29th Day of Fall, Year 13,499
The moon hung high in the night sky, veiled partially by slow-moving clouds. Its glow cast a silver sheen across the world, a quiet sentinel bearing witness to the calm before the storm.
Below it, a small town slept beneath its watchful gaze. Narrow streets twisted between slanted rooftops, the buildings worn but sturdy. All was still—too still. Only the faint whisper of wind stirred the night air.
High above the tallest rooftop, a lone silhouette stood motionless. Cloaked in shadow, the figure watched the streets below, silent and unreadable. Moonlight caught the edge of armor, just enough to hint at metal and movement—but never enough to reveal identity. Their presence was quiet, yet undeniable. A predator before the strike.
From the far side of town came the march of boots.
A squadron of soldiers moved through the empty streets in formation, their steps uniform, their discipline sharp. Each one wore dark green long-sleeves tucked into black combat pants and boots. Green masks concealed the lower halves of their faces, and despite the chill, their march did not falter.
At their head, an officer in a beret strode with proud precision. His spine was rigid, his glare sharp as he called out to the ranks:
"Stay alert! The caravan should be here soon. We are the final step in two hundred years of work!"
The soldiers did not speak. But the tension that followed his words hung thick in the air, electric with anticipation.
Above them, the armored figure shifted. A subtle movement—barely a twitch—but full of intent.
The officer raised his voice again.
"Tonight, the Practum Kingdom rises above those who have shackled us in chains! No longer will we bow! No longer will we serve! We will stand on their backs as they once stood on ours!"
A roar erupted from the soldiers below—unrestrained, fervent.
"YAAAAAR!!!"
Their cries echoed through the silent streets, defiant and wild, filling the night with their cause. Fists rose, weapons gleamed. The promise of revolution burned hot in their veins.
Above them, the lone figure remained still—but not unmoved.
A hand reached back, gripping the hilt of one of the two swords strapped to their back. Fingers tightened, and the air shifted. Steel whispered against leather.
Shiiing.
The sword slid halfway free, the exposed blade catching the moonlight in a gleam of cold finality.
In the distance, sounds began to stir. Hooves thundered down the cobblestone.
CLOP CLOP CLOP CLOP CLOP CLOP
The sharpness of the hooves echoed through the streets, growing louder with every passing second. Moonlight spilled across the stone path, catching only glimpses—the blur of horse legs, the shadows they cast stretched long and jagged across the road like omen-born claws.
The officer stepped forward instinctively, narrowing his eyes.
Something was wrong.
The soldiers behind him quieted, boots still, breath held. The air had shifted. Tense. Uncertain.
He squinted into the dark, trying to pierce the veil of flickering lamplight—but the caravan remained a silhouette in motion, just outside clarity. Still, his gut twisted with unease.
And then—he saw it.
His eyes widened, pupils shrinking as cold realization slammed into his chest. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, trailing a slow path down his cheek.
What…?
The caravan burst into view.
An armored transport, its metal plating cracked and scorched, dragged limply by two exhausted horses. The entire left side had been torn open—ripped like paper by something neither natural nor kind. The wood was splintered, the wheels lurching unevenly, one half-broken from impact.
At the reins, the driver sagged. Blood soaked his shirt, his fingers barely clinging to the straps. His head bobbed with every jolt, neck limp, movements mechanical—if he was alive at all, he was running on sheer instinct.
Lanterns hung from the sides of the wagon, their flames flickering weakly against the darkness. The light danced across the blood-slick metal like a dying breath.
The officer's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"The caravan's been hit! MOVE!"
The street exploded with motion.
"Take cover—keep your heads on a swivel for another attack!"
Soldiers scrambled, peeling off in all directions—diving behind crates, ducking into alleyways, crouching behind overturned carts. Weapons were drawn, grips tightened, eyes scanning every shadow. The heat of revolution twisted quickly into the cold edge of survival.
But the officer stood still.
His boots planted in the middle of the street, unmoving even as chaos rippled around him.
How…? His thoughts tore through him like a flood. How did they know we would go horseback?
His jaw clenched. His eyes darted left, then right.
And then another thought.
A worse one.
Better question… who is the rat that told?
