The sun is dying.
I watch it sink toward the horizon through the jagged hole in the roof above me, casting long shadows across the broken stone and shattered timber of this half-collapsed building. The light is golden and warm the kind of light that makes everything look softer, kinder, more forgiving than it actually is.
It's a lie, of course. Everything is a lie.
I lean my head back against the cracked stone wall behind me, feeling the rough texture bite into my skull. The pain is grounding and it's a small reminder that I still exist in this world, that I haven't completely dissolved into the mess of thoughts and emotions coursing through my brain.
The debriefing is done I had gathered the cohort and quickly explained the seemingly overly impossible task that Command thinks eleven people can accomplish this time.
They'd listened. Nodded. Asked the right tactical question. Vihaan made a few disturbing comments but that was par for the course. All in and all they were all professional, efficient and ready for the next mission. Just like we're supposed to be.
And now I'm here, alone in this ruin, because I can't stand to be around people right now. Can't stand to see the way they look at me with respect, with awe, with that edge of fear that says they know what I am and what I'm capable of.
The Child of Light.
The one who killed five Elites solo. Three of them at one time.
The demigod blessed by gods himself.
I pull my sword from its sheath. The metal whispers as it slides free, catching the dying sunlight. It's a basic saber. Military issue and nothing special about it at all. The blade is clean now someone and cleaned and sharpened it while i was unconscious but I can still see the ghosts of yesterday smeared across the steel.
The Water Mage. The Lightning user. The spatial manipulator. The bruiser Marcus. The crystal user who tore himself apart.
And the forty-seven others. The markless soldiers who died with my blade opening their throats, their chests, their bellies, my powers their minds.
I stare at the sword and feel something twist in my chest. Something dark and ugly and honest.
I enjoyed it.
Gods help me, I enjoyed it.
The killing. The fear. The way their terror tasted in my mouth like honey when the Fearmonger was fully activated. The sensation of my blade sliding through flesh, of watching the light fade from their eyes, of knowing I was the last thing they'd ever see. I could feel not just their fear, but their hate, their anger, their sadness, their pride. I could sense their emotions pass through me and I enjoyed every second of it.
In those moments in the greyscale world where everything was sharp and clear and simple I felt powerful. Unstoppable. Like I was finally everything I was meant to be. A God. A Reaper of men.
And that terrifies me more than anything the Federation could throw at me.
I lower the sword, resting it across my knees. My hands are steady. No shaking. No trembling. Just... steady. Like they've always been meant to hold a weapon. Like violence is my natural state.
"How the fuck did I get here?" I whisper to the empty room.
The words echo off broken stone. No answer comes. I didn't expect one of course.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall. The stone is cool despite the warmth of the dying sun. Somewhere outside, I can hear voices—soldiers moving through the ruins, Inquisitors still organizing their relief efforts, the low murmur of people trying to rebuild from catastrophe.
But in here, it's quiet. Just me and my thoughts and the weight of what I'm becoming.
I remember a lesson from the Academy. Just a few weeks ago, though it feels like months at this point. Proctor Solovyov that beast of the woman standing at the front of the classroom she was the head of House Vespera. She'd been lecturing about the philosophical differences between the Empire and the Federation. About why we were righteous and they were corrupted by Chaos.
It had been the usual propaganda. The kind of thing they drill into your head from childhood. The Empire stands for order, honor, civilization. The Federation has fallen to darkness, cruelty, madness.
But then she'd said something that stuck with me.
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster."
She'd paused, letting the words sink in. Looking at each of us in turn. "This is why the Empire's Awakened pride themselves on honor. On fighting with purpose rather than simply for the sake of violence our ourselves. it's why we keep the factions here separate, Elites can not become nobles and nobles can not influence the military in turn. We keep the checks and balance so the King can lead and manage efficiently. The Federation however has lost sight of this as they refuse to denounce chaos so we must never make the same mistake."
I remember sitting there thinking she was full of shit. That every single person in the Empire from the King down to the lowest soldier was corrupt in their own way. Honor... is just a word powerful scumbags invented to make young fools die for them. And kill for them. It's a chain that they wrapped around your neck, to make us slaves. Honor is nothing but a fool's prize. Glory is of no use to the dead.
I'd chuckled at her earnestness. At her belief that we were somehow better than our enemies.
But now...
Now I'm wondering if she was talking about something different. Not about the Empire versus the Federation. Not about politics or propaganda. But each of us individually.
About the individual choice to hold onto humanity in the face of inhuman power. And I'm wondering if I've already failed that test.
I open my eyes and look at my hands. They're smooth as the rest of my skin, perks of being an Awakened I suppose but these same hands have killed over 40 people in the last day alone. I've killed probably at least 100 times since awakening.
And I will kill more tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Because that's what I am now. A killer. A weapon. A monster wearing a human face. But is it even a human face really? My body was reshaped and reforged after my awakening. I am faster, stronger, smarter, I recover faster than mundane humans. Maybe I am something better now. Maybe I lost my humanity the day I awoke as an Elite after my rite of manifestation.
The thought should horrify me more than it does.
