The carriages stood lined up, their wheels caked in dried mud, horses restless beneath the weight of the coming journey. The sky bled red with the eclipse, the aftershock of the blood moon still staining the heavens. The storm had passed, but the air remained thick, heavy with something unspoken.

  Donius Marshall stood at the front, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the trainees as they made their final preparations. Bags were hoisted, supplies checked, blades fastened.

  Ryuma: (glancing toward the infirmary) What about Shinjiro?

  Donius: The physician recommended rest. He will follow after you—he won’t be left behind.

  Ryuma frowned but said nothing. Saber, standing beside him, exhaled sharply, arms folded.

  Saber: (grumbling) And remind me again why we’re taking carriages instead of a transportation spell?

  Donius: (glancing at him) Tradition.

  Saber: (muttering) Of course.

  It was more than that, though. Asfal, the home of the Aetherblades, was not just another town or capital. It was a land of warriors, a sprawling territory claimed and shaped by those who walked before them. Their journey on foot, through the vast grasslands and towering mountains, was a tribute to the first Aetherblades—who had once made the same journey without magic, carving their own path with nothing but sheer will.

  One by one, the trainees boarded the carriages, the wheels groaning as they began to move. The capital grew smaller behind them, swallowed by distance and time.

  And as the dust settled, only three remained behind.

  Shinjiro, unconscious in the infirmary.

  Rose, standing near the entrance, watching the carriages disappear.

  And Iris, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, gaze distant.

  **

  It was dark until a torch was seen. It was a robed figure with a dimly lit torch in his hand. He was walking through the sewers, trying to find the underground tunnel. There was sound of sewage water gushing through and rats were running trying to find food.

  The robed figure stops his steps and finds himself at a dead end. He says something softly, whispering , it was an ancient language. Bats came flying out of the wall and a door appeared. He pushes the door and enters.

  He finds himself in a grand hall with walls of burnt bricks. The only source of light was from the torches strapped to the walls. There was an altar in the middle and above a stone figure. The ceiling was painted in stories from thousand years ago. The robed figure stands with the others dressed like him.

  The silence broke.

  Cult Leader Eric: We are all gathered here for one purpose. The red moon signals the start, and we, the god’s chosen people, have to carry out the task.

  The cultists have been preparing their whole lives for this. They have been waiting since years. Their purpose yet remained unknown.

  His voice carried through the cavern, steady and unwavering. The others listened, unmoving.

  Old Cultist: To carry it out, we need the royals.

  Cult Leader Eric: Truth spoken. We have asked them, and they have given us the golden order.

  A ripple of approval spread through the group. The Golden Order—the king’s hidden hand. Rumored to be powerful enough to overshadow even the Aetherblades. In the past, the Aetherblades were untouchable, warriors that commanded fear and respect. But now? They were a shadow of what they once were, dwindling in influence.

  The cultists raised their hands, their voices echoing through the cavern.

  “Hail! God of Aenia.”

  The chant reverberated against the stone, a sound both haunting and resolute.

  Cult Leader Eric: For you two who were given a mission. Did you fulfill it to our satisfaction?

  Two cultists stepped forward, heads bowed.

  Cultist 1: Yes. We have sealed the boy’s memory.

  Cult Leader Eric: That’s good to hear.

  Old Cultist: Forget the boy for now. We need to be ready.

  A heavy silence settled over them. The weight of what was to come pressed on their shoulders. The blood moon had signaled the beginning. There was no turning back.

  Cult Leader Eric: It’s a tragedy. Some of us may fall, but the ones who survive will fulfill it. Our true purpose.

  The old cultist lowered his head, voice grim.

  Old Cultist: We can’t avoid this.

  Cult Leader Eric: You shall sacrifice whatever is necessary. For a promise made to us by the God of Aenia. War is inevitable.

  After Eric declares the war is inevitable, a cultist in the back hesitates, looking at his trembling hands.

  Cultist 3: "But… are we certain? Is this truly the will of Aenia?"

  A silence falls. The older cultists glance at each other, some nodding, others gripping their robes tighter.