High above, the shadowed figure stood unmoving on the rooftop. One blade had already been drawn—fully unsheathed now. The sword shimmered in the moonlight, but it was not clean.
Scorch marks blackened its edge, crawling up the steel like shadows burned into metal. Near the hilt, a rune glowed faintly—etched deep into the blade, ancient in its geometry, pulsing with residual heat. A Sealing Rune.
The steel looked worn. Scarred. But sharpened still.
It had been tempered by flame.
The caravan barreled toward them—an iron beast wounded, desperate, and dragging chaos in its wake.
From above, the town looked like a chessboard bathed in moonlight. Soldiers lined the sides of the cobblestone street like scattered pieces, weapons drawn, breath fogging in the cold night air. Some knelt behind crates, rifles trained on the caravan. Others scanned the rooftops, eyes flicking between shadows, expecting fire to fall from the sky at any moment.
And at the center of it all, the officer stood motionless. A lone pillar of defiance against the whirlwind racing toward him.
His voice cracked the silence.
"Come on out!" he bellowed, gaze scanning the rooftops. "We know you're here! Just make it easier on yourself and turn yourself in!"
His hand hovered near his sidearm, not quite drawing, but ready—each finger a coiled spring. Torchlight shimmered across the folds of his uniform, catching the beads of sweat crawling down his neck. His tone was firm.
But not fearless.
From the shadows, nothing answered.
Then—light.
A sharp flash erupted to the right of the approaching caravan.
BOOM!!
The explosion split the night with fire. For a heartbeat, the world lit up—showing every scratch along the caravan's metal hull, every fracture in its wood, every crack in the determination of the soldiers' eyes.
The impact forced the caravan off its axis. It tilted violently to the left, wheels screeching against the stone, sparks flying like fireflies caught in a cyclone.
CREEEEAAK!!
The shrill groan of tortured wood rang out as the left wheels rose off the ground. The horses screamed, eyes rolling white, their bodies dragged by momentum they couldn't fight. The harnesses strained, leather snapping taut as the caravan twisted like a beast in its death throes.
WHIRRRR!!
The soldiers flinched. Some ducked behind their cover. Others just froze.
It happened fast.
Too fast.
The entire caravan tipped—then fell.
CRASH!!
The wooden frame slammed into the cobblestone, splintering on impact. A wheel snapped free, ricocheting down the street in a wild arc. The horses were dragged down with the wreck, their bodies tumbling into a broken heap. Metal screeched as it scraped along the ground, sending sparks into the air like fireworks made of ruin.
THUD!!
The sound of finality.
Dust filled the air.
The world seemed to stop.
The wreck lay motionless now, a torn carcass of metal and flame. The lanterns still clung to the side, their dim light flickering in the cold breeze like dying stars. The horses didn't move—limp limbs twisted unnaturally, blood leaking into the stone.
CREEEEAK…
The remnants groaned under their own weight.
The soldiers didn't move.
Every eye remained locked on the wreckage.
Every breath drawn was quiet and sharp.
Then—
"Eddy, Burke, Graham!" the officer snapped. "You three—check the caravan. The rest of you—stay alert!"
His voice was steel now. Controlled. Cold. Authority forged in pressure.
"We are officially authorized to shoot first, ask questions later."
The named soldiers exchanged quick glances—wide-eyed, uncertain—but nodded. One by one, they peeled from the group and crept toward the wreckage, weapons raised.
The others remained where they were, tense, ready to fire. Every rooftop was a threat. Every window, a trap. Even the silence had weight now.
The officer's eyes flicked upward again, narrowing.
He hadn't forgotten the presence watching from above.
He could feel it.
The real threat hadn't made its move yet.
Eddy, Burke, and Graham moved toward the wreckage like men walking across a frozen lake—slow, cautious, eyes flicking between the shadows.
Each step echoed faintly against the cobblestone, their boots leaving shallow imprints in the fine layer of dust. Lantern light flickered from the toppled caravan, casting strange shadows across their faces, making their helmets look more like masks. From behind cover, the other soldiers watched in silence, weapons raised, breath held.
Burke broke off toward the door.
Graham veered along the exterior.
