(From Ray's perspective)
The clock's hands had crossed past midnight, but time in this headquarters was no longer measured in minutes. It was measured by those golden pulses erupting from Ryo's chest, shaking the very foundations of the place. The air was heavy, viscous, carrying the omen of an impending catastrophe.
I looked at my son. Ryo lay there, his small body looking insignificant against the aura radiating from him. It wasn't just power; it was a primal thrum that made his pale skin tremble. And sitting right beside him was Dan.
Dan sat on a dilapidated wooden chair, leaning his body toward Ryo. He didn't blink. His eyes were locked onto the small chest, watching the golden pulse with a predatory anticipation. He wasn't looking at a child in pain; he was staring with awe and dark fascination at the "transformation" he had waited so long for. Dan's calmness was the most terrifying thing in the room—the stillness of a hunter watching his prey ripen before his eyes without moving a muscle.
A few steps behind him, Jina stood like a wax statue. Her eyes were fixed solely on Dan's back. Her hand gripped the hilt of her dagger so tightly her knuckles turned white, the blood draining from them. As for Nero, he was leaning his shoulder against the corner of the room, his eyes half-closed, yet his body was coiled like a taut spring. The tension in the room was so thick I felt pressure building in my ears. Every single one of us was waiting for just one wrong move from Dan to start the massacre.
Nero turned to me. His features were rigid, but his eyes carried a silent command. He spoke in a low voice, barely a whisper: "Ray... go get some air." I stopped breathing for a second. I looked at him. Nero continued, "Your chest is suffocating in this dust, and your mind needs to settle right now. Jina and I will be here... no one will touch him."
I nodded very slowly. I had no energy left to speak. I moved toward the door. My steps were heavy against the wooden floorboards, which let out a faint groan. I stepped out into the dark hallway, and from there, out into the headquarters' exterior courtyard.
Draca's night welcomed me with its usual chill. The air was painfully pure for my exhausted lungs. I inhaled deeply, feeling the cold air penetrate my chest, trying to expel the stench of anxiety clinging to my clothes. I walked with aimless steps, treading on the dew-soaked grass, until I reached a rocky ledge overlooking the silent forest.
There, I saw a shadow sitting on a protruding rock. It was Skyro.
He was sitting in a posture unusual for him—hunched over, gazing at the moon and the distant stars. He didn't notice my presence, or perhaps he pretended not to. I approached him. I sat beside him. A full minute of absolute silence passed. He didn't turn to me; he just kept staring into the void. I sighed deeply and leaned my back against the rock.
Suddenly, without shifting his posture, Skyro spoke, his voice carrying a mysterious hoarseness I hadn't heard before: "Ray... I am not ready."
I stayed silent for a moment, then asked quietly: "What do you mean?"
He turned to me slowly. I saw the moonlight reflecting in his eyes, a faint smile drawn across his face, like a mask about to slip. He said in a choked voice: "I am not ready to fight... I am not ready to lose any of you... or for Ryomen to fall and fade away."
I fell silent. I knew there was a deep well behind those words. Skyro looked down at his hands and began to speak. The rhythm of his words was slow, as if he were weighing every syllable on a scale of pain.
(Skyro's Voice - The Memory)
"Thirty-six years ago... I was born in the womb of filth in Valoria. That city, where palaces gleam with gold, hides a hell in its back alleys that no one sees. I never knew my parents; I don't know if they threw me away alive or died before hearing my first cry. All I know is Hina.
Hina was an old woman, her face a map of wrinkles carved by misery. She owned nothing of this world's ruins but a heart vast enough for an outcast child like me. We lived in a narrow alley, using the cold ground as a bed and the smoke-filled sky as a blanket. Hina never found work; her frail body and ragged clothes were enough to get her rejected from everywhere. She had nothing left but begging.
I remember her standing for hours in front of the grand stores and palace gates. I used to watch her from afar. I watched the nobles in their silk cloaks turn their faces away in disgust, the merchants with hardened faces driving her away with words like knives, and sometimes, with humiliating kicks. She would fall to the ground, the few coppers she gathered scattering in the mud, but she always got back up. She would dust off her dress and return to me at the end of the day with that pale, warm smile. She would stroke my head with her rough hands and say: 'Look, Skyro... we got a whole piece of bread today.' She hid the pain of her shattered dignity just to feed my small, greedy stomach. She was my only cover during the bone-chilling nights of Valoria.
