"P...Please... spare me..."
Hannah's voice trembled, barely a whisper as she collapsed to her knees. Her palms pressed against the cold floor, her body shivering uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her face, dissolving the remnants of her carefully applied makeup, staining the marble below. Her pride was long gone—what remained was a pitiful shell of the once arrogant woman who delighted in tormenting others.
She bowed her head until her forehead kissed the ground. Her entire body was hunched, low, desperate—an image of total surrender.
Snow Quincy said nothing.
He remained seated on the table staring down at her. Draped in his black coat, legs crossed, his red eyes pierced through the darkness like flames. The moonlight filtered through the shattered windows behind him, casting an eerie glow that outlined his silhouette like a phantom king in judgment.
Then, his voice finally echoed.
"Spare you?"
His tone was eerily calm, but the weight of it felt suffocating. Authority laced every word, and though his voice was barely raised, it reverberated like thunder against her soul.
"I know I messed up... I let my jealousy take control of me," Hannah choked out, her voice cracking. "I was wrong—I was so wrong. I... I apologize... please..."
She clutched at her chest, gasping between sobs.
Snow's gaze didn't waver.
"My little sister... she could have begged you to spare her, She's stubborn like that."
"But tell me..."
"Did it ever cross your mind to spare her?"
A flicker of something shimmered in Snow's eyes—rage, not spoken, but deeply buried beneath centuries of cold restraint. The room seemed to darken, the air growing thick and suffocating. The glow of the moon behind him intensified, casting a long shadow that stretched toward Hannah like a creeping specter.
Her mouth opened, but no words came. A sudden flash of memory—Aura's rebellion expression, the blood spilling from her cruel use of skill against her, Aura who was always wounded leaving trails of blood leaving in a hallway after one of Hannah's cruel "games." Realization clawed into her throat.
Then Snow leaned forward, voice calm as ever.
"Let's play a game."
Hannah blinked, confused. "A... game?"
"From what I've gathered, you enjoyed games quite a bit. You liked watching others break, didn't you?"
She flinched. The words struck harder than any blow.
"W-why... a game?" she asked, hesitantly, uncertain of where this was going.
Snow didn't respond immediately. His silence was not empty—it was filled with quiet judgment, with disappointment. He studied her as one might an animal in a cage. Her fear didn't amuse him. Her tears didn't stir him. She was no longer in control.
"...What? Are you not interested in keeping your life?"
"I-I am!" she screamed, voice rising with frantic panic. "I'm willing! I'll do anything!"
A faint nod.
"Good. Then the rules are simple," he said, rising to his feet that did not touch the floor with an elegance that felt unnatural.
"All you have to do... is endure."
"Endure everything that will happen to you from now on—without making a sound, or dying."
Hannah's eyes widened in disbelief. "W-what...?"
Her voice cracked as her head instinctively bowed lower. She trembled, chest heaving as dread clawed through her bones.
"P-please... s-spare me!" she screamed again, slamming her head to the floor in a final, desperate plea.
But then, everything happened at once.
A sharp flash.
A blur of crimson steel.
And silence.
Her right arm was severed cleanly at the shoulder—blood burst forth like a fountain. Her scream shattered the air, piercing and raw, but before she could even feel the full depth of pain—
Splash.
A thick, cold liquid washed over her—viscous and glowing faintly.
Her vision blurred from tears and agony, but she saw it. Her arm... regenerating. Muscle, bone, sinew—rebuilt in mere seconds. Her body restored. Her sanity? Not so much.
Snow let out a disappointed sigh.
"You failed," he said simply, his tone as lifeless as the moon behind him.
"But perhaps... we should try again."
And so he did.
Again.
And again.
Each time she was pushed to the brink of death. Each time she screamed, her voice raw, bloodied, and hoarse. Limbs were taken—fingers burst like snapped twigs, her legs crumpled like paper, her ribs crushed beneath invisible pressure.
And each time, Snow poured another potion—regenerating her flesh, but never her mind.
The healing was crueler than the injury. It brought her back just enough to feel it all again.
Eventually, her eyes ruptured. Blood streamed down her face like ink from a broken pen. Yet her vocal cords, though strained, never failed to produce cries of anguish.
To Hannah, this was no longer a punishment—it was damnation. A personal hell designed by the one man whose rage was patient, methodical, and absolute.
Snow remained still throughout.
He never raised his voice.
He never smiled.
He only watched, as if he were observing a predictable result in a long experiment of cruelty and justice.
The barrier surrounding the building remained firm, a dome of silence and darkness. No sound escaped. No help could enter. Time outside moved on, oblivious. Day turned to night. Night to day. And night once more.
Snow sat in silence.
The world outside the scorched section of the room faded into irrelevance—nothing else existed beyond the burned lines of the floor where Hannah knelt, curled up like a shattered doll. Her body trembled, spasming uncontrollably at even the whisper of wind or light. Her skin—raw, reddened, and hypersensitive—reacted violently to even the smallest shift in temperature, a result of the heightened sensitivity Snow had cursed her with after his very first healing.
