The Man Who Walked Away
In the world of Vaelthorne, in heart of the Empire of Man, where towers of white stone scraped the skies and banners of golden lions fluttered over bloodstained walls, a boy was forged into a weapon.
His name was Aren.
He had no memory of parents, no lullabies to cling to, no stories of warmth by the hearth. The Imperials took him as an infant - chosen, they claimed, by fate itself. With his rare yellow eyes, the mark of a "blessed soul," Aren was placed into the Warborn caste: children trained not to live, but to conquer.
He bled in the training pits by age six. Killed by eleven. Led by fifteen.
By twenty, Aren was a commander - respected, feared, and burdened. His discipline, his charisma, and his will made him a leader among men. On the battlefield, he inspired legions. In court, he silenced nobles twice his age with little more than a glance.
But as the wars dragged on, Aren began to see what others would not:
The Empire was not protecting mankind.
It was annihilating everything that wasn't human.
Villages of elves, torched to ash in the name of purity. Dwarven mines collapsed by siege magic. Even peaceful beastfolk, known only for their farming and kinship, were chained and marched into cities - slaves of the Golden Throne.
It wasn't just war.
It was eradication.
And the worst part? His fellow warriors - men he'd grown beside, fought beside - laughed as they did it. They reveled in screams, carved symbols into corpses, and called it justice.
Aren had killed in battle. That much he accepted. But this was not battle.
It was butchery.
One night, after a raid on a forest kin village, Aren stood in silence as a young girl - no older than he'd been when he took his first life - cried over her mother's broken body. She didn't scream. She didn't curse.
She simply looked up at him… and wept.
Aren turned and walked away from the Empire that night. No word. No ceremony. No honor.
Only blood on his boots and shame in his soul.
He wandered north - beyond the borderlands, through monster-ridden wilds and hunted roads. There, amid outlaws and outcasts, he found something unexpected:
A mercenary guild, not bound by nation, not bound by race. Just warriors, rogues, and mystics trying to survive together.
They called themselves The Broken Chain.
There were trolls who spoke better poetry than humans, beastfolk who healed the wounded without hesitation, elves who'd given up vengeance for planting trees again. Among them, Aren saw the world he'd never known: one where strength didn't demand cruelty.
He joined - not as a soldier, but as a battle healer.
He won't raise his blade again unless it's to protect. He had seen what men become when they stop asking why they kill.
A vow. A burden.
Aren was twenty-five now. Taller than most, broad-shouldered and scarred. His brunette hair fell past his eyes, his armor dulled by years on the road.
But his yellow eyes still burned. Not with pride. Not with rage.
But with conviction.
He treated wounds with a gentleness no one expected. Held dying hands without looking away. Protected villagers, mages, and beastfolk with a silence more powerful than any warcry.
And slowly… they began to love him.
But not all love is kind.
Far from the guild halls and war-torn fields, in places where trauma festers and obsession breeds, three women whispered his name.
Each one, saved by Aren. Each one, changed by him.
And each one… would rather kill the world than lose him.
But Aren didn't know that yet.
He only knew the road ahead was long, full of wounds to heal and peace to protect.
If only peace would let him go.
Of course, Master. Here is the continuation of the prologue, introducing the three yandere women—each encounter shaped by Aren's compassion, and each love cursed by obsession. The tone remains dark, poetic, and emotionally grounded, as requested.
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There are men who leave blood in their wake.
And there are men who leave longing.
Aren left both.
He never asked for devotion. He never sought it. But the moment he showed kindness, when he extended mercy where the world offered cruelty, he ignited something dangerous in three hearts that had already been shattered by the world.
He healed them. He stayed when no one else did.
And for that… they never forgot him.
Seraphine Kaelthorn
The Burnt Blade. The Silent General. The First.
It was during a border skirmish between the Empire and the mercenary guilds - one of many in the crumbling years after Aren abandoned the Lion Throne.
