A caravan marched at a snail's pace along an ancient, crumbling mountain road. The wind swept down the slopes, as fierce and biting as a rain of knives. Only the towering rock face flanking the path offered a meager shield against the relentless gale.
The old road served as a treacherous spine for a mountain range that culminated in a singular, obsidian peak. Solitary and jagged, the Black Mountain's summit seemed to scrape the sun at noon, its sharp edges periodically shredding the clouds that drifted against it.
At the head of the caravan stood a man as tall and imposing as a lion, draped in a crimson mantle with a massive greatsword strapped across his back like a second skin. Despite his missing arm and the staggering amount of blood he had lost, his face—though pale—remained as stoic and serene as a winter sunset. Turning back, Goliath observed his mounted soldiers as they escorted the wagons and the lines of slaves.
The horses would not have survived the steep ascent; forcing the captives to dismount and march in organized files was the only way to ferry them across the border. They had been divided into groups of seven. Each line was a tethered collection of souls, shackled to one another and balanced with an equal number of the young and the old to prevent them from forming a cohesive pack.
It was a wretched spectacle, but the Emperor demanded tributes to fund "his" glorious campaigns of conquest.
Goliath's gaze drifted to one file in particular, settling on a silent shadow. The figure was small and seemingly insignificant, and yet... when even the Awakened members of his own ranks shivered and ground their teeth against the cold, this boy didn't even bother to brush the snow from his rags. While the other slaves whispered of futile escapes, he mapped the world with those abyssal stains he had for eyes. When even the most robust and prized captives faltered in the freezing torpor, he maintained a steady, indomitable pace.
The sight caused Goliath's lips to curve in a grim, knowing smile.
The Champion of War turned his eyes back to the road, leading his men and their human cargo toward their next destination.
***
'Alright, it's make or break!' Sunny thought, mentally shuffling the cards he had been dealt.
He had just finished scouting the environment. There was no longer any doubt: this was the path leading to the Black Mountain, exactly where the original convergence was supposed to happen.
Chained alongside him were two key figures from the original tapestry: Shifty and Scholar. One more was still missing from the set, but they would turn up sooner or later. Up at the head of the column, his eyes had already locked onto Goliath. The giant seemed more indifferent than diminished by the loss of his right arm, moving with a terrifying, steady momentum.
But for now, Sunny had to focus on surviving the carnage that was about to erupt. He needed to reach the summit and enter the abandoned temple of a long-forgotten God, where this First Nightmare would finally meet its end.
Sunny called up his runes, scanning his attributes—his only arsenal in this frozen hell.
The attribute [???] was a perilous double-edged sword; best to leave it undisturbed for now. [spark of Divinity] and [Shadow Weave] were useless in a direct brawl. Sunny, in particular, hadn't the faintest clue how that fragment of the forbidden lineage even functioned.
That left [the Heart] and [Shadowspawn].
'If I'm not freezing to death or buckling under this exhaustion, it's likely thanks to one of these two,' he mused. '[The Heart] seems to bolster my physical and mental resilience, while [Shadowspawn] is what's granting me resistance to these extreme temperatures and keeping me as silent as a shadow. I thought it was identical to the [Child of Shadows] attribute, but it seems to offer much more. Now, first things first—'
A sudden, icy shiver raced down his spine. Glancing back, he saw the old slave from before. The man waved at him with a predatory familiarity that set Sunny's teeth on edge.
'First things first: find a way to cover my own ass.'
Sunny caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. A young man with a noble bearing rode atop a pristine white horse. Sunny didn't perfectly recall the description of Auro of the Nine from the novel, but judging by the dignified aura he projected and his immaculate appearance, there was no room for doubt.
Amidst the sea of common soldiers in boiled leather, armed with simple spears and shortswords, the man shone like a butterfly among moths. It was a jarring sight, considering he was helping escort a slave caravan.
'Classic Dark Fantasy,' Sunny thought bitterly. 'The 'shining hero' is just a well-dressed bastard in disguise.'
Feigning a clumsy trip, Sunny threw his entire weight against the chains binding him to the other slaves in his group.
"Who's the bastard?! Watch where you're going!" a broad-shouldered slave barked, staggering from the sudden yank.
The commotion immediately drew the sharp eyes of a mounted soldier.
***
Auro, mounted atop his pristine white horse, gazed out at the horizon. The view from the precipice on this side of the mountain road carried a bittersweet, melancholic flavor—a lingering echo of a distant past.
The tranquility was shattered by a sudden commotion in one of the slave files. The clatter of chains and a chorus of angry mutters pulled his attention away from the vista.
Auro tugged at his reins, guiding his horse toward the disturbance.
"What is going on here?" he asked as he drew near. There was no particular menace in his voice; instead, it carried a note of genuine, soft-spoken concern.
When the group hesitated, a slave with a gentle, tired voice spoke up:
"It's nothing, sir. We are just exhausted and cold. Especially our young friend here. This journey is truly too much for one so small."
Auro looked down at the young slave with a sudden pang of pity. The boy was short, almost slight—could he really be just a child?
Sighing, Auro reached for the waterskin at his belt and extended it toward the boy.
"Bear with it a little longer, child. We will stop for the night soon. For now, here—drink some water."
To Auro's surprise, the young slave seemed visibly irritated at being called a "child." One of his dark, abyssal eyes twitched with a flash of cold annoyance. Auro blinked. Was he not a child? His height certainly suggested so.
The boy reached out, but instead of taking the skin, he pressed his hand against it, pushing it back toward Auro's chest. He leaned forward, closing the distance in a single, silent step. When he spoke, his whisper was like a razor blade against Auro's soul.
"I'm alright, thank you. I must say, that is a very generous thought of yours... Auro of the Nine."
Auro's face went deathly pale. The blood in his veins turned to slush.
"What—how did you—"
Before he could finish the question, the crack of a whip split the air. The leather lash tore through the boy's tunic, sending him sprawling into the slush and snow. He stumbled, his weight yanking the chains and drawing a fresh curse from the slave behind him.
Another soldier—older, scarred, and radiating malice—pulled his horse to a halt a few paces back. The whip that had sliced into Sunny's back belonged to him. Without even glancing at the groveling slaves, the veteran pierced his younger colleague with a disdainful glare.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Auro's face darkened, a mixture of shame and lingering shock.
"I... I was just giving the boy some water."
"He'll get water with the rest of them once we make camp!" the veteran barked.
"But—"
"Shut your mouth! These slaves are not your friends. Understood? They aren't even people. Start treating them like people and they'll start imagining things."
Auro looked back at the young slave as if he were staring at a demon wearing a human mask. He numbly returned the waterskin to his belt, his mind racing. How could a nameless slave know his true identity?
"Don't let me catch you playing 'merciful savior' with the cargo again, rookie," the older soldier sneered. "Or next time, it'll be your back tasting my whip!"
Auro nodded silently to his superior and retreated to his station, his heart hammering against his ribs.
In the midst of the shouting and the pain, not a single soul had noticed that the "child" in the dirt had done more than just whisper. Hidden beneath his tattered rags, Sunny's fingers closed around the hilt of a dagger he had just lifted from Auro's belt.