Thunder sounds.
Toran jolted upright in bed, chest heaving, breath caught somewhere between a dream and a scream. His skin was clammy with sweat, and the room around him spun in shadow. For a split second, the pale glow of light that usually spilled in through the window was gone—swallowed by something.
Something… wrong.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Nothing. The room was quiet, familiar, still. No shadow. But his heart wouldn't slow.
The door suddenly burst open with a crash.
"Toran!" Mari's voice cut like a blade through the stillness. She stood framed in the doorway, soaked from the rain, face drawn and pale with alarm. "We have to leave. Now."
"What?" Toran scrambled from bed, yanking on his boots. "Why? What happened?"
"No time. Just trust me." She grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the hallway.
They burst out the front door, and the night met them like a slap to the face. The rain was cold and relentless, washing over the land in sheets. Thunder rolled distantly, but it wasn't just thunder.
Boom.
Another explosion rumbled echoing through the treeline.
Toran looked back at the cabin as they ran. A figure—a silhouette—stood motionless on the roof. Cloaked in darkness, faceless, watching.
His breath caught. "Mari—someone's on the—!"
When he looked again, the roof was empty.
"What's going on?" he panted.
"Something terrible," Mari answered without slowing, her voice tight and low. "Keep running. Eyes ahead."
They sprinted into the trees. The forest, normally peaceful and full of life, was now alight with panic. Distant screams carried on the wind, and the acrid smell of burning wood pierced through the rain.
As they approached the edge of the village, chaos took form—rooftops ablaze, carts overturned, people fleeing in every direction. Soldiers stormed the streets in matching armor, their symbols unfamiliar.
Toran stared. "Who… who are they?"
Mari's grip on his arm tightened. "The Grimoire Army."
"The Grimoire what?"
"They're a rogue faction," she said, keeping her voice low as they ducked behind a stack of barrels. "They oppose the Ma'jestia Kingdom. They don't fight for good or evil—they fight for themselves. They take what they want. People. Children. You understand me?"
Toran's throat felt dry. He nodded.
"We stay hidden. We don't engage. And we don't get caught."
They crouched in silence as a group of soldiers passed just feet from them—mud-spattered boots, swords at their sides, voices like gravel. One laughed cruelly at a cry in the distance.
Toran noticed something. Slung across Mari's back was a thin, gleaming sword. Not decorative. Her weapon—a slender blade forged with elegance in mind. Its steel shimmered in the light, narrow and balanced, etched with delicate floral patterns along the fuller. The hilt was wrapped in pale blue silk, worn from use but still graceful.
"You're carrying a weapon?"
Mari gave a quiet nod. "I hope I won't need to use it." She glanced at him, eyes flickering with a sharpness he rarely saw. "But I was trained by the best. And I'll protect you with everything I have."
When the coast was clear, they darted out from cover, weaving through alleys and broken side streets. Fires crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls like ghosts.
"They're everywhere," Toran whispered.
"We'll lose them," Mari replied, guiding him down a narrow path. "We just need to keep moving."
They turned a corner and froze.
Two soldiers. Just ahead.
Before Toran could react, Mari pulled him back by the collar and slipped into a side door left ajar. They stumbled into a darkened café, the scent of stale coffee and scorched wood heavy in the air. The place was abandoned, chairs overturned, shelves broken. A half-burned lantern still flickered on the counter.
Mari closed the door softly behind them and leaned against it, catching her breath. Her eyes scanned the room before settling on Toran.
He was shaking.
She stepped over and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You're okay."
Then came footsteps—slow, deliberate.
The café door burst open.
Three men entered, rain streaming from their cloaks. The one at the center wore a deep red cape that shimmered slightly even in the gloom. He was tall and broad, with a commanding presence, his chiseled features shadowed by the flickering lights above. His sharp blue eyes swept the room in a practiced scan.
Behind him, two others flanked his sides in matching blue capes—shorter, thicker-set men, scruffy and twitchy, their hands twitching near their belts as they entered.
The man in red took another step forward, brushing back his wet hair with gloved fingers. "Clear out any survivors," he barked to his men. "The Grimoire doesn't leave stragglers."
