A single flame flickered to life in the darkness, illuminating the sharp features of a red-haired man as he lit the crystal ball before him. The air hummed with energy as the device activated, casting an eerie glow across the room.
A holographic figure materialized above the sphere—tall, imposing, with piercing violet eyes that seemed to see through flesh and bone alike.
The red-haired man bowed deeply, his voice smooth with practiced reverence.
"Greetings, Esteemed Warden."
The Warden's gaze bore into him. "Report."
Straightening, the assassin nodded briskly. "Both commissions have been successfully completed." He reached into his coat and withdrew a small recording crystal, holding it up. "Visual confirmation, as requested."
With a tap, the crystal projected its memory into the air—a scene unfolding in stark clarity.
A black-haired young man stood frozen, his eyes widening in shock—in realization—as shadowy hands yanked him backward. An instant later, the explosion swallowed him whole, the screen bleaching white before cutting to black.
The red-haired man tucked the crystal away with a satisfied smirk. "As you can see, the target was eliminated without complication."
The Warden's hologram remained silent for a beat. Then—
"Thoroughly," the assassin confirmed. "His life force and aura vanished completely. My spirit mark on him also disappeared. There were no residual traces, no spatial distortions—nothing. I even surveilled his close associates afterward. No unusual reactions beyond… grief." He shrugged. "The fool died as he lived—playing a 'hero'."
The Warden studied him for a long moment before giving a single nod. "Good job." A pause. "I will order your promotion soon."
The red-haired man's smile widened, sharp and triumphant. "My gratitude, Esteemed Warden."
The hologram flickered, then dissolved into nothingness.
Silence reclaimed the room.
The red-haired man exhaled through his nose, a tired smirk playing on his lips. "Got promoted thanks to some 'heroic' fool," he muttered, rolling the crystal between his fingers. "Kid could've been something if he wasn't so damn eager to die for strangers."
He pocketed the recording device and stretched his arms, his thoughts drifting.
It was always the same story. They make a big show of sacrifice, and for what? A week of mourning before the world moves on.
He didn't understand how they stomached it—dying for people who wouldn't remember their face, who'd step over the ashes the next day like nothing happened, as if valor could fill the void, as if honor could stitch back what was lost.
But maybe that was the curse of people like the kid—born to burn for a cause instead of living with the weight of compromise.
"Tch," he scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Waste of potential. Could've been dangerous if he'd been a little more selfish."
"Well, at least he made my job easy."
The empty room swallowed his quiet chuckle. He'd seen enough corpses to know - dead was dead. No exceptions.
Then he paused, lips curling in amusement.
"Wait… the brat didn't even have a corpse left."
He laughed, deep and careless.
"Haha—guess he really was in a hurry to disappear."
_____ ___ _ . _ ___ _____
[Academy - Training Grounds]
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sharp cracks of wood striking wood echoed through the empty training grounds, relentless and unbroken. Snowflakes swirled in the air, catching on Aeron's lashes, his breath coming in ragged puffs of steam.
His hands were raw, bloodied—skin split from hours and days of unrelenting swings. But he didn't stop.
Thwack. Thwack. CRACK.
The wooden sword shattered. The dummy splintered into pieces, its remains scattering across the snow.
Aeron stared at the wreckage, his chest heaving.
He tossed the broken hilt aside, where it landed atop a growing pile of shattered training swords. His gaze swept the grounds—every dummy destroyed, every blade broken.
Nothing left to break.
With a slow exhale, he sank onto the snow, the cold biting through his clothes. He barely felt it.
His hands stung, the blood drying in the frigid air.
He flexed his fingers, watching the crimson cracks in his skin.
It should have hurt more.
But the pain was distant. Muted.
Just like everything else.
The scene played in his mind again.
The explosion. The shadowy hands. The way Aman's eyes had widened—not in fear, but in realization.
Aeron's jaw tightened.
He had grieved. Screamed. Punched trees until his knuckles were pulp.
He was already over it, his mind clearer.
He tilted his head back, letting the snowflakes land on his face.
He had thought about it for the past few days.
Turned it over in his mind, again and again.
The answer was obvious - the attack hadn't been random.
Those shadowy hands—they weren't part of the fissure's explosion or some kind of monster. They were aimed.
Aman had been targeted.
And he would find out why.
But he wouldn't rush in blindly now.
Aman had always told him—think before acting.
First, he would get stronger.
Then, he would dig deeper.
And when he found the ones responsible—
His fingers curled into fists, fresh blood welling in his palms.
—they would learn what happened when you took the only person who ever truly had his back.
The crunch of snow underfoot.
"…You're going to freeze to death."
Livia's voice echoed from the side, worried and full of pity and sympathy.
She sighed, stepping closer. A bundled cloth landed beside him with a soft thump—fresh bandages, smelling faintly of medicinal herbs.
"Wrap your hands. You're useless if your fingers rot off."
Aeron glanced at the bandages, then at her.
Livia's arms were crossed, her usual liveliness dulled by something he couldn't name.
"…Thanks," he muttered.
She smiled, but it didn't look like a smile. "Don't thank me. Just stop being an idiot."
"He wouldn't want this."
Aeron's breath hitched.
Livia turned away before he could reply, her boots crunching through the snow as she left.
Silence settled again.
Aeron stared at the bandages.
Then, slowly, he picked them up.
"I know... and that's exactly why I have to."