MORTAL
Volume 1: Shadows of the Fallen
Chapter 1 The End of Rivan
(Human-written style)
The battlefield had finally gone quiet.
What remained was a frozen graveyard—bodies of warriors, saints, and nameless soldiers sprawled across the northern plains. The snow, once untouched and pure, had turned a deep, ugly red. A harsh wind swept over the dead, making their torn banners flutter weakly as if unwilling to accept defeat.
At the very center of that silence stood Rivan.
His armor was cracked open in half a dozen places, his cloak shredded to ribbons, and his sword… it barely looked like a sword anymore. He was breathing hard, each breath a cloud in the freezing air. But his eyes—sharp, dark, and stubborn—still burned with a fire no wound could extinguish.
Ten figures hovered around him like gods passing judgment.
The Northern Saints.
Legends draped in blinding halos, their clothes untouched by dirt or blood, their expressions calm—as if killing thousands today was just another holy task. Each of them carried the weight of kingdoms they had destroyed.
And Rivan, the last warrior of the Mortal Vanguard, was all that stood between them and absolute rule.
"You could've walked beside us," Seraphan, the First Saint, said. His voice echoed like a hymn. The golden spear in his hand was soaked with Rivan's blood. "Why cling to mortality when divinity was within your grasp?"
Rivan wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand.
A ghost of a smile tugged at his face.
"For freedom," he said. "Something you traded away long ago."
He lifted his broken blade. It was shaking, but so was the earth beneath him. "You call yourselves divine… but I've seen what's behind that light. Nothing sacred lives there."
The Saints raised their halos. Wings of pure radiance spread behind them, blinding the snow-covered plain.
Ten beams of divine punishment descended.
Rivan didn't retreat.
He charged straight into the light.
A wave of black-red energy burst from his body, ripping apart the blizzard swirling around him. Cracks tore through the frozen ground. A faint glow surged across the strange mark etched into his neck—the Mark of Mortality.
His strike was desperate, but unstoppable.
The First Saint fell to his knees, light spilling out of a wound carved deep into his chest.
Another saint's halo snapped like fragile glass.
A third collapsed with a howl that didn't sound divine at all.
"Even gods bleed," Rivan muttered.
He took a step forward—
—then froze.
A soft footstep echoed behind him.
Before he could turn, a chilling pain tore through his chest. A blade burst out from between his ribs, gleaming silver against the crimson snow. His breath caught in his throat. Warm blood trickled down his armor.
The Saints stared, stunned.
Someone stood behind him—a lone figure wrapped completely in shadows, face hidden.
"Rivan…" the voice whispered, calm and almost regretful. "Mortals betray mortals. It is their nature."
Rivan looked down at the blade stabbing through him.
The same symbol as his own mark glowed faintly on its surface.
"…No… it can't be…" he rasped. His fingers slipped from his sword, and it dropped into the snow with a dull thud.
The shadowy figure pulled the blade free.
Rivan fell to his knees.
Snow began to drift down again, slow and gentle, as if the world wanted to cover the scene before it could be remembered.
He looked up at the dim northern sky. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw his mother's comforting smile… and a small girl laughing beside her. Memories he didn't know he still carried.
Then the cold washed over him.
Darkness spread across the edges of his vision.
Inside that darkness, he saw flashes—
A burning kingdom.
A promise made long ago.
A life he had never lived.
A voice echoed within him, ancient and calm:
"You are not dying, Rivan… you are returning."
His eyes finally closed.
His first life ended on that quiet, frozen plain.
But somewhere beyond the darkness—
—his true story was just beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED