The sky within Kafka's subconscious was not a whole sky.
It looked more like shattered stained glass—fragments of memories floating in a dark void, each reflecting the light of the past like candles on the verge of dying out. Among those fragments, the laughter of children could still be heard, faint, like echoes from a world long drowned.
There stood an old building there.
An orphanage.
Its walls were dull, its paint peeling like aging skin, yet inside it there was something that had once been called home.
Kafka walked through its corridor.
There was no pain in his body in this place.
No blood.
No war.
Only the sound of small footsteps echoing across the wooden floor.
And at the end of the hallway,
two figures stood waiting for him.
Arga.
Elara.
They were still children.
Arga sat on the stairs, biting into a piece of hard bread that had been split in two.
Elara stood by the window, her hair illuminated by the afternoon sun like threads of gold woven by the sky itself.
Young Kafka ran toward them.
Their laughter burst out like tiny bells played by the wind.
That day was a simple day.
No swords.
No blood.
No destiny.
Just three children sharing a world that was far too small to contain their dreams.
A MEMORY THAT ONCE WARMED THE HEART
Elara sat beside Kafka.
Her hand held the book Kafka used to read.
"Martial arts again?" she asked with a smile.
Kafka nodded.
"I want to protect everyone."
Arga snorted from the stairs.
"Protect who? We can't even protect our own dinner."
Kafka chuckled softly.
But Elara did not laugh.
She only looked at Kafka.
For a long time.
As if there was something behind that gaze that a child should not have been able to hold.
"If someday we're separated," she said softly,
"will you come looking for me?"
Kafka nodded without hesitation.
"Of course."
Elara smiled.
A gentle smile.
A smile that once felt like spring.
But—
the sky above that memory began to change.
The blue faded.
Turning red.
Like paint poured into clear water.
Arga faded like morning mist.
The wooden stairs rotted.
The orphanage walls cracked.
And Elara,
Elara who stood before Kafka,
slowly changed.
Her eyes turned red.
Her smile stretched too wide.
Too sharp.
Too cold.
Laughter escaped her lips.
But that laughter was no longer like tiny bells.
It sounded like glass being scraped by a knife.
"How naive you are, Kafka."
Her voice echoed throughout the entire memory.
"Always believing in everyone."
Her body cracked like a statue.
Blood seeped from her skin.
And before Kafka could say anything—
the entire memory collapsed like a sandcastle swept away by waves.
Kafka's eyes were forced open.
The sky above him was not one he recognized.
It was red.
Not the red of sunset.
Not the red of fire.
But a thick red—like blood smeared across the canvas of the heavens.
Black clouds drifted like wounds that refused to heal.
Kafka tried to rise.
His hand touched something cold.
Soft.
When he looked down,
his stomach nearly turned inside out.
He was lying on a pile of monster corpses.
Rotting bodies stacked together like a hill of decaying flesh.
Some still moved.
Some still released their final sounds before death.
The stench of rot pierced the air like poison crawling into his lungs.
Kafka vomited.
"Hoek!"
He covered his nose.
"Kuh…"
His body felt like glass cracking from the inside.
The wound in his chest was still open.
The mana that had been stopping the bleeding was gone.
He stared at the red sky.
"Where… am I…"
But the world had no intention of answering that question.
Instead, it answered him with something else.
A sound.
Movement.
The sound of something hungry.
From behind the mountain of monster corpses, something moved.
A creature crawled out.
Its body looked like a grotesque fusion of a spider and a human.
It had many eyes.
Its mouth was filled with tiny teeth that moved like insects.
Then another one appeared.
And another.
And another.
Like a wound opening and vomiting the contents of hell.
Kafka forced himself to stand.
His legs almost collapsed.
But survival instinct was the oldest language known to the human body.
He ran, limping, as unimaginable pain and exhaustion devoured him.
The monsters chased him like a wave carrying death.
Some crawled.
Some leaped.
Some ran with far too many legs.
Kafka swung his blood sword once.
A small monster split in half.
Black blood splattered.
But it did not stop the others.
His stamina was nearly gone.
His breathing felt like glass scraping together.
He hid behind a large rock.
The monsters passed by.
For a moment, the world fell silent again.
And in that silence,
the memories returned.
Kafka hugged his knees.
Tears fell onto the dry ground.
"Elara…"
The name tasted bitter.
Like poison swallowed slowly.
The orphanage memories surfaced again.
Elara laughing.
Elara reading books with him.
Elara who once said they would always stay together.
All of those memories now felt like paintings drenched in black ink.
He bit his lip.
"Why…"
But the world gave no answer.
Instead,
another monster caught his scent.
Their screeches filled the air.
Kafka ran again.
The wounds in his body pulsed like drums of death.
That was when he saw something in the distance.
Gigantic mountains rose like the bones of the world.
Red sky.
The stench of death.
Monsters everywhere.
The realization dropped like a stone into his mind.
"This…"
His breath stopped.
"Jotunheim…"
The land of giants.
A hellish realm where monsters were born like wild grass.
Kafka laughed softly.
An empty laugh.
"Great… Am I going to die in a place like this?"
He had almost no strength left.
And the world had chosen the cruelest place to bring him down.
The monsters finally surrounded him.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Kafka raised his sword one last time.
He fought.
Slashing.
Stabbing.
Kicking.
But his body was too exhausted.
Every movement felt like pulling needles from his own flesh.
The first monster bit his shoulder.
Another grabbed his leg.
He fell.
The red soil pressed against his face.
Sharp teeth began tearing into his flesh.
"AAAAARRGGHH!"
Kafka screamed.
The cry rose to the red sky like a prayer sent to a god that no longer existed.
The monsters pulled at his arm.
His flesh tore.
Others bit into his legs.
The pain was too great to describe with words.
All he could do was scream.
Tears and blood mixed across his face.
Amid the screams,
one sentence escaped his lips.
Hoarse.
But filled with hatred.
"If… I… could live again…"
He clenched his teeth.
His eyes burned with fire, vengeance, and rage.
"I will change everything."
The monsters kept devouring his body.
Kafka's vision began to darken.
The red sky turned into shadows.
But just before his consciousness completely sank,
something appeared.
A silhouette.
Someone stood in the middle of the swarm of monsters.
Blood swirled around them like a storm.
Monsters split apart.
Their bodies exploded.
Blood techniques moved like a dance of death.
Kafka could not see the face clearly.
But that figure,
that movement,
felt familiar.
Very familiar.
Kafka's lips moved weakly.
"…E… Elara…?"
But the world had already become too dark.
His consciousness fell like a stone into the bottom of the sea.
And everything—
turned black.
~To Be Continued ~