Rain fell like grief—slow and steady yet endless.
Sylas stood beneath the broken archway of the cathedral, face tilted toward the storm. The rain slicked his hair to his face, soaked through the rags of his clothes. His arms hung limp, fingers twitching. Somewhere inside, something pulsed, a heartbeat that wasn't his. Or maybe it was. Maybe all he had left was the echo of what used to be a heart.
His boots squelched through blood-washed stone, the silence around him ringing louder than screams. The flames on his daggers sputtered, dimming with each step. The cathedral behind him burned slow, stubborn. The red glass above had cracked, leaking shards like teardrops from a saint too tired to cry.
He walked.
And then he stopped.
Mercy sat on a pew.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Her hands were folded, her face calm. The same old grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her smile soft. Familiar.
"Look around, Sylas," she whispered.
He blinked.
The cathedral vanished. The fire turned to ash. The pews twisted into a forest, long and dark, shadows creeping between roots. And beneath those trees—corpses.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
All staring.
He looked at his hands. Blood soaked to the elbow. Still warm.
Mercy stood now, her figure half-shadow. Her voice cracked like dry leaves. "Did I raise you to be such a killer? Was I wrong to have nurtured you?"
Sylas shook his head, eyes wide. "No…"
She stepped forward. Her shadow stretched over him.
"Raising you," she whispered, "was my biggest sin."
He blinked again.
And Mercy was gone.
Rain slammed into his face, and thunder rolled above. He clenched his jaw, forced one foot in front of the other. Flames coughed back into his daggers, blue veining their crimson like rot. His vision swam.
Something moved ahead.
A mercenary. No. More. Ten? Twenty?
He couldn't count.
They came from the fog, blades raised. Sylas moved. He was slow. Slower than usual. The ground spun beneath him. He dodged left, slashed right. Steel scraped bone. He kicked out, sent one tumbling into the mud. Another caught him in the ribs. Pain blossomed. He welcomed it. The more it hurt, the more real it felt.
One lunged.
Sylas blocked—but it wasn't a blade.
A branch?
He stumbled into a tree. Forest again. Night above, branches clawing the sky. His chest heaved. He turned—a sword pierced his side. He screamed.
Snap.
Back in the cathedral. Crumbling pews. Fire.
Blood sprayed from his wound. He fell to one knee, coughing.
"Weakling," a voice hissed.
He looked up.
It was him.
Twisted. Burned. Eyes glowing. A silhouette of what he could be. What he would be. A monster wrapped in his own skin.
"You think this ends in fire?"
A blade swung. Sylas caught it. Broke the wrist behind it. A scream.
Another merc fell.
Another took their place.
It never ended.
He didn't scream. He couldn't. His throat was raw. His eyes burned. His arms trembled. He fought. without will nor a fate.
Because there was no other choice.
Not anymore.
A whip cracked around his leg. He fell Hitting the ground. He rolled. He dodged. He kicked.
His boot met someone's chin. A neck snapped. He couldn't look back. Not anymore.
He staggered to the altar. his limping body far too exhausted.
Blood trailed behind him. Like a serpent.
And inside the cathedral. Was a man kneeling In front of a broken statue of the saint.
The man clad in silver. Golden hair slicked back. His blade a long, slender thing. pure sliver glinting at the moon.
Sylas coughed. Blood stained his teeth.
"You gonna say something?"
He turned to sylas. slowly, gold hair slicked to his face, eyes carved from ice.
"I, Noel Ashfall, declare you—"
"Corny as hell," Sylas rasped. "Gotta be hard pulling women with lines like that."
Noel tilted his head, unfazed. He raised his blade in a duelist's salute.
"Let our blades speak for us."
Then he moved.
No sound. No warning. Just steel slicing air.
Sylas met him mid-sprint, his twin daggers igniting—red fire flaring up his arms like they were starving. The flames roared with contact, lighting up the cathedral like lightning frozen in a bottle.
Steel screamed.
Sylas twisted under the first swing, his left dagger catching the edge, right hand slashing across Noel's ribs. Sparks flew. Noel's armor sparked, not yet pierced, but rattled.
He stepped back—perfect footwork, polished movements. This was a knight. A killer trained to perfection.
But Sylas?
Sylas fought like a storm.
