RevenGers

Blood.

It was everywhere. Thick, crimson pools covered the ground, dripping from unseen heights, staining his hands, his clothes, his face. The air reeked of iron.

Sarion ran, breath ragged, heart pounding. His feet splashed through the endless red, but no matter how far he moved, the blood never ended. He looked around—bodies lay scattered, faceless figures, lifeless and broken. Somewhere in the distance, a familiar voice cried out. His sister? His mother? He turned toward the sound, but darkness swallowed it whole.

Then he saw it.

A tower, black as night, looming over the endless blood. Its presence sent chills through him. At its peak stood a crow, massive and monstrous, its beady eyes locked onto him. It opened its beak, and the sound that came out wasn't a caw—it was a deep, grating echo that shook the world. The tower seemed to stretch higher, consuming the sky itself.

Run.

He didn't know where the thought came from, but his legs obeyed. He turned away from the Black Tower, from the crow's piercing gaze, and ran.

Through the crimson-soaked land, past the corpses, toward a wolf standing in the distance. It wasn't a normal wolf—it was massive, its black fur streaked with shadows, its red eyes burning with something fierce. It stood firm, unshaken by the chaos around them. Behind it, a sword was planted in the ground, glinting under an unseen light.

The crow moved.

Its wings spread wide, and with one powerful flap, smaller crows burst from its body like living shadows. They screeched, their cries splitting the air as they dived toward him.

Sarion had no choice.

He reached out, fingers grasping the hilt of the sword. The moment his hand wrapped around it, a pulse shot through his body. The ground beneath him trembled. The weight of the blade in his hands felt right—like it belonged there.

The crows came closer.

He raised the sword.

And then—

Sarion's breath came in ragged gasps as his eyes shot open. His chest heaved, his fingers twitching as if still gripping the sword from his dream. The lingering echoes of blood, the tower, the monstrous crow—it all clung to his mind like a nightmare refusing to fade.

For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was still dreaming. His vision swam, his surroundings unfamiliar at first. Slowly, as his breathing steadied, he recognized the land around him. Right outside the village.

A small campfire crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows across the ground. He shifted slightly, feeling the rough earth beneath him. His body ached, a dull soreness settling into his limbs.

Then, his eyes fell on the two figures sitting close to the fire.

Leif was there, sitting with his arms crossed, watching him with a neutral expression. But it wasn't just him. Another man was present—The Shadow Assassin.

Both of them turned to look at him as he woke.

Leif touched his blonde beard and turned away, feeling ashamed. He couldn't look Sarion in the eyes. He had been there, and yet he couldn't save the young boy's sister.

The Shadow Assassin, on the other hand, stared at him, his crimson eyes unreadable behind the wolf-like helmet. Sarion could sense the hesitation, the struggle to find the right words. After a moment, The Shadow Assassin shifted slightly, tapping his fingers against the hilt of his bloodstained short sword—a restless, almost unconscious movement. Then, without any change in his tone, he finally spoke.

"Are you alright?"

Sarion opened his mouth, but no words came out. His throat felt dry, his body weak. He didn't know how to answer. Was he alright? His mother was dead. His sister was gone. His home… ruined.

He clenched his fists, his small fingers trembling. He wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers, but all he could do was lower his head and shake it.

The Shadow Assassin exhaled through his helmet, the sound barely audible. He glanced at Leif, who still refused to look at the boy. A moment of silence stretched between them before The Shadow Assassin did something unexpected. He reached into his belt and pulled out a small, wrapped ration. Without a word, he extended it toward Sarion.

The boy looked at it, confused. It wasn't much—just a simple gesture—but somehow, it made his chest tighten. His vision blurred for a second, and before he even realized it, he had taken the food with unsteady hands.

"…Eat," The Shadow Assassin muttered, before shifting his gaze elsewhere, as if pretending the moment never happened.

Sarion took the ration without hesitation, his fingers brushing against the rough fabric of the wrapping. Normally, he would have been frozen in fear, his heart pounding just from being this close to The Shadow Assassin. The man was infamous—spoken of in hushed whispers across Decartium. He was supposed to be the ultimate villain, the unseen blade that struck without warning. If Sarion had met him just days ago, he would have screamed, cowered, or at least been filled with awe and terror.

But now?

Now, he felt nothing.

His emotions felt dulled, like a thick fog had settled over his heart. He wasn't afraid, wasn't even surprised. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was everything that had happened. Or maybe… he just didn't care anymore. The same man he had been told to fear was now sitting across from him, offering food and, in his own strange way, trying to console him.

Sarion swallowed, then, before he could stop himself, he asked, "…Why?"

