He still remembered it with cruel clarity. His mind had the vicious habit of dragging that memory back to him at least one night every month.
He staggered out of the cloud of red smoke, coughing as his throat burned raw. The street before him lay in ruins. People scattered across the ground struggled to rise; others writhed, their skin blackened by Camellium poison. Aedran rubbed his eyes and moved as far away from the crimson haze as he could. Then the ground trembled. The sky flared for an instant before a shockwave hurled him to the ground, staining the heavens the same infernal red.
He had to escape. Not toward the city center—from there came metallic roars of battle, where soldiers were still holding the line against a mage's summons. He staggered forward, flashes of people running all around him burned into his memory, even though he could no longer see anyone. He passed the central gardens, withered and charred. Another tremor split the earth beneath his feet, sending him over a ledge; he rolled down an embankment and slammed hard into the ground. Twisting pain shot through his bones, though nothing seemed broken.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into a pair of glassy, lifeless eyes. He recoiled in shock. Blood dripped from the pointed ears of a Drynari, staining the soil. Beside it lay a thin insectoid, its exoskeleton shattered and its entrails spilled out. Horror seized him as he realized he was surrounded by corpses. The air reeked of iron and rot. Among the bodies he recognized the ruined armor of a sentinel, dead beside a guardian-mage impaled by a weapon that pulsed with an eerie bluish glow.
Clutching his aching side, a nearby scream snapped him out of his trance. He ran toward the sound and found a boy no older than six trapped beneath a rock. Forcing his body to move, Aedran lifted the debris. The child stared at him, eyes wide with fear and confusion. To his surprise, the boy's leg was intact—no wounds, no blood.
The child clenched his teeth, staring straight ahead. Aedran followed his gaze, and the air caught in his throat. A couple lay on the ground: the woman impaled on a steel beam, the man decapitated, his skin charred black.
Aedran froze. His chest tightened, refusing to let him breathe. And then he saw it—feeding on the dead, a summon. An unnatural creature with skeletal, elongated limbs, an insectile jaw, and wings that buzzed with an unbearable whine.
He tried to draw his sword, but his nerves betrayed him; the weapon slipped from his hands. The beast roared, deafening him, and lunged toward them. Aedran wrapped himself around the child, shielding him with his body. That was when he heard the whistle of a blade cutting through the air. A firm hand settled on his shoulder.
"Are you all right, son?" a voice asked.
Aedran turned his head. What little he could remember clearly was his father's hair and mannerisms—but his face… it was impossible to recall.
"Come on. We have to get out of the city."
"What happened?" Aedran managed to say, helping the boy to his feet and retrieving his sword. "I was downtown, watching the parade, and suddenly everything turned—"
"Red?" his father finished. Aedran nodded. "Quick. We need to check you for Camellium poisoning."
Aedran obeyed, lifting the child into his arms. They were about to flee when another shockwave shattered the windows around them. The clouded sky, stained crimson, tore apart like a shredded canvas. And from above, Aedran saw it—he still remembers it today with absolute clarity.
A white figure descended from the heavens, dragging the clouds down with its weight. It did not bleed. It bore no visible wounds, and yet its skin cracked like fractured stone. It crashed into the grand city hall and pulverized it, reducing decades of effort to dust in a single instant.
Aedran trembled. The unthinkable had manifested. Before him stood something that should never exist: a fallen god.
For the first time in millennia, a celestial had died before human eyes.
Aedran jolted awake, clutching his chest, his breathing ragged. He looked around in confusion until he recognized his room. He was on the floor, legs hanging over the bed. His back didn't hurt, so he assumed he must have fallen asleep like that.
He slowly pushed himself up, teeth clenched. A shaft of sunlight slipped through the window and stabbed at his eyes.
"I definitely drank too much last night," he muttered, bracing himself on the edge of the bed as he stood.
The room looked like a battlefield after an army of vagrants had marched through it: tangled sheets, dirty clothes, dust-covered boots, and a few objects he didn't even remember owning. The air reeked of sweat, cheap liquor, and dampness. With some effort, he tried to remember… had he slept with a woman? He could've sworn he had. Then again, given that his wallet was empty, he wasn't so sure.