Mari stepped forward before they could move another inch, her tone calm but firm. "This building's empty enough, don't you think?"
All three men froze. The red-caped man turned toward her with mild curiosity, then recognition slowly settled into his face.
"Well. Look who it is," he said, a slow grin curling across his face. "Mari."
Mari didn't flinch. "Kellan."
Toran's eyes darted between them, confused. He stood behind Mari, fists clenched but uncertain.
Kellan chuckled, removing his soaked gloves one finger at a time. "Didn't expect to find you in a place like this. Thought you'd disappeared after the raids started."
"I had," Mari replied, cool and steady. "But I have priorities."
The red-caped man shifted uncomfortably.
Kellan rolled his neck, his smile souring. "Let's skip the righteous talk. I'm not here for debate. Orders are orders. Every able-bodied fighter joins or falls."
He raised a hand.
"Take her."
The two men moved, weapons half-drawn.
In a flash of silver, Mari's blade was in her hand. With two swift movements—clean, surgical—both men were down, groaning and clutching their sides.
Kellan stepped back, now serious. "Still sharp."
"You always were predictable," Mari said, leveling her blade toward him.
Kellan stared at the blade, then met her eyes again with a small sigh. "This doesn't have to end badly, Mari. You could still come with us. They offer power and they've made me stronger, unlike the RA. In the Grimoire Army I'm a Master Ki now. And I could use someone like you."
"I'm not interested in your ranks," she snapped. "And you know I'll never stand beside the Grimoire Army."
Kellan's voice darkened. "Then it's a shame."
Kellan drew his sword.
The storm outside cracked, lightning streaking across the sky. For a moment, the light pierced through the windows of the café—casting harsh illumination across the blade in his hand.
It was black—matte and menacing, like it had been forged from an obsidian stone. The steel curved subtly at the tip, giving it a predator's shape—made not for show, but for swift, decisive killing. There were no engravings, no signs of craftsmanship for beauty. Just raw edges and a handle wrapped in worn leather, darkened by age and blood. It hummed with silent threat, a perfect match for its wielder.
"That blade's taken enough… I'll make sure it ends here," as her eyes locked on the blood dripping from its tip.
He lunged.
Mari parried, her blade clashing against Kellan's with a shriek of steel. Sparks burst from the contact as she twisted her body, sidestepping the brute force of his swing. Her feet skidded over the uneven stone, breath sharp in her throat, but she kept her footing—barely.
"Still fast," Kellan muttered through clenched teeth, pressing in harder. "But slower than you used to be, Mari."
"That's funny," she shot back, breathless but focused. "Because you're still a coward and even worse."
Kellan's grin was sharp and humorless. "Careful. I don't have to kill you clean."
He moved with haste, all precision and aggression. Each strike came faster than the last, a flurry of relentless blows that Mari struggled to meet.
"You really traded your soul for a red cape, huh?" she spat, gritting her teeth against the strain.
"Sold it," Kellan corrected, his blade slamming against hers again. "And it's paid off just fine."
Their swords flashed in the dim light—metal singing with every block and counter. Mari's arm ached from the weight of each hit; Kellan wasn't just skilled—he was trying to end it.
She tried to pivot, to break the rhythm, but Kellan feinted low and came high instead.
Too fast.
Mari saw it too late.
"Damn it—!"
His blade slipped past her guard, driving forward with the momentum of his entire body behind it. Mari's eyes widened—too late to stop it.
Steel punched into her side with a sickening, fleshy crunch.
"Should've stayed hidden," he said coldly. "But that doesn't matter now." he gave a sinister chuckle
The impact stole the breath from her lungs. She staggered backward, her hand instinctively flying to her side as the burning heat of pain flooded her senses. Blood spilled through her fingers, warm and sudden.
Kellan stepped back, breathing heavy, his blade red.
Mari's sword clattered to the ground.
"Mari!" Toran shouted, frozen in place.
"You always did let your emotions slow you down," he muttered.
Toran rushed to her side. "Mari, please, get up," he said, voice cracking.
Her hand clutched his with fading strength, fingers trembling as they wrapped around his own. Blood seeped between their palms, warm and slipping. Mari looked up at him—eyes glassy with pain, but still full of fire. Her voice came thin, cracking like something breaking inside her.
