"So… painful…"
The joy that once glimmered that night had vanished like drifting dust. Dieyon felt agony—an agony that tore him apart—yet he struggled to understand where it was coming from.
"It's like flames are devouring my body… but the pain is too close. Too real."
He moved his hand, heavy as if weighed down by stones. He touched different parts of his body until his fingers reached his neck… and found it severed.
He inhaled sharply, terror breaking through his voice.
"My head… is detached from my body?"
The burning intensified, forcing a scream out of him—one that echoed not into the world, but inside his mind.
"How did this happen? I don't remember anything… If this is a dream, then it has swallowed me whole."
He pressed his hand to the cut on his neck, only to jerk away immediately as he shook his fingers.
"There's a volcano inside my throat—burning me the moment I touch it… No. This isn't the eternal dream realm. This is horrifying reality."
"I never imagined I would die like this… or should I even call myself dead? Or… someone being tortured?"
Lost in fear, Dieyon felt the burning flare again. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to open them, but the pain chained him.
Black threads seeped from the cut, reaching upward to his head—stitching the severed parts back together.
Dieyon jolted awake partially, gasping desperately, like someone rising from the bottom of a dark ocean, searching for the surface—searching for air.
His right hand trembled as he placed it on his neck, now encircled by a strange collar-like ring.
"Am I imagining things… or did threads really sew my head back?"
He lowered his head, breathing carefully, then raised it and opened his eyes slowly. Shock carved itself across his face.
"But… where am I? This isn't my room."
The room was spacious—an old bed, a bookshelf near the door across from him, a window letting in pale moonlight, and a cracked mirror beside the bed.
Dieyon rose, trying to recall anything, but his mind resisted.
"What an old, decayed room… who could even live—"
He didn't finish. A violent headache struck him, forcing him to his knees as memories poured into him like a storm.
"Dieyon… son of the Second Sovereign, the Nameless One. His mother—Mirana, priestess of the Cathedral of Storms. And a brother, known as the Soul Oni…"
"He lived in the Lucia Empire on the continent of Ascana. One of the strongest empires across all continents—ruled by the Sovereigns: Zero, the First, and the Second… served by those beneath them, the reges fatui."
Then an image burned into his mind:
A colossal palace made of dragon hide and bones, standing atop a mountain high enough to pierce clouds—engulfed in flames.
"The palace was attacked. The Sovereign and his wife were killed. His brother was taken by the reges fatui…"
"And Dieyon was among the dead—his body thrown from the mountain known as the Mountain of the Sovereigns."
The headache faded. Dieyon breathed normally once more, leaning against the bedframe, wiping sweat from his face. His voice trembled:
"I remember now… Those bastard reges fatui killed my father, my mother… kidnapped my brother… and me. They killed me."
He looked at his hand, then touched his neck again.
"It seems I've come back to life… somehow. And that means something…"
He stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection—anger and hatred consuming every part of him.
"Someone has given me another chance… a chance for revenge."
He turned on the faucet and washed his face. A faint golden glow flickered in his eyes—so faint he barely noticed it.
"The reges fatui will pay… for betraying my family—and the Empire."
As he stared into the mirror, he noticed a figure behind him—leaning against the door, head bowed…
Dieyon spun around instantly—nothing. The space was empty. He clutched his head, murmuring:
Am I starting to hallucinate? I swear I saw someone—
He didn't finish. A calm voice interrupted him.
"It truly is a miracle…"
Dieyon glanced to his left and found a mysterious man sitting on a wooden chair beside the bookshelf.
Golden hair, green eyes, dressed in the black robes of a priest.
"To fall from the Mountain of the Sovereigns with your head severed—and still return to life… Only children of the Sovereigns or the cursed slaves possess such traits. Am I right, Dieyon?"
Dieyon smirked bitterly, staring straight at him.
"I don't know who you are, but it seems you know more than you should… Are you one of the reges fatui's dogs?"
"Oh? Quite the sharp tongue for someone I just saved," the man replied, a hint of sadness crossing his face.
"And for your information, not all dogs are traitors. Some would guard you until their very last breath…"
"I'm merely the chief of a small village. I found you lying near it, head detached from your body—but I sensed… your refusal to die. Your hunger to live."