He sighed, splashed water on his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. An uneven silver beard covered his face, as neglected as his hair.
"All right, girl, you've grown quite a bit… and puberty was a long time ago," he told himself before shaving.
He studied himself for a moment; the dark lines along his neck and jaw stood out more when he shaved. Scars—originating on his chest and spreading across his entire body. The only thing he was grateful for was that they didn't reach his face. He ran his fingers over them, worried they might have advanced or change. It was something he had to check every day. Fortunately, they looked just as horrible as they had the day before.
He left the bathroom and began to get dressed. Dampness was starting to creep across the ceiling, but he had no desire to repaint or look for a better place. His improvised studio-turned-apartment did its job, and that was enough.
He gathered a few papers, flipping through them and deciding what mattered. Official documents about prisoners he was supposed to report: straight into the trash. A payment notice for a subscription to "Young Women Who Would Definitely Sleep With You": he slipped a few coins into an envelope.
"I'll leave it downstairs when I head out."
Living alone had never been so easy now that mail and printed notices had replaced relying solely on imagination. Among the pile was also a red notice bearing the official seal of the Guard, different from the rest of the junk. He sighed, grabbed a table knife, broke the seal, and read:
"Dear Lieutenant Aedran, we hereby inform you that, due to your recent achievements, you are being considered for a new responsibility…"
He finished reading and tossed the letter onto the table. As long as it's not a bonus or a dismissal, it can wait until my day off is over, he thought, picking up the larger envelope.
When he opened it, a smile spread across his face at the sight of his weekly pay. One of the few perks of working for the government: you got to enjoy the fruits of civilian labor.
He put on a jacket, took his sword—he never went anywhere without his weapon, both as a warrior and out of habit—and headed out for a late breakfast, descending the stairs with a sigh. Just before leaving the building, he ran into his neighbor, old Mau. The man, well into his seventies, shot him a sidelong glance while struggling with a set of bags that looked ready to tear his fingers off.
Aedran sighed and took the bags from him.
"How's it going, old man? Bleeding the government dry with that pension of yours?" he asked with a grin, helping him inside.
"Of course. Can't let you keep wasting my taxes on prostitutes," the old man shot back, dropping his keys onto the table.
"It felt like that girl was moaning right on top of me, boy. A little respect for your elders wouldn't kill you."
Aedran pulled an amused face. The old man had a sharp tongue for someone with one foot in the grave. At least now he knew he had gotten some action last night—before the woman, prostitute or not (still a mystery), had robbed him. That alone made him feel a little less bitter.
"What can I say, old man… I've got too much love to give," he joked as he headed for the door.
The old man grumbled before collapsing onto the couch and opening the day's newspaper. Aedran made sure he was all right, then closed the door. The poor bastard lived alone. If he remembered correctly, his children had abandoned him, and his wife had died a few years back. Every now and then, Aedran made sure he was still alive. Someone had to care, right?
He stepped out of the building, raising a hand to shield himself from the blinding sun. When his vision adjusted, he was nearly run over by an albino bison—massive, flat-faced, strolling down the street as if it owned the place.
On its back, a man rode along, tossing newspapers left and right.
"Hey, idiot!" Aedran shouted. The rider turned with a scowl. "Streets are there for a reason, you know? Or are you planning to run over a few pedestrians?"
"Go to hell, asshole!" the man shouted cheerfully, never stopping his deliveries.
Aedran was tempted to flash his badge and fine him for insolence, but of course he hadn't brought it. He kept walking carefully, trying not to get dizzy, heading toward the café while observing the people around him.
Workers and drifters—that was the best way to describe the outer districts of Veltraxis. Still, the place had its charm. Children played and laughed, workers shared coffee with their families before their shifts. There were troubled teenagers too, though nothing a good scare couldn't fix. Proof of that was how some of them stiffened the moment they noticed Aedran passing by.
Maybe I went a bit too far last time, he thought.
In the area, inns opened at nightfall, and prostitutes returned home after bleeding idiots like him dry. What always surprised him was how quickly people found a way to keep living, even after the chaos caused by that seal mage the day before.