Her screams had long become background noise. Her pleas were hoarse and broken, like a melody trapped in its final dying note. She had cried, begged, bled, and almost died—ninety thousand times.
And each time, Snow brought her back to what she ones was.
Each time, he watched.
He had poured healing potion after healing potion into her body—ninety thousand of them—to keep her alive just enough to feel everything. Not for justice. Not for redemption. But for something far colder:
Ruin.
She was far from sane now. Her mind had collapsed in on itself, like a cracked mirror losing its final piece. What once stood proud as a respected A-rank hunter now sat ruined—her scorched hair matted with blood, her torn clothes revealing the bruises and burns of divine torture. There was nothing noble left in her. No pride. No hate. Only terror.
Snow remained seated until he realized something peculiar.
He felt... unsatisfied.
He had gone so far—pushed her to the edge of life and pulled her back again and again. Yet, as he stared at her twitching form before him, there was no sense of victory. No catharsis. Just a gnawing emptiness.
He slowly rose to his feet which never touched the floor.
The gentle lift of his body stirred the air. Hannah flinched violently at the sound of his movement, curling in tighter, as if becoming smaller might save her.
Snow's feet didn't touch the floor as he stood—he hovered inches above it, cloaked in the soft echo of divine pressure still lingering from his earlier descent. His red eyes stared down at her without sympathy.
"Your life doesn't seem that valuable," he said coldly, "seeing how easily you lost in our little game."
Hannah didn't respond.
She couldn't.
She only trembled harder, trying to shield her head with bloodied arms, as though that would protect her from what was coming.
"It seems your life was spared only because I ran out of potions," he added, voice as frigid as the void between stars.
He turned away, his coat shifting behind him with regal grace.
"So I'll leave your life's judgment to her," Snow continued, referencing the one person Hannah had wronged most: Aura.
"Until then, my name... shall be the only thing you forget—
But my face, my presence, and what you endured here tonight... will scar your soul until the day death finally remembers you."
As he spoke, something strange occurred.
Snow paused, his attention shifting.
The corpses left behind by Hell Blade—those cut down mercilessly earlier—began to stir. Or rather, their silhouettes did. From where they had fallen, nine figures began to rise, each assuming the exact pose they died in. But these were not bodies—these were constructs of flame.
Their forms burned without heat, shaped from fire that would never extinguish.
Snow narrowed his eyes, watching the eerie display with growing interest.
(What... is this?) he wondered.
A soft chime rang in his mind—Pathfinder.
//"THE HELL BLADE'S UNIQUE TRAIT: SOUL RECONSTRUCT, HAS ACTIVATED."//
(Soul Reconstruct?) Snow echoed inwardly.
//"YES. SOUL RECONSTRUCT IS A NATURAL PHENOMENON THAT OCCURS ONLY WHEN A SOUL—TAINTED BY HEAVY SIN—IS KILLED BY HELL BLADE OR WEAPONS OF SIMILAR CLASS."//
//"THE WEAPON ITSELF HAS NO EMOTION, BUT IT ACTS AS A FILTER. WHEN SUCH SOULS ARE CONSUMED, THE RECONSTRUCT IS LEFT BEHIND... A PERMANENT MANIFESTATION OF THEIR SINS."//
Snow's gaze wandered from one burning figure to another. Each stood in eerie silence, their flames dancing in unnatural motion.
(Then... these are not just remains. They're living evidence of their sins...)
He began to walk.
Retracing his steps through the path of death he had carved earlier, he observed every Soul Reconstruct left in his wake. Not all of them were the same.
Some burned with ordinary flame—deep oranges and reds, their hue reflecting the depth of their wickedness. But others—fewer—were engulfed in blue fire, cold and silent.
(What do the blue flames mean?) he asked.
//"THOSE WITH BLUE FLAMES CARRIED LIGHTER SINS—LIVES TAKEN OUT OF DUTY OR MISTAKES, NOT CRUELTY. THUS, THEIR SOUL RECONSTRUCT IS LESS CORRUPTED."//
Snow studied one with a deep, sorrowful expression—its posture kneeling, face lifted to the sky in what looked like prayer even in death.
(Will I keep seeing these?)
//"YOU WILL."// Pathfinder confirmed.
//"THOSE WHO FALL TO THE HELL BLADE WILL LEAVE BEHIND RECONSTRUCTS—EVERY SHAPE, EVERY COLOR, A MARKER OF THE LIVES THEY LIVED... OR TOOK."//
Snow's expression darkened.
(Do EGOs cause this too?) he asked.
"NO. EGOS DO NOT CONSUME SOULS OR LIFEFORCE UNLESS A DESCENT IS NEAR."
"A Descent..."
He whispered the word aloud as he stepped through the ruined hallway.
He had experienced two descents—both accidental, both with individuals stronger than him at the time. And both left behind consequences.
"What is a Descent, truly?" Snow murmured to no one in particular. "And how is it achieved?"
//"A Descent is an ultimate technique only usable by those chosen by an Ego."//
Pathfinder's voice rang clearly in Snow's mind as they descended deeper into the ruins of the Lakan Guild, the air growing colder with every step.
