The streets of Caldrath were eerily silent. Smoke from ruined walls drifted skyward, curling like the last breath of the fools who dared to cross him. Blood stained the cobbled road—a grotesque tapestry of shadow and vengeance. And in the center stood Kieran, his cloak torn, his left sleeve burned away, and the air around him humming with residual Murderous Intent.
But there was no triumph in his gaze.
Only silence.
Only regret.
He looked down at his hands. Not trembling—never trembling—but clenched. The kind of grip that held back the scream of someone who'd seen too much. "I warned them," he whispered. "I warned them…"
Behind him, a merchant slowly emerged from a shattered stall. "T-thank you, Voidborne…" The man quickly averted his gaze. "I mean, Sir…"
Kieran didn't reply. He simply walked.
Down the street.
Past the rubble.
Past the gawking stares.
Toward the place where memory lived.
Gareth's Home – Outskirts of Caldrath
The wooden door creaked open, and a scent of herbs and old parchment filled the air.
"You're late," came Gareth's rough voice. He didn't even look up from his mortar and pestle.
"I didn't know time mattered," Kieran muttered, stepping inside.
"It does. Especially to someone with shadows on his back."
Kieran sat at the worn table, letting the silence stretch between them. Gareth, the man who had raised him—the only one who hadn't looked at him like a monster. He'd taught him how to wield a blade, yes, but also how to use silence as a weapon, how to speak when words mattered.
Today, however, words felt like ashes.
"They came for me again," Kieran finally said.
Gareth's hand paused. "How many?"
"Fifty. Led by an S-Rank."
"You're still alive. They're not. That's what matters."
"No… it doesn't." Kieran looked out the window where rain had begun to fall. "I want it to matter. I want every drop of blood to mean something. Otherwise, I'm no better than the story they wrote for me."
Gareth looked up, eyes old and tired, but sharp. "Then change the story. You have the pen now. Write it."
That Night – Under the Falling Rain
Kieran sat on the rooftop of the old cathedral. Below, Caldrath flickered like a fading candle. Somewhere deep beneath the city, the threat stirred—the same presence that had watched him since his rise.
He could feel it now.
It was closer.
And hungry.
A voice whispered beside him, like wind across grave dust. "You've awakened a path, Kieran Veyron. One the world will soon dread."
He didn't flinch. "Who are you?"
No answer.
Only a flicker of shadow in the air. Gone before he could turn.
Meanwhile – The Heart Beneath Caldrath
A dark chamber pulsed like a living heart.
Chains groaned.
The creature within—a forgotten thing—opened its eyes. Eyes that once knew Sylas Veyron. Eyes that now turned toward his descendant.
"So... he's readying himself," it hissed. "Let us see how far he can run before fate drags him back to me."
End of Chapter Forty-Five