He surged forward again, blades crossing in an arc of fire, spinning low, coming up fast. Noel blocked high, but the second dagger came from beneath, carving a line across his thigh.
Hiss.
Blood spilled.
The fire surged.
Crimson flickered—then paled. Blue. The flames along Sylas's daggers burned to a ghostly azure, veining like frostbite. He staggered a step. Blinked.
Blue?
Noel didn't give him time to think. His longsword came down in a ruthless arc. Sylas crossed both daggers—blocked. But the impact sent him crashing to one knee.
Clang.
Noel stepped forward. Pressed the weight. The longsword pushing down like a guillotine.
Sylas growled. Flames flared.
And the metal began to melt.
Noel's sword bent, softened, sagged—then snapped in half with a molten crack, the top half clattering behind them like a dead limb.
Noel's eyes narrowed. He dropped the ruined hilt.
Drew a short sword.
It was quicker. Closer. Dirtier.
Now it was a brawl.
Noel lunged again. The short blade flashed—caught Sylas across the ribs. Deep. Bone-deep.
Sylas screamed. The sound echoed across the cathedral like thunder in a crypt.
But he didn't fall.
He stepped into the pain.
His dagger plunged into Noel's shoulder—twisting. Flame met flesh. Steam hissed. Noel shoved him off, eyes wild now. Breathing ragged.
They circled. One limping. One bleeding. Both dying.
Rain poured in sheets through the broken ceiling. Fire flickered on the walls like saints crying flame.
They clashed again. No form. No grace. Just rage and instinct.
Sylas feinted left—then slammed a knee into Noel's gut. Noel reeled.
One dagger slashed his chest. The other punched through his thigh.
But Noel spun, blade dragging across Sylas's face—ripping through his left eye.
White-hot pain. Vision burst like glass.
Sylas howled. Dropped a blade. Stumbled back, one eye shut, blood running down his cheek like wax.
Noel panted, limping forward.
He raised his short sword—last strike.
Sylas caught his breath.
And dropped his second dagger.
Both hands free. One bleeding. One shaking.
He caught Noel by the collar and dragged him in—face to face. Their foreheads almost touched.
"You killed her," Sylas said. Quiet. Hoarse. All fire. "You killed her."
Noel didn't flinch.
So Sylas reached down, grabbed one of the fallen daggers—
—and plunged it into his gut.
The flame detonated.
Blue fire tore through Noel's stomach, climbing his armor like it was made of kindling. His eyes widened, lips parting—no scream, no sound.
Then—
Ash.
It started at his ribs. Crawled up his chest. Down his legs. His sword fell. His face crumbled.
He didn't fall.
He just… disappeared.
Turned to dust.
Carried off in the rain.
Sylas stood there, breathless. Soaked. One eye blind. The other still fixed on the spot where Noel had stood.
The dagger in his hand still burned blue.
Then it flickered.
Faded.
And went out.
Sylas blinked up at the broken ceiling.
The moon shone down through the cracks like a final benediction.
Blood streamed from his mouth. Cold. Relentless.
He dropped to his knees.
And laughed.
No blood spilled from his wounds now. There was nothing left to bleed.
His skin paled to the color of frost.
He dragged himself beside the shattered statue of the saint. Every inch a mountain. Every breath a war.
He looked up. The sky was beginning to clear.
Dawn touched the horizon—faint and far, like hope seen through tears.
From his remaining eye, tears fell freely. His right eye was too broken to weep.
He laughed again.
Soft. Cracked. Then louder.
"I don't wanna die…"
He laughed harder. Bitter. Empty.
"I'm such a loser."
Then sobbed. Louder than the laughter.
"Everyone's gone…"
And then—silence.
His gaze wandered upward. His vision blurred, burned away by light.
All he could see now… was the sun.
And it felt warm.
Like a memory. Like her arms. Like mercy.
His lips parted, too tired to form more than a whisper.
"Mother… can I meet you in heaven… or was I a sinner destined for hell"
His body slumped. Limbs falling loose. Breath shuddering out.
Life—leaving.
And then—
A figure stepped through the light.
It knelt beside him. Silent. Reverent.
A hand ruffled Sylas's hair—gently, like how she used to.
The figure spoke. Its voice cold, but trembling with something buried deep:
".death doesn't suit you. Sylas."