The world returned in pieces.
Heat first. Then smoke. Then the sound of stone cracking under weight far too heavy for the ancient ruin to bear.
Alaric's eyelids fluttered open, his vision blurry. Golden irises dimmed with exhaustion swept across the battlefield. His small body trembled, every muscle screaming with pain, his chest heaving like he had drowned and been dragged back to air.
Fragments of his last memory clung stubbornly to him. The staff. The reckless swing. That surge of green and black light he had poured everything into. For a moment, the ruin had seemed to bow to his will. For a moment, he thought he had turned the tide.
But then reality crashed down. His beam had burned a hole through one monster… only for it to stagger back up, molten cracks sealing over, angrier than before. His grand strike had been nothing more than a scratch.
Pathetic. That's what I am. Even when I give it everything, I'm still pathetic.
Through the haze of his tears, he saw him.
Ashen.
The pale knight moved with chilling grace, weaving between the towering beasts. His blade traced arcs of silver light, clean and deliberate, carving molten flesh as if it were parchment.
But it wasn't just the swordplay.
It was the way he looked.
His form was immaculate even amid ruin and battle: a black butler's suit, finely tailored, with a white shirt crisp against his pallid skin, a dark vest hugging his frame, and polished black boots that gleamed despite the ichor-stained floor. A long, tattered white overcoat-cloak hybrid flowed from his shoulders, clasped neatly at his collar by a dull silver brooch, though its hem was shredded by fire and ash. His black gloves gripped the sword with practiced precision, and faint threads of silver embroidery decorated his cuffs and vest, catching the glow of firelight like stars in night cloth.
He looked less like a warrior and more like some eternal servant—a butler who had simply decided that part of his service included cutting down monsters without staining his cuffs.
Every strike was clean. Every movement unhurried. His pale hair, long and slightly disheveled from battle, brushed across his face but never dulled the piercing silver of his eyes. Those eyes stayed cold, sharp, and unreadable, watching the monsters as though they were nothing more than spilled wine on a carpet.
And Alaric hated it.
Because no matter how much effort he had poured into that desperate strike, no matter how he screamed and bled and clawed, Ashen was still the one who decided the outcome.
He doesn't even break a sweat. Meanwhile, I can't even stand.
Alaric's tiny fingers twitched against the moss. His staff was gone, splintered across the floor, useless like him. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths.
A rumble shook the cavern. Another monster crawled out of the cracked wall, larger than the others, molten veins burning bright like rivers of fire across its hide. Its claws scraped deep grooves into the stone floor as it bellowed.
Ashen didn't flinch. His stance shifted only slightly, a subtle adjustment of boots and blade, silver eyes narrowing with calm acknowledgment.
But Alaric couldn't tear his gaze away from the beast.
The glow of its molten veins pulled at something inside him. Warmth and chill, tangled threads that pulsed painfully in his chest. He remembered the sensation—life and death, colliding, almost harmonizing. The one moment in his desperate strike where they had truly merged.
It hadn't been perfect. But it had been real.
And that spark made him clench his teeth.
"No," he rasped, voice barely more than a breath. His baby lungs wheezed, throat raw, but the words clawed out anyway. "I… won't just lie here…"
He tried to push himself up. His arms trembled, his chest screamed, his whole body felt like lead. He collapsed again, face pressed into damp moss.
Tears stung his eyes. But this time, they weren't just despair. They were anger.
"Move… damn it…"
The murals above flickered faintly, the great tree and the dark river glowing in tandem. It was like they were answering him—like the ruin itself was watching, waiting.
Fine. Then let it watch.
Alaric dragged his arm forward, fingers brushing against the moss. He reached inward, clawing for the threads of life and death.
Life answered first, warm and overflowing, threatening to burst uncontrollably. Death followed like frost, sharp and merciless. The clash burned inside him, ripping his insides raw.
But he forced them closer.
Closer.
Until they screamed together.
The moss beneath his palm lit green and black at once, the colors writhing like snakes, intertwining until they became something new. The glow spread, crawling across the cracked floor. The ruin's veins of stone and mural lit in answer, resonating with his trembling heartbeat.
The monster roared, molten maw opening wide as it lunged straight for him.
And Alaric screamed back.
A beam burst from his tiny hand, blinding green and black fused together. It tore through the chamber, shrieking as stone split under its weight. The blast slammed into the monster's chest, burning a hole clear through. Molten ichor sprayed wide, steam exploding in violent hiss.
The cavern floor cracked. Murals flared. Dust rained down like a storm.
And Alaric collapsed forward, gasping, every vein in his body screaming. But despite the pain, despite the trembling of his limbs, a grin broke across his bloodied lips.
"…Ha… I did it…"
For one heartbeat, he wasn't useless.
The monster staggered from his strike, molten body dripping ichor that hissed and ate into the stone floor. For one desperate heartbeat, Alaric thought it was enough.
His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. His lips curled into a faint smile, pride flickering through his exhaustion.
"I… did it…"
But the monster's chest glowed again. The hole he'd burned into it sealed over, glowing veins knitting themselves shut as if nothing had happened. Its roar thundered through the cavern, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.
Alaric's smile crumbled. His heart dropped.
"…No way…"
The beast lumbered toward him, each step cracking stone, molten claws dragging trails of fire across the floor. The heat was suffocating, scorching his skin even from a distance.
Alaric tried to move, but his limbs refused. His body was an empty husk, every thread of mana drained, every nerve screaming. His fingers twitched uselessly against the moss. His vision blurred with tears.