//"Depending on the nature of the Ego, a unique moment is triggered—when the Ego absorbs all surrounding energy to unleash a single devastating move. In the hands of a true bearer, a Descent can wipe out an entire universe if deem so"//
Snow's footsteps slowed as they approached the lowest floor—now entirely frozen. His red eyes narrowed.
"I see... Then my two descents were possible because the necessary conditions were met."
//"Indeed,"// Pathfinder affirmed.
//"But know this: while Descent is powerful, it is not without cost. The toll can fall upon the body, the soul, or even the very existence of the user."//
Snow remained silent as they stepped into the ice-bound chamber. Dozens of corpses were sealed in translucent frost, their expressions frozen in time—anguish, defiance, fear. But there was something else.
A glow.
From within each frozen chest, a faint light pulsed—each one a different hue. Deep red, burning orange, pale yellow.
"The color of their sins," Snow muttered to himself.
//"Correct," // Pathfinder responded.
//"Those lights reflect the weight of their sins. The deeper the red, the darker the soul."//
But then Snow stopped.
Just near the exit, nestled within a wall of ice, stood a single figure—a boy, no older than twelve. Unlike the others, his body was unscathed. His eyes closed, breath shallow. But the glow from his chest...
Pure white.
"...This boy," Snow said quietly, narrowing his gaze.
//"He is not dead,"// Pathfinder confirmed. //"Merely frozen, likely caught in the aura of ZERO BLADE at the time"//
Snow frowned. "Then why is his light white?"
//"He carries no sin,"// Pathfinder explained. //"To be exact... he has never harmed another life in this life."//
Silence hung between them.
"What would you suggest?" Snow asked after a moment.
//"Let the Hell Blade decide."//
Snow looked over to the blade, still hovering at his side in its natural, cursed rhythm. He didn't move—but the weapon did. As if hearing the command, Hell Blade drifted toward the ice and lightly touched its surface.
The reaction was instant.
A loud crack echoed through the floor as the ice began to melt rapidly, vapor swirling around the motionless boy. Within seconds, the child collapsed onto the cold floor, shivering, breath catching as his body struggled to process his sudden freedom.
//"You should leave,"// Pathfinder said gently. //"Before he regains awareness."//
Snow said nothing.
He turned and walked into the shadows, leaving the boy alone among the ruins.
Hours passed.
By dawn, the building had become a symbol of chaos. Half in flames, half entombed in ice, the Lakan Guild's headquarters had become an unnatural phenomenon. The fire did not spread. The ice did not melt. The world outside could only watch as journalists, civilians, and authorities arrived—staring in disbelief.
Only two survivors were found.
Hannah—barely alive, curled up and unresponsive. And the boy, discovered unconscious near the front entrance, still alive... but different.
Elsewhere, far removed from the aftermath, Snow had returned home.
He said nothing to the guards. Nothing to the staff. He walked like a ghost through the halls until he reached the room where his sister lay.
Aura.
Monitors blinked softly. Wires tracked her heartbeat. Medical equipment hummed quietly in the dim light.
By her side sat a woman with elegant poise and flawless features—Benedith Bloodfallen, movie star, mogul, and Snow's biological mother. But at that moment, she was not the world-renowned actress.
She was simply a mother at her daughter's bedside.
"You're back," she said gently, looking up at her son who left that same day and had returned a week later. Her eyes studied him—his pale skin, the weariness etched into every line of his face. She had seen the news. The reporters. The flaming building that refused to die.
Only Snow knew the truth.
"...," Snow said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on his little sister, unconscious and pale, but breathing.
"You should rest," Benedith offered softly. "Aura is stable now."
He didn't move.
"I know you're worried," she continued. "But she wouldn't want to see you like this either."
Snow finally looked at her—really looked at her. The same woman who had abandoned them. The same woman who now sat here, refusing to leave her daughter's side.
"You've changed," he said coldly, voice quiet, before turning away.
He leaned forward and gently kissed Aura's forehead.
"...I'll go change," he muttered, walking toward the door.
But before he could step out, Benedith spoke again.
"There's something you should know."
Snow stopped.
"...What is it now?"
"Your fiancée will be arriving in a few days."
He turned his head slightly. "Fiancée?"
"Yes," she nodded. "You met her once when you were a child. Your father and I arranged it before... everything. She's requested to meet you."
Snow said nothing, though a faint flicker of memory stirred behind his eyes.
"She's also a close friend of Aura's," Benedith added. "So there's no need for you to be on guard when she comes to visit."
He turned and left.
Benedith didn't call after him.
She sat still, watching the door, wondering if she had already missed her chance to make amends. Years of guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders. She had walked away from her children when they needed her most. Everything they had achieved—they had done without her.
Aura, who had changed her identity and struggled alone just to survive.
Snow, who had risen to fame not as a child of wealth, but as a hunter who clawed his way to the top with blood on his hands.
She thought of all the wrongs she couldn't undo, and the words "mother" that they both no longer called her.
And yet, she remained—hoping time might still be kind.
Outside, day bled into night.
And time, as always, moved forward.
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to be continued