The sky above Jotunheim was never truly a sky.
It looked more like a gigantic wound torn open in the chest of the world. Red, rotting, and bleeding endlessly without ever drying. Black clouds hung overhead like clumps of smoldering charcoal, while the wind carried the metallic scent of blood mixed with the stench of rotting flesh, as if the entire land was a colossal graveyard where monsters were buried without ceremony.
Somewhere deep within that hell known as the land of giants,
Kafka opened his eyes.
Consciousness returned to him like someone being forced awake from a nightmare that had not yet ended.
The first thing he felt was pain.
It was the kind of pain that felt like thousands of burning needles being driven into his bones. His body felt heavy, as though every muscle had been torn apart and crudely stitched back together by hands that did not care much for precision.
He tried to move.
But something restrained his wrists.
Ropes.
Thick.
Made from monster hide as hard as iron.
He was tied to a crude Bone chair.
Kafka inhaled slowly.
The scent of healing herbs mixed with blood filled the air.
His body… had been treated.
The wound in his chest had been wrapped with rough bandages still damp with bitter medicine.
But before he could fully grasp the situation,
something cold touched his throat.
A dagger.
The blade was dark crimson.
Not like the blood swords Kafka usually created.
This one was denser.
Sharper.
More… alive.
The aura emanating from it made Kafka's skin crawl.
As if the blade could cut not only flesh,
but the soul itself.
"Don't move."
The voice was heavy.
Like stone grinding against rusted iron.
Kafka lifted his eyes.
And saw the man holding the dagger.
The man had pale skin, like someone who had lived far too long under a sky without sunlight.
His body was tall.
Broad.
Covered in blood armor cracked in many places, like a knight armor that had endured a thousand battles without ever being removed.
Some parts of the armor even looked fused with his own flesh.
His hair reached his shoulders.
Tied messily behind his head like someone who had long stopped caring about appearances.
At the corner of his lips,
a cigarette burned dimly.
Strangely, the ember never seemed to go out.
Thin smoke drifted lazily from his mouth like a reluctant mist.
His eyes stared sharp at Kafka.
But that gaze held more than suspicion.
There was something deeper within it.
Something ancient.
Something that had witnessed far too many wars.
The dagger pressed harder against Kafka's throat.
"Now," the man said quietly.
"Answer my question."
He exhaled smoke.
"Where you from doesn't matter to me."
His eyes narrowed.
"But there is one thing I want to know."
He leaned closer.
His voice dropped into a whisper.
"How do you know the name Elara?"
Kafka fell silent.
That name felt like a thorn lodged in his heart.
The man continued.
"That name… belongs to my older sister."
His eyes darkened.
"A sister who died a long time ago."
Kafka swallowed.
Elara… his sister?
And slowly,
he began to tell his story.
About the orphanage.
About Arga.
About Elara.
About betrayal.
About blood.
About the night when everything he believed in shattered like a glass palace struck by the hammer of fate.
The man listened without interrupting.
The cigarette in his mouth continued to burn.
But the dagger in his hand pressed closer to Kafka's throat, eager to slice it open. None of Kafka's story made sense to him.
"Brat."
The man pressed the blade harder.
"I told you I don't care where you came from. But if that Elara you're talking about could use blood techniques, then that's impossible."
High-pressure mana and several unknown energies flooded the man's body.
"Every Vaelorian was hunted down and exterminated. And how could Natasha, that whore, still be alive? I killed her with my own hands."
His expression turned instantly cold.
"I...I'm not lying."
Kafka trembled in fear. This disheveled middle-aged man carried an extremely terrifying aura.
"Last question."
The man's voice grew heavier.
"I don't want any nonsense this time. Listening to your chatter has made me hungry. Understand?"
Killing intent radiated clearly from him.
"Alright last questions. What's your name, and who sent you? Don't make up stories again if you don't want to die."
His voice was thick, mixed with the pungent smell of cigarette smoke.
But when Kafka finally said his name.
"My name… is Kafka. I'm sorry if you don't believe me, but I truly don't know how I ended up here after what happened."
The dagger at his throat suddenly stopped.
The man froze.
His eyes widened.
"What…?"
He stared at Kafka as if he had just seen a ghost crawl out of a grave.
"Kafka?"
He repeated the name slowly.
Then he chuckled softly, like someone unsure whether he was dreaming.
"Kafka?"
His eyes narrowed.
Wasn't that the name of the little prince?
The man seemed confused in thought.
Kafka frowned.
"Sorry… did I say something wrong?"
So I'm going to die, huh?
Kafka smiled faintly in resignation, believing this was the end of his life.
The man raised his blade.
Damn… I'm going to die at the hands of a messy middle-aged man with cigarette breath.
He closed his eyes.
But unexpectedly,
the man suddenly cut the ropes binding his wrists.
"Relax, kid. You're not dying today. I think."
He still doubted Kafka's words.
Energy wrapped around his body.
"Stand."
Kafka hesitated.
But he stood anyway.
His body was still unsteady.
The man gestured at him with his chin.
"Use your power."
Kafka blinked.
"Why?"
The man exhaled smoke.
"Just do it."
Kafka took a deep breath.
Then slowly raised his hand.
The blood in his palm began to move.
Forming a crimson blade.
His blood sword.
That crimson aura pulsed like a second heart inside his body.
And at that moment,
the cigarette fell from the man's lips.
His eyes widened.