  Cult Leader Eric: Doubt is natural. But hesitation is weakness. We are past the point of return.

  Cult Leader Eric: Hail! God of Aenia!

  Their gazes met, unwavering. The storm had begun, and soon, the world would drown in it. The new members of the cult wavered, they did not want to sacrifice their lives. For a purpose given by God? When they don’t even know if God is real. It was a conflict inside them.

  **

  The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows across the cavern walls. Warriors sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the leader standing at the center. His gaze was sharp, his presence heavy.

  Leader: The war is inevitable now. The cult has began to move.

  A murmur ran through the gathered warriors. The air was thick, the weight of what was coming pressing down on them.

  Leader: The signs are clear. The blood moon, the storms, the silence in the forests. You have all felt it. This world is shifting.

  Leader: They are coming. It will be not be like the last one.

  He looked at Rakk, then at Shun.

  Leader: You two. You will return to Shun’s hometown.

  Rakk remained still, unreadable as always. Shun’s fingers curled into fists. A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes, but he did not speak.

  Leader: The royals are stirring, and the cultists have begun to move. They are whispering of something buried in the past. We need to know what they have found.

  Shun: (clenching his jaw) And if they find us first?

  Leader: (calmly) Then you do what you must.

  Rakk: (nodding) When do we leave?

  Leader: At dawn.

  Shun: (quietly) Understood.

  The leader turned away. The decision was made. The war had already begun, even if the world had yet to see it.

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  The fire crackled low, casting long shadows against the cavern walls. The others had dispersed, leaving only Shun and Rakk sitting near the embers. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts.

  Shun: You knew this was coming, didn’t you?

  Rakk: Of course. The signs were obvious.

  Shun: (scoffing) And you didn’t think to tell me?

  Rakk: Would it have changed anything?

  Shun exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. The thought of going back, stepping onto the same soil where everything had shattered—it twisted something in his chest.

  Shun: It’s been an year. How am I supposed to go back?

  Rakk: To protect your people.

  Shun: (shaking his head) The only thing left in that place is ghosts.

  The town had collapsed. It had become a center for bandits. Most people had left town and shifted to another place.

  Rakk: Then we’ll talk to the ghosts.

  Shun went quiet, staring at the flames. The weight of returning sat heavy in his gut.

  Shun: You ever go back?

  Rakk: To where?

  Shun: Wherever you came from.

  Rakk: (shrugging) No point. I have done things that can’t be accepted.

  Shun: (muttering) Thought so.

  The fire crackled between them, the unspoken hanging in the air.

  The path ahead was endless, a road that stretched toward a past Shun wasn’t sure he could face. The distant sound of crickets filled the night air, but it only made the silence between them heavier.

  Rakk walked a few paces ahead, hands in his cloak pockets. He had given Shun his orders, but he hadn’t spoken since.

  Shun: I am still not convinced to go back.

  Rakk didn’t stop walking. He let the words hang in the air for a moment before responding.

  Rakk: You mean you don’t want to.

  Shun: (voice quieter) I don’t want to.

  Rakk: Then don’t.

  Shun frowned, his footsteps slowing slightly.

  Shun: What?

  Rakk finally stopped, turning to face him. The moonlight barely illuminated his features, but his voice was steady.

  Rakk: You don’t have to go back. You can keep running forever, pretending you don’t care. Or you can do something about it.

  Shun’s fists clenched.

  Shun: How am I supposed to face him? What if he hates me?

  Rakk: (shrugging) Maybe he will.

  Shun looked up, eyes flashing.

  Shun: Then why the hell would I go back?

  Rakk: Because running away doesn’t erase what you did. Facing it might.

  Shun let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head.

  Shun: You say that like you’ve done it before.

  Rakk didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked up at the blood-red moon hanging over them, the storm clouds finally retreating beyond the horizon.

  Rakk: I haven’t. But that’s why I know.

  For once, Shun didn’t have a response. And for the first time since leaving, he wondered if returning home wasn’t about Fiol at all.

  Maybe it was about himself.

