Arthur perched on the remnants of a stone arch, his position high and hidden among the shadows.
The night wind blew slowly, carrying fine snowflakes that pierced his facial skin like tiny needles, but he didn't move.
He had become part of that dead architecture, a breathing stone ornament.
Below, in the middle of the square surrounded by half-destroyed walls, Ryan, Yueshu, and another man Arthur didn't know—a warrior with worn leather armor—were sitting around a small campfire.
The fire danced merrily, its orange tongues licking the frozen air, creating a circle of warm light amid the ocean of darkness.
The sound of crackling wood, krak-krek, sounded like soothing music.
However, what tormented Arthur the most wasn't the warmth, but the aroma.
Yueshu was stirring a small pot hanging over the fire. The scent of smoked meat boiled with tubers—perhaps remnants of emergency rations they found—wafted into the air, carried by the wind straight to Arthur's nose.
Arthur yawned. His jaw felt stiff. Saliva pooled in his mouth.
How careless, he muttered softly, his eyes fixed on the spoon Yueshu lifted to his mouth. Lighting a fire that bright… do they think this is a spring picnic?
He saw Ryan laugh, a sound muffled by distance but clearly showing carelessness.
The third man tore a piece of dry bread and dipped it into the stew.
Arthur swallowed, feeling his dry throat rub. There was a strong urge to go down there, to beg or even seize the food.
However, his common sense held his feet back.
In this world, trust was a currency that had inflated to worthlessness.
Appearing suddenly would only make him seen as a threat!
Arthur shook his head hard, trying to dispel the phantom taste of meat from his tongue. He closed his eyes briefly, regulating his breath, trying to kill the hunger with short meditation.
However, as his eyes closed, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
It wasn't because the wind changed direction.
It was instinct!
A silent alarm ringing in his head. The silence around the square suddenly felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Arthur opened his eyes instantly. His gaze sharpened.
He scanned the darkness outside the campfire's light circle.
Those shadows were moving. Dark silhouettes, fluid and soundless, creeping closer from behind ruined walls, from narrow alley gaps, encircling the three men eating.
They wore hooded cloaks darker than night, their fabric absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Their steps made no sound on the snow, as if walking on air.
"Who are you?"
Ryan's voice broke the silence. He had noticed, though late.
He jumped up, his sword drawn in an instant, reflecting the firelight. Yueshu and the third man also rose, backs to the fire, forming a defensive triangle formation.
Their food forgotten, spilled on the ground.
The encirclers didn't answer. They just stood at the border between light and darkness, like ghosts waiting for an invitation to enter. There were five. No, six. They stood still, their hoods completely covering their faces, leaving only darkness where faces should be.
Then, one of them—the figure closest to the fire—raised his hand.
He flicked his wrist.
A clump of black sand, or perhaps ash, was thrown toward the campfire.
FUUSH.
In the blink of an eye, the source of light and warmth vanished completely, as if it had never been there. Thick black smoke billowed, smelling of stinging sulfur.
The world plunged into darkness instantly.
Human eyes need time to adapt from light to dark.
Only the pale moonlight now illuminated the square, piercing through storm cloud gaps, creating dim and deceptive lighting.
Under that cold silver light, the hooded figures charged.
Their movements fast and fluid. Their weapons—curved daggers and short swords—did not gleam. Their metal had been blackened to not reflect moonlight.
"Yueshu, left!" Ryan shouted, parrying two daggers aiming for his stomach. Sparks flew as metal clashed, the only momentary light amid the chaos.
Yueshu, with his Geo Vision, stomped his foot. Small stone walls emerged from the ground, blocking an assassin's attack trying to stab him from the side.
However, these attackers were agile. They leaped over the stone wall, using their momentum to attack from above.
Arthur, from his high hiding place, saw everything with terrifying clarity. He saw their attack pattern.
They were coordinated.
They were trying to separate the targets!
The third man, Ryan and Yueshu's comrade unknown to Arthur, was the unluckiest. He fought bravely, swinging his large axe to keep distance.
However, his weapon was too heavy, too slow to counter the shadows dancing around him.
Two hooded figures circled him.
One in front, drawing his attention with quick feint attacks. Another sneaking behind him, moving in the blind spot.