Six years I spent glued to her back, drawing warmth from our shared breath over the damp stones. Then, on a winter night when the wind howled like a wounded wolf, I woke up to find Hina completely still. There were no words of farewell, just a strange coldness beginning to seep from her body into mine. Hina died holding me, leaving a six-year-old child to face the world without a shield.
Since that night, the true years of wandering began. I started learning how to steal to survive. I was seven, my body as thin as a dry twig, my eyes constantly starving. I learned how to watch pockets, how to wait for vendors to be distracted to snatch an apple or a loaf. I was chased daily; the guards threw stones at me and cursed me. 'You filthy rat!'—that was my only identity in Valoria.
I grew up carrying an endless hatred for the nobles who used to chase Hina away. I deliberately targeted them, feeling a cold sense of revenge every time I escaped with a pouch of coins. Then, at the age of nine, the great shift in my life happened.
I was watching a group of strong men, wearing dark clothes and carrying hidden weapons beneath their cloaks. They looked like a professional gang. In a moment of their negligence, I pounced like a ghost. I swiped a pouch of silver daggers with an agility I didn't even know I possessed. I ran as fast as I could, crossing narrow alleys, leaping over walls... but they weren't stupid guards.
They were professionals. They cornered me in a dead-end alley before I even realized it. They beat me relentlessly. Kicks to the ribs, slaps that shattered my lip, but I didn't scream. I hugged the stolen pouch tightly, as if it were my life. The beating stopped suddenly when a massive man emerged from among them, a scar splitting his face. He looked at me, drenched in my own blood and spitting dirt, and saw the spite in my eyes. He said in a composed voice: 'This boy possesses a strange agility... and a spirit that doesn't break even as he's dying. We won't kill him; we'll make him our hunting hound.'
I entered the world of the 'Blades of Shadow.' At first, I was the outcast, the 'dog' executing suicide missions. Months passed, and I began to change. I was no longer stealing bread; I was stealing secrets and daggers. I learned how to move without making a sound, how to plant a blade in the right spot.
Two years later, on a night when I was eleven, we were sitting around a faint fire in our old hideout. Victor, the man who always put his share of meat on my plate, was laughing loudly. He looked at me and said: 'Little one, you've proven you're more than just a dog. You're a part of us now.'
Carl, the silent man who taught me the arts of the dagger, turned to me and said in a strange tone: 'You are like the sky before a storm... gray, calm, but you carry the lightning. We shall call you Skyro.'
Everyone burst into laughter and cheers of welcome. In that moment, for the first time since Hina died, I felt 'human.' I no longer had a nameless body; I had a name, and a place to belong. They became my family. Mina, the sister who bandaged my wounds; Victor, the older brother who protected me; and Carl, the father I never saw. We lived together for three years in absolute loyalty. I would return to the headquarters feeling safe, sharing food and laughter, planning a future far away from the blood.
My third year with them passed; I was twelve. I was at the peak of my happiness. On one cold night, I was returning from a successful scouting mission, carrying fresh meat and hot bread I had bought with my reward money to surprise them. I was imagining Victor's laugh and Mina's gentle scolding for being late.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door, expecting to hear their usual voices. But silence ruled the place... a silence that reeked of iron and rot.
My breath caught. The food dropped from my hands, scattering across the red-stained tiles. Blood was flowing like small rivers, mixing with the rainwater leaking from the ceiling. I saw Victor lying near the entrance, his body cleaved in half by a single strike. I saw Mina... she was hanging by her hair from the wall, her eyes frozen wide in eternal shock. Carl was in the center of the room, his corpse crucified by iron swords driven through his limbs.
My family... the one I built with my tears and my blood... had been turned to pieces in the blink of an eye.
And in the middle of that ruin, two figures stood with a soul-killing coldness. The first was a guard wearing black armor that absorbed the light, his body thin and eerie, his face covered by a mask with only two dark voids visible. The other... was the exact opposite.
A nobleman, wearing a pristine white suit, the fabric made of the finest silk gleaming under the candlelight. His hair was as white as snow, and his blue eyes held a coldness that could freeze hell itself. He was holding an embroidered handkerchief, wiping a small speck of blood from his sleeve while smiling a delicate smile, as if he had just finished arranging a flower garden rather than slaughtering my family.
The nobleman turned to me, his smile widening as he saw the terror and hatred in my eyes. He said in a voice as soft as silk, dripping with venom: 'Oh... it seems we forgot a stray dog here.'"