The Shadow Assassin tilted his head slightly, his glowing red eyes unreadable behind his wolf-like helmet. "Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?" Sarion's voice came out smaller than he expected. He wasn't sure what answer he wanted to hear, but he knew what he had always been told—villains didn't help people.

The Shadow Assassin didn't hesitate. "Because I want to help as much as I can." His tone was calm, firm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "That's all there is to it."

There was no hidden meaning, no malice in his words. Sarion could feel it. It was real.

And that was what he couldn't understand.

The villain had turned out to be a hero.

Leif stayed silent, watching from the side. He tried not to look at Sarion, but his eyes kept drifting back, stealing glances when he thought the boy wouldn't notice. His hands curled into fists, his jaw tightening, but he didn't say a word.

The Shadow Assassin, however, had no hesitation. "Is there something you want right now?" His voice was quiet but steady.

Sarion sniffled, rubbing his sleeve over his eyes. "Yeah…" His voice was small, shaking. "I wanna see my dad." He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I left him fighting one of the Black Tower guys… I don't know if—" He hesitated, his breath hitching. "I don't know if he's okay."

Leif's shoulders dropped slightly. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but Sarion caught it. That single gesture nearly shattered him. He wanted to ask what it meant. He wanted to scream at Leif, to demand the truth—but he was young, and he wanted to believe.

Maybe his father survived. Maybe Leif didn't mean anything by it. Maybe he was just reading too much into it.

The Shadow Assassin didn't let him hold onto that hope.

"He's gone," the assassin stated, his voice devoid of cruelty, but also without the false kindness of empty reassurance.

The words struck like a blade through Sarion's chest. His breath caught. His vision blurred. And then, the weight of it all came crashing down.

Sarion broke.

Tears streamed down his face, his small body shaking as the sobs tore through him. He gasped for air between cries, the pain suffocating, unbearable. His father was gone.

The Shadow Assassin shifted awkwardly. He wasn't used to this—to comforting someone. For a moment, he seemed unsure, his gauntleted hands twitching slightly as if debating what to do. But then, without a word, he moved closer and pulled Sarion into a firm, steady embrace.

Sarion buried his face against the cold, unyielding armor, his fingers clutching at the dark metal as he sobbed. The Shadow Assassin held him there, saying nothing, simply letting the child grieve.

...

As they walked through the burned village, the three figures moved in silence. A child led the way, his small frame tense, his steps quick but hesitant. Behind him, a man clad in dark metal followed, his presence heavy and unreadable beneath his ominous helmet. Beside him, another man walked in adventurer-styled clothing, his fists clenched at his sides.

The night was eerily quiet, save for the occasional crackle of lingering embers. The scent of fire and burned wood filled the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with something far worse—the iron tang of blood, the stench of death. Smoke still clung to the ruins, curling toward the sky where the moon hung high, casting a pale, silver glow over the devastation. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the scorched ground, flickering with the dying flames, making the scene feel unreal, like a nightmare that refused to end.

Corpses lay scattered, some charred beyond recognition, others left where they had fallen. Among the ruins, the cries of the grieving echoed—families mourning, searching for loved ones who would never answer. Sarion recognized a few faces, people he had seen nearly every day. Neighbors. Friends.

But words escaped him. He didn't know what to say, what to feel. His chest ached, but no tears came. Instead, he simply turned away and kept walking, forcing himself to move forward.

The Shadow Assassin and Leif trailed behind him, their gazes sweeping over the destruction. No one could see what Shadow felt behind his helmet, but Leif… Leif's emotions were clear. His eyes burned with anger, his jaw clenched with sorrow. He wanted to say something—curse, rage, anything—but no words would change what had already happened.

And so, they walked on, their footsteps the only sound beneath the mourning cries of the dead and the living alike.

When they finally reached the house, it stood eerily untouched. From the front, there wasn't a single sign of damage—no broken windows, no scorch marks, nothing to show the destruction that had consumed the rest of the village. But Sarion didn't look too long. He knew the truth. The backyard was gone, completely destroyed. And his mother's body was still there.

He swallowed hard and turned slightly, glancing up at the Shadow Assassin. His small hands clenched at his sides before he hesitantly asked, "C-Can we… maybe bury her?" His voice was quiet, uncertain. There was hope in it, but also a deep sadness, like he already knew the answer.

The Shadow Assassin looked down at him for a long moment before shaking his head. "We can't," he said simply. "We have to leave soon, and burying the dead takes time. I could rush it, but that wouldn't be respectful to her."

Sarion's lips trembled, but he didn't argue. He just nodded, eyes downcast, and turned back toward the door.

