Flames cascaded from the bruised night sky, their embers spiraling downward like dying stars, igniting the scorched earth with bursts of molten brilliance. Isaac staggered through the desolation, breathing smoke-laden air that tasted of ash and despair. His gaze fell upon a shattered mirror, propped amidst the debris like an omen.
An aberration glared back through fragmented glass—a ghastly shadow of himself, emaciated and monstrous. One eye burned crimson, pulsating with a malevolent fury, the other a sickly green, cold and lifeless. A deep, jagged scar bisected its throat, raw and glistening as if freshly torn. The creature's cracked skin strained, threatening to shatter into countless shards.
Isaac's heart seized as, without warning, the reflection surged forward, hands erupting from the mirror's splintered surface, clawing viciously for his throat. The world tilted, air trapped in his lungs—then shattered entirely.
He jolted awake, gasping desperately, tangled sheets clinging to his sweat-soaked body. But the haunting image remained seared into his mind, a grim promise whispered in darkness.
He found himself in a narrow cot, the silence broken only by his own ragged breathing. Dusty, fractured windows let in a thin ribbon of morning light, illuminating flaking walls that might once have been white. The shelves lining the room sagged under the weight of old, half-empty potion bottles, and the room smelled faintly of vinegar and decay. A wave of nausea reminded him of the horror from the day before, so vivid it forced bile into his throat.
Desperate to end it all, he spotted a knife on a nearby table and rammed it into his skull, longing for an end—longing to join his lost family. But the wound closed up almost instantly, leaving behind only the faint rush of blood in his ears. Then came a whisper, like a voice echoing through an empty chamber: “Ability: River of Styx.” At that moment, knowledge surged inside him. He understood he could control his own blood—and that no blade, no wound, would ever release him from this nightmare.
The day before had been peaceful. Standing before a mirror in his family’s home, eight-year-old Isaac studied his reflection: stark-white hair, two black, spiraled draconic horns, and mismatched eyes—one a deep blood-red with a faint draconic glimmer, the other an emerald green marked by a crosshair-like symbol. His gaze held a sharpness beyond his years, a quiet intensity that belied his small stature.
Nearby, his twin sister, Isabelle, lay nestled in bed. She shared Isaac’s horns and white hair, but her eyes were reversed—her crimson one bore an X-shaped mark, while the other shone a draconic green. She smiled wearily as he approached.
“Don’t worry,” Isaac soothed, recalling their older brother Noah’s assurances. “He said you’ll get better soon. Everything will be fine.”
Isabelle’s face lit with a flicker of hope. “Really? That’s good. I… I’d like to go outside sometime. Is it warmer out there? I’m always so cold in here.”
Isaac gently squeezed her hand. “Yeah, don’t worry. It’ll be really warm. You’ll see,” he promised, trying to chase away both her fears and his own doubts.
He headed downstairs to greet his parents, never guessing how fast that peaceful morning would shatter.
“Where’s Noah?” he asked bluntly. “Did that idiot run off to train in the forest again?”
His father looked up from the kitchen table. “You shouldn’t be so hard on him, Isaac. He’s doing his best.”
Isaac sank onto a chair, crossing his arms. “He’s just as sick as Isabelle—maybe worse. If he keeps pushing himself like this… Never mind.” He quieted, letting the smell of fresh pancakes drift through the room. His mother placed a plate before him, and he ate slowly, trying to forget the nagging worry coiling in his stomach.
Meanwhile, in the forest, four figures gathered around Noah’s motionless body. A gaping hole marred his chest, the final mark of a savage attack.
Their leader, Blank, stood tall in a tattered black cloak, red gloves encasing his hands. A sinister plague doctor’s mask concealed his face. At his side, a slight girl—no older than Isaac—hid beneath a brown cloak and wore a steampunk mask that trembled with each shaky breath. A third figure, Inari, wore a fox mask above dirty-blonde hair and kept a katana casually at his hip. The last one, Faker, radiated restlessness; clad in armor, his neon-green hair caught the gloom, and his orange eyes flared with boredom.
“That brat was too easy to kill,” Faker muttered, yawning. “So dull.”
Blank’s voice was smooth, almost calm. “Don’t worry. There are more interesting toys ahead.”
