed from the shadows — dry, familiar, almost playful.
Kazel turned his head, only to flinch back. A skull grinned at him from under the lantern light.
"Oh, you fuck—!" Kazel clutched his chest.
"Oh, right. Sorry," said the skeleton, scratching its bony temple. "Sometimes I forget that I'm a skeleton."
Kazel groaned, exhaling through his nose. "You're the crown." His gaze shifted toward the nightstand, where a gilded circlet sat gleaming faintly in the light. "You did it on purpose."
The skull's empty sockets gleamed mischievously. "Hahaha."
Kazel rubbed his temples. "What happened?"
"You lost," said Caladbolg simply. "She took you in."
"Oh… right…"
Before he could ask more, the paper door slid open with a soft hiss. A silhouette stood framed by the light, yet somehow, even under that brightness, she was cloaked in shadow.
Kazel didn't need to see her clearly. He already knew.
"The one who knocked me out cold," he muttered.
The figure stepped forward, her voice calm, deliberate. "Well," she said, "that would depend on your definition of 'cold,' wouldn't it, Lord Kazel?"
Kazel crossed his arms, his tone sharp despite the soreness in his body. "What is this hero nonsense?"
"It's not nonsense."
The darkness around her seemed to melt away. And there she was — skin pale as first snow, hair white and braided down to her waist, eyes amber like molten gold. Her expression was serene, yet something deep in those eyes carried a weight of centuries.
"You are a hero," she said softly. "Still are. Do you remember me… Lord Kazel?"
Kazel frowned, his blue eyes narrowing. "…No."
Her lips curved faintly. "Sword faster than light. Movements elegant as butterflies. A woman who swung like she was harmless… but cut as if it was her law."
Kazel froze. His pupils constricted into sharp points.
"Masha…?"
"It's I," she whispered — Masha, the Grandmaster of the Curved Blade Sect… and once, the little girl who survived the doomed town.
"Lord Kazel," she said, her voice barely louder than the rain outside, yet sharp enough to pierce the silence between them. Her amber eyes met his—steady, unflinching, searching for something buried deep beneath his hardened stare. Then, with a faint, trembling breath, she asked, "Did you cry when I died?"
The air turned still. Even Caladbolg's skull seemed to dim. The rain outside whispered against the wooden walls, like echoes of a memory neither of them could escape. Kazel said nothing—only the faint twitch of his jaw betrayed the storm behind his silence.