Meanwhile…
Far from the raging castle, beneath a storm that tore the sky apart—
The same small figure battled the wrath of the ocean itself.
The child who had escaped the king's fury was drowning.
Waves, monstrous and wild, crashed over him like a living beasts.
Each strike dragged him deeper into the dark abyss.
But amid the chaos, his mother's voice echoed.
"Run… and live."
He clenched his fists beneath the water, eyes burning.
"Run and live…"
I am no weak to be killed by this.
The roar of the sea couldn't silence him.
He felt the faint warmth of something deep inside—a strength that wasn't just his own.
The gift of my father… it will not go in vain.
I will survive. No matter what.
With every word, his body moved—fighting the current, clawing toward the light.
His arms burned, lungs screamed, yet he rose Defying the ocean that sought to bury him.
And finally, through the blinding waves and rain. He emerged. Gasping, coughing, alive.
Three months ago…
It was my birthday.
The day I was born—no one thought it was special.
In this world, no one celebrates life anymore.
People breathe, but they don't live.
They wake up, but they don't feel alive.
But my father… he was different.
He was My hero.
He smiled that day—
made me wear a leaf crown.
We had no feast, no guests, just laughter that filled our tiny home.
And for a moment,
I believed the world wasn't so cruel.
I was happy.
Really, really happy.
But happiness doesn't stay long here.
That same evening, soldiers came.
"You will work in the mines from tomorrow,"
they said—without emotion, without mercy.
They took my father.
My hero.
The man who gave me light…
was dragged into darkness.
Days passed. I kept waiting for him,
hoping he would return smiling again with cake crumbs on his hands.
But then—
one afternoon, while playing with my friends,
I saw it.
A soldier.
He was with a young girl.
He was torchering her..
And something inside me… broke.
"Mama… I saw a soldier torturing a girl."
I asked her, my voice shaking.
It wasn't normal. What I saw—it wasn't human.
I remember the sound. The screams. The blood.
I couldn't take it and… I threw up right there on the ground.
"Mama?"
She didn't look at me.
She just whispered, "Forget what you saw… and don't tell anyone."
Knock. Knock.
There was someone at the door.
My heart stopped.
That sound—it felt familiar.
The same soldier.
"Go play with your friends," my mother said quickly, forcing a smile.
I went outside.
But I didn't play.
I waited.
And then… I heard it.
Her scream.
"Mama?"
I ran to the door—
"Mama!!"
No answer.
I opened the door just a little…
and saw—
The soldier.
The same monster.
And my mother… screaming, crying, broken.
For a month…
he kept coming back.
Every night.
And my mother…
she endured it all in silence.
No complaints. No resistance.
Just pain.
And I—
I kept watching from the dark.
Too scared to move.
Too weak to help.
All I could whisper was—
"What is this…?"
"Mama, I saw a soldier torturing a girl."
Iasked her, trembling — desperate to understand what I had just witnessed. It wasn't normal. It wasn't human. The sight made me throw up right there.
"Mama…"
She didn't answer. Her eyes were hollow.
"Forget what you saw," she said. "And don't tell anyone."
Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door.
That same soldier.
"Go play with your friends," Mama said, her voice shaking.
I obeyed — but I didn't play. I waited outside, listening.
Then came the screams.
"Mama… Mama…"
I kept calling her name, but there was no answer.
When I finally pushed the door open, I saw him —the soldier.
Doing the same thing to her that he did to that girl.
Every night for a month, he came back.
Every night, I hid.
Every night, she endured it — without a word, without a fight.
Just tears.
The next day, I met the same girl — the one I saw before.
Her eyes were empty.
I tried to speak. "Why… why was he hurting you?"
She said nothing.
Instead, she took out a knife… and ended herself right in front of me.
I screamed and ran straight to my home, terrified and crying.
"Mama! Mama!"
No response.
"Please open the door!"
The door creaked open — and there he was.
That soldier.
"Can't you play outside?" he said, kicking me hard.
"Don't disturb us."
He slammed the door shut.
Through the crack, I saw my mother —
crying.
I banged the door again, shouting, crying, shaking.
The door opened.
This time, the soldier had a sword.
"Do you want to die, kid?" he shouted.
Mama fell to her knees, pleading.
"Let him go! Please… I'll do anything! Just don't hurt him."
Her tears fell for me.
Because of me.
And that's when I realized…
I was the reason for her pain.
I started to hate myself.
Weeks crawled by like a slow wound. Rumors spread faster than the rain: the Blasphemous had come to the island — he had killed someone with a single deadly mantra. Fear braided with something darker in my chest: a desire I couldn't swallow.
If I could take his power — the atomistic force he wielded — I could change everything. I could save my mother. I could stop the soldier.