Faker pressed his hand to the hilt of his sword. “When can I get a new vessel? Letting that kid chop my head off for a laugh really wore this one down.”
“In the capital,” Blank answered. “You’ll find what you need there.”
Labyrinth, the girl with the steampunk mask, clung to Blank’s cloak, her voice trembling. “Boss… why do I have to be here?”
He placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. “Your abilities are too precious to waste, my dear. I won’t let anyone harm you.”
Turning to Inari, Blank spoke with cold finality. “You’ll bring me the boy. And I expect no complications.”
“Understood,” Inari said with a respectful nod. “What of you, sir?”
Blank’s tone dropped to a deadly chill. “Killing, naturally. I’ll handle anyone who thinks they can stop us.”
As soon as The Crows crossed into the city’s heart, an eerie hush settled over the streets. Windows were barred and doors locked. It was as if the very air recognized its predators, and everyone hidden inside felt the chill of death creeping past their doors.
The city guards spotted the plague doctor mask at the forefront and stiffened. They knew who he was: Blank, leader of The Crows—a group rumored to herald the world’s next apocalypse. With a calm that seemed more sinister for its quiet, Blank stepped forward, his black cloak merging with the shadows. A low, distorted chuckle slipped from beneath the beak of his mask.
“I admire your bravery,” he said, voice thick with mocking civility. “So eager to die for a duty you scarcely comprehend.”
Without another word, he stripped off his red gloves. Pale hands glowed with malevolent energy. In a swift motion, he lunged and pressed his palm against a guard’s exposed skin. The man’s flesh darkened to a hideous purple, then bubbled and melted until it collapsed in a gelatinous mess at Blank’s feet. The guard’s armor struck the stones with a hollow clang, echoing like a funeral knell.
Blank wiped his hand clean on a cloth with maddening indifference. “I hope the rest of you put up more of a fight,” he sneered.
At his side, Inari drifted through the guards like a lethal specter. His fox mask betrayed nothing, but his katana flickered with deadly precision, slicing through armor and flesh with unnerving ease. Body after body crumpled in his wake, each strike a testament to his chilling efficiency.
Laughter rang above the clash of steel—Faker’s laugh, cold and cruel. Swinging a sword that glowed with emerald light, he carved a path through the guards, severing limbs and lives with brutal relish. Blood sprayed the cobblestones, and his orange eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure.
“Look at them,” he taunted, stepping over the fallen with casual scorn. “They drop like flies.”
Any remaining guards, drained of color and courage, could only watch as The Crows advanced unchecked. One by one, they fell—dissolved by Blank’s touch, torn apart by Inari’s blade, or butchered in Faker’s frenzied slaughter. The once-peaceful square ran red with blood, its cobbles slick with despair.
Behind shutters and cracked windows, terrified citizens cowered. Rumors of The Crows had swirled for ages, but to see them now—cruelty incarnate—was a living nightmare none could have foreseen.
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Near the center of the carnage, the small girl known as Labyrinth hovered behind Blank, trembling beneath her steampunk mask. She clutched his cloak like a child desperate for refuge. Her eyes, wide with horror, flicked from the fallen guards to her merciless allies.
“Faker, enjoy yourself,” Blank ordered, his tone colder than ice. “Kill and devour to your heart’s content.”
Labyrinth whimpered, voice barely audible over the shouts and dying gasps around them. “He’s… he’s terrifying.”
Blank glanced down at her, a faint smile hidden under his mask. “I know. That’s precisely his value,” he replied, voice somehow both calm and unyielding. “One day, you’ll understand.”
Within the Fafnir manor, muffled screams and the glow of distant flames set nerves on edge. Alicia pressed trembling fingers to her lips as she peered outside.
“Honey, the town…” she whispered, voice quavering. “It’s burning.”
Hector, her husband, stared down at the chaos with dawning horror. The heart of his domain—reduced to cinders before his eyes.
“Noah…” he muttered, realization crushing him. “He’s still out there. Alicia, stay here. Protect Isaac.” He steeled himself. “I need to find him.”
Alicia nodded, clutching Isaac close. “Be careful,” she pleaded.
