The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long golden shadows across the small wooden cabin.
An old grandfatherly figure sat in his favorite rocking chair, a worn leather book resting open in his calloused hands. The faded gold lettering on the cover still caught the firelight:
The Chronicles of Noel Xerlectus
Curled up on a thick rug at his feet was a little white-haired boy with ruby-red eyes that sparkled with pure, unfiltered excitement. He hugged his knees tight, chin resting on them, hanging on every single word like it was the most important story in the world.
"Grampa…" the boy whispered, barely able to contain himself, "did he really fight for four hours straight?"
The boy giggled, eyes sparkling.
The elderly man let out a deep, warm chuckle that rumbled from his chest like distant thunder. His eyes crinkled with the kind of smile people only wear when they're remembering something truly good from the past.
"Oh, that wasn't all there is to it, youngin'," he said, voice rich and gentle. "Not even close."
He closed the book slowly, running his thumb over the cracked spine with quiet affection. Then he looked down at the eager little face staring up at him.
"You should head to bed now, Bell."
"But Grandpa!" the boy whined, bouncing on his knees. "I wanna hear the next part! Pleeease!" He pumped his fists in excitement.
The old man's smile softened even more. He reached down and gently ruffled the boy's snowy hair, the firelight dancing in his kind eyes.
"Patience, young one," he murmured. "Patience… for that is what a true hero is."
Bell pouted for half a second, then flopped dramatically onto the rug with an exaggerated sigh, still grinning from ear to ear.
The grandfather looked back down at the closed book in his lap, thumb tracing the name on the cover one last time.
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An old man sat on the weathered wooden porch, back resting against the rough cabin wall, the soft clucking of chickens slowly fading as the last hens settled into their nests for the night.
He was alone with nothing but a steaming mug of tea and the endless star-filled sky above. He took a slow sip, the warmth doing little to ease the ache in his old bones, and let his mind wander where it always did on quiet nights like this.
"I wonder how the brat's doing now…" he muttered to the darkness, voice rough with age and fondness. "I wonder if he's finally gotten himself a proper job… maybe even a wife by now." A small, wistful chuckle escaped him. "Better be bringing me home some grandchildren next time I see him, or I'll tan his hide myself."
He sighed, long and heavy, and tilted his head back to stare at the glittering stars.
His thoughts drifted back to the old days — back when everything was simpler. Back when he and his mates in the Explorer Division still believed they could map the edges of the world. He could almost feel it again: the salt spray stinging his face, the wooden deck pitching violently beneath his boots, waves slamming against the hull like thunder while the crew fought to stay upright. New lands waiting somewhere beyond the Empire's reach… so close they could almost taste them.
But something had happened before they ever made it.
The old man shrugged the memory off like an unwanted cloak, the way he always did.
He took another slow sip of tea, eyes softening as a quiet laugh rumbled in his chest.
"I wonder if my stupid son ever saw those great lands…" he said to the stars, a proud, crooked grin tugging at his weathered face. "Maybe that fool actually went farther than I ever could. Hahahaha…"
The night wind carried his laughter gently across the quiet farm, and for a moment the old man looked almost young again — hopeful, wondering, waiting.
Waiting for the day his boy would come home and tell him the stories he never got to finish.
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I stood on the half-finished steps, arms crossed, watching the builders hammer the final beams into place. The new orphanage was going to be huge — warm, bright, and full of life. The kind that made you feel safe the second you stepped inside.
The Monad family had thrown an almost ridiculous amount of money at the project. When I first saw the budget I nearly choked.
I told them it was too much. They just laughed and said, "We're high nobles, Noel. Anything less would be a disgrace to our name." So I stopped arguing and started helping in my own way — slipping coins to the workers for extra snacks for the kids who wandered by every afternoon, watching the walls go up with the biggest grin I'd ever worn.
This place was going to be different. No questions asked, no pasts checked. Human, demi-human, abandoned, unwanted, poor, broken homes — every single child would have a bed here.
The dormitories were already finished: cozy rooms with bunk beds, girls on one side, boys on the other. The kitchen was massive and stocked to the ceiling with everything we could ever need.
I'd even pushed for a classroom in the west wing so these kids could learn the basics — reading, writing, numbers — everything they'd need to build real futures. Out back stretched a huge courtyard bursting with flowers, perfect for running until their legs gave out and their laughter filled the sky.
The staff were already moving in — kind-hearted demi-humans who'd grown up in the main Monad orphanage themselves. You could tell just by looking at them: people who knew what it felt like to be saved.