Leif shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing against his blonde beard as if debating whether to say something. The words sat on the tip of his tongue—he wanted to tell the Shadow Assassin to be more thoughtful, to say something else, something softer. But in the end, he didn't.

Instead, he silently followed as Sarion stepped inside, and the Shadow Assassin entered right behind them.

...

Inside, it was dark.

Sarion's eyes adjusted slowly, and in the dim light, he caught a glimpse of a corpse—a young man, headless, sprawled lifelessly on the floor. A member of the Black Tower. Someone who had tormented him greatly. He ignored it.

Without hesitation, he made his way to the stairs, stepping over blood and bodies without a second glance. He didn't stop. He didn't react. He just climbed, one step after another, until he reached the second floor.

The dining room was in ruins. Rubble and broken furniture littered the space, shattered glass glinting faintly beneath the moonlight that streamed through a cracked window. Destruction was everywhere. And in the midst of it all, two corpses lay still—one belonged to a Black Tower member. The other was his father's.

Sarion's tears had run dry. There was nothing left.

He stepped forward, closer to his father's lifeless body.

Sarion knelt beside his father's body, his small hands trembling as he reached out. His fingers brushed against the cooling skin of his forehead, and for a moment, he hesitated—his breath shaky, uneven. Then, slowly, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against his father's forehead.

A deep, aching sadness sat heavy in his chest, raw and suffocating. It clawed at him, an unbearable weight crushing his heart. He wanted to cry, but there were no tears left. Only emptiness.

But then, as his gaze drifted from his father to the other corpse—the Black Tower member sprawled nearby—that emptiness began to shift.

Sorrow twisted into something else. Something sharper. Something hotter.

His fingers clenched into fists. His chest tightened. His breathing grew uneven, shallow. The sadness that had left him hollow moments ago was slowly morphing into something far more dangerous. Hatred.

The longer he stared at the man who had stolen his father's life, the more the grief inside him burned away, replaced by a quiet, simmering fury. His small body trembled—not with sorrow, but with rage.

Leif, standing in the background, felt his chest tighten painfully. He had failed. Sarion's parents were gone. His sister was lost. And now, Sarion was truly alone in the world.

The Shadow Assassin remained silent, his wolf-like helmet giving away nothing. But behind that dark metal, even he felt the weight of the moment.

Sarion's small hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His body trembled, but it wasn't from sadness anymore—it was something else, something hotter, something that made his heart pound so hard it hurt. His chest felt tight, his breath sharp and uneven. He hated this feeling, hated that he was too weak to do anything. If he had been stronger, maybe his father wouldn't be lying here. Maybe his mother wouldn't be dead in the backyard. Maybe his sister wouldn't be—

His jaw tightened, and he turned sharply to the Shadow Assassin. His voice was quiet, but it didn't waver.

"Can I ask something of you?"

The Shadow Assassin shifted slightly, tilting his head toward him. Then, after a brief pause, he gave a small nod.

Sarion took a deep breath, his eyes burning with something new. "You're strong, right?"

The Shadow Assassin hesitated. It wasn't the kind of question he usually answered. Strength was a complicated thing, after all. But he understood what Sarion was really asking. Still, he felt a little awkward admitting it outright, so he simply responded, "I'm Rank 8 Fighter… if that's what you're asking."

Sarion didn't know much about ranks, but even he understood what that meant. Rank 8 was beyond his imagination. It was the kind of strength that only existed in legends, the kind that no normal person could ever hope to reach.

That meant…

"Then…" Sarion swallowed, his voice quieter now. "Can you train me?" His fingers curled tighter, his knuckles going white. "So I can get revenge on them… on the Black Tower?"

Leif, standing in the background, stiffened slightly. His heart sank.

He had known this was coming. He had seen it in Sarion's eyes the moment he looked at that corpse. But hearing the words out loud made it feel real.

Revenge.

Sarion was just a child. He shouldn't be saying things like this. He shouldn't have to think about revenge or strength or the people who had taken everything from him. He should be crying in someone's arms, safe, comforted. But instead, here he was, standing in the ruins of his home, making a request no child should ever have to make.

Leif lowered his gaze. He wanted to say something—wanted to stop this before it went too far. But what could he say? What right did he have?

He had failed to protect Sarion's family.

Now, he could only watch as the boy he had let down stepped onto a path he might never return from.

The Shadow Assassin didn't reply right away. Instead, he stood there, silent, the dim light of the ruined house casting shadows over his dark metal armor. His wolf-like helmet obscured his expression, but when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual—calm, steady, but carrying a weight that only experience could give.

"Revenge on the Black Tower…" he murmured. "You do understand what you're asking, don't you?"

