1st Person Pov : Kaito
The moon hung pale above Korvath, its light slicing through the shattered windows of the Chancellor's quarters. I could still smell the smoke of the city—the blood, the ash, the fear that lingered in every breath. And in the center of it all… he stood. Valerius Montara. Smiling. Preaching peace while drowning us in deceit.
I didn't bother hiding this time.
The guards at the outer gate saw me first.
"You there—stop!" one shouted, sword raised.
I didn't. I walked straight through them.
The first man lunged. My blade met his throat before he could even exhale.
The second guard screamed, steel clanging in panic.
Three strikes. Three bodies.
Blood pooled in the courtyard stones like spilled ink.
There was no stealth tonight. No shadows. Only judgment.
I kept walking—every step deliberate, heavy, final.
More guards poured out of the Chancellor's hall, shields raised. They thought numbers would save them.
They were wrong.
I cut through them like breath through frost.
The rhythm came back to me—the old instinct from Bustleburg, from the nights when mercy had no place.
I didn't block. I didn't parry.
Every swing was a death sentence.
When the last of them fell, I kicked open the doors.
The Chancellor's quarters were opulent—red curtains, golden trim, polished marble floor now slick with blood. Montara was standing near the window, hands clasped behind his back as if admiring the night.
He turned, calm and unhurried.
"Ah," he said, his voice smooth. "I was wondering when you would arrive, child of Bustleburg."
I froze for a heartbeat. The name twisted something deep in me.
"You remember," I said.
"How could I forget?" His lips curved into that same vile smile I remembered from the flames. "Your city was… necessary. A test. And look how beautifully it burned."
I gripped my sword so tight my knuckles ached. "You ordered it."
"Of course I did," Montara said, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with arrogance. "For the progress of Valeria. For a new age of control. You think your cities fell because of monsters? No. They fell because we allowed them to."
Each word felt like acid in my veins.
He turned his back on me, strolling toward the table where a map of the continent lay spread open—red marks scattered across fallen nations.
"You've done well," he said. "Killing the kobold king saved us the trouble of cleaning up later. You've even given Valeria time to reposition before Dargath can interfere. You should be proud."
Proud.
I moved.
My sword cleaved through the table in a single motion, splitting the map in two. Montara staggered back, eyes wide for the first time.
"You—"
"—talk too much."
I activated it.
Kokoro no Kyoshu.
The world slowed. My pulse roared like a drum. I could feel life drain from my veins, replaced by searing fire. My vision sharpened into a red haze.
Pain became clarity.
Blood became fuel.
And vengeance—became truth.
I lunged.
The first cut took his arm.
The second, his voice.
The third—his life.
Montara collapsed, gurgling, choking on his own blood. His polished boots skidded across the slick floor as he reached toward me—still trying to speak, still believing words could save him.
I whispered in his ear, "This is for Bustleburg."
Then I ended him.
The crimson spray painted the walls like a mural of retribution. I let him fall, his eyes still open, frozen in disbelief.
For a moment, I stood there, breathing hard, my health draining from the skill's recoil. My limbs trembled. My sword dripped, crimson tracing silver.
But I felt alive—not as a man, but as something beyond rage.
Finally… justice.
Then came the noise. Boots, shouting—more guards.
They burst into the room, eyes wide at the carnage.
"The Chancellor! He's—!"
They didn't finish.
I turned, my stance already set.
No hesitation. No mercy.
The first guard rushed me—dead before he knew he'd moved.
The second tried to flee—his back split open by my follow-through.
Two more fell to a horizontal slash that sprayed the walls again with red.
I didn't feel fatigue anymore. Just momentum.
Every kill made me lighter. Faster.
Until silence fell once more.
I sheathed my blade.
The room was a graveyard of bodies and ambition. Montara's insignia ring lay broken near the hearth, his final symbol of authority smoldering in the candlelight.
For the first time in years, I felt something close to peace.
I walked toward the window, staring out at the fractured skyline of Korvath—the faint glow of torchlight flickering across rooftops still under repair.
The city would wake to whispers of assassination.
They'd call it treason.
They'd call me monster.
Maybe they'd be right.
But for me, this wasn't vengeance anymore.
It was balance.
I turned back toward the carnage, my boots splashing through blood. My reflection shimmered on the polished marble—eyes sharp, face still, body trembling only from the echo of battle.
Then, voices outside the door.
"Chancellor Montara!"
"Open up!"
The door creaked, then swung wide.
A group of adventurers stood frozen in the doorway. Their faces twisted between horror and disbelief.
One dropped his weapon.
Another whispered, "Gods…"
I met their eyes.
Didn't flinch. Didn't move to hide.
I just said quietly,
"It's done."
And I stood there, motionless, over the corpses of Valeria's lies—bathed in the silence that follows judgment.