Hector sprinted out, only to come face-to-face with The Crows, silhouetted by the inferno licking at the darkened sky. Fury flared in his eyes.
“So,” he snarled, “it’s you. The same monsters who razed Eldenwood. I’ll kill every last one of you!”
Blank, standing at the forefront in his plague doctor mask, gave a soft chuckle and gestured to Inari. “Keep Labyrinth safe. I’ll amuse our guest.”
He peeled off his gloves, exposing pallid hands that shimmered with a sickly energy. Hector tensed. His right arm contorted, sprouting crimson scales as flames flared around his fist. With a roar, he struck.
Blank barely brought up an arm in time. The force shattered both of Blank’s limbs in a grotesque, splintering crunch. Staggering, he glanced down at the broken bones with mild annoyance.
“How… tiresome.”
A dark aura seeped from his wounds, and in moments his arms twisted back into place. Reborn.
“Please,” Blank taunted, “try again.”
Hector’s grip tightened, resolve hardening. “No more holding back.” Power rippled through his body as he chanted, “Awaken my Regalia, O Lion King of Endless Dawn—come, Arthur Pendragon!”
Brilliant light erupted from his hands, piercing the swirling smoke. When it settled, a magnificent sword remained—long, curved, and etched with glowing runes. Its silver blade emitted an otherworldly shine, and a crystal orb pulsed in its ornate hilt, each beat synchronized with Hector’s racing heart. Sparks arced along the edge, hinting at devastating force.
“Impressive,” Blank said softly. “Though I doubt I’ll need my own Regalia.”
In a gruesome display, he took hold of a finger and tore it off with a sickening snap. The severed digit twitched, bones elongating and sinews weaving until a jagged scythe formed in his grasp. Its blade radiated a hungry, dark energy, while Blank’s hand regenerated with horrifying ease.
He raised the scythe, voice a low whisper. “Shall we dance?”
Blank’s laughter echoed across the flames as he severed his own hand at the wrist, tossing both the disembodied limb and his twisted scythe skyward. An instant later, he lunged forward, his remaining hand morphing into a slender blade. Metal clashed against metal as he met Hector head-on, sparks showering the cobblestones.
“Tell me, Hector,” Blank hissed, voice dripping with cold mockery. “Do you have any last words? Something I can whisper to your wife before I kill her?”
Hector’s eyes blazed with fury. “Go to hell,” he snarled, and he spat—except his spit seared into molten lava. The scorching fluid cut straight through the cracked glass of Blank’s mask, sizzling into his left eye. A wet hiss filled the air, flesh and bone melting into a twisted mess.
For one brief heartbeat, Blank’s face contorted in genuine pain. Then that flicker vanished, replaced by an even more deranged smile. His ruined eye re-formed in a matter of seconds, sinews and bone knitting themselves back together with unholy ease.
“Fine,” Blank said softly, the derision returning to his voice. “I’ll be sure your wife hears that message.”
Above them, the scythe exploded into a flurry of razor shards that tore through Blank’s body—only for his wounds to heal the instant they formed—and then ripped into Hector. Blood sprayed the cobblestones. Hector staggered, regeneration faltering as his injuries overwhelmed him.
Blank’s hand regenerated just as he closed the distance, planting his foot on Hector’s head. With casual cruelty, he pressed down. Cartilage and bone gave way in a sickening crunch, and Hector’s body went limp. His grand sword clattered to the ground, its shining radiance dying away in a final puff of luminous smoke.
“How utterly disappointing,” Blank sighed, stepping away and brushing off his boot like he’d merely crushed a bug. “It seems Faker had more sport with that failed son than I had here.”
He glanced back at the trembling Labyrinth, who stood behind him. “Labyrinth,” he ordered in an unfeeling tone, “keep an eye on the body. We’ll feed it to Lupin later.”
A faint cry escaped from the manor’s threshold, and there stood Alicia—eyes wide with horror, hands trembling around the hilt of a sword she barely knew how to wield. Tears ran down her cheeks as she took in the sight of Hector’s lifeless form, the echo of Blank’s mocking voice still ringing in her ears.
“No…no…” she whispered, choking on each syllable. Dread sank deep in her bones, freezing her in place.