Eddy dropped to one knee beside the twisted bodies of the horses.
"Creepy as hell…" Eddy muttered, his fingers brushing over scorched fur and blackened wounds.
Graham ran his hand along a jagged rent in the metal frame. "Let's hurry up and get back. I don't wanna get picked off if someone's about to start round two."
Burke grunted. "Don't have to tell me twice."
The caravan creaked as Burke pulled the door open—wood groaning like it might collapse under its own weight. The inside was mostly dark, dust swirling in the stale air like ghosts disturbed from slumber. In the shadows, something glinted faintly.
Burke leaned in. "The chest is still here!" he called out, voice raised. "What do we do with it?"
The commanding officer didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained locked on the rooftops, jaw tense.
Meanwhile, Graham's eyes narrowed.
Embedded deep into the side of the caravan was a greatsword.
It hadn't just punctured the hull—it had melted through it. The metal around the entry point warped and curled outward like scorched paper. Runes glowed faintly along the hilt, pulsing like the beat of a dying heart.
"Looks like a greatsword is lodged in the side," Graham muttered, reaching out but stopping just shy of the hilt. A faint tendril of smoke still rose from the edge.
Eddy pressed two fingers into one of the horse's wounds. The flesh still sizzled faintly beneath his touch. "Weird…" he frowned. "It looks like all their injuries came from the blast just a minute ago."
His eyes traced the unnatural stiffness in their limbs.
"These horses were already dead before the crash," he whispered.
At the street's center, the officer clenched his jaw. He was listening.
And processing.
Too much wasn't adding up.
His voice cut through the night like a blade.
"Get that chest! We must continue the mission without fail!" he barked. "We will not go down in history as the downfall of Practum!!"
His fist rose into the air as if to strike the stars themselves.
Some soldiers moved immediately, sprinting toward the wreckage with renewed urgency. Others remained behind cover, still watching—still wary of the silence that wrapped around them like a noose.
Then, far above them all…
A whisper.
Soft. Almost inaudible. Yet it cut through the tension like a match in a dry forest.
"Ember Release."
From the shadows, the figure barely moved.
Only their lips parted, the barest wisp of heat curling into the night. The space around them bent, as if the air itself were flinching.
The soldiers noticed nothing.
Not until the world exploded.
FOOOOOSH!!!
Fire erupted from the side of the caravan—not a burst, but a wave, wide and all-consuming. It wasn't ordinary flame. The embers spun with purpose, alive and howling, clinging to flesh like hungry spirits.
Graham barely had time to scream.
His silhouette stood for a moment, framed in blinding orange, then disappeared into the inferno.
Burke didn't even get that far. One second he was at the doorway. The next—gone. Nothing but fire remained.
Eddy, kneeling beside the horses, was caught mid-motion. His arm and head remained visible for a heartbeat, frozen in shock, before the flames devoured him too. His uniform disintegrated. His skin blistered. His scream was drowned in the roar of heat.
Soldiers behind cover shielded their eyes, faces lit in horror by the blaze. Some cried out. Others stood paralyzed.
The embers weren't just consuming. They were hunting.
A wave of dread swept across the street.
The commanding officer's face twisted in horror as realization struck. It had all happened too quickly, and now the truth burned into his mind like the embers still swirling around them.
"Fire Rune user!" he roared, voice sharp and cracking. "Activate all defense runes—NOW!"
His soldiers scrambled, fumbling with their armor, fingers shaking as they reached for glowing runes etched into chestplates and gauntlets. The sigils began to light, flickering to life with hurried magic—but the panic in their eyes said everything.
It has to be more than just fire, the officer thought, his heart pounding in his chest. No way the runes heard the chant from that far… how did he activate it?
The hellish glow from the caravan fire continued to rise, dancing off broken stone and fractured nerves. A nightmare in motion.
A few steps away, the burned husk of what used to be Eddy lay in the middle of the street. His armor had melted, fusing to his flesh like tar. Where his mouth should've been, only scorched black bone remained. Still, the embers danced around him like fireflies with a cruel sense of beauty.
One soldier gagged behind his helmet. "Gah… I think I'm gonna be sick."
No one blamed him.
