Two months. Two months have bled into the calendar since I polished Lillio's arrogant face and left Cassian bleeding and humiliated in the dirt.
A lot has changed since that night. In the taverns and barracks across Nordara, they whisper a new name with a mixture of fear and revulsion: The Human Demon of Chaos. They speak of me as if I were a myth, a monster that crawled out of the gallows. But myths don't have to limp through damp, lightless forests using a stolen God-Sword as a crutch.
The first month of my flight was a slow, agonizing crawl. I used the Sword of Qelo to support my weight as I made my way toward Daqi, the City of Adventurers. My body was a map of pain, each step reopening the jagged memory of the gallows. Eventually, I reached a secluded inn. There, I managed to convince a gullible innkeeper that I possessed the gift of high-tier Healing Magic. For that hour, her belief was my reality. I felt the festering wound Lillio had left in my side finally knit together. The infection vanished, replaced by smooth, scarred flesh. Finally, the debt that bastard owed me was partially settled by my own lies.
Now, as I stand in the bustling, chaotic streets of Daqi, I am a different man. Every scrap of magic I siphoned from the guards, from Darren, and from Zune is gone—either because they are dead, out of range, or because they finally saw through the deception. I am back to zero, save for the obsidian blade at my hip.
Interestingly, the Sword of Qelo did not reject me. These "God-Swords" are forged from the souls of the Pantheon's greatest heroes—a concept as revolting as it is powerful. It seems the blade had been rejecting Cassian's "righteousness" for years. In my grip, it feels heavy, ancient, and strangely... satisfied. It is a weapon for a survivor, not a parade-marching puppet.
News reached me that Cassian has crawled back to Ahjin to lick his wounds, while Lillio has been busy purging his Order, slaughtering any member he deemed too weak. I hope I never see those two bastards again, but fate usually has a darker sense of humor.
My plan is simple: Gold. I need 250 gold coins to buy passage on a ship to the Asura Empire. In Nordara, education ends at ten, and then you're just another cog in the labor machine. But Asura? They have academies that train you until you're twenty-three. In Asura, knowledge is power, and I intend to take every bit of it.
I've managed to scrape together 50 coins this month, but the clock is ticking. I've disguised my Murderer's Mark with bandages and tied my long, raven hair into a practical ponytail. I wear black robes now, looking every bit the brooding mercenary. I hate the people of Daqi. The city has a pathetic rule: Don't kill while there's an adventurer shortage. They want to keep the city attractive for foreign gold-seekers. It's disgusting, but I play along. For now.
To get the remaining 200 coins in one go, I took a High-Rank subjugation quest: Slay the Frost Dragon of the Snow Master Mountains. The reward? 500 gold.
The catch? It's a group effort. I've had to assemble a "Fellowship of Bastards": Zada (B-Rank), Lydia (An A-Rank healer who fights like a C-Rank amateur), and Felo—a massive, arrogant prick of an A-Ranker. Then there's Mola, an S-Rank powerhouse, and Zota, an S-minus. Somehow, despite my history, I was ranked S myself. They don't know who I am. To them, I'm just a silent swordsman with a bandaged face.
We set out yesterday at noon. Or we were supposed to. Felo, that pathetic excuse for a warrior, showed up two hours late. I stood there, my hand twitching toward the hilt of my sword, imagining the sound his neck would make if I snapped it right there in the plaza. The urge to kill him was almost physical, a pulse in my fingertips.
By 5:00 PM, we were finally trekking into the foothills. The air began to bite, the wind carrying the first warnings of the peaks above. Mola, the S-Rank, kept staring at my bandages. "Why the mask?" she asked, her voice echoing in the quiet of the pines.
"A monster took a piece of me," I croaked. Every word felt like glass in my throat. It wasn't a lie—the Order of the Blood-Red Lily are monsters in every sense. I don't know if she bought it, but I decided then: if any of them see my face, I'll slaughter the whole group once the Dragon is dead.
Felo laughed, a grating, wet sound. "Pathetic. You look like a damn cockroach, hiding behind rags. Are you even sure you can swing that sword?"
I didn't answer. I just pictured pulling his organs out through his throat, one slow inch at a time. Zota stepped in before I could act, punching Felo in the face to shut him up. "He has his reasons," Zota muttered.
The tension was cut short by an ambush. Snow Ghosts.
These bastards are the definition of unfair. They merge with the drifts, translucent and nearly invisible, appearing out of thin air to drive ice-daggers into your back. While the B and C-rankers in our group were immediately pinned down, crying out in panic, the S-ranks started cleaning house.
I was targeted by a Snow Flight Ghost—an evolved, faster version of the common pests. It lunged at me from the shadows of a frozen oak, its claws shimmering like diamond. I drew the Sword of Qelo. The black steel hummed, cutting through the spectral essence of the ghost with a terrifying ease. Each strike shattered the spirits into freezing mist.
Once the ghosts were dealt with, we had to bail out the "idiot brigade." Felo, who had nearly been gutted by a spirit, spat on the ground as I kicked a ghost away from his throat. "About time, you loser," he muttered, not a shred of gratitude in his eyes. You're next on my list, bastard, I thought.
We made camp at 11:00 PM, a quarter of the way up the mountain. The cold was a living thing now, clawing at our cloaks. As the fire crackled, Zota eyed my sword. The obsidian hilt seemed to absorb the firelight rather than reflect it. "That's a strange blade. Where'd you get it?"
I couldn't exactly say I'd mugged a Hero for it. "Found it in the ruins of Qetal," I lied. The lie felt stable, anchored by the ancient, divine aura the sword naturally emitted. He seemed to accept it, though his eyes remained suspicious.
I went to sleep early, seeking refuge in the darkness behind my eyelids. But my rest was short-lived. Felo, the absolute king of idiots, decided to grill raw meat in the middle of a predator-infested mountain. The scent of fat and blood drifted through the thin air like a dinner bell.
Within minutes, the perimeter was surrounded by glowing eyes. Snow Wolves.
These aren't just animals. They are tactical hunters that use Ice Magic to freeze their prey's feet to the ground. They think like humans, but without the mercy. The battle lasted all night. The snow turned a dark, frozen red. Because of Felo's stupidity, I was forced to fight until my muscles screamed. A wolf caught me on the thigh, and I had to let Lydia heal the gash. Her magic felt slimy and weak, a pale imitation of the power I had once wielded, but it stopped the bleeding.
By dawn, we were exhausted and bloody. Felo looked worse for wear, but he still had the energy to complain. We pushed on, reaching the halfway point of the mountain. The trees were thinning now, replaced by jagged rock and permanent ice. The air is getting thinner, making every breath a struggle, and the smell of sulfur and old frost is growing stronger. The Dragon is close.
I look at the backs of my "comrades" as they stumble through the snow. I tighten my grip on Qelo's hilt, the cold metal grounding me. Between the Dragon, the wolves, and the bastards I'm traveling with, I'm not sure who will survive the summit. But I know one thing: I am not going back to a cage.