He reached the café. The waitress spotted him at the door and shouted with a grin:
"Special of the day for bastards!"
Aedran opened his arms, feigning offense as he sat down.
"Hey, I've got a reputation to protect."
"The reputation of an incompetent lieutenant who got his position because the 'Lord' ignore him?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow.
She was young, fair-skinned, with brown hair—no more than twenty years old.
"Exactly. What would people think of me if the truth ever came out?"
"Like the thing with the prostitutes?" she teased, polishing a glass before pouring him some coffee.
"Hey, 'prostitutes' sounds far too crude. I prefer 'ladies with strong economic interests,'" he said, taking a sip of the bitter drink.
"That's because hiring them is still illegal, right?"
"And what are you, a member of the hidden guard?"
They both laughed just as his plate arrived at record speed: street gryphon eggs smothered in the house sauce.
"Besides," Aedran went on, "I'm not even sure they're all prostitutes. Maybe you should break the streak."
"In your dreams. Try not to dislocate your hand thinking about me," she mocked, moving away from the counter.
Aedran ate in peace, trading a few more jokes with Ellie until the owner appeared. He wasn't human. At first glance, his vaguely human form could fool you—but a second look was enough: ash-gray skin, human-sized eyes that were entirely red and glassy, mandibles protruding from his cheeks, an exoskeletal frame covering his thin body, and four arms ending in claws instead of hands. In fact, Aedran wasn't quite sure how he managed to cook so well with only three fingers. And, of course, there was the crest jutting from his forehead and the two antennae that swayed back and forth with his emotions.
And the smell. Aedran hated having such sharp senses, because insectoids didn't exactly share humanity's concept of hygiene—though he was used to it by now.
"Well, well… if it isn't the reason I don't pay taxes," the insectoid said, ruffling Aedran's hair with one of his hands.
"Wasn't it actually because you don't have the legal right to remain in Veltraxia territory?"
Mart was a worker insectoid—the lowest caste in his hive society. Ironically, they were also the freest: they could leave the Pit without severe consequences and were even allowed to reproduce with other races. They had another name too, but Aedran had never bothered to remember it.
"So tell me," the owner asked, "how was your twenty-fifth birthday?"
Aedran smiled to himself.
"Went out with a few comrades. They covered the drinks." Didn't stop some bitch from robbing me, though, he thought. "It was good."
"And the Camelio situation, and… those people? How's the Guard holding up?"
"Come on, Mart. You know I can't talk about that with you."
"Of course—because you so faithfully respect your oath to the Guard," Mart mocked.
Aedran made sure no one was listening before replying.
"We're handling it. The attacks are slowing down, and I think headquarters is already working on new measures."
"You think?"
"I mean the days when I didn't fall asleep during the meetings. Sorry. But don't worry—out in the outer districts, attacks are unlikely."
The owner clicked his tongue—or maybe his antennae—and glanced upward for a moment, only to stiffen and clench his mandibles. Aedran turned his head, narrowing his eyes as he recognized Kaeldric entering.
The chatter died instantly; patrons pretended to focus on their plates. Kaeldric stepped in with that presence only a true guardsman possessed: a scar running across his cheek, black hair neatly trimmed and tucked under a captain's cap.
Behind him came a girl with playful violet eyes and unevenly cut brown hair. She smiled so sweetly that Aedran felt his blood sugar spike.
"Eating in this dump again? Didn't you just get paid?" Kaeldric asked as he sat down. His look alone was enough to make the owner suddenly find the pot in front of him fascinating. "I assume you reviewed the Chitonoid's paperwork, right?"
"What can I say… you know officers who keep the city safe get paid next to nothing," Aedran replied with a shrug.
Ellie tried to stifle a laugh as she carefully wiped the table.
"You make almost as much as I do, and you less rank me," Kaeldric complained. Aedran smiled inwardly and glanced at the girl, who hadn't taken her eyes off him.
"Uh… hey."
She grabbed his hand and shook it enthusiastically.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir!" she said in a high, excited voice. Aedran, slightly confused, let himself be pulled along. "I've heard so much about you—the soldier with the highest record of terrorist kills. It'll be an honor to work together."