The other soldiers turned in every direction, weapons raised, breath caught in their throats. The silence between explosions was worse—pregnant with the promise of something more.
Then a cry went up. "There is something glowing above us!"
A soldier pointed skyward, arm shaking as though even the gesture required courage. The rest of the unit snapped their gazes upward.
Eyes widened. Mouths parted. Muscles tensed.
"What is that?" one muttered. "It's too high to make out."
Another added, "That thing… it caused the explosion, right?"
The glow above shimmered like a false star—too focused, too alive. It pulsed slowly, a burning beacon of judgment. Their eyes reflected it like mirrors, tiny replicas of the doom hanging overhead.
The commanding officer narrowed his eyes, squinting against the eerie light.
Wings.
Not of feathers, but fire.
"Are those…" he whispered, voice caught in his throat, "wings?"
His pupils shrank.
Flames and wings… I've never heard of any creature with those traits. But a man, however…
He blinked, realization carving itself across his face like a scar. His hands twitched at his sides. Sweat trailed from his temple to his chin.
The rest of the soldiers weren't faring much better.
"He'll attack again," one said, his voice uncertain.
"No, no—if he wanted to kill us, he would've already," another argued, reaching for logic and finding only fog.
"Then why destroy the caravan?" a third asked. "If not us… what the hell is his goal?"
The glow above them did not answer.
It merely watched.
Silent. Unmoving.
And then the officer's eyes widened with pure horror.
His voice ripped through the debate like lightning splitting the sky. "Scatter!" he shouted. "He's herding us—like cattle! He's gonna take us out in one shot!"
A demon in human form…
Soldiers panicked instantly. Some ducked for cover, others froze in place. Weapons turned upward, but they all knew it was already too late.
Then the sky erupted.
High above, framed by the cold, pitiless moon, the HellFire Knight revealed himself.
He hovered in the air like a fallen god, his wings ablaze with golden and crimson fire that cracked and flared in unnatural rhythm. The wings weren't merely burning—they pulsed, like living extensions of his will, radiating heat that warped the very air.
His armor was sleek, designed not for brute force but for movement—vital organs shielded by curved plating, arms and legs free to slice, burn, and tear. His gauntlets ended just below the elbow, and his leg armor shielded only the most essential muscle groups.
And then—his face.
Or what little could be seen of it.
His dreadlocks, glowing faintly like smoldering coals, whipped around his head in the windless sky. His mouth stretched into a wide, gleaming grin—unnatural, white against the shadows—while his eyes burned with pure, focused malice.
Twin red embers stared down from a face half-swallowed in fire and shadow.
He looked down at them.
Not like an enemy.
Like a judge.
A god.
A predator about to feast.
The officer staggered back, eyes wide with terror.
"It's the HellFire Knight!!!" he screamed.
The name echoed through the street like a curse, and above it all, the knight's wings flared outward, flooding the night with light and flame.
FWOMVVVVMMM.
Embers cascaded downward like falling stars.
And the sky burned.
The air split with thunderous cracks as the soldiers opened fire, panic overtaking discipline. Muzzle flashes stuttered through the night, their bullets slicing upward in frantic streaks. But the shots found nothing—no resistance, no flesh, no blood. Just empty air where the figure had once hovered.
The HellFire Knight had already moved.
Wings tucked tight to his frame, he dove from the heavens like a falling star. His body tilted, weaving effortlessly through the storm of gunfire. Not a single bullet touched him. Not one even grazed the embers trailing in his wake.
A blur of motion. A force of nature.
The wind howled as he descended, the rush of air like the scream of something ancient. The soldiers' eyes widened in horror. Even their commander—rigid with years of battlefield experience—could only watch as inevitability hurtled toward them.
Then he spun.
Mid-dive, the knight's form twisted, spiraling through the air with terrifying grace. The fiery wings at his back pulsed, and from them burst a storm of embers—each one glowing with unnatural life, scattering outward like molten fireflies. They didn't fall. They hunted.
The officer raised an arm instinctively, shielding his face from the wave of blistering heat.
WHOOOVVMMM
The wave of embers ignited the sky.