"Run, Toran…" she whispered, every syllable laced with urgency and sorrow. "Please."
He held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. But her strength was already leaving. Slowly, inevitably… her hand slipped from his.
Kellan turned, only now noticing the boy. He raised an eyebrow. "That yours?" He gave a cold laugh. "Guess she was trying to protect you… priorities."
Toran didn't answer. He was shaking.
"Come on," Kellan said, stepping closer. "You're coming with me."
Toran ignored the man's cruel taunts, his trembling hands gently nudging Mari's shoulder. "Mari… Mari," he whispered, over and over, desperation cracking his voice.
Kellan let out an exasperated scoff. "She's dead, boy. Weak. Just like the others. Leave her and come with us."
Toran's eyes widened in disbelief, his breath caught in his throat. Kellan's patience snapped. With a growl of frustration, he slammed his boot down on Toran's back, driving him to the floor with a cry of pain.
"I said she's dead," Kellan snarled. "You're coming with us—like it or not."
Kellan finally lifted his boot off Toran's back and turned away, striding toward the door without another word. Toran remained crumpled in the center beside Mari's motionless body, paralyzed by shock. His trembling fingers reached for her hand, but it didn't move. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at her, unblinking.
"Dead?" he whispered, voice cracking. "She's… dead?"
The words hung in the air, fragile and disbelieving—like saying them aloud might somehow make them untrue.
As Toran stood in frozen despair, hunched beside Mari's still body, Kellan continued toward the door to his mission. But something in the air shifted—he felt it before he saw it. The hairs on his neck rose.
He turned—and stopped cold.
A swirling black mist had begun to rise around Toran, coiling around him like a living shadow. It thickened with each heartbeat, and the very air in the room grew heavy and oppressive, suffocating.
Kellan's eyes narrowed. "What the hell…"
Toran's head lifted slowly. His eyes—once blue—now glowed an otherworldly crimson, like embers igniting in a dying hearth. The red light pulsed with growing intensity, not from fury alone, but something far deeper. Something darker.
Kellan instinctively stepped back, unnerved. He'd seen his share of strange powers in the Grimoire Army—but nothing like this.
"What's wrong with you?" he muttered, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. Then, forcing a smug grin onto his face, he added, "Heh… well, well. You're not just some village brat. The Supreme Ki will want to see you for himself."
He gestured loosely toward the door. "Come on, kid. Let's go."
Toran didn't speak. Didn't blink.
But he took a step forward.
The way he moved—slow, deliberate, unnatural—sent another chill crawling down Kellan's spine.
Kellan's bravado began to splinter. His hand slipped toward his sword. "I said let's—"
Toran vanished.
No sound. No wind. Just... gone.
Kellan blinked. Spun around. Nothing.
"What in the—"
Pain
Pain erupted in his chest. He dropped to his knees with a gasp. Blood spread beneath him, hot and fast.
Behind him—Toran.
Standing still, wreathed in that thick, churning black mist. His eyes blazed bright red in the dim light, casting shadows like firelight. Blood clung to his hands and began to evaporate into wisps of black vapor.
Kellan's breath caught. "What... what's happening to me?" he stammered, his voice barely audible over the thundering of his heart.
Toran just stared.
Kellan tried to crawl backward, his limbs heavy, numb. The mist around the boy pressed tighter, suffocating the air between them.
"Stay back!" he shouted.
But Toran didn't move.
The pressure grew. Kellan gasped, trying to breathe. His vision began to blur as the darkness closed in.
He looked up one final time, his face twisted in disbelief and terror.
"Who… what are you?" he managed to whisper, before everything went black.
Toran stood alone, surrounded by silence and haze, breathing hard, eyes glowing like coals in a dying fire.
Then—another voice. Soft, yet sharp.
"Kuri."
Before Toran could turn, something struck the back of his neck with precision. His eyes widened—then dimmed—and his body crumpled beside Mari's. The mist dispersed in seconds, vanishing as if it had never been.
The source of the voice lingered only for a moment, cloaked in the shadows, before disappearing without a trace.