I pick up a loose stone from the rubble scattered around me. It's about the size of my fist, rough and heavy. I turn it over in my hands, feeling the weight, the texture.
Then I throw it.
Hard.
It hits the far wall with a crack that echoes through the building. The stone shatters. Part of the wall crumbles, adding to the destruction already here.
"Fuck," I mutter. Then louder: "Fuck!"
Because I don't want to understand. Don't want to accept what I'm seeing in myself.
I don't want to think that the King might be right.
The King. That bastard who sits on his throne in Lusa, wrapped in divine right and absolute power, making decisions that send people like me to die in places like this. Who sees the world as a hierarchy of strength, where the powerful rule and the weak serve. Where he believes he destined to rule everything as is his right. He is the only exception of Nobility who's allowed to be an Elite. The man himself was two mark bearer as has been every King since the First King. Who even knows what his marks are.
I've hated that philosophy since I understood what it meant. Since I realized that according to his worldview, my parents deserved to die because they were weak. Because they couldn't protect themselves. Because they made the mistake of being caught up in something bigger than them.
But now...
Now I look around at Oakhaven. At the destruction we wrought. At the bodies piled under tarps. At the hollow-eyed survivors who look at me with fear and awe.
And I see the truth I've been avoiding.
The weak did suffer. The markless soldiers. The civilians caught in the crossfire. The people who had no power, no ability to defend themselves against what Helix unleashed. What the federation unleashed on them.
They suffered because they were weak.
And I killed because I was strong.
That's the reality. Strip away all the propaganda and justifications and noble causes, and that's what it comes down to.
Power.
The strong do what they will. The weak suffer what they must.
My mind flashes back to what Cain told me during one of out first training lessons. You are trying to kill your opponent, and they are trying to kill you. Nothing else matters. Do you understand?" "Nothing matters unless you are the last one standing. One person will be killed, and the other will be the killer"
I grab another stone and throw it. Then another. Each impact sends cracks spiderwebbing through the walls, brings more rubble raining down.
I don't want to believe it. Don't want to accept that the King's worldview is the truth.
But what's the alternative? Pretend that power doesn't matter? That strength isn't the ultimate arbiter in this fucked up world?
I've seen firsthand how useless the masses are. How they panic and flee and die when real violence comes calling. How they need people like me people with power they can't comprehend to protect them. To rule them.
Why shouldn't the strong rule? What argument is there against it?
If I have the power to kill three Elites in a spatial lock, to turn a city into rubble, to make dozens of trained soldiers die screaming with fear... why shouldn't I be the one making decisions? Why should I bow to the will of people who would die in seconds if they faced what I've faced?
The thought makes me sick. But I can't deny the logic of it.
I stop throwing stones and sink down onto my back, staring up at the dying light filtering through the broken roof. The sky is turning from gold to orange to deep purple. Stars will be out soon.
My thoughts naturally drift to my parents. They always do even though I usually try not to think about them. Try not to remember the day the Inquisitors came. The accusations. The execution.
My father. My mother. Dead because they'd somehow—I still don't know how—ended up harboring a Federation spy and not any spy but an enemy Awakened.
I was young. Old enough to understand what was happening but too young to do anything about it.
The Inquisitors had come in force black robes flowing like shadows. Their faces hidden by their hoods. An Elite in mirrored black armor floated above the cobbles like a vengeful comet. They'd dragged my parents out into the street while neighbors watched from windows, too afraid to intervene. I remember my mother's face. The way she looked at me. Not with fear for herself, but with desperate love and terror for what would happen to me.
I remember my father trying to fight. Being beaten down. Begging them to spare his family, to at least spare his son. They hadn't listened. They never listen. And in the moment of distraction after being thrown me into a chair I had slipped out the window and ran as one of the inquisitors read out the charges and sentence.
I remember standing in that public square at amongst the jeering crowd. And the sound a neck makes when it breaks.
And now I realize that my world had ended because my parents had been weak.
Because they couldn't protect themselves. Couldn't avoid the consequences of their actions and they couldn't protect me, could not stay alive to raise me.
I've spent years hating the Inquisitors for that. Hating the Church. Hating the Empire. Hating the system that could destroy a family so casually.
But now...
I activate the Fearmonger.
The world bleeds to greyscale immediately. The warm golden light fades to silver. The purple sky becomes dark grey. The shadows deepen into absolute black.
And my emotions... dim.
The anger, the self-loathing, the confusion—all of it recedes. Doesn't disappear, but all of those useless emotions become distant. Manageable. Like I'm observing my feelings from behind thick glass instead of drowning in them.
In this state, I can think clearly. Objectively.
So I force myself to consider the question honestly:
What would I do if I found a family hiding a Federation Elite right now? Today. After Nimorael. After Oakhaven. After everything I've seen and done.
The answer comes immediately, cold and certain.
I'd kill them.
All of them.
The Elite, obviously. That's a given. But also the family. Because if they're hiding a Federation operative, they're traitors. They're actively working against the Empire, putting their own interests above the survival of everyone else around them which includes other family's.
They're choosing the enemy of barbarians.