As the man raised his axe to cleave the enemy in front, he opened a fatal gap in his defense.
The figure behind him shot forward.
SHLICK.
The sound was wet and nauseating.
A long dagger thrust with surgical precision right into the side of the man's neck, between the armor plates and helmet.
The man froze. His axe fell from his limp hands, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He tried to turn, his hand clutching his own neck, trying to stem the gushing flow of life.
Hot blood spurted heavily, black under the moonlight, steaming as it touched the cold night air.
He fell to his knees, then face-first onto the snow. His body spasmed once, then still.
"NO!" Yueshu's shout sounded broken.
He tried to run to help his friend, but he himself was being pushed back by two other attackers.
Seeing that death, something inside Arthur shifted.
Initially, he intended to remain a spectator. However, seeing that cold and efficient slaughter, his disgust overcame his hunger.
And Arthur jumped.
His body glided down from ten meters height, his cloak fluttering behind him like a giant bat's wings. He made no sound as he fell.
In the air, his hand extended to the side, and from inventory void, The Warden's Dawnblade appeared in his grip.
The sword's dull silver blade caught a bit of moonlight, making it look like a sharp piece of ice.
He landed right behind the assassin who had just taken the man's life.
Arthur gave no warning. He swung his sword in one wide and powerful horizontal motion.
ZRAAAK!
The assassin didn't have time to turn.
Arthur's sword cleaved his body from the waist, piercing the black cloak and leather armor as if made of paper. The body split in two, falling in opposite directions, its guts spilling onto its victim's corpse.
Fresh blood splattered Arthur's face, warm and sticky, but his expression remained flat, as cold as the statue he had just left.
Arthur's arrival changed the battle's flow in an instant.
The hooded attackers were surprised. They hadn't accounted for a fourth variable.
Two assassins pressuring Yueshu turned in shock. Arthur didn't waste the moment of confusion. He shot forward, his steps quick and steady on the slippery snow. He thrust his sword into the nearest assassin's chest, piercing his heart in one efficient push.
The man jolted, then slumped off Arthur's sword blade.
The third assassin, realizing his comrade was dead, tried to attack Arthur from the side with his dagger.
Arthur twisted his body, using his heavy sword hilt to smash the assassin's face.
KRAK!
The sound of shattered nose and jaw bones was horrifying.
The assassin staggered back, clutching his crushed face behind the hood.
Arthur continued his motion with a downward diagonal slash, cleaving from neck to chest of the assassin.
Three enemies down in less than ten seconds.
Arthur stood amid the corpses, his breath steady, his sword dripping black blood onto the white snow. He stared at the two remaining attackers—those fighting Ryan.
The two stopped attacking. They saw their comrades turned into minced meat.
They saw Arthur—the strange figure appearing from the sky, standing calmly amid the slaughter with eyes promising further death.
Fear, the emotion they had used as a weapon against their victims, now turned back on them.
Without a single word, without signal, the two remaining assassins turned.
They fled, leaping into the night darkness, vanishing behind ruins as fast as they came, leaving panicked footprints in the snow.
Arthur stared at them in silence, not pursuing. He had no reason for that. Besides, he wasn't a hero seeking absolute justice.
He lowered his sword, letting its tip touch the ground.
Silence descended again on the square, but this time the silence was heavy with the smell of death.
Moonlight dominated again, illuminating the steaming blood vapor from the scattered corpses.
Ryan and Yueshu stood frozen, their chests rising and falling rapidly, cold sweat mixed with blood, both their own and enemies', soaking their faces.
They stared at Arthur with a mix of gratitude, awe, and deep wariness.
Who was this man?
Why did he help?
Arthur ignored their stares.
He walked slowly toward the corpse of the first man killed—their comrade. He stared at the man's pale face, his open eyes staring blankly at the moon. A wasted death, Arthur thought.
Arthur's stomach rumbled again, a long and embarrassing gruuk sound breaking the moment's solemnity.
He let out a long sigh, then stared at the overturned pot near the extinguished campfire. Its contents—the meat and tuber stew—had spilled on the ground, mixed with ash and dirty snow.
Nothing could be salvaged. Damn. Arthur muttered softly, more saddened by the wasted food than the lost lives. Truly wasted.
He sheathed his sword into the inventory void, then turned to look at Ryan and Yueshu.