Dieyon's eyes widened, thinking to himself:
So there's a village beneath the mountain…? I thought the areas around the Mountain of the Sovereigns were empty.
"What are you hinting at? Can you stop speaking in riddles?" Dieyon's stance turned defensive, confusion tightening his voice.
"What I'm saying," the stranger replied, tone threaded with certainty, "is that I know what happened to you and to the ruling family. And I know the reges fatui betrayed the empire."
He continued calmly:
"I'm just a man who wants to bring down Lucia's rule… and kill the reges fatui. After the disappearance of Sovereign Zero, the empire has become nothing but ruin."
"Not even your father could restore balance with the chaos caused by the rulers."
This man is no ordinary villager… he's hiding far too much, Dieyon thought.
And his 'rebellion'… it seems aimed only at the reges fatui, not my father. He clearly knows how to play this game.
"So what you're telling me—in pieces and riddles—is that you're planning a revolt targeting the reges fatui."
"Sharp as always," the stranger said, clapping once. "A revolution requires strength. That's why I gathered an extraordinary group—people who lost something precious because of the reges fatui or even the Sovereigns."
The stranger stood, extended his right hand, and offered a faint smile.
"Dieyon… how about joining The Wrath? Together, we'll bring down this blasphemous rule."
Dieyon stared at the outstretched hand, then into the man's green eyes. A quiet thought crossed his mind:
A rebellion with a 'group'… so these Wrath people consider themselves disciples? Strange. But I don't care for such things. Let the empire burn with everyone in it.
My goal is to slaughter every one of them—from the weakest soldier to the reges fatui—just as they did to us.
A small, cold smile curled on Dieyon's lips as he whispered near the stranger's ear:
"I appreciate the offer… but my goal isn't to topple the empire or save its people. My goal is simple. Revenge."
The stranger chuckled lightly.
"What a selfish ambition… Seems you don't value the lives of those living in your empire, Prince Dieyon."
Dieyon shook his hand dismissively, smirking with pride.
"No. When everything you love is stolen from you… life loses its meaning. Their lives don't matter to me."
"And besides… I'm no longer a prince. After the massacre in the palace—after watching everything I loved vanish before my eyes—I became a dead man from the past… I became the Prince of Death."
"The Prince of Death… quite the heavy title."
"You're stubborn, I see," the stranger said. "Very well. I won't argue. But I have another suggestion—would you hear it?"
He paced across the room, hands folded behind his back.
"What suggestion?" Dieyon asked, confused.
The man snapped his fingers, and a glowing number six appeared.
"Six months. Train here for six months. Then begin your revenge. Train with my disciples. Learn spells. Sharpen yourself."
He stepped closer, lowering his head toward Dieyon.
"Boy… the ones you seek aren't ordinary enemies. They're Demi-god class. Even the Second Sovereign fell to them. Strengthening yourself is your best option."
I don't want to sound like a fool, but he's right… the reges fatui are immensely powerful. Rushing in will kill my revenge before it begins, Dieyon admitted silently.
There's no other choice. In my current state… I doubt I could even kill one of them—especially the First reges fatui.
"I accept," Dieyon said. "But I'll infiltrate the empire alone. I don't want others dying because of me… I've lost enough."
"As you wish. For now… rest. Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to The Wrath."
The stranger grasped the door handle, giving Dieyon a peculiar smile.
"Before you go," Dieyon said, "you never told me your name."
The smile faded, then returned—softer, almost a whisper.
"You may call me… False. Saint False."
He slipped out of the room, closing the door like a phantom.
Dieyon lay back on the bed, stretching his arms as he muttered cautiously:
"I don't know if he's a traitor or not… but the way he speaks, the tone he uses… he definitely despises the empire and the reges fatui."
"But the terrifying part… how does he know what happened? And how does he know my name? I shouldn't turn my back on him. He could be a wolf wearing a sheep's mask."
He grasped his head as a faint pain stabbed through, then whispered:
"The Wrath… that's the meaning carved into me now."
"Prepare yourselves… you sons of whores, filthy ghouls… Hades will be expecting you."
And with that, burdened by grief for his family and driven by a wrath burning through his core, Dieyon drifted into a heavy sleep…