At home I grabbed a kitchen knife, the iron cold and useless in my trembling hands.
"Don't be stupid," my mother slapped the blade from my fingers. Her hand was gentle but fierce. I fell to my knees, and the sobs I had been holding for weeks ripped out of me.
"It's for her," I told myself between tears. I fled into the rain, a single-minded thing. I saw the soldier walking the lane as if the town belonged to him. My hands fumbled for something — anything — to kill the Blasphemous and steal his power.
I chipped a shard of rock until it had an edge. It was crude, ugly, and smelled of sweat and iron. I sharpened and shaped until my hands bled and the stone was keen enough to cut flesh — or so I believed.
Then I found him.
He was there, not like a monster but like a storm that decided to stand in human form. I didn't think. I lunged, pitching the stone-knife forward with all the hate and grief inside me.
The tip touched his side.
The rock turned to sand.
It crumbled on his skin like dust caught in wind — and with it, every hope I'd carried. The knife's edge vanished between my fingers as if reality itself refused my violence.
It was true. Everything I'd heard about him was true.
The Blasphemous is immortal.
So when my mother dragged me home, even though I fought her every step, I cried — not from anger… but from relief.
Because my father was there. Waiting for me.
I ran to him and hugged him tightly, like I was scared he'd disappear if I let go.
"Sil," he said my name softly — and I realized how long it had been since I'd heard him say it. It felt like years had passed between those few letters.
He smiled a little. "What is your dream?"
I froze.
Dream? I didn't have one.
What could a boy like me dream of?
So I just stared at him and said nothing.
He reached into his pocket and showed me something — a small rock, shining with crimson and white light. It looked alive, almost breathing in his hand.
"Do you want a dream?" he asked.
I didn't even know what that word truly meant, so I asked,
"What's a dream?"
He smiled faintly. "It's something you live for."
I thought I understood. Something I live for… that means—
But before I could finish, he interrupted, shaking his head.
"No. That's not your dream. It's something else."
Something else? Then what was it?
He didn't answer. He just placed the glowing stone in my hand and walked away.
Maybe he wanted me to find it myself.
But how could I?
What right did a boy like me have to dream?
A boy who couldn't even save his mother…
who watched someone die and did nothing?
Dreams were for people who were free.
Not for someone like me.
The words followed and hollowed me out. I grew smaller inside each hour — cowardice and sorrow knotting my bones. I could hardly stand, could hardly breathe.
"Take Sil off this island. Make him live," my father said one night, his voice raw with a grief so deep it trembled like a struck bell. They were planning my escape.
I hid and listened. My mother's sobs leaked through the thin door. "But… you?" she cried. I could hear fear and pleading braided into every word. My father's answer was quiet and furious: he would not leave them — he would make sure I did.
He took the glowing stone from his pocket. It breathed in his palm — crimson and white light pulsing like a heartbeat. With hands that did not shake, he set the stone on the table, raised a hammer, and struck.
It split.
Then, without another word, he stabbed the knifs to his chest. The blood fell on the fragment of the rock.
"Run… and live," he whispered, blood and light mingling on his lips.
Those were his last words.
He fell. The house filled with a silence so loud I could not hear the next breath. I did not cry. Tears would not obey me; my body had no more tears to give. I felt hollow, not broken — an absence where grief should have been.
The next day the soldier came again. Something inside me finally snapped. I grabbed a shard of rock — the crude blade I'd learned to make — and struck. I didn't aim to kill; I only wanted to hurt, to make him feel a fraction of the pain he'd given us.
He turned and chased me out into the lane. He found me and struck back; pain flared and I ran. My body moved before my mind could decide if what I'd done was brave or vile.
Was I weak?
Was I scared?
Was I confused?
The moment his spear pierced me, I screamed — not from the pain, but from fear.
I didn't want to die. Not yet. Not here.
My voice cracked the air. "Help! Somebody—!"
And then… he appeared.
The Blasphemous.
He moved like the wind itself — silent, sharp, unstoppable.
The soldier who hurt me never stood a chance.
In a heartbeat, it was over.
He saved me.
He lay there after the fight, unconscious, his chest rising and falling like a storm struggling to calm.
I knelt beside him, trying to wake him. "Hey… wake up…"
But he wouldn't.
And in that stillness, I could hear it — the scream that wasn't from his mouth, but from inside his heart.
He was crying.
That moment changed everything.
The stories were wrong. The world was wrong.
He wasn't the Blasphemous. He wasn't a criminal.
And as I looked at him — that silent savior who carried the curse of the world — I saw a shadow of myself in his eyes.
The same pain. The same loneliness.
And right there, I finally understood what my father meant all along.
I was not weak.
I was not scared.
I was not confused.
I just lacked the shape of my dream.