The smell of iron and burnt flesh was the only thing left of the Van Croft caravan.
Five-year-old Shin didn't cry. He couldn't. His throat was too dry from the dust of the Great Wall, and his eyes had already seen enough blood to drown a kingdom. He stood amidst the wreckage, watching the monsters feast on what was once his family.
Ten years have passed since that night.
Now, at seventeen, Shin stood on the edge of the Frozen Peak. A massive granite stone, twice his weight, was strapped to his back. A leather bridle was clamped firmly in his mouth, its straps digging into his cheeks.
He didn't wear it for punishment. He wore it so he wouldn't scream.
Every step he took on the jagged ice sent a jolt of agony through his fractured spine. Suddenly, a spark of black electricity crackled across his skin—not the yellow of common mages, but a deep, abyssal black.
"Nine years..." he muttered through the leather. "Nine years of dragging this world's weight. It's time they felt it too."
He unhooked the straps. The giant stone hit the ground with a thunderous crash, shattering the ice. The ghost of the massacre was coming back. And he wasn't coming back for mercy.