The clash of steel reverberated through the throne room, the air thick with tension. At its center stood a lone figure wreathed in darkness, a palpable aura of malice radiating from him. Around him, a circle of warriors fought with fierce determination, their blades and spells colliding with an enemy who refused to yield.
Noah’s heart pounded in time with the battle. His younger brother, Isaac, stood at the forefront, swinging twin greatswords in punishing arcs, his wounds knitting shut almost as soon as they formed. A pink-haired archer loosed flaming arrows, each scorching projectile forcing their foe to twist and dodge. Another ally darted in and out of the fray, orange hair flashing, cursing and binding their enemy’s every move with calculated strikes. Across the battlefield, lightning flared from a vampiric figure’s fingertips, crackling across stone and paralyzing their adversary just long enough for another blow to land. Meanwhile, a white-haired priest moved among them, weaving healing magic that sealed wounds and restored strength.
Noah gripped his sword, the weapon pulsing with a strange light. With a battle cry, he lunged. His blade was a hair’s breadth from striking the dark figure’s heart when everything dissolved into splinters of reality.
He jolted awake, breath ragged, head pounding. The vivid dream fled from his mind like vapor, leaving behind an ache of longing he could not place. Rubbing his temples, he tried to grasp the fragments of what he’d seen, only to feel them slip further away, leaving him with the hollow certainty that something crucial had vanished.
Noah rose from the bed with a groan, limbs heavy and vision swimming. Each step sent a dull ache through his body, but he dragged himself toward the mirror. The reflection offered no comfort: messy black hair, pale skin marred by dark splotches that pulsed with pain, and two white, spiraled horns perched on his head. A hacking cough seized him, splattering blood against the glass. He wiped it away with a trembling sleeve, his emerald eyes clouded with fatigue. For fifteen, he felt dangerously close to collapsing under his own weight.
He stumbled into the hallway, gripping the banister for balance. A sudden kick to the back of his leg nearly sent him tumbling.
“You know, a responsible older brother would actually check on his sick sister,” came Isaac’s voice.
Noah glanced over his shoulder. Eight-year-old Isaac stood there, arms crossed. His stark white hair and black horns set him apart from Noah’s darker features, and his mismatched eyes—one blood-red, one emerald green with a peculiar symbol—shone with impatience.
Noah rubbed his throbbing leg. “I’m not exactly in great shape myself, you know.”
Isaac scoffed. “You’re always sick. Isabelle’s hardly moved in a week. You’re supposed to be the older brother.”
Pressing a hand to his temple, Noah sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.”
He shuffled to Isabelle’s room, feeling every step like a weight he could barely lift. Inside, the space was modest but warm, two beds close together—one unoccupied, the other holding a small, frail figure. Isabelle lay curled beneath the blankets, white hair spilling across the pillow, the same horns as Isaac curling delicately atop her head. Glasses rested untouched on the nearby table, a reminder of days spent too weak to wear them.
Noah knelt beside her, heart sinking at how small and pale she looked. When Isabelle’s eyes flickered open—one blood-red with an X-shaped mark, the other emerald—he forced a comforting smile.
“Hey,” he whispered, trying to mask the concern in his voice.
She managed a faint exhale. “Noah… I’m so tired.”
“You’ll be back on your feet soon,” he murmured, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. “You’re strong.”
Isabelle’s eyes fluttered closed, each shallow breath underscoring her frailty. Noah sat there for a moment, heart twisting with helplessness. From the doorway, Isaac’s concern hung in the air.
“She’ll be okay, right?” Isaac asked, his earlier sharpness replaced by worry.
Noah hesitated. He brushed a stray lock of hair from Isabelle’s forehead. “Yeah… she will.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Isaac murmured, turning sharply and heading downstairs. The sting of his words made Noah’s chest tighten. He lingered a moment longer, watching Isabelle’s still form, before quietly following.
Downstairs, the family had gathered for breakfast, the aroma of homemade dishes filling the room. Despite their noble status, their mother always insisted on cooking. She offered Noah a gentle smile as he entered, though concern flickered in her eyes.
“I’m skipping breakfast,” Noah said, lifting the sword from its wall mount. The polished hilt glinted in the morning light. “I’ll be training in the forest.”
His father, seated at the head of the table, frowned. “Don’t push yourself too hard. You’re already a worthy heir to this family—strength isn’t everything.”