And after Nimorael after seeing the boiled babies and the corpse pyramids and the river of blood I wouldn't hesitate. Wouldn't give them a chance to explain or beg. I'd execute them and move on.
Just like the Inquisitors did to my parents.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, even through the emotional dampening of the Fearmonger.
I've become them. I've become exactly what I hated.
I watch the greyscale world through eyes that see too clearly now. Every detail is sharp. Hyperfocused. The cracks in the stone. The patterns of rubble. The precise angle of shadows.
Beautiful in its clarity but terrible in its truth.
I am a true Awakened Elite of the Empire of Elarion.
I accept that now. Can't deny it anymore.
The child who screamed over his parents' bodies is gone. Dead and buried under years of survival and training and violence.
My heart breaks a little more with that acceptance. I can feel it even through the Fearmonger's dampening a piece of my humanity cracking off and falling away into darkness.
But I accept it anyway.
Because what choice do I have?
I can't go back. Can't un-see what I've seen. Can't un-do what I've done. Can't become the naive kid who believed in justice and fairness and the idea that the world could be anything other than a bloody struggle for survival.
That kid is dead.
I killed him somewhere between Lont and Oakhaven.
So what's left?
What do I do now?
The answer comes with the same cold certainty as everything else in the greyscale world.
I survive. I grow stronger. I become more impressive.
Because that's all there is. The only thing that matters in this world of monsters and killers and power.
Strength.
The strong do what they will. The weak suffer what they must.
This is the way of the world. An immutable law that governs everything from politics to personal relationships to the most basic interactions between human beings.
And the same rule applies to me.
If I face someone stronger than me someone with more power, more skill, more ruthlessness I'll be the one suffering. I'll be the one dying. I'll be the corpse under a tarp while soldiers whisper about how even the Child of Light couldn't escape the fundamental truth of existence.
Power is the only thing that matters.
Everything else honor, justice, love, loyalty all of it is secondary. Luxuries that the strong can afford and the weak can only dream about.
So I'll seek strength. I'll grow. I'll become powerful enough that no one can do to me what was done to my parents. What was almost done to me yesterday in that spatial lock.
I'll become unstoppable.
Even if it means losing the last pieces of whatever humanity I have left.
Even if it means becoming the very thing I once hated.
Because the alternative is death. And I'm not ready to die. Not for ideals that don't exist. Not for a world that doesn't care.
I let out a long breath, watching it mist in the cooling air. The greyscale world shows it as a pale grey cloud that dissipates slowly.
I think about House Apophis. The House I was assigned to in the Academy. The motto is something I genuinely like. The language of old, from the now Dark contrient brought here by the First king.
Per aspera ad astra.
I'd thought it was pretentious when I first heard it. Typical noble nonsense. Making suffering sound noble and aspirational.
But now...
Now I understand it differently.
It's not about making suffering noble. It's about acknowledging that suffering is inevitable. The hardships aren't optional. They're coming whether you want them or not.
The only choice is whether you let them break you or whether you use them to climb higher.
Through violence and blood and loss and the death of everything you once believed in... to power. To strength. To a place where you're the one deciding who suffers and who doesn't.
I chuckle. The sound is sad and bitter in the empty room. My voice comes out hollow in the greyscale world.
"Per aspera ad astra," I whisper to the dying light.
I am Ayato Daath
The Child of Light.
I close my eyes and let the Fearmonger recede slowly. The world bleeds back into color—the purple sky, the golden remnants of sunset, the warm orange of distant fires still burning in Oakhaven's ruins.
My emotions return. The self-loathing, the bitter acceptance the cold determination. But something has changed, something fundamental. I'm not fighting it anymore. Not pretending I'm anything other than what I've become. I'm a weapon of the Empire. A demigod of violence. A symbol that people worship and fear in equal measure.
And I'm going to use that. I'm going to take everything this cursed world has taught me—every lesson written in blood and pain—and I'm going to become strong enough that no one can ever hurt me again.
Strong enough that I'm the one making the rules instead of following them.
Strong enough that when the Inquisitors or the Church or the King himself looks at me, they see something they can't control. Something they can't use. But instead something they fear.
The sun finally dips below the horizon. Darkness spreads across the ruins of Oakhaven. Stars begin to appear in the purple-black sky.
I stand up, bones and muscles protesting. My sword hangs heavy at my side. Tomorrow we leave for Baelin. For another mission. More killing. More blood.
More steps toward becoming whatever I'm meant to be.
I take one last look at the dying light, then turn and walk out of the ruined building.
Behind me, in the gathering darkness, I leave the last pieces of the boy I used to be.
The one who believed in justice. In fairness. In the idea that strength should be used to protect rather than dominate.
He's gone now. Dead and buried under the rubble of Oakhaven.
What walks out into the night is something different. Something colder. Something that has accepted the fundamental truth of existence:
I will be strong.
No matter what it costs.
Even if those stars I strive towards are cold and distant and offer no warmth.
Even if the path to them is paved with corpses and broken ideals.
Even if reaching them means losing my soul.
I'll climb.
Because the alternative is suffering.
And I've had enough of suffering for one lifetime.
I want precious little, yet I am forced to kill for it. Such is life I suppose.