His face flat, but his eyes conveying exhaustion beyond his physical age.
"Next time," Arthur said, his voice hoarse and heavy, "eat in the dark. Light is a luxury you can't yet buy with your lives."
Without waiting for an answer or thanks, Arthur turned around, his cloak fluttering softly.
He walked away, back into the ruins' shadows, leaving the two survivors to mourn their friend.
…
The next night, in the depths of Chinju Forest, Charles hid on the branch of a giant maple tree.
The air felt cold and damp, filled with the scent of wet earth, moss, and cherry blossoms blooming amid the darkness, a beauty that felt odd in such a silent place.
The full moonlight pierced through canopy gaps, creating patterns of light and shadow dancing on the forest floor, making it hard to distinguish between reality and illusion.
He had spent the entire day scouting the caravan's route, finding the perfect point for an ambush: a sharp bend in the narrow path, where trees grew so dense it forced wagons to slow down.
He had no intention of killing.
Soon after, the sound of heavy wagon wheels creaking, the tramp of soldiers' footsteps, and the faint clink of their armor was heard. He saw flickering torchlight approaching from afar, a small procession moving through the darkness.
As the first wagon, pulled by two horses, began entering the bend, Charles acted.
He snapped his fingers!
A small but sharp explosion occurred on the right side of the road, shattering an old stone lantern and making the soldiers jolt in surprise. "Attack! Alert!" shouted their leader.
As their attention diverted to the right, Charles snapped his fingers again.
This time, a large tree on the left side of the road exploded from its base, falling with a tremendous roar and blocking the road ahead of the caravan, making the horses neigh in panic.
Charles immediately jumped down from the tree, landing silently amid the confusion. He moved like a ghost, blending with the shadows.
At that moment, a panicked samurai suddenly saw him and was startled, and in a flash, he ran toward him, his katana drawn.
Charles didn't face him. He just snapped his fingers as the man passed him.
A small explosion occurred near the samurai's feet, making him trip and fall unconscious.
He kept moving, each snap of his fingers exploding the ground under the archers' feet, making them lose footing.
He then drew his revolver and fired it, but he deliberately didn't aim the revolver at their bodies. His bullets hit sword hilts, dislodging weapons from their owners' grips.
He moved among them, using the tanto he stole on the ship to disable them with strikes to vital points, not with deadly thrusts.
The fight unfolded quickly.
In less than five minutes, all the guards had been disabled, lying unconscious on the ground, without a single life lost.
Charles stood in the middle of the now silent path, his breath slightly gasping. He walked toward the main wagon full of ammunition and crystal crates.
He stared at it for a moment, then with one last finger snap, he exploded it.
BOOM!
The massive explosion illuminated the entire forest with blinding orange light, sending a heat wave that made surrounding trees sway.
Fire blazed, devouring all the valuable supplies.
Before leaving, he approached one of the unconscious samurai and took his clan badge from his armor.
Furina was still kneeling on the compacted snow.
Her knees wet and cold, but she didn't feel it.
Before her, the two small children stared at her with wide eyes reflecting pure admiration, as if they had just seen the sun rise at midnight.
Furina's hand, usually manicured and only touching crystal goblets or scepters, now extended touching their heads covered in rough wool hats.
"Hahahaha..."
The laughter escaped her lips. It wasn't the laughter trained in front of a mirror for five hundred years. Nor was it the hysterical laughter hiding fear of prophecy. But a clear, spontaneous, and slightly trembling laughter.
Her voice like a small silver bell dropped on a marble floor; fragile, but echoing beautifully.
Her shoulders lifted lightly, the world's burden that usually crushed her seeming to evaporate momentarily with her breath vapor.
For one precious second, she wasn't Focalors, wasn't the deceiver, wasn't the victim. She was just Furina, a girl relieved because no one died today.
She stroked the children's hair, feeling the rough wool texture under her glove.
"You two are so brave," she whispered, her smile blooming genuine, without mask, without pretense. "Truly tough audience for an unexpected performance, aren't you?"
The children smiled shyly, their cheeks flushed from cold looking more alive than anything in this dead city.
Furina then slowly stood. Her joints protested softly, reminding her that her body was just ordinary human flesh vulnerable to cold.