Noah’s grip tightened on the sword. The word heir felt like a burden he couldn’t shake. “I need to get stronger,” he said, frustration threading through his voice. “The Aegis Academy exams are soon, and I intend to pass.”
Silence settled. They all understood Noah’s determination—and his limitations. Finally, his mother spoke, her tone kind yet unyielding. “All right. But visit Ava before you go. She’ll want to see you.”
Noah forced a small, reassuring smile. “I will.”
He shouldered his sword and stepped out of the manor, letting the cool morning breeze wash over him. But the moment his feet touched the cobblestones, the whispers began—quiet, yet impossible to ignore. The townsfolk were talking again. They always did.
“He doesn’t look well…”
“Poor health for so long—how can he ever lead?”
“What will happen when his father passes soon? Can he even take the mantle?”
Some spoke softly, with genuine concern, while others’ words cut sharper.
“Maybe it would be better if Isaac took his place.”
“Can you imagine him as ruler? He can barely stand on his own most days.”
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Noah clenched his jaw, heart aching as he walked through the village. He knew exactly how they saw him, the sickly heir, a constant disappointment. They might acknowledge his intellect and care for the people, but it was never enough. Strength was what truly mattered, and his body failed him at every turn.
Some even whispered that they wished for his death—not from cruelty, but because they believed Isaac, strong and healthy, would make a better ruler. The weight of their expectations pressed heavily on Noah’s shoulders, each step feeling more burdensome than the last.
Still, he pressed on, determined to prove them all wrong—and himself. Approaching the forest of álfheimr, he thought about its four ruling families. His own—the Fafnirs—governed a diverse population, welcoming many races. The Starbells, meanwhile, ruled elves and fairies; his fiancée, Ava, came from that lineage, and their betrothal had strengthened ties between their two realms. The reminder of her eased his tension, if only for a moment.
His thoughts turned grim when he recalled Eldenwood, once a proud demi-human territory now lying in ruins after a criminal onslaught. Its survivors had fled to the Fafnirs for refuge. Then there was the Black Witch’s domain—a segment of the forest claimed by a being so formidable no one dared question her sovereignty.
Towering trees cast long shadows as Noah gripped his sword, every doubt and expectation weighing down on him. He had to prove himself—not just to his family or the townsfolk, but to the part of him that still believed he could succeed.
Venturing deeper, even mundane creatures like boars and slimes tested him, each swing of his blade draining more of his strength than it should. Still, he refused to turn back empty-handed. Pushing onward, he glimpsed a gathering through the foliage.
He ducked behind a tree, heart hammering. Four figures stood in hushed conversation. One wore a black cloak, red gloves, and a sinister plague doctor’s mask. Beside him was a young girl—no older than Isaac—her small frame mostly hidden by a brown cloak and a steampunk mask. Another, with dirty blonde hair, had a fox mask and rested a katana at his side. The last was clad in armor, neon-green hair glinting in the gloom, orange eyes alert.
Noah swallowed hard. He recognized the mask, that plague doctor’s mask belonged to the leader of The Crows—a criminal group whispered to herald the next apocalypse.
The most disturbing rumor tied to them involved a man dressed in all white, who had been present in every recorded apocalypse in history. Seven apocalypses had already scarred the world, each one led by an individual who sought to bring about destruction. And now, standing before him, was one of the very people responsible for the attack on the Eldenwood territory.
The leader’s voice was steady, cutting through the silence. “It seems we have a visitor. Faker, deal with him.”
Noah’s heart slammed against his ribs as the neon-haired man—Faker—turned, a cruel smile twisting his lips. In a blur of speed, Faker lunged, his sword flaring with emerald light. He cleaved the tree Noah hid behind cleanly in two, the blade missing Noah’s head by inches. Splinters rained down, a testament to Faker’s ferocious power.
“So this is the failed son of the Fafnir family,” Faker sneered, stepping closer. “Hey, boss, we’re here for the brother, right? Mind if I kill this one?”
Unmoved, the black-cloaked leader gave a dismissive nod. “He’s not even worth feeding to Lupin. Inari, Labyrinth—come.”
Noah froze at the gravity of the situation. He was alone, outmatched, facing one of the deadliest members of The Crows. He could barely handle common beasts; how could he stand against this?
Faker’s grin broadened as he drew his sword, its green glow intensifying. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with your family, too. You’ll all meet again soon enough, on the other side.” His orange eyes gleamed with sadistic delight. “But I’m feeling generous. I’ll give you one chance—try to kill me.”
