He wore a black shirt and black pants. He was thin, and since his left arm was useless in any fight, he wrapped it around his chest using a rope. The rope cut lightly into his skin, the rough fiber damp from the cold air.
He started to walk toward the door and knocked on it. The sound echoed faintly across the stone walls. The door opened, and Omen caught sight of the large doorkeeper.
The doorkeeper asked, "Do you want to go out?"
Omen nodded his head.
The gate of the cell opened with a groan that seemed to drag through his bones. In his mind, Omen vowed to never come back to this family again. With that thought burning quietly inside him, he stepped out of the cave and began walking toward the location marked on the paper the old man had given him.
The marked location was east of the blue moon. The planet known as Warlands had four moons orbiting it in the sky. People believed that the four moons symbolized the four major pure-blooded races.
The blue moon represented the pure-blooded great giant race.
In Warlands, there were fifty-eight billion beings. The planet was vast—so vast that it seemed alive. It was said that the world itself had a consciousness, and if a person was born mixed-blooded, the planet's will would curse them.
Omen, who was also mixed-blooded, carried such a curse. His curse was madness. If his emotions slipped beyond control, his mind would break, and his body would follow.
He walked slowly toward the direction marked on the paper, not realizing that eighteen shadows were following him silently through the trees. The forest felt older than time. Wind passed like whispers between the leaves, and the moonlight bled across the ground like veins of silver.
After crossing two mountains and one river, Omen saw a tiny hut ahead. It stood alone on a meadow, and beside it, there was a well for drawing water. The bucket swayed slightly, though no wind touched it.
Omen's instincts flared. His body stiffened as his eyes narrowed. He activated his trait.
[Assassin]
His presence vanished. The flow of qi inside him became thin and cold. Though he was still visible, his entire body turned faint and illusory, as if he existed half in shadow. This was his trait—every mixed-blood being was born with two traits. [Assassin] was one of the rare ones. It removed presence and allowed the wielder to manifest a weapon of choice from pure killing intent.
Omen crept closer to the hut. It had only one entrance. He moved with quiet steps, his bare feet brushing against cold grass. He reached the door and slowly pushed it open.
Inside, just opposite the door, stood a wooden desk. A person sat hunched over it, writing something. Omen could only guess it was a woman. The desk was messy, with parchment, ink, and books scattered all over it. The faint smell of ink mixed with something metallic—like dried blood.
"Come inside. I was waiting for you," a soft, beautiful voice said.
Omen froze instantly. The air around him trembled.
"Don't worry," she continued, her tone calm. "I'm not your enemy."
The woman straightened and turned around with the gentlest smile Omen had ever seen. She had black hair, glowing red eyes, and a pale face that almost seemed to shine in the dim candlelight.
"Who are you?" Omen asked, his voice sharp. A large black sword materialized in his hand, humming faintly with dark qi. He raised it toward her.
"That's a wonderful question," she said softly. "I suppose I'm someone related to you by blood."
She smiled again and began to walk toward him. Her steps were slow, deliberate.
Omen tried to move back, but his body wouldn't respond. His sword slipped from his hand and vanished before it hit the ground.
As she came closer, the dim light revealed her fully. She was pale and beautiful—too much like him. It made his heart twist with confusion.
Before he could speak, she pulled out a small stone the size of a fingernail. It glowed with thousands of colors, each shifting like living fire. Without warning, she pressed it against his chest. The stone sank into his flesh and disappeared.
Pain spread instantly through his veins. His mind broke into noise. His emotions exploded, and the curse awoke. His qi turned wild, thrashing inside him.
Omen's right arm moved on its own. His fingers spread wide, and the huge black sword reappeared. It sliced through the air, cutting the woman clean through the belly.
Blood poured onto the floor. The sound was soft—too soft. She fell slowly, her lips curved into a faint smile.
Omen's breathing stopped. His vision cleared, and horror replaced the rage. He knelt beside her as she lay surrounded by a pool of blood that spread like a living thing.
"Don't worry," she whispered weakly. "This was the ending I wanted. Don't tell anyone about what I gave you. Your grandfather won't find it if he can't find you. Run. I've erased the memory of time inside this hut. There are eighteen people outside—be careful."
Her words came faster, like she was fighting time itself.
"Why… why are you helping me?" Omen asked. His voice trembled. No one had ever spoken to him with warmth before.
"I…" she tried to say more, but her breath failed. She lifted a shaking hand and pointed at the desk. Then her arm dropped, lifeless.
Omen stared at her body. His throat burned. Outside, faint energy moved—the pressure of trained killers waiting for movement. It was clear now. This was all his grandfather's plan. If he failed, they would kill her. If he succeeded, they would kill him.
He closed the door quietly behind him, then turned toward the desk she had pointed at.
There was a folded letter on top of it. Omen reached for it with a trembling hand and began to read.
Omen, I've always loved you.
If you see this letter, it means I am dead—either by your curse or by fighting your grandfather, who is also a curse himself.
Don't worry. Your mother isn't weak. She chose this.
Keep the celestial object I gave you. If needed, move the desk. Beneath it, there is a small cave passage. It will lead you to safety.
The letter's words blurred before Omen's eyes.
He almost choked. She was his mother. He had killed his own mother.
His hands shook. His eyes grew wet, but he didn't cry. He had killed a thousand people. He had been cut, burned, and sewn back together by his family's doctor. He had survived everything—except this.
He folded the letter carefully and placed it inside his clothes.
The hut was silent again, but the air felt alive—like it was holding its breath. Outside, the faint sound of shifting footsteps told him the hunt had already begun.
Omen took one last look at the body on the floor and whispered, "I'll live… even if the world hates it."
Then he turned and vanished into the night.