Cassian knew. The bastard knew with every fiber of his being that I was supposed to be a hollow shell, a man without a spark of magic. My "gift"—this cursed, beautiful ability to weave lies into the very fabric of reality—had only manifested three months ago, on the exact day he was crowned the "Golden Hero" of the Pantheon. It was as if the universe, in its twisted sense of humor, gave me a knife just as it gave him a mountain.
The battle on that blood-slicked stage was a desperate dance of deception. I began with Shadow Blades, jagged slivers of concentrated spite that hissed through the air. Cassian parried them with a blinding radiance, his Light Magic as suffocating as a summer sun. He was surprised, though; I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. In that moment of hesitation, I struck. Borrowing the "Sword Mastery" I had siphoned from the guards' collective belief, I lunged forward. The steel found its mark, burying itself in his arm.
He didn't scream. Heroes don't scream, do they? Instead, he grabbed me by the throat with a hand like an iron vise and slammed me into the stone wall. The impact rattled my brain in its skull, and for a second, the world went white. But that was the plan. I needed him close. As his grip tightened, cutting off my breath, I unleashed Cryokinesis. I didn't just freeze the air; I leaned forward, bared my teeth, and bit two of his frozen fingers clean off. I swallowed the ice and his blood, a grim communion of hatred.
Cassian, now beyond livid, didn't use his sword. He used his boots. He kicked me in the stomach twenty times—I counted them through the haze of agony. Each strike felt like a blacksmith's hammer hitting an anvil. On the final kick, as I coughed up bile, I drew a shiv from my boot and buried it deep in his foot. As he stumbled, I drove another Shadow Blade into his left leg, aiming for the femoral artery.
His retaliation was swift and godly. He plunged the Sword of Qelo into my side. The pain was transcendent, a white-hot spike that seemed to sever my very soul from my body.
Just as he moved in for the kill, I played my trump card: the Illusion Magic I had forced Zune and Darren to believe in. Suddenly, there were a dozen of me. Cassian swung wildly, slaughtering phantoms of smoke and mirrors while the real me circled him like a shark. I carved precise, shallow wounds into his flesh, wearing him down. I was winning. I could taste his impending defeat.
Then, the world shattered.
Darren, Zune, and the guards—they saw through it. Perhaps it was the way I breathed, or a flicker in the light, but they realized the blades weren't real. The feedback was a physical blow. A searing pain tore through my cranium as I lost 10 percent of my vision. My soul felt like it was being flayed by twelve invisible whips. The magic didn't just vanish; it recoiled, biting the hand that fed it.
I scrambled away, my world turning into a gray, blurry mess. Cassian pursued me like a relentless predator, leaving the guards to slaughter Darren and Zune. I heard Zune's final scream—a high, thin sound that cut through the chaos. The girl I had used, the girl who had died because of my failure, was gone.
We ended up on the auction stage, the very place where my life was supposed to be sold. The auctioneer, a trembling coward, whispered that I must be using Haste Magic. That tiny seed of belief was all I needed. I accelerated, our swords clashing in a shower of sparks that lit up the dark square. I was faster than the Hero. I had him... until the Order of the Blood-Red Lily arrived.
Lillio, their insufferable leader, didn't care about the nuance of the fight. He listed my crimes like a grocery list: multiple murders, attempted assassination of a noble's son, attempted murder of the Hero, the death of a Dwarf, a Fox-kin, and an Elf.
They didn't just arrest me. They gave me the Murderer's Mark. They sliced my mouth open from ear to ear, carving a permanent grin into my face, and bound it in tight, salt-soaked bandages. They wanted the wound to fester into a jagged, hideous scar. A mark that would tell the world I was a monster before I even spoke a word.
Do you have any idea how much it hurts to have your smile turned into a canyon of raw nerves? No, of course you don't.
Prison is a special kind of hell, a place where time goes to die. The Order of the Blood-Red Lily is less of an army and more of a fanatical cult. They couldn't decide when to hang me, so they filled the days with "purification"—which is just a fancy word for beatings.
You probably think that by cutting my mouth, they took my voice. I wish. I can still speak, but every word is a labor of pure agony. I have to spit a mouthful of blood just to form a coherent sentence. They take the "Blood" in their name very seriously, ensuring the floors of my cell were never dry.
I am in solitary confinement. "The Disciple of Chaos," the heralds call me. The man who tried to kill the Pantheon's darling. Even if I weren't locked away, no one would touch me. They fear I'd use them, manipulate their very thoughts. They're right to be afraid.
"Shut up! Just shut the hell up!" I screamed at the damp walls. My own mind is starting to splinter, voices whispering back from the corners of the cell.
Cassian visited me today. He called it the "Farewell of Chaos." He stood there, pristine and glowing, telling me I'm to be hanged tomorrow at 6:00 AM. He claimed he won our fight fairly. I've hated that man since I was five years old, since the day his kind burned my world, and in that moment, I hated him enough to ignite the atmosphere.
As he turned to leave, I spat a thick glob of crimson at the bars and grinned through the blood-soaked bandages. "I'll make sure you die too, you golden bastard," I croaked, my voice sounding like grinding stones. He left with a face full of suppressed fury. It was worth the pain of every syllable.
The guards whispered as he walked away. They weren't sure if I still held the power of the Sword and the Illusions. That uncertainty—that beautiful, flickering doubt—is my only lifeline. I've lost the Shadow Blades, but as long as they fear what I might do, I am not powerless.
That night, I dreamt of a primal forest. A fork in the road. A black wolf went right, toward a path of thorns, combat, and a savage, bloody satisfaction. A white wolf went left, toward a peace that felt like a slow, hollow death. I chose the right. I clawed my way through the briars until my hands were raw, reaching for the end.
At 5:30 AM, the heavy iron bolt of my cell slid back.
The crowd was already gathered outside, a sea of angry faces illuminated by torches. They screamed, they threw filth, and they cheered for the spectacle of my demise. The knights didn't lead me; they dragged me, taking turns to kick my shins and ribs until we reached the gallows. I was hauled up the wooden steps, the grain of the wood rough against my bare feet. The noose waited there, swaying slightly in the morning breeze like a cold, hempen lover.
Well... this is likely the last time you'll hear the thoughts of a dead man. Until next time.