Then,
his body trembled.
He covered his face with one hand.
And began to cry.
Not quiet sobbing.
But the kind of crying that erupts from the chest of someone who has held back a storm for far too long.
He stepped forward.
And hugged Kafka tightly.
"Dumb Sister…"
His voice broke.
"Your son is still alive…"
Tears fell from his face like rain finally arriving after a hundred years of drought.
"I… am grateful…"
He slapped Kafka's back with a hand as large as a war hammer.
"YOU'RE STILL ALIVE!"
Kafka froze.
His mind spun like a compass that had lost its direction.
"What…?"
He tried to step back slightly.
What's wrong with this weird old guy?
Kafka kept some distance.
"Who… are you?"
The man wiped his tears.
Then casually picked up his cigarette and lit it again, as if he hadn't just cried like a child moments ago.
"Hah."
He exhaled smoke.
"You really don't know anything, do you… little prince."
Kafka frowned.
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
But the man only chuckled.
"Relax."
He turned around.
"You'll understand everything eventually."
Kafka was still confused.
But he followed him anyway.
Before they left,
Kafka spoke quietly.
"I'm… sorry."
The man stopped.
"I want to ask something."
Kafka looked at the ground.
"I don't even know how I ended up in Jotunheim. But… shouldn't no humans be able to live here?"
He sighed.
"Isn't this supposed to be the land of demons?"
He remembered someone's words.
"Bishop Magnus said… Jotunheim is ruled by a Demon King named…"
He hesitated.
"…Eldric Vaelorian."
The moment Magnus's name left his mouth,
the air in the room changed.
Killing intent filled the space like a storm suddenly falling from the sky.
The man stopped walking.
The cigarette trembled slightly between his lips.
"Magnus… huh…"
His voice turned ice cold.
He slowly turned his head.
His eyes now resembled a bottomless abyss.
Then he pointed at himself.
"I am a handsome man, former royal paladin of King Viedris, the younger brother of the most beautiful queen in all Grand Aurelis, and the greatest master of the Twelve Demon Blood Techniques in history."
His voice was heavy—yet full of pride.
What's with this guy…
Kafka frowned in confusion. He didn't understand what the man was talking about.
Besides, wasn't Grand Aurelis ruled by the Cathedral Church system, not a royal kingdom?
"Allow me to introduce myself…"
The man smiled crookedly.
"I am Eldric Vaelorian."
Kafka immediately jumped back.
His body instinctively assumed a combat stance.
Blood gathered in his hands.
Eldric stared at him for a few seconds.
Then burst into loud laughter.
"HAH!"
He pointed at Kafka's hands.
"Little prince."
He exhaled smoke.
"It's still too soon."
His eyes narrowed.
"Come back in a hundred years before challenging me with those cute little hands."
Kafka fell silent.
But before he could say anything,
Eldric had already walked outside.
"Come."
He waved his hand.
"There's something you need to see before I explain the truth of this damned world."
Their footsteps disappeared into the shadows of Jotunheim.
***
The forest at night was still wet with fresh blood.
Adam walked among the trees with heavy breathing.
His body was covered in wounds.
But his eyes remained sharp.
He searched.
And finally,
he found her.
Elara.
Her body was covered in injuries.
Her white clothes were torn.
Blood flowed from her shoulder.
She lay on the ground like a broken flower.
"Elara!"
Adam rushed toward her.
He lifted her body.
Elara slowly opened her eyes.
"Adam…?"
Her voice was weak.
Adam held his breath.
"What happened?"
Elara trembled.
Tears formed in her eyes.
"K… Kafka…"
Adam froze.
Elara covered her face.
"He… went mad…"
Tears fell.
"He tried to kill me…"
Adam shook his head.
"That's impossible."
But Elara continued with a trembling voice.
"He… changed the others too…"
Adam stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
Elara bit her lip.
"I… Ilham…"
"S… Satrio…"
"And the others…"
Her tears flowed faster.
"They… became demons… followers of Kafka…"
Adam stepped back.
His face turned pale.
"No…"
But suddenly tears fell from his eyes.
He remembered their childhood.
He remembered Ilham.
Satrio.
Friends since elementary school.
"That's impossible…"
But Elara hugged him.
Her body trembled.
"Adam… we have to tell the bishop…"
Adam closed his eyes.
And finally,
he nodded.
***
In the cathedral.
Arga opened his eyes.
A white ceiling greeted him.
His body felt like it had been crushed and rebuilt.
He turned his head.
On the bed beside him,
Elara lay unconscious.
Her body covered in sword wounds.
Wounds that were very familiar to Arga.
Wounds that could only have been inflicted by one person.
Kafka.
The door opened.
Bishop Magnus entered.
His face carried perfect sorrow.
He sat beside Arga.
And began explaining everything.
About betrayal.
About Kafka's madness.
About how Mr. Rahmat died as a hero.
And how the other students became demon followers.
The manipulation seeped into the hero's mind and heart.
Lie after lie fell like black snow.
Arga listened.
Without saying a word.
But slowly,
something appeared on his face.
A cold expression.
Filled with wounds.
Filled with hatred.
I told you, didn't I?
You should have killed him.
That demon hurt you.
The voice in his head echoed.
Magnus stood up.
A small smile appeared on his lips.
The smile of someone who had just moved a piece on the chessboard of the world.
He left the room.
And when the door closed—
that smile was still on his face.
~To Be Continued ~