He took a step closer, his gauntlets faintly clinking as he crossed his arms. "The Black Tower isn't just some small group of killers. Even the Great Empire would struggle to deal with them. Their leader, the Dark Crow, is known as the strongest Arts User in the world. And every single one of them is an Arts User—fighters like you and me, we're naturally weaker against them. It's a losing battle from the start."

His words weren't cruel. They weren't meant to scare Sarion, only to make him understand. "If you choose this path… it won't just be hard. It'll be hopeless. Are you truly ready for that?"

Sarion didn't hesitate. His hands clenched at his sides, his small frame trembling—not with fear, but with something far heavier. "They took my family from me," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I can't get them back… but they also took my sister." His breath hitched, but he forced himself to continue. "She… she's still alive. There's a chance." He raised his gaze, staring up at the Shadow Assassin. "I have to try."

The room was silent. Then, after a long moment, the Shadow Assassin gave a small nod.

"Alright." That was all he said. No unnecessary words, no false hope. Just a simple agreement.

Leif lowered his gaze, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. He wasn't happy about this—he wasn't sure if anyone should be. But he also knew he had no right to argue.

Because wasn't this the same path he was walking?

Wasn't the Shadow Assassin doing the same?

Neither of them had turned away from revenge, so what right did they have to tell Sarion not to do the same?

The Shadow Assassin uncharacteristically spoke again, his voice carrying a rare softness beneath the usual edge.

"You're still young," he said, crossing his arms. "A young lord." His wolf-like helmet tilted slightly as he glanced toward the ruined village. "The village is in ruins, sure. But you're still a noble. You could rebuild."

Sarion blinked, surprised. The Shadow Assassin wasn't the kind of man he imagined giving this sort of advice.

The assassin continued, "Your immediate family is gone. But your uncles, your aunts, your grandparents—they're all still alive, aren't they? They're safe. You could go to them. You could live a different life." His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable in it. "If you leave with us, that's it. You won't be a kid anymore. You won't be a noble. No titles, no protection, no easy life. Just this path you're asking for."

Sarion bit his lip, hesitating.

His whole life, he'd been told about the Shadow Assassin—the infamous villain of Decartium. The man who lurked in the dark, striking fear into hearts with nothing but his name. But now, that same man was standing in front of him, telling him to think. To reconsider.

It almost felt unreal.

For a second, doubt crept in. His family… They were still out there. He could go to them. He could live safely. He could wake up one day and not have to see dead bodies or burned homes.

But then he remembered.

He remembered his mother's lifeless body in the backyard. His father's bloodied corpse in the dining room. The screams, the fire, the pain.

His hands clenched into fists.

"I don't care about an easy life," he said, his voice small but firm. "I don't wanna be a noble. I don't wanna sit somewhere safe while they get away with this." He swallowed. "They took everything. But they didn't take my sister. She's still alive. And I… I have to do something."

His chest ached, but his mind was clear. This was the path he had to take.

The Shadow Assassin was quiet for a moment, then nodded. This time, it wasn't just a simple acknowledgment.

"Alright," he said. "I'll train you."

The Shadow Assassin suddenly let out a quiet, "Ah," as if something had just occurred to him. He shifted slightly, arms still crossed over his dark armor.

"I should apologize," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I might not be able to train you myself. I have… other responsibilities."

Sarion blinked up at him, confusion flickering across his tired face.

But before he could say anything, the assassin tilted his head toward Leif. "He can train you instead," he said simply. "He's not Rank 8, but Rank 6 is still strong enough."

Leif stiffened. "Wait—"

He hadn't been expecting that.

Sarion, on the other hand, barely hesitated. He turned toward Leif, his expression unreadable. Then, with the same quiet determination he had shown before, he nodded.

"That's fine," he said. "As long as I get stronger."

Leif sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He supposed he had no reason to refuse. But he couldn't help but glance toward the Shadow Assassin.

That guy… He always had a way of throwing things onto him without warning.

The Shadow Assassin exhaled lightly. "It's time to move," he said, his voice steady. "We should leave before the guards arrive."

Sarion didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. He just followed.

—

The night stretched on as they rode away from the ruined village. The wind carried the lingering scent of fire and ash, mixing with the crisp air of the open road.

The Shadow Assassin rode ahead on a striking black horse, its coat gleaming under the pale moonlight. It moved with a quiet grace, as if it belonged to the shadows themselves.

Leif followed behind on a more ordinary brown horse, steady and reliable. Seated in front of him was Sarion, small against the weight of everything he had lost, his hands gripping the saddle tightly.

He looked back once.

Transton village grew smaller and smaller, swallowed by the night. The place where he was born. The place where his family had died.

Then, slowly, he turned away from it.

—End of Chapter.