The sky above the island burned crimson, mirroring the horror unfolding below.
Fire rolled across the land in violent waves, swallowing homes and streets whole. Corpses littered the ground, torn, charred, trampled until flesh and soil blurred together. Limbs lay scattered like broken branches after a storm.
Screams rose thick and shrill, piercing enough to rattle bone and claw their way into the skull. Smoke scorched lungs, heavy with ash, iron, and the sickly sweetness of blood.
Even the sun seemed eager to flee.
It slipped beneath the horizon, dimming the sky as though it could no longer bear to watch.
At the center of it all stood an unremarkable man.
Black hair hung loose and disheveled, plastered to his face by sweat and soot. His white lab coat snapped violently in the ash-laden wind, its edges torn and stained, no longer resembling a scholar's garment. It looked more like a burial shroud given form.
His brown eyes were bloodshot, veins webbing across them like fractures in glass. Whether from sleepless nights, smoke, or something far worse was impossible to tell.
Anyone might have pitied him.
If not for that smile.
It stretched too wide across his face, carved deep and trembling, a grotesque thing that did not belong on any living man. It twitched between laughter and grief, between hysteria and unyielding focus.
Laughter tore out of him, a laugh so loud it bordered on a scream.
His voice cut through the chaos, sharp enough to rise above the hell he had unleashed.
In his hand rested a small detonator etched with glowing runes. It looked absurd. Fragile. Almost harmless. And yet this tiny device could turn an entire island into a grave.
Below the cliff, nobles fled, their faces pale as fear stripped them of all dignity.
Their lavish robes dragged through ash and rubble, jewelry slipping from their fingers as they ran. They barked orders at their knights. First to capture the inventor, then, when that failed, to abandon him and shield them instead.
Confusion tore through their ranks. Knights hesitated, blades half-raised, unsure which command they were meant to obey.
A few knights, driven by greed or pride, lunged toward the inventor.
They never reached him.
The ground beneath them erupted without warning. Explosions tore through stone and soil alike.
Those who survived long enough to understand what was happening were buried alive, their screams cut short as the earth closed over them.
The nobles did not spare them a second glance. They kept running, never looking back.
Another crowd remained beneath the cliff.
Civilians.
Men and women clutching children to their chests. Old friends. Neighbors. People who had shared meals and laughter with the man now raining destruction upon them.
They stared up at him with faces filled with disbelief.
Some screamed accusations of betrayal until their voices broke.
"We trusted you!"
"You said it was for our own safety."
"We helped you plant them, this isn't what you promised!"
Hands reached toward him through smoke and heat, palms blistered raw from ash and flame. Others dropped to their knees, choking, begging him to stop. A few tried to remind him of memories they shared, jokes, small kindnesses, laughter that once filled his underground lab.
They called his name.
They reminded him of the man he had been.
He had lived among them on the island. Quiet. Eccentric. An inventor who spent most of his days buried underground, surrounded by half-finished creations no one else understood. He spoke endlessly of leaving the island one day. People laughed. They humored him. They trusted him.
The contrast between the memories in their minds and the nightmare before them was unbearable.
Some clung desperately to the belief that this was a misunderstanding, that something had gone wrong, that he would snap out of it any moment now. Others whispered that he didn't look like himself, that something else was wearing his face.
"He wouldn't do this…"
"That's not him…"
"Something is controlling him. I am sure of this."
Their hope died with a soft, metallic click.
The detonator depressed again.
Another section of the island vanished in fire.
Whatever humanity he once possessed was no longer visible. Whether it had been buried beneath grief or burned away entirely, no one could tell.
They understood then.
Nothing they said would stop him.
Amid the chaos, a boy no older than twelve forced his way through burning debris.
His hands were shredded, splinters embedded deep into torn flesh as he clawed survivors free. Fresh blood slicked the scorched wood beneath his grip.
Smoke burned his eyes, but he did not flinch.
He dug faster. His only concern was pulling the screams out before they went silent.
Platinum blond hair hung matted with ash. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut through smoke with frightening clarity, steady even as the island burned around him.
He shouted orders. Dragged the injured clear. Forced trembling hands to move.
Again and again, he begged them to trust the man on the cliff.
He believed in him.
He believed in the little boy who had always followed him.
He searched for Zeke, shouting his name until his voice cracked beneath the roar of the flames.
Not among the living.
Not among the wounded.
Not among the dead.
Panic gnawed at him.
He tore through collapsed homes. Past burning carts. Over bodies he could not stop to mourn.
If anyone could reach the madman, if anyone could stop this.
It would be Zeke.
Then his world ended.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Explosions chained together, tearing the island apart. The sky ignited, artificial suns blooming across the land, swallowing screams and stone in a single breath.
Mere moments earlier.
High atop the cliff, the madman's gaze locked onto a single figure standing untouched by the storm.
Sir Abraham Krazz.
He did not move. He did not brace.
He stood like a mountain that had always been there, iron and flesh given human shape.
The wind howled past him, bending smoke and ash away from his frame, yet it could not disturb a single strand of his brown hair.
A thick beard framed his square jaw.
His eyes were cold. Not cruel. Not angry. Simply detached. The eyes of a man who had ended lives so many times that the act itself no longer mattered.
An imperial insignia gleamed against his chest, unmarred by soot or blood. The mark reserved for the empire's strongest sword.
Sir Abraham's senses swept the battlefield.
Flickering lives, collapsing auras, countless existences winking out one by one. Yet something felt wrong.
No, it was very wrong.
Countless lives stood before his eyes, yet his senses registered nothing.
His gaze shifted toward the madman.
"Is this your doing?"
The madman laughed again, the sound cracked and unhinged, swallowed almost instantly by the roar of fire below.
"Destroy that damned island," he rasped.
"No one shall make it out of there alive."
Something changed in Sir Abraham's eyes.
Recognition.
Cold steel whispered free of its sheath.
The world blurred.
One breath.
One step.
Sir Abraham was suddenly behind him, close enough for his presence to press against the man's back.
The strike came without hesitation.
Steel punched through flesh and bone, bursting from the man's chest in a flawless, merciless motion. Breath tore from his lungs. Blood flooded his mouth, hot and metallic.
His knees buckled.
But he did not fall immediately.
His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, toward the darkening sea he had always dreamed of crossing.
Then his body gave out.
He collapsed to his knees, blood streaking his face as tears carved clean paths through soot and ash. His lips trembled, trying to form words his lungs could no longer support.
Only fragments escaped.
The madman went still.
And for a single, fragile heartbeat, the world paused.
Far beyond the cliff, a lone boat drifted across the darkening sea.
Inside sat a boy with dark, curly hair and eyes black as obsidian.
They reflected nothing.
No fire.
No fear.
No grief.
The island burned behind him.
The sky bled red above.
And the boy drifted farther into the widening dark.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
Never looking away.