I could hear the distant, bright laughter of children already playing in the yard as I headed toward my new office. My chest felt lighter than it had in years.
I stepped inside, walked over to the big window, and just… watched.
Sylvie was out there with the others, green hair bouncing as she told some dramatic story that had all the little ones cracking up. A second later they all scattered into a chaotic game of tag, shrieking with pure joy. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.
I turned to head to my desk when a tiny hand suddenly tugged on the bottom of my cloak.
I looked down.
A little boy with messy brown hair and missing front teeth stared up at me with the biggest, brightest eyes.
"Are you the Boar?" the boy asked, eyes wide with awe.
He frowned in concentration.
"Or… are you Noel because you're the Boar?"
I scratched the back of my neck, chuckling. "Nah, kid. I'm just Noel."
He beamed anyway, threw his arms around my leg in the fastest hug I'd ever received, then bolted off screaming with laughter to rejoin the game.
I stood there for a second, warmth spreading through my whole chest, and finally stepped fully into my office.
The sign on the door read:
Director Noel Xerlectus
And for the first time in my life…
I really felt like I'd done something right.
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The dimly lit council chamber was thick with tension and the smell of old parchment and candle smoke.
"His influence is growing!" one of the councilmen shrieked, slamming his fist on the marble table. "The man has become an inconvenience! We should eliminate him immediately—send the generals!"
A hooded figure bearing the sword icon on his cloak leaned forward from the shadows and spoke a single, calm sentence.
"The orphanage is being funded by the Monad family."
The room froze for half a heartbeat.
A second councilman, marked by the hammer icon, snarled and shot to his feet. "And that's exactly why we need to get rid of him!"
The sword-icon figure tilted his head slowly, voice low and steady.
"And provoke Lea Florence Monad?"
Every voice in the chamber died at once.
The name hung in the air like a blade pressed to every throat. Everyone knew the stories. Everyone knew the cost. If they wanted to take her down, they would need every last soldier in the Empire—every general pulled back from the front lines, every legion recalled.
No one spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy and absolute, broken only by the soft crackle of the wall torches.
Then the sword-icon figure leaned back into the shadows, the faintest trace of a smile hidden beneath his hood.
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The air was thick, stale, and wrong — like something sacred had been ripped open and left to rot. It clung to the back of your throat, heavy with the copper-sweet stench of old blood and fresh shit. Every breath tasted like death.
Deep inside the forgotten cave, the walls glistened.
They weren't stone anymore.
They were canvas.
Streaks of dark crimson ran in deliberate, wet patterns. Loops of intestine had been nailed across the rock like obscene garlands, still twitching faintly. Half-digested organs hung from spikes driven into the ceiling, dripping slowly onto the floor where piles of severed hands and feet had been arranged into perfect, smiling faces.
A child's ribcage had been cracked open and spread wide like butterfly wings, the tiny heart still impaled on a shard of bone in the center.
And in the middle of it all, humming a cheerful little nursery rhyme, stood the a man.
His bare arms were elbow-deep in a fresh torso, fingers lovingly kneading through glistening viscera, pulling out loops of intestine and draping them over his shoulder like a scarf. Blood and yellow fat coated his face in thick, shiny layers. He smiled as he worked.
"They called me a murderer," he laughed to himself, voice soft and dreamy. "When I carved that child's entire family apart right in front of his little eyes… ahhh, the bliss."
He lifted a dripping handful of liver, admired the way it quivered in the torchlight, then gently pressed it against the wall to form another petal in his growing flesh-flower.
"But I prefer the term artist."
He tilted his head, humming again as he reached for a fresh knife.
"Hmm… maybe I'll use this one on the next little lamb."
He sang the riddle in a sing-song whisper, eyes half-lidded with pleasure:
"Little lamb, I enter warm… and leave you colder than the floor. I open you not like a door… but like a gift, slowly, lovingly… until all the pretty red ribbons fall out."
He grinned wide enough to split his face.
"What am I?"
He answered himself with a delighted squeal, plunging the knife deep into the corpse's stomach and twisting it slowly, lovingly, letting the guts spill out in a wet, steaming heap across his boots.
"A knife~"
His laughter echoed through the cave, high and broken and wet.
"And maybe… just maybe… I'll make my next artpiece…"
He spread his arms wide, covered head to toe in gore, eyes shining with pure ecstasy.
"MY MASTERPIECE! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"