The world was cruel.
Even for a child, especially for one named "Roach."
He was called that by the slave masters — a name meant to mock how he always survived, how he kept crawling even when beaten, burned, or starved. But among the slaves, it carried a different weight — a symbol of resilience.
Now five years old, Roach had already buried more than most adults. His mother, frail and gentle, had died of disease shortly after giving birth to him. Yet even as grief took her away, the other slaves, silently moved by her will and Roach's strange quietness, had taken turns watching over him.
Among them, two stood out:
Kel, the teenage boy with fire in his eyes, who swore to protect Roach as if he were his little brother.
And Mikra, the old hunched man whose body had grown crooked but whose spirit remained unbroken. He had seen too many deaths and called Roach a "flicker in the darkness."
This was the only family Roach had ever known.
The sun was high. The slaves were marching.
Kel had just handed Roach a scrap of dry bread with a soft smile when it happened.
A nobleman's carriage turned. A high-ranking slave overseer stepped down.
Kel accidentally brushed past him, too focused on getting Roach away from the heat.
The noble's slave master sneered. "Filth."
He raised his whip. "Dare touch what walks above you?"
Crack.
The lash landed, not on Kel — but on Mikra.
The old man had stepped forward, shielding Kel.
Blood splattered onto the dusty road.
"No!" Kel shouted, grabbing Mikra.
Another lash was raised — this time meant for Kel. He gritted his teeth, bracing—
Then—
Time slowed.
Inside Roach's head, a voice — feminine, ancient, and strange — whispered:
"Do you wish to protect them this time?"
He clenched his tiny fists.
"Then speak your truth, and I shall lend you the words."
"Imagination. Power. Thought turned real."
"You are my apostle now."
The moment he opened his mouth, something changed.
His words became real.
The slave master's arm bent backward at an unnatural angle.
The nobles' carriage wheels caught fire.
The sky darkened — not from clouds, but from his emotions manifesting.
On Roach's skin, six glowing symbols began to burn into view — faint, white-blue, divine.
Six marks.
One across his chest. One on his neck. One on his back. One under his eye. One over his heart. And one — glowing on the palm of his right hand.
The nobles gasped.
One muttered, "T-The Marks… That's impossible."
Another stammered, "S-six…? Even four is rare. This boy—he's…!"
"Apostle."
The whisper from the void echoed once more.
Far beyond the mortal realm, deep within the void, the entities stirred.
One of them hissed, "He was to be our pawn."
Another snarled, "Some other force... has made him its apostle."
"Blasphemy. The chains have been broken too soon."
But a third, cloaked in silence, merely watched.
The slave masters were in chaos. Their soldiers panicked. Some fled. Some stood frozen.
And then, the elite knights arrived — garbed in shining armor, sigils glowing.
They stepped forward to "handle" the situation.
But when they saw the marks and the strange aura flickering behind Roach — as if a colossal, divine being was watching through his eyes — they fell to one knee.
One knight whispered, trembling, "What... stands behind this child?"
And Roach?
He stood before Kel and Mikra, shielding them with small arms. Power still coursing through him. Breathing heavy. Glowing.
He was no longer just a slave.
He was the beginning of something terrifying.
The apostle of imagination, of truth-born-will, of vengeance laced with sorrow.
And the world would never be the same.
Roach watched the knight, now trembling—not from fear, but from awe. Blood dripped from his blade, staining the soil, yet he knelt before a boy cloaked in dirt and grief… and unimaginable power.
"Now," Roach said softly, "you have a choice."
The knight looked up, breath shallow.
"Gather the rest of your brothers. Make them kneel before the truth. Make them protect the innocent… or kill them."
Silence.
"If you betray me—" Roach's eyes gleamed with unnatural light, and the knight felt the remnants of his restored memories pulse like fragile glass in his mind, "—I'll erase them again. This time forever."
The knight dropped his sword. Then he stood, turned, and began walking back toward his comrades.
Behind him, Roach's vision blurred. His legs trembled. A sharp pain struck behind his eyes like knives scraping his mind.
Mikra rushed to his side.
"Roach!"
The boy collapsed into the old man's arms, unconscious.
A strange mark glowed faintly on Roach's chest—his sixth sign dimming.
"He used too much of it," Mikra whispered, voice filled with fear and reverence. "He's paying the price."
"This is the cost of miracles," a feminine voice echoed across unseen planes. "Imagination is divine... but divinity is not free."
"To awaken again," the voice murmured, "he must do good. He must ease suffering. The more innocent the soul, the brighter the flame that will rekindle him."
The slaves gathered, shielding Roach's body, some praying, some crying.
The knight returned moments later, blood on his hands again—but this time from his own kin.
"They chose cruelty. I chose justice."
He kneeled beside Roach's unconscious body.
"This boy is no slave… He is judgment made flesh."
The knight remained kneeling beside Roach's unconscious form, his sword now plunged into the earth. Blood smeared his gauntlets—not of enemies, but of former comrades. The very ones he had once trained beside… slain by his hand.
"I chose justice…" he whispered again, breath ragged, as though repeating it might keep him from collapsing.
Then—his vision burned.
A searing pain struck his right hand.
He gasped, yanking off his glove.
And there, glowing with a faint, golden hue, was a mark. A single, clear line etched into his palm… like a birthmark from the divine itself.
The mark of talent.