She smiled playfully—slender, barely over five feet tall. Aedran couldn't help feeling like he was being praised by a girl in the middle of a growth spurt. He turned back to Kaeldric.
"Who the hell is 'Sugar Tits,' and what the hell is she talking about?"
"'Sugar Tits'?" she repeated, puzzled by the nickname.
"You know, because you look like a sugar explosion, sweetheart," Aedran joked. She looked even more confused.
"I'm pretty sure you used that wrong. And… how do you not know who I am? Didn't you read the notification letter?"
Aedran remembered leaving the letter open on his desk. He just flashed a shameless smile.
"It must be around somewhere… but refresh my memory. What did it say?"
Kaeldric looked ready to strangle him on the spot.
"You can't keep being this irresponsible. You're our best soldier against—" he stopped himself, aware of the eyes around them, "—them. But your behavior makes the Guard lose credibility."
"Please. Look at them—half of them piss themselves just by seeing you. They fear the Guard; they just don't respect me," Aedran replied, going back to his food. Kaeldric did not share his philosophy.
"And that's… something you're proud of?" he snapped.
Aedran's expression hardened. His hand moved instinctively to his chest, his fingers brushing the outline of his father's necklace beneath the fabric.
Instead of taking offense, the girl inspected him from head to toe. Without asking, she grabbed his hands and examined his nails, paying close attention to the blackened marks around them.
"What do you think you're doing?" Aedran said irritably, pulling his hands back and hiding them. Ellie watched with concern.
"Oh—sorry! I've always been curious about those marks," the girl said enthusiastically. "Does it mean you're stronger because of survive the Camellium poisoning? You know, since you survived the Red Night. How lucky!"
The café fell silent. Ellie froze mid-motion, and the girl's mouth hung open in shock; even the insectoid owner peeked out from behind the counter. Everyone tensed—looks of disdain, pity, or simple confusion spreading through the room.
"How lucky?" Aedran asked quietly. "What did you say?"
Only then did the girl seem to realize what she had blurted out. Kaeldric covered his face with his hands, watching Aedran closely, ready to stop him if he tried to kill her. She raised her hands, her expression shifting to fear and regret.
"No! I didn't mean that, I didn't—I just—I meant that… uh—" she babbled, stumbling over her words.
Aedran glanced at Kaeldric.
"Be honest," he said, pointing at her with disdain. "Is she high?"
The girl fell silent and barely managed a pathetic:
"Huh?"
"Not that we know of," Kaeldric replied.
Aedran let out a laugh that grew from restrained to outright laughter. The girl turned red all the way to her ears.
"W-what are you laughing at?" she shouted nervously, feeling every pair of eyes on her.
"I like this idiot," Aedran muttered. She stiffened at the comment; Kaeldric relaxed for a second, almost forgetting that the idiot in front of him was also a cynic. "Celestials, this girl really can't keep her mouth shut. Fine. Answer me, Kaeldric: who is she, and what does she have to do with me?"
"Her name is Lyara, and she is—" Kaeldric began, but didn't get to finish.
The ground trembled, and alarms blared. They heard the tower guard shouting through his megaphone, stunning everyone with the announcement.
"REPORT, REPORT: CATEGORY 1.3 MAGE IN THE OUTER DISTRICTS. ALL UNITS ARE REQUESTED TO RESPOND TO THIS TERRORIST ATTACK. CIVILIANS, SEEK SHELTER: POSSIBLE CAMELLIUM LEAK."
"Well, that's convenient," someone muttered.
"Let's move," Kaeldric said, standing as the café's patrons began to panic.
"Sorry, I don't have my badge on me—" Aedran started, only to be cut off by a sharp blow to the back of his head. When he turned around, he saw a badge on the floor with his name and rank engraved on it: Lieutenant.
"Do you seriously carry a spare copy of my badge, you bastard?" he asked, swallowing the rest of his food before standing up.
"Of course. I've got like five of yours," the other man replied as he walked out of the café.
Aedran followed him. Peering out the door, he saw a column of smoke rising in the distance. By reflex, he grabbed his sword.
"On my day off…" he said with disappointment. "I'm going to kill that son of a bitch."
End of Chapter One.