She forced herself to look away from her husband’s broken body and pressed Isaac toward a nearby room. “Isaac, run! Hide!” she cried, voice frantic. The boy darted into another room, peering back through a tiny gap in the door, heart hammering as he watched the nightmare unfold.
The Crows marched into the home, their footsteps heavy against the floor. Alicia steeled herself, arms shaking but resolute, raising her sword in a final stand between the intruders and her son.
Blank, mask partially shattered, approached with a slow, deliberate calm. “Your husband left me a message. He said, ‘Go to hell.’” His cold laughter rattled through the hallway, taunting her with every echo.
Alicia clung to her blade, tears glistening on her pale cheeks. “You won’t harm my children,” she said, voice faltering but determined.
Blank smiled thinly beneath the broken mask. “I’ve already killed Noah, and your husband… What do you honestly think you can do? Give me Isaac, and I’ll let you live.”
Alicia lunged, desperation fueling her. But Inari’s katana flashed, catching her swing with terrifying ease. He shoved her back, her feet sliding on the floor.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Blank murmured, sounding vaguely annoyed. Inari merely nodded, stepping aside.
Blank advanced once more, voice eerily smooth. “You can die for him, or live by giving him up. Choose.”
Alicia’s grip tightened despite the tremors in her arms. “Never! I’ll never hand him over.”
A flicker of something—pity?—crossed Blank’s remaining eye. “Then your son will live with the burden of your choice,” he said softly, almost as though speaking to himself. “I suppose mothers all share this maddening devotion.”
Alicia drew a shaking breath. “Children are everything. Any mother who won’t die for them isn’t a mother at all.”
For a heartbeat, Blank seemed almost amused. “Indeed.” His arm warped into a jagged blade. “I’m sorry for this then.”
In a single monstrous sweep, he swung. Alicia’s world ended in an instant as the strike took her head from her shoulders. Her body collapsed to the floor, fingers loosening around the sword’s hilt. Isaac, watching in numb disbelief through the door’s narrow gap, felt the air rush from his lungs in a silent scream as his mother’s fierce final stand came to a brutal, blood-spattered end.
Blank’s gaze shifted, his tone turning unnervingly playful. “Isaac, come on out now,” he coaxed. “We’re not here to hurt you—we only want to talk.”
“Sir, I think he’s hiding in that room,” Inari noted, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Obviously, Inari,” Blank snapped. “I’m just keeping things dramatic.”
Heart pounding, Isaac bolted from his hiding place, sprinting through the manor’s corridors as fast as his legs could carry him. From behind, Blank’s sarcastic call taunted him. “Oh look! He’s finally shown himself! However shall we catch him?”
He gestured to Inari, who vanished down the hall in pursuit. Isaac skidded to a stop by the back exit, torn between fleeing and going back for his sister. Tears streaked his cheeks as he fought off a rising sob.
“What should I do?” he whispered, voice breaking with terror and helplessness.
Moments later, Inari’s presence loomed behind him, silent and deadly. Panic flared in Isaac’s chest, and he burst through the back door into the forest. Trees stretched before him, but fear fueled every step.
A rustle in the darkness made him glance back—just in time to see Inari draw his katana. “A single slash should suffice,” the fox-masked assassin murmured. “Sword technique: Wind Blade.”
An arc of nearly invisible power swept through the forest. Isaac looked back as he felt a sudden sting along his neck; hot blood trickled down as he stumbled, still forcing himself forward despite his blurry vision and burning lungs.
Then, through the haze of pain, Isaac caught sight of a figure standing ahead—a man in a pristine white suit and matching top hat. Purple hair fell over dark skin, and a monocle glinted in the faint light. His calm smile was the last thing Isaac saw before collapsing at the stranger’s feet.
“Ah,” the man murmured, brushing a hand across Isaac’s shoulder, “Ah, it seems I didn’t need to search for you, after all. Fear not, Apostle of Calamity—I won’t let them harm you.”
In a burst of violet light, both vanished. By the time Inari arrived, the clearing stood empty, the night air thick with silence. Realizing his quarry had escaped, Inari let out a slow exhale. “The boss will be furious,” he muttered, sheathing his blade.
When Isaac woke up, he found himself within the unfamiliar medical office.