She brushed her skirt, trying to restore some dignity to her disheveled appearance, then shifted her gaze to the other figure standing there.
Charlotte.
The Steambird journalist was kneeling in the snow, frantically gathering the canned food that had scattered when the Golem appeared. Her hands moved quick and efficient, but there was a clear tremor of exhaustion. Her iconic red hat tilted slightly, and her camera lens—her monocle of truth—fogged by her own breath.
"What are you doing here, Charlotte?" Furina asked. Her voice tried to return to an authoritative tone, but sounded softer, more tired. "On this surface... where the wind can freeze words before they're spoken?"
Charlotte looked up, clutching three tomato soup cans and a pack of petrified dry bread to her chest. Her turquoise eyes, usually sparkling in search of exclusive news, now dimmed by survival reality.
"Gathering food, Lady Furina," she answered. Her voice practical, without the sensational spice she usually used in her articles.
She stuffed the cans into her already bulging bag.
"Supplies below are depleting faster than we anticipated. We need every crumb, every can, every grain to... to survive for an indefinite time."
The words indefinite hung in the air, heavy and frightening. It was a polite way to say forever, or at least, until we all die.
Furina felt a cold stab in her chest unrelated to the air temperature.
She looked around, toward the empty streets, toward the dark windows staring at them like dead people's eyes.
"Where did the others go?" she asked, though part of her heart already suspected the answer. "This city... where is everyone?"
Charlotte stood, tightening her bag strap. She pointed toward a large manhole in the middle of the square, its iron cover shifted open, revealing gaping darkness to the earth's belly.
"They're all underground in Fontaine, Lady. In Fleuve Cendre, and the deeper ancient sewers," Charlotte answered. Her face grim. "That's the only safe place. There, geothermal heat still remains a little. There, the thick walls protect us from the wind and... from things roaming the surface."
Underground.
Furina imagined her people. People who once wore silk gowns and tailcoats, sipping tea at roadside cafes, debating law and art under the sun.
Now they huddled in darkness, among rats and moss, in a place they once considered society's trash.
Fleuve Cendre, now the last ark for the remnants of humanity.
"I see..." Furina muttered.
She looked up, staring at the sky covered in thick gray clouds.
No sun.
No Celestia watching.
Only cold emptiness. She felt very small. She felt very powerless.
However, as she saw Charlotte bending again to pick up a frozen apple, something shifted inside Furina.
A small fire, which she thought had extinguished when she stepped down from the judgment seat, reignited.
She stepped forward. Her hand extended and picked up the frozen apple before Charlotte could reach it.
"I'll help," Furina said.
Charlotte froze. She stared at Furina's hand holding the apple, the smooth hand. Then she stared at Furina's face, searching for signs that this was a joke, or perhaps an eccentric act from the former celebrity.
"Are you sure, Lady?" Charlotte asked hesitantly. "I mean... this is dirty work. It's dangerous. And... You..."
She didn't finish her sentence.
Furina didn't immediately answer. She stared into the distance, toward the skeleton of Opera Epiclese towering on the horizon.
The building looked pitiful now, stripped of its grandeur, but it still stood.
Furina's lips curved into a smile.
That smile was different from the genuine smile she gave the children earlier. This smile was more measured, sharper, more... theatrical.
But behind that theater, there was a layer of newly forged steel.
"Yes, it's fine," she said softly.
She turned to look at Charlotte. Her posture changed. Her back straight, her chin lifted with arrogant but elegant poise. Her heterochromatic eyes shone with a glint of authority she had trained for five centuries, a charisma capable of silencing the rowdiest crowd.
She was no longer the girl shivering and frightened amid the snow. She donned her mask again. But this time, the mask wasn't to deceive gods or deceive fate.
The mask was to give hope to humans.
"Besides," she said, her voice resonating with power not from Gnosis or Vision, but from the depths of her own shattered and reassembled soul.
"I am your Archon."
…
A/N: It's normal if you notice slightly odd changes like the weapons used by the characters. Well, I think not all characters only have one weapon. I think characters, especially in a fantasy world, must have backup weapons, for example not as their main weapon. (Actually, I just forgot, and too lazy to check previous chapters)
Btw, I'm still expecting comments!
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https://www.pâtreon.com/Junxt
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