Raindrops fell as if mourning something.
Beneath the gray sky, a boy sat hugging his knees. His gaze was empty — as though he had lost the most precious thing a human could possess: hope.
The wound on his leg had begun to rot, yet he seemed to feel nothing. He simply sat there, eyes wide open, letting every drop of rain wash over his face until it looked like a faint, silent cry.
Around him were small mounds of earth, as if freshly buried. No one knew what lay beneath them — even his heart had long forgotten everything.
What happened?
Who am I?
Why am I here?
Those questions spun endlessly in his mind, drowned beneath the unending rain.
He knew all the answers, but for some reason, his mind refused to speak.
It had been two days since the incident ended...
---
Two days since it ended,
Yet for Dex, time seemed frozen at the moment when everything was destroyed.
The evening sky was red that day — not from the sunset, but from flames reaching high into the heavens.
The village where he was born burned in a war that should never have happened.
A war between nobles fighting over false honor and barren land.
Their armies, bearing different banners but hearts equally black, filled the streets.
The clash of swords blended with human screams.
Fire devoured homes, fields, and the dreams that once grew beneath them — erased as if they had never existed.
Dex, who had just returned from hunting, ran through smoke and ash, calling for his parents.
But all he found were lifeless bodies — ones that could no longer answer no matter how many times he called.
His mother still held his little sister in her arms, shielding her from an arrow that had pierced the wooden wall.
His father lay not far from the door, still gripping a broken sickle — not a single wound on his back.
Everything ended so quickly. Dex hid inside a wine barrel.
And when the sound of battle finally faded, only silence and the stench of burnt flesh remained.
Dex stepped out and fell to his knees amid ash and tears.
He wanted to scream — but no sound came out.
Then the rain fell, heavy and relentless, as if the sky itself wept with him.
That night, Dex watched the last flames lick the sky, and within that light, something was born inside him — not hope, not hatred, but a void so deep it swallowed everything.
Now, two days after it all ended, he sat beneath the rain, no longer sure whether he was still human or merely a body without a soul.
He was not yet seventeen, yet what hurt most was not the loss itself — it was what came after: guilt, sorrow, regret.
Those feelings nearly drove him mad whenever he tried to think of them.
Even the hunger he had endured for two days felt like nothing in comparison.
Amid the sound of falling rain, his stomach groaned softly.
Hunger no longer felt like a need — but a curse forcing him to stay alive.
He did not eat, did not sleep, did not speak.
He only stared at the freshly buried soil before him.
There was still dirt on his hands — remnants of the grave he had dug.
Like a vast ocean whose depths could never be seen, Dex no longer knew what he truly felt.
Sadness? Anger? Regret? Every word in the world was too small to describe it.
---
Three nights had passed since that day. Dex walked among the ruins of his village.
The fire had died, but every step stirred up ash, erasing footprints that were never meant to last.
In the distance, a crow perched on a charred fence post, staring at him — silently observing what was left of a human who had lost everything.
Dex looked up, meeting its gaze.
"Did you come to laugh at me too?" he muttered hoarsely.
The sound of his voice was strange — like someone speaking for the first time.
The bird didn't answer. It only gave a rasping caw before flying away, leaving him alone once more in the night's silence.
As Dex walked on, something stopped his breath.
A torn flag stood planted in the ground — its red color darkened to near black from blood and rain.
Beneath the flag lay the remains of armor, the noble emblem still faintly visible on the breastplate, though the metal was cracked — struck by a sickle.
The emblem: a wolf devouring the moon.
Dex knew that symbol. He had seen it before in the marketplace — during the grand parade of royal soldiers, marching proudly under the banners of House Vaundrel, a noble family famed for their ambition and supposed kindness.
He could still remember the man's glorious speech that day, and the oath he swore before thousands.
"I, Reon Vaundrel, swear to bring peace to this world and to protect all my people!"
The applause had echoed for miles.
Dex remembered the awe he felt hearing those words.
He had even dreamed of joining the Vaundrel army one day.
But now, Dex knew it had been nothing but an empty vow.
The very hands that once swore to protect him had turned his people into pawns — and left them to die.
He remembered it vividly — the night the soldiers slaughtered his village, accusing them of plotting rebellion without proof, all for political gain.
His hands trembled as he touched the emblem, then clenched it so tightly that its sharp edge cut his palm.
His blood mixed with the rain, dripping into the mud.
Dex felt no desire for vengeance — only disgust toward himself, and the greed of those men.
He knew that no revenge could ever bring back the dead.
His head throbbed; hunger twisted his gut.
His vision blurred, his infected leg pulsed with pain.
He could no longer see. His body gave out, and Dex collapsed to the ground.
"Someone's still alive, it seems," a hoarse, aged voice said.
Dex heard it — but he could do nothing. His body wouldn't move, his eyes wouldn't open.
And then, darkness claimed him once more.