Night draped that bloody event in a cruel tranquility. The world continued to turn as if nothing had happened like a farmer who continues to plow his fields, indifferent to whether his grain might wither and die by tomorrow morning. The universe has no room for mercy.
However, inside a relatively luxurious inn on the outskirts of the city, the kingdom's hero could not sleep. Andreas lay flat on his back, staring at the dark wooden ceiling with irregular breaths. His usually confident face was shadowed by a palpable unease.
"That boy's face... why does it keep appearing in my mind?" he muttered, pressing his forehead with his fingertips. He let out a frustrated sigh, rolling onto his side. "I shouldn't have followed him. Dammit."
He stood up and walked toward the window. Outside, the expanse of stars appeared in stark contrast to the pitch-black filth of the slums he had visited earlier. His eyes were fixed on the brightest point in the sky a star that refused to bow to the density of the night.
"The Star Sirius," Andreas whispered, his chin resting on his palm. The reflection of blue light in his eyes made him look melancholy. "You are always the brightest, even when you aren't the main character in tonight's theater. Too bright that it hurts to look at."
Far from Andreas's temporary lodgings, in the grand mansion that served as his official residence in the capital, a busy atmosphere enveloped the kitchens and servants' quarters. Two senior servants were tidying silver cutlery while whispering to one another.
"So, the news is true? Lord Andreas went to the Slum District to find a candidate for adoption?" a young maid asked with an air of disbelief.
The male servant with neatly tied hair the one who had previously helped Andreas prepare nodded slowly. "The Lord feels it is time. Though he is a hero, he has no heir. He isn't looking for noble blood. He said he is looking for the same 'spark' he possessed twenty-five years ago. Someone who has fire in their eyes while the world is collapsing."
"But in the slums? That's a human trash heap," the other servant sneered.
"Lord Andreas has always believed that the finest diamonds can only be found under the pressure of a thousand tons of mud," the male servant replied, rolling a handkerchief around his wrist. "However, I am worried. He went alone. If he brings home the wrong kind of 'trash,' this mansion will be in chaos."
While the servants theorized about the future, Alen was writing his own history in blood.
He walked through narrow alleys, a tattered cloak covering his small frame. In his hand, a kitchen knife he had sharpened against a stone glinted coldly. His anger did not explode; it froze, becoming a lethal focus.
"Those who strip away what belongs to me are thieves without shame," he thought.
In the mind of Cyrus d'Asgard, death was merely a currency of exchange. He remembered his words from thousands of years ago while leading legions: "In this world, death always accompanies life. Those who desire life too much usually die first, while those who die leave a longer trail of life as a destiny to be grateful for."
His pace came to a halt at an intersection. A sickening laugh broke out from behind a pile of wooden crates.
"You won't believe it! I got this money from a rotting shack belonging to a girl and her dying mother! Ahahaha!" The voice was hoarse and triumphant. "The girl begged until she cried. Isn't that hilarious?"
Alen's heart throbbed painfully a biological reaction from the remnants of the original Alen's affection but Cyrus took command.
"If only her mother wasn't sick, I would have used her body before killing her. Bastard!"
That sentence became their death knell. Alen did not wait. He chanted a low-level spell, creating a common-type magic circle that glowed dimly. However, due to his weak body, the spell missed and only struck a pile of trash beside them.
"Who's there?!" Borne screamed, standing up ferociously.
Alen threw back his hood. His small face looked pale under the moonlight, but his eyes were a pair of sharp daggers.
"Robbery? You don't even have enough value left to be robbed," Alen's voice sounded cold and hollow. "You are no longer citizens, nor are you even human."
"Huh? You little brat! Want to play hero?" One of the bandits in a singlet stepped forward, laughing mockingly. "Go home, kid, before I—"
Slash!
In a movement that transcended the physical logic of a child, Alen lunged. The knife in his hand slit the man's throat with surgical precision. Warm blood sprayed across Alen's face. His small body trembled violently a shock reaction from his young nerves but his gaze remained unwavering. Cold. Empty.
"BASTARD! KILL THAT BRAT!"
The fight became brutal. Alen used ancient martial arts techniques he remembered, but the physique of a twelve-year-old had its limits. He suffered several stab wounds to his arms and shoulders. Tears began to stream down his face again not out of fear, but because of the immense physical pain his child-like nerves had to endure.
Nevertheless, one by one, the bandits fell. Alen used low magic to disrupt their balance before driving his knife into vital points. When Borne, the leader, died with a knife buried in his chest, Alen staggered.
His mana was completely depleted. His breath hitched, his chest felt as if it were on fire. The world around him began to spin.
"It hurts... I'm so dizzy..." he whispered before his consciousness faded and his body collapsed onto the cold ground.
However, before his awareness vanished entirely, he felt a large shadow looming over him. Andreas the Savior stood there, staring at the field of bandit corpses with an expression that was difficult to decipher.
"Terrifying... but for some reason, I can understand you, kid," Andreas said softly as he scooped up the small, blood-soaked body.
Alen woke up with a dull ache throughout his body. The first thing he felt was the softness of silk fabric against his skin something entirely foreign to Alen's body.
He opened his eyes slowly. The ceiling above him was no longer leaking, rotting wood, but carved white marble with a magnificent crystal chandelier. The stench of blood had been replaced by the soothing aroma of lavender therapy.
He tried to sit up, but a groan of pain escaped his lips as the wounds on his body, which had been neatly bandaged, felt a sharp tug.
"Don't move too much yet, kid. You lost a lot of blood."
Alen turned toward the source of the voice. In the corner of the vast room, Andreas was sitting in a plush leather chair, sipping tea. The hero was not wearing his armor, only a loose white shirt that revealed the muscles of a man who had survived many wars.
Alen stared at his hands, wrapped in clean gauze. His memory flashed back to that night to his sister's blood, his mother's face, and the cold satisfaction as his knife pierced the skin of the killers.
"Where am I?" Alen asked, his voice hoarse.
"My mansion," Andreas answered simply. He stood up and walked toward Alen's bed. "I followed you last night. I wanted to see what a boy who dared to ignore a hero would do. And what I saw... honestly, it made me both afraid and amazed."
Andreas looked deep into Alen's eyes, searching for a trace of fear, but he only found a deep abyss.
"You killed them all alone. With techniques that are never taught in any academy," Andreas continued. "Who are you really, kid?"
Alen looked at Andreas.
"The Anna little brother"
The answer was an immediate reflex, which made Andreas raise an eyebrow.