  Rakk: You can’t change who you are. But one thing I can gurrantee is that you can still choose to do what is right.

  Shun: I can still protect him. That’s what I did before.

  Rakk: Yeah, You ready?

  Shun let out a slow breath, his fingers digging into the dirt.

  Shun: Ready or not… we leave at dawn.

  **

  Two men moved through the dimly lit streets, their presence unnoticed amidst the paranoia.

  Iris and Hirako walked side by side, their expressions grim. They had seen more than the common folk, understood more than what was whispered in the dark.

  Hirako: It was a miracle for him. (talking about Shinjiro)

  Iris: That’s what you keep saying.

  Hirako: I am really grateful for what you did.

  Iris: I was just returning the favour even though I could never repay the debt I owe you.

  Hirako: You were a small kid and now turned into a fine young man.

  The streets of Lennox were quieter than usual. The air held a weight to it, something thick and suffocating. Whispers slithered through alleyways and candle-lit inns, spreading fear like a sickness.

  Man 1: Another body was found this morning.

  Man 2: That makes four in the last week.

  Woman: The wounds… they say they were horrible.

  The people spoke in hushed voices, casting wary glances at the blood moon overhead. It loomed like an omen, bathing the city in its eerie crimson glow. The storms had passed, but they left behind something worse—unease.

  Old Woman: I tell you, it’s the end times. The beasts, the storms, the dead livestock… now a killer walks among us?

  Young Priest: And the Aether… something is wrong with it. The way it shifts in the air, I can feel it.

  Man 3: Maybe the Aetherblades will fix it.

  Old Woman: Hah! If they had any power left, we wouldn’t be seeing this madness.

  The sound of footsteps interrupted their whispers.

  Iris and Hirako walked side by side, their expressions grim. They had seen more than the common folk, understood more than what was whispered in the dark.

  Hirako: (lowly) This is getting worse.

  Iris: (glancing up at the moon) Yeah.

  Hirako: The people are scared. You heard them. The Aether isn’t stable. Something’s coming.

  Iris: It’s already here.

  Hirako stopped walking. The torches along the street crackled, their light flickering. His face, worn with years of duty, looked more tired than ever.

  Hirako: What do we do, Iris?

  Iris: (crossing his arms) What we always do. We keep going.

  Hirako: (shaking his head) You don’t get it. This… this isn’t like before. The Aetherblades are weak. The royals are watching us. And now—this. The blood moon..

  Iris: (firmly) Listen to me, old man. It’s always the same. Fear spreads, people panic, the weak get crushed under the weight of it. But we don’t.

  Hirako: (gritting his teeth) And if we’re not strong enough this time?

  Iris: Then we make ourselves strong enough.

  Hirako looked at him, searching for something—doubt, uncertainty, hesitation. But he found none. Iris stood as he always did, unwavering, unshaken.

  Iris: I know you’ve lost a lot. I know this weight isn’t easy. But if you start breaking now, then what the hell was the point of all of it?

  Hirako exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

  Hirako: You always know what to say, don’t you?

  Iris: (grinning slightly) It’s a gift.

  Hirako: (scoffing) Bastard.

  The two continued walking, the night pressing in around them. The city was afraid. The world was shifting. But at least, for now, they weren’t facing it alone.

  It was the eve of dawn, yet the eclipse cast an eerie darkness over Lennox, making it impossible to tell if the night had truly passed. The cobbled streets were slick with the remnants of last night’s rain, the air thick with the damp scent of old stone, rotting wood, and the distant smoke from torches barely holding back the suffocating gloom. Lanterns flickered weakly against the creeping fog that clung to the buildings like an omen, distorting shapes and making every shadow seem alive.

  Rose moved carefully through the streets, the soft echo of her boots against the stone the only sound apart from the occasional murmur of frightened voices. She had heard the whispers—the fearful gossip of townsfolk who spoke of a killer roaming the streets, a madman who had struck in the dead of night. No one had seen his face clearly, only the aftermath—bodies left torn, lifeless eyes staring at the sky, crimson pools staining the ground.