Noah’s hands trembled around his hilt, every breath ragged. Pain thrummed through his body, but the thought of giving in was unbearable. He forced himself upright, funneling what little strength he had into his weapon.
Faker’s laugh echoed through the trees. “Come on then. Show me what the ‘failed son’ can do.”
Noah’s heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, his breath shallow and ragged as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had one shot, one opportunity. To seize what he wanted, in that one moment. He would make sure to capture it, he wouldn't let it slip.
Noah’s vision blurred as he steadied his blade, its weight nearly too much for his trembling hands. His body screamed for him to stop, but his will refused to yield. Letting out a roar of defiance, he lunged forward.
Everything seemed to slow. Each step felt like trudging through mud, but he fought past the fatigue, slashing with every last scrap of strength. For an instant, he thought he’d succeeded—his sword sliced cleanly through Faker’s neck.
Faker’s head hit the ground with a heavy thud, rolling to Noah’s feet. Hope flared inside him—had he actually won?
Then the horror began.
The headless body didn’t collapse. Instead, the torso lifted its hands and began to clap, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the forest. On the ground, the severed head writhed and tore itself into crawling maggots. They slithered over Faker’s legs and torso, piecing themselves back together until his face reformed in a sickening display. His cruel smile appeared as though nothing had happened.
“I’m sorry to inform you,” Faker said lightly, “no matter how many times this vessel falls apart, you’ll never kill me.”
Dread twisted in Noah’s chest. Still, he refused to stand down. With a ragged cry, he swung again and again, each blow barely scratching Faker’s shifting flesh. Every wound healed the moment it opened. Before long, Noah’s strikes weakened, reduced to desperate taps.
“Pathetic,” Faker sneered. “Stop flailing around. A wretch without an ability should learn when to give up.” He raised his sword, emerald light dancing across its length. “Ability: Enchanter.”
In one swift motion, Faker swung. Green light flashed, and Noah gaped as the blade of his own sword clattered to the ground, severed cleanly from its hilt.
Faker tilted his head, wearing a sadistic grin. “Any last words?”
Noah’s mind whirled. He was out of strength and options, his sword destroyed, yet he couldn’t surrender. His family needed him. Summoning what little resolve he had left, he lifted his eyes, a small flame of defiance still burning.
“Damn you,” Noah hissed, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “I refuse to giv—”
He never finished. A blinding surge of pain tore through his chest. Numb disbelief crept over him as he glanced down, seeing Faker’s hand buried deep in his torso, fingers curled around his heart. Time seemed to slow, every second stretching into an eternity of horror.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Faker murmured, his breath hot against Noah’s ear. His grip tightened on the thudding organ. “The so-called heir of the Fafnir family, killed so easily.”
With a chilling crack, Faker crushed Noah’s heart. The agony was unimaginable, a fire that devoured his senses. Noah collapsed to the ground in a heap, his vision already fading at the edges. A coppery taste filled his mouth, and he watched his blood spatter across the forest floor.
“Rest in peace, failed son of the Fafnir family,” Faker said, flicking the blood from his hand as though Noah were nothing more than a stain. Then he turned and vanished, his footsteps slowly disappearing into the hush of the trees.
Noah’s world blurred, sound and color draining away. A single thought remained, echoing in the lonely darkness closing in.
I wasn’t strong enough…
Hours passed in the hush of the forest, moonlight filtering through towering branches to illuminate the gnarled roots where Noah’s still form lay. His face was pale, eyes closed, blood dried against torn clothing—silent proof of the violence that had taken place.
Footsteps broke the quiet. A child, cloaked in black robes, stepped forward. His skin was as pale as starlight, and golden-blonde hair fell in soft waves around the mask that concealed the upper half of his face. Small, feathery wings extended from his back, catching the faint light and giving him an unearthly, angelic presence.
He paused over Noah’s body, tilting his head in mild curiosity—like an art collector appraising a rare piece. “A shame…” His voice was gentle, tinged with melancholy. “You weren’t the one I intended to make a hero. But I suppose you’ll have to do.”
Raising one hand, he murmured, “Ability activate… Miracle.”
From the tips of his fingers, a single droplet of liquid gold formed, shimmering with divine radiance. It hovered in the air for an instant before descending onto Noah’s forehead. As it sank into his skin, a faint glow spread across Noah’s body. A moment later, his eyes fluttered open, bewilderment, and a flicker of hope stirring in their depths as he stared into the dim forest.