That had been everything. Every last drop of power he had. And it still wasn't enough.
I gave it all… and I couldn't even finish it.
The despair pressed down heavier than the monster's heat. His throat ached as sobs welled up, breaking through despite him trying to choke them back.
"…I'm… useless…" The words scraped out raw, a whisper he couldn't stop.
A shadow passed over him.
Ashen.
The pale knight stepped in, blade raised in silence. His coat was torn, his white cloak frayed at the hem, but his posture was unshaken, his presence absolute. His silver-gray eyes locked on the monster, calm and cold.
Alaric's gaze followed him, wide and trembling.
He's not even afraid… he never is. He doesn't need me at all.
The monster lunged, molten claws reaching.
Ashen's sword moved.
Silver light flashed as the blade carved upward, splitting the claw clean in two. The severed halves fell, sizzling against the ground. Ashen pressed forward without pause, every strike deliberate, cutting through molten hide with precision.
The beast roared, staggering, its limbs severed one by one. Ashen wasted no motion, his form unwavering, his presence unyielding.
Alaric's chest tightened with every strike. The same monster that had driven him to desperation, that had nearly broken him, was nothing more than an obstacle to Ashen. His blade cut it down as though he were simply clearing weeds from a path.
Even if I scream and bleed and give it everything… compared to him, I'm nothing.
His tiny fists curled against the moss, too weak to hold even a broken stick. Tears blurred his golden eyes.
"…I wanted…" His voice cracked, breaking into sobs. "…to fight too…"
Ashen didn't answer. He didn't even look back.
He simply finished it.
One final arc of his sword split the monster's neck. The molten head tumbled with a screech, the body collapsing into shuddering stone that hissed and steamed as it died.
The cavern fell into silence. Only the faint hum of the murals lingered, glowing faintly in the dim.
Ashen lowered his blade. His silver eyes swept once across the chamber, confirming no threat remained, before turning briefly toward Alaric. His expression was unchanged, silent and steady.
That silence cut deeper than rejection.
Alaric's chest convulsed. Tears spilled hot down his face as he curled into himself, sobs shaking his tiny frame.
He didn't need me. He never will. I'm just… dead weight.
The murals above pulsed faintly, the tree of life and the river of death glowing together as though reaching toward him. The ruin itself seemed to respond to him—but he couldn't answer. Not anymore.
His strength was gone. His resolve cracked.
"…I'm sorry…"
The whisper left his lips as his eyes grew heavy, his body collapsing against the moss. Darkness closed in, soft and suffocating.
The last thing he saw was Ashen standing tall above him, blade steady, presence unshaken.
Then the dark swallowed him whole.
The silence after the battle pressed heavier than the clash itself.
Steam rose in twisting coils from the monster's remains, the stench of molten ichor thick in the air. The murals glowed faintly along the walls, veins of light pulsing like the slow, steady thrum of an ancient heartbeat.
Ashen stood among the haze, sword lowered but posture unbroken. His silver-gray eyes swept the cavern once, confirming the threat was gone. Only then did his gaze fall on the boy lying crumpled against the moss.
Alaric.
The child looked more fragile than ever. His snow-white hair, usually wild with unkempt tufts, clung damp to his forehead, strands matted with sweat and bits of moss. His cheeks, still soft with the last traces of baby fat, were streaked with dirt and ash, marred further by faint scratches.
His golden eyes, so sharp and watchful for one so young, were dulled now with exhaustion. They flickered once in the cavern's glow, then drooped as if too heavy to hold open.
His clothing was nothing more than scavenged scraps: a loose, patched tunic with hems frayed from wear, tied at the waist with a strip of cloth; his small legs wrapped in crude bindings to guard against the cold. The fabric hung unevenly, tugged askew from battle, smudged with dust and smeared with dried ichor. Nothing about him resembled the son of nobility he had been born as.
And yet—despite his frail, dirtied form—there was something defiant in him still. His tiny fists were clenched even as tears stained his cheeks. His lips trembled, whispering words no one demanded, but that he couldn't hold back.
"…Sorry…"
It slipped from him like a confession, fragile as a dying breath.
His hand twitched once, fingers curling weakly against the moss before going limp. His golden eyes closed fully, lashes pale against his bruised skin.
Unconscious at last.
The murals pulsed once more, brighter this time, veins of light spreading across the floor toward the boy's small form. For a moment, it seemed as if the ruin itself acknowledged him—acceptance, warning, or promise, it was impossible to tell.
Ashen crouched beside him, sliding his blade back into its sheath. He lifted the boy with quiet efficiency, cradling him against one arm. Alaric's white hair fell messily against his pale coat, strands catching the faint glow from the murals. His weight was almost nothing.
Ashen's expression didn't change. His silence was complete, as steady as his blade. But the way he adjusted his hold, steadying the child against him, carried weight more than words ever could.
The ruin hummed, low and steady, like a heartbeat beneath the stone.
Ashen turned, carrying Alaric through the steam and silence, his figure stark against the cavern's dim glow.
The battle was finished. But the boy's fight had only just begun.
The ruin knew it. Ashen knew it. And even in unconsciousness, Alaric's clenched fists seemed to know it too.
Fragile. Dirtied. Tear-streaked. Yet still unyielding.
The child with snow-white hair slept, his body broken but his will intact.
And the ruin itself seemed to wait for him to wake.