They spread like wildfire, but moved like predators—arching, spiraling, targeting. The flames clung to the air, illuminating the soldiers' expressions: awe, fear, disbelief. Some lifted their rifles again. Others simply froze, eyes locked on their encroaching doom.
The embers descended.
The HellFire Knight spun faster now, a whirlwind of flickering light and impending death. His movements blurred, blending flame and shadow into something hypnotic. Otherworldly.
The soldiers couldn't look away. Not really.
The embers lit their faces—reflected in wide eyes, in trembling hands, in the moment between hope and resignation.
The officer stood in their midst, mouth parted, breath catching. His heart pounded against his ribs. His fists shook. Then his thoughts finally caught up.
I fell into his trap.
No… No, that's not it…
His knees buckled.
He dropped, the weight of realization crashing down on his back like a collapsing ceiling. The chaos blurred around him—the men he'd led, the caravan he'd guarded, the mission that had seemed so important—all fading beneath the glow of fire and failure.
There was nothing we could do to begin with.
His head bowed, eyes clenched tight. The embers floated around him like judgment passed. They didn't burn him. They didn't need to. He was already undone.
He opened his eyes again—slowly, painfully—and watched the embers spiral through the air. Ashes of war. Dying stars. A silent requiem for the fallen.
His reflection stared back at him from a shallow puddle. Not a soldier. Not anymore. Just a man trying to understand the shape of something far beyond him.
If I live through this night, he thought, I want to learn more about his strength… Because all I know, is what it's not.
He exhaled—a soft, weary breath. The heat still hovered, but it no longer threatened. It simply was. Unmoving. Eternal.
A smile curled weakly across his lips, even as tears streaked silently down his soot-smudged face. There was no fear. No sorrow.
Only acceptance.
But until then… I shall accept the embrace of Sir Death.
He closed his eyes again, and this time, he didn't open them.
The world went black.
And then—the screams began.
"GAAaaHhhh!!!"
"Don't breathe it in!!"
"It's burning my lungs!!"
"My eyes!!!"
Chaos erupted. The embers flared to life once more, devouring the night, swallowing sound, suffocating breath. They hissed and crackled as they spread, unrelenting.
No mercy. Only fire. Only death.
The officer slowly opened his right eye.
Chaos burned around him—embers swirling through the air in hypnotic spirals, flames licking at the remains of the town like serpents with endless hunger. Through the haze of smoke and heat, he saw the outlines of men writhing in fire. Their screams had long since faded into the background, drowned beneath the roar of the inferno.
"…What's happening?" he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice. It sounded so small—so distant.
And then he realized.
He wasn't being burned.
He was surrounded—no, enclosed—by a dome of living fire. A vortex of swirling embers had formed around him, isolating him in a cage of heat and silence. The blaze didn't touch him. It danced inches from his skin, a cruel barrier between him and the horror unfolding outside.
His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, ash mixing with soot and blood. His tears hadn't stopped—not for sorrow now, but for helplessness. Frustration.
I failed, he thought bitterly. There is nothing I can do.
The dome pulsed, as if mocking him. As if listening.
His uniform—once a crisp symbol of his rank—was now tattered, scorched, and barely clinging to his body. His face was blackened with soot, streaked with tears that left clean trails down his cheeks.
He gritted his teeth. His nails clawed deeper into the earth.
I just wish I could thank them all… he thought. They were my hope—no, my confidence—that I could be a great leader.
That I could walk into any battlefield and come out on top.
The embers flickered again, slower this time. Almost gently. The air stilled, letting his thoughts echo louder in his mind. He could still hear the screams of his soldiers, faint and fading.
Then something within him changed.
He wiped his tears away with the back of a trembling hand. His face—still stained, still hollow—hardened. His eyes no longer burned from the smoke, but with something else. Something deeper.
Resolve.
"Crying on the battlefield is pathetic," he muttered, rising slowly. "I will take whatever comes my way—head-on. With HONOR!"
The embers stirred. They acknowledged him now.
He reached for his sword, his grip tightening around the hilt. His muscles ached, but his stance had transformed—from a man awaiting death to a warrior prepared to meet it on his own terms.
Once this fire dome dissipates… I'll strike.
To avenge my fallen soldiers.
