The city of Everos was a scar upon the world.Hidden, untouchable, and eternal, it was cut off from every other land. To enter or leave was impossible. To live within it was worse—because Everos belonged to no ruler, no kingdom, no law.
It belonged only to the sword.
Here, no one wielded guns, bows, or any weapon of the outside world. In Everos, swords were everything. Each blade held a soul, a power, a destiny. The rarer the sword, the greater the respect its master received. The higher the grade, the more the city knelt before you.
And so the streets of Everos were forever soaked in blood. Because in this place, there was only one law:The strongest rules.
A Night of Fire
Nineteen years ago, fire consumed the Seventh Division.
The clash of swords echoed across the blackened streets. Mercenaries cut down warriors, warriors slaughtered mercenaries. Smoke twisted into the sky, carrying the stench of iron and burning flesh.
At the center of the chaos, a man and woman fought desperately—two swordsmen standing back-to-back, their blades painted with blood. Husband and wife, their bodies were bruised and cut, but their eyes burned with resolve.
"Hold them back!" the man roared, cleaving a mercenary in two.
"I won't let them through!" the woman cried, her slender blade slicing arcs of silver through the smoke.
But the wave was endless. For every enemy that fell, two more came.
And behind the broken walls of their burning home, hidden in the shadows of a shattered table, a child wailed. Their son.
The Mercenary
The crowd of enemies split as one man walked forward.
He carried a black blade that seemed to drink the firelight. His eyes were sharp, serpent-like, and a smile tugged at his lips as though death amused him.
The husband lunged—but in a single motion, the mercenary's sword cut him down.
The wife screamed, her blade meeting his. Sparks exploded, steel shrieked, and then—her sword shattered. The black blade pierced her chest, and she collapsed beside her husband.
The mercenary cleaned his weapon with a flick. But as he turned to leave, the child's cries reached him. He glanced toward the broken table, and there they were—two tiny eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Red. Crimson red.
The mercenary tilted his head, his lips curling."…Those eyes. They don't belong in this city."
For a moment, he raised his blade, as if to silence the infant forever. But something—a whim, a cruel amusement—stayed his hand. With a low chuckle, he vanished into the smoke, leaving the boy to the corpses of his parents.
The Old Man
When the fighting ended and the bodies cooled, the streets grew silent.
Through the ruins walked an old man with silver hair and tired eyes. His sword was plain, unremarkable, but steady. He stepped into the charred house, the floor wet with blood, and froze at the sight before him.
The husband and wife lay motionless, their swords shattered. And beside them, in a puddle of ash and blood, sat a child. The boy's cheeks were streaked with tears, his fists trembling, yet his gaze was locked forward.
Eyes like burning coals glared at the world—grief-stricken, yet unblinking.
The old man knelt, picking him up gently."You poor thing…" His voice was hoarse, breaking as he cradled the boy. "This city will not show you mercy. But I will."
The child blinked up at him, red eyes reflecting the flickering flames.
The old man smiled sadly. "From this night, you are mine. I'll raise you as my grandson. And those eyes of yours… yes. They'll be your name."
He held the child close, whispering into the smoke:
"From this night forward, you are Crimson. And your legend begins now."
End of Chapter 1