A young imperial knight - Seraphine Kaelthorn, once heir to a noble house - had led a doomed charge into enemy territory. She was outnumbered, her soldiers dead, her command broken. When Aren found her, her face had been burned, melted under fire magic. Her men had left her to die.
He could've finished her.
But instead, he healed her.
He treated her like a person - not a pawn of the Empire, not an enemy - but simply a wounded soul. He said nothing of her rank, her shame, or her scars. He only worked in silence, his hands steady, his eyes never turning away from what had been done to her.
When she awoke in the night, her face covered in cloth and salve, she reached for her sword. But he'd left no blade in her reach.
Only bread.
And clean water.
She never thanked him. She only stared at him from across the fire with something unreadable in her eyes.
The next morning, she was gone.
That was two years ago.
Now, Seraphine rides with her own mercenary company - the Ashmarked, known across Vaelthorne for surgical raids and cold efficiency. Her armor is blackened steel. Her banners are blood-red. Her face is whole again… but it rarely smiles.
She watches Aren from a distance now, never announcing her presence.
Not yet.
She has time.
Time to eliminate the weak, the foolish, the ones who talk to him too long or stand too close.
There's a list, written in flawless script.
A list of women.
She crosses off names quietly.
Some go missing.
Some are found with their tongues removed - still breathing, but broken.
Eliora
The Drowned Witch. The Silent Tide. The Second.
A village girl, accused of things she didn't understand.
They said she cursed the fields. That her eyes were too pale. That her mother had spoken to spirits.
In Vaelthorne, that was enough.
They dragged her through the mud. Bound her wrists with rope. When Aren found her, she was half-submerged in a river, her lungs filling slowly, her gaze glassy with betrayal.
He waded into the freezing current without a word.
He cut the ropes.
Held her shivering form beneath his cloak until the mob was gone.
Eliora didn't speak that night. She only wept quietly, curled by the fire. He gave her space, offered food, never asked for her story.
By morning, she too had vanished.
But something awakened in her that night.
Whether it was trauma… or the river answering her grief… no one knows.
What is known is this: a year later, whispers spread of a woman in white who walks along the rivers at dusk. A sorceress who weeps before she kills, and whose tears summon the water to drown her prey.
Eliora speaks rarely now. Her eyes are distant, as if she sees beyond the world.
She believes Aren is more than a man - he is fate incarnate, her salvation written in stars and water. Her love is not passion - it is religion.
When another woman gets close, she doesn't scream. She doesn't fight.
She simply walks to the river, lifts her hands, and lets the tide do the rest.
Thalia Moerwyn
The Forest Bride. The Third. The Wild One.
In the ancient forest of Mirthwood, where human boots rarely tread and the air hums with old magic, Aren found her.
Thalia was chained to a moss-covered stone altar, half-starved, her wrists bound with thornvine. Druids circled her, chanting in a forgotten tongue. They called it a binding. A sacrifice. A sealing of wild magic.
But her eyes - bright green and untamed - locked onto Aren.
She spoke a single word:
"Mate."
He didn't understand. He only saw fear.
So he cut her chains.
The druids attacked. Aren fought them off. And when he turned to help Thalia escape, she was already gone - vanished into the trees, barefoot and grinning.
Now, the forests whisper his name. Trees grow in twisted shapes resembling his face. Mushrooms bloom in the shape of hearts.
And sometimes, when the wind is just right, his name echoes like a lullaby.
Thalia believes Aren is the groom from her people's prophecy - the one who would awaken her, the one to whom she now belongs.
And no one else is allowed near her "beloved."
She poisons rivals with brews made from flower petals and viper's tongues.
She carves his name into tree bark… and sometimes, her own skin.
They are watching now.
Waiting.
Each from her corner of Vaelthorne, drawn by the same gravity, the same memory, the same man.
Aren walks forward, believing his past is behind him.
But obsession walks faster.
And love - true love twisted by pain and longing - does not forget.