"T-this... I was born with nothing," the knight muttered. "No gifts, no talent, no future...!"
His eyes widened.
"Then... because I protected him...?"
Mikra stepped forward, cradling Roach. "Seems your devotion didn't go unseen," the old man murmured, eyes gleaming with quiet respect. "You chose the path few dare to walk. And the world noticed."
Other slaves looked on in awe—some trembling, some whispering prayers. Even the remaining knights stared at the glowing mark, stunned.
"He gives," Mikra said softly, "not only judgment... but hope."
In the silence between stars, where void and eternity kiss, the feminine voice echoed again:
"One act of sacrifice. One spark of change."
A new entity stirred in the darkness.
"He creates apostles… without knowing."
The knight stared at the glowing mark on his hand, unsure if he was hallucinating.
It pulsed once—dark crimson for a second—and in that flicker, he saw a vision:
A man drenched in blood, dancing through battlefields like a storm of steel. His eyes cold. His blade alive.
Then the vision whispered a name—
"Demonic Sword: Formless Edge."
The knight reeled back. That name—he had never heard it, and yet... it etched itself into his bones. Movements, stances, ideas—all poured into his mind like forgotten memories. A sword style with no form, yet infinite forms. Ruthless yet beautiful. Dark, yet liberating.
Mikra narrowed his eyes, stunned. "That mark… I've seen it before. Long, long ago. In a book so ancient even the nobles dared not keep it."
The knight looked up, breathless. "What… what does it mean?"
"You've awakened a rare mark," Mikra whispered. "Not just talent. But legacy."
The mark of Demonic Swordsmanship.
Unknowingly, Roach—through his awakened powers—had passed a fragment of his old soul into the knight. The very style he created in his former life, once lost to history, now bloomed again in a forgotten corner of a cruel world.
The slaves whispered as they watched the knight swing his sword lightly. The air cracked. Shadows bent. Something unnatural followed his blade now.
"What is this…" the knight murmured. "Why does it feel like… my body was made for this?"
The void entity jolted awake, sensing the anomaly.
"Impossible… That style should have been erased…"
A second presence stirred beside the void entity.
"He lives… in more than one soul now."
The knight remained kneeling, unmoving, even as Roach lay unconscious and unaware of the oath just spoken in his name.
A gentle breeze passed through the broken slave quarters, sweeping dust over the blood-stained ground.
And in that quiet… the knight remembered.
Years ago…
His name then was Kaelric, a low-born noble's bastard who clawed his way into the knighthood through blood and obedience. He never asked questions—only followed orders. Until her.
Elara was her name—a slave girl assigned to tend the garden of his manor. Her laugh was quiet. Her eyes never judged. She brought him a flower once. The only act of kindness he'd ever known.
They fell in love in secret. Silently. Fearfully.
One day, the lord of the estate caught them. Kaelric begged. Pleaded. He offered to give up his title, his blade—everything.
But it wasn't enough.
Elara was publicly executed for "defiling" a noble.
Kaelric was forced to stand still and watch.
He remembered her screams.
He remembered the flower she dropped.
And he remembered the sin that forever haunted him:
He didn't move.
He had the sword.
He had the chance.
But he did nothing.
Now…
Kaelric gripped his blade tightly, tears falling down his cheeks.
"Roach… You may be a child, but you hold the will of something far greater than I've ever known."
He stared at the Demonic Sword Mark glowing faintly on his hand.
"Let me atone."
"Let me protect what I once failed."
As he whispered into the wind, a single violet petal blew across the dirt floor—an impossible flower that no one had seen in years.
Kaelric saw it.
And he smiled bitterly.
"Thank you… Elara."
Night fell.
Kaelric stood watch beside the unconscious Roach, blade resting across his knees. The slaves had gathered silently in prayer, mourning, healing, surviving.
But Kaelric?
He sat frozen—because the moment his eyes fluttered shut, he saw her.
A flower field.
That same impossible violet bloom swaying in warm sunlight.
And standing there barefoot was Elara, smiling.
"Kael…"
Her voice was exactly as he remembered—soft, gentle, filled with warmth no battlefield ever knew.
"I missed you…"
Kaelric staggered forward, tears pooling in his eyes.
"Elara… I'm so sorry. I didn't… I—"
"It's alright," she whispered, placing a hand on his chest. "You did your best. You've always had a good heart…"
"Stay with me."
For a moment, Kaelric's soul almost shattered.
Until her eyes flickered—just once. Unnaturally.
The field began to darken.
Her hand turned cold.
Her mouth opened—
And in that instant, the illusion melted away like ash on fire.
Blackness.
A crimson light pulsed.
And a voice, ancient and rotten, echoed from the deepest corners of his soul.
"You still long for her. Even now… You'd burn the world to see her again."
Kaelric gasped, clutching his chest as a dark sword mark ignited like a brand upon his skin.
"Then feed me, Kaelric."
"Feed me the blood of your enemies."
"Feed me, and I shall give you power beyond comprehension."
"Even the dead may walk again..."
Kaelric fell to his knees, panting, sweating.
"Is this… the price of redemption?"
The demonic voice chuckled softly.
"No, knight."
"This is the price of hope."
And the vision ended.
Kaelric opened his eyes to the moonlight.
His blade whispered in his hand.
Roach slept soundly.
The path ahead was painted in blood.
But now… he had a reason to walk it.