Veythor kept running, his strides unyielding, his eyes carved with nothing but grim determination. Hunger gnawed at his heart, not hunger for food, but for freedom. A freedom that could only be claimed through ruin.
He was an old fox, a soul shackled by three painful lives, transmigrated into this fragile vessel of flesh. Yet his will remained iron. In the end, he sought but a single thing.... rest. Rest... eternal, undisturbed, inviolable.
And to obtain it, he would burn this world to ash.
Behind him, Raika struggled to keep pace. His breath was ragged, his steps faltering. Veythor's gaze flicked back, sharp and cold.
Ever since the moment of my first cry… whether in the first life, second, or now the third, the heavens never granted me mercy. I have seen nothing but torment. Hell itself became my home.