To protect the Practum Kingdom!!
The air shifted again.
The embers began to thin, the swirling wall of flame unraveling like threads in the wind. Ash drifted downward, unveiling a silhouette on the other side of the firestorm. The officer's eyes narrowed. He could see it—movement, approaching fast.
A glint of steel cut through the haze.
A sword—no, a blur of silver heat—ripped through the dissipating fire like a blade tearing open the night itself. The officer tensed, every muscle drawn taut as he stepped into a low stance.
And then—
CLAAANG!!!
Steel met steel in a deafening clash. The shockwave scattered embers in every direction, setting the sky alight with sparks. The officer's arms buckled under the force, boots grinding against scorched cobblestone as he fought to hold his ground.
The HellFire Knight loomed over him.
Unreadable. Immovable. Inhuman.
Their blades pressed together, sparks screaming into the air. The heat warped the space between them, distorting their faces like ripples across a burning lake.
The officer's jaw clenched, his arms trembling.
And yet…
A smirk crept across his lips.
Sweat rolled down his face—not from fear, but from awe.
Incredible, he thought.
And in that single moment, with fire all around and death pressing in, he felt it:
Respect.
The clash ended in an instant.
The officer never saw the follow-up strike. One moment, he was bracing against the HellFire Knight's blade—the next, he was airborne, weightless, as an overwhelming force launched him backward like a ragdoll.
His sword flew from his grasp, spinning through the air before clattering uselessly across the cobblestones. His beret ripped free mid-flight, fluttering away like a fallen leaf.
The world blurred around him.
THWOOOOM!
The force of the blow distorted the very air. Time seemed to snap, and then—
KRACK!!!
He slammed into the side of a stone building with such velocity that the wall cracked on impact. His body folded around the point of contact, back arching, limbs flailing as dust and debris exploded outward. He hit the ground with a dull, crunching THUD, bouncing slightly before slumping against the shattered wall.
"GAAAH!!" the officer cried out, a guttural, broken sound ripped from his lungs.
Everything hurt. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. Bones screamed in protest, muscles trembled, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The stone behind him had fractured—but somehow, he had not.
Not completely.
A weak laugh escaped his throat.
"…Haha…" He wheezed, eyes still sharp, somehow laced with curiosity rather than fear. "You really are something else."
He tilted his head back against the wall, sweat and soot matting his hair.
"Before you kill me…" he rasped, "tell me what your strength really is. I know—" he coughed, then forced the words out, "—no rune could produce that level of excellence."
The battlefield around him was still. The embers floated like ash caught in eternal sunset, casting a flickering glow over the shattered street.
And then—
SHHHHHRRRRK…
The HellFire Knight walked forward, his swords dragging behind him across the dirt and cobblestone, the metal humming against the ground. Each step was unhurried, calculated. Dust rose in soft clouds beneath his boots, crunching quietly as he approached.
Outlined by the fire's fading light, he looked less like a man and more like something imagined by frightened legends—graceful, ominous, inevitable.
The officer tried to lift his head. His neck protested. His arms twitched, failing to support his weight.
"Please…" he whispered, not out of fear—but yearning. "I just want to know."
The HellFire Knight stopped before him.
Towering. Silent.
He raised his sword slowly, pressing the flat of the blade beneath the officer's chin. Cold metal met bruised skin, guiding the man's gaze upward with quiet, terrifying authority.
"Help me," the HellFire Knight said, his voice low and smooth, each syllable laced with dangerous calm. "And maybe I'll tell you."
The embers continued to fall like dying stars, swirling in a windless sky.
The officer's eyes widened. The words cut deeper than any weapon. Not because of the threat—but because of the offer.
He searched the other's face for meaning, but found no empathy. Only control. Power. Precision.
And then the figure leaned closer.
A small smile curved at the edge of his lips—equal parts smug and severe. His eyes, burning red with intensity, locked onto the officer's as if peering through every layer of pretense and pain.
"My name is Doran Hendor," he said quietly. "I want to talk about the events surrounding Fructum Village."
The words hit like a thunderclap.
The officer's breath caught. The glow of the embers flickered in Doran's eyes, reflecting the fire of something far deeper than flame.