  The people she questioned had little to offer—most only repeated rumors, their voices hushed as if speaking his name would summon him. But one thing was certain. The killer had been spotted on this street.

  She tightened her grip on the dagger strapped to her thigh, her breath steady but her body tense. Every corner she turned, every step she took deeper into the narrow, winding alleys, made her pulse quicken. The streets of Lennox, once bustling and full of life, now felt like a graveyard where the dead walked unseen.

  Then, she heard it—a ragged breath, a low groan coming from the mouth of a darkened alley.

  Rose’s heart hammered in her chest as she rushed toward the sound, her instincts screaming caution, yet her body moving forward regardless. She skidded to a stop just as her eyes adjusted to the dim light—and there he was.

  A man stood hunched over, his body ragged and beaten, his breathing heavy and uneven. His tattered cloak barely clung to his shoulders, soaked in filth and blood. One of his eyes was gone, replaced by a jagged scar running down his cheek like a mark of some horrific past. His skin was pale, almost sickly, as if life had long since begun to drain from him. In his shaking hand, he clutched a knife, the blade still dripping fresh with crimson.

  And beneath him—sprawled across the wet stone—was a woman.

  Her body lay still, her face turned to the side, eyes glassy with death. Her long dark hair fanned out against the cold ground, and her dress, once an elegant shade of green, was torn and stained with blood. The cut across her throat was deep, almost too precise, as if the killer had taken his time. Her fingers twitched slightly, as if she had only just taken her last breath.

  Rose felt her stomach tighten, a mixture of fury and something else—something colder—curling inside her.

  The man exhaled, his one remaining eye locking onto her, hollow and distant. For a moment, he didn’t move. He only stared.

  And then—he took a step forward.

  A thunderstorm started and it started raining.

  The night stretched endlessly over Lennox, drowning the city in an unnatural twilight. The air was thick—heavy with the remnants of rain, the scent of damp earth mixing with something far more metallic.

  Rose stood at the entrance of the alley, her breath shallow, her fingers twitching near the hilt of her dagger. She was hearing whispers and the owl cries.

  Rose’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t let it show. Her grip on her dagger tightened.

  The man sucked in a ragged breath, his voice cracking as he stumbled forward on weak legs.

  The man: (crying) I… I could not control it… (weeping) My family was killed… I had no choice…

  His voice was raw, trembling with something deeper than fear—something broken beyond repair. He clutched his chest as if trying to hold himself together, his breaths coming in uneven gasps.

  Rose: (furiously) How dare you?

  Her words cut through the air like a blade, sharper than the weapon he held.

  The man flinched as though struck, his knees giving out beneath him. He collapsed onto the wet stone, his shoulders trembling. The knife slipped from his grasp, clattering against the ground with a dull echo.

  The man: (he fell on his knees) Please… Forgive… Me…

  Rose stared at him, her heart pounding against her ribs. His body shook with silent sobs, his hands clawing at the ground as if trying to anchor himself to something—anything. The storm had passed, but the air still felt charged, thick with something unnatural, something unseen.

  And then—he lifted his head.

  His remaining eye, wet with tears, locked onto hers. The madness was still there, buried beneath layers of grief and regret.

  The man: (crying) I will turn myself in. Say you forgive me! (joining his hands)

  His voice rose to a desperate wail, his hands reaching toward her, palms open in supplication, in demand.

  For the first time, Rose hesitated.

  There was something wrong.

  Something in the way the air around him seemed to shift, how the dim lantern light flickered unnaturally against the slick walls. Her gut screamed at her to step back—to move—to run.

  But she didn’t.

  Rose: (softly) I forgive you. Turn yourself in.

  But even as she said it, the words tasted wrong.

  Something pressed against her skull—not a hand, not a voice, but something worse. A presence. The air thickened, her chest tightening as if something was wrapping around her ribs. Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. Her instincts screamed, her body telling her to move, run, fight—

  But she couldn't.

  The alley around her blurred, the world tilting on its axis. The last thing she saw was the man’s lips curling into something that wasn’t a smile—it was hunger.

  And then—darkness.