"I'll burn this world... and reshape a new one from the ashes."
The boy's voice was nothing more than a faint whisper, dissolving instantly into the suffocating darkness of the subterranean cell.
No one heard him. No one ever did.
The dungeon returned to its heavy, oppressive quiet. The echoes of rattling chains had long since become a natural part of the silence. Leornars slowly pushed himself up from the freezing stone floor, the dim, erratic flickering of a distant torch casting long shadows over the bruises scattered across his pale skin.
In his right palm, he tightly gripped a stolen trinket—a piece of jewelry that had once rested against the throat of royalty.
An emerald chain. A glittering, ostentatious symbol of supreme status.
He gave it a cold, deliberate tug.
The metal snapped with a weak, satisfying crack. All that remained in his hand was a simple, stripped-down string.
*Step by step is the key...* His thoughts were calm, entirely unshaken by his environment. *They truly think this iron cage confines me? Please. I've been in far worse.*
A cynical smile played on his lips.
*Two meals a week. For an entire month now. Frankly, it's luxurious compared to where I've been. They say the outside world is beautiful. I hope they're not lying to me. When I finally see it, I expect style.*
He sat back against the damp wall, quietly plucking the remaining emeralds from the broken chain, one by one, hoarding them away.
*Thud. Thud.*
The heavy, unmistakable stride of armored boots echoed outside. The iron cell door creaked open with a harsh whine as a guard stepped in for a routine inspection. The man's eyes immediately caught the glint of the chain. Without a single word, the guard greedily snatched it away, turning on his heel and exiting just as quickly as he had arrived. He left none the wiser.
Leornars' smile widened into something predatory. He opened his left hand.
Resting inside his palm was the second, identical half of the chain.
*Mind deception... Sleight of hand. Nine years of brutal captivity taught me well.*
"Rats, cockroaches, lizards... I used to hide them from the guards like precious treasure," Leornars murmured to himself, his voice a low purr. "I ate things they couldn't even begin to imagine in their worst nightmares. And these 'gourmet' meals they feed me now? Absolute garbage. Tasteless."
*Clink.*
With a faint, metallic ring, the heavy mana-suppressing cuffs fell from his wrists, hitting the dirt.
He peered through the rusted iron bars. A few paces away, the guard was completely distracted, holding the broken chain up to the torchlight, admiring the gems with a foolish grin.
Leornars slipped out of the cell like a ghost escaping its grave.
The moment his bare feet touched the cold stone, a sharp pang shot through his legs. His soles were bruised, bloodied, and raw. They trembled violently beneath his weight, threatening to give out. He staggered, catching himself against the wall—then stopped.
He deliberately stomped his feet flat against the ground, forcing the pain down and hardening his skin. Every agony was training. Every single motion was calculated.
And then, he leapt.
Leornars tackled the guard from behind. The two bodies crashed to the stone floor with a heavy thud. Startled, the guard frantically reached for the hilt of his blade—but he was far too slow.
Even as the guard's steel managed to slice into Leornars' left arm, drawing a sudden spray of blood, the boy didn't flinch. Pain exploded in his nervous system, but his focus never wavered. He wrapped the remains of the emerald chain tightly around the man's throat and pulled with every ounce of his strength.
The frantic choking sounds ceased. Silence returned to the corridor.
Leornars calmly picked up the fallen sword, stepping over the fresh corpse.
Suddenly, a piercing wail shattered the quiet. The dungeon bells began to scream into the night, their frantic tolling echoing across the castle grounds. High above, knights scattered through the corridors like ants whose nest had been violently disturbed.
Hearing the approaching footsteps, Leornars ducked into a large, empty storage barrel lined up against the wall.
*Step. Step. Step.*
A guard paused right beside his hiding spot. A loud creak broke the air as the lid of the barrel was hoisted open.
A sudden flash of silver cut through the dim light—and then—
*Shink!*
Cold steel erupted straight through the guard's chin, piercing clean into his skull. The man's eyes instantly rolled back into his head as his body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Leornars crawled out of the barrel, his clothes and skin thoroughly soaked in warm, crimson blood. He didn't wipe it away. He just ran.
He sprinted through the labyrinthine lower levels until he finally stumbled through a side exit, collapsing into an open, muddy field. He stopped dead in his tracks. His breath caught sharply in his throat.
Perched directly in front of him was a severed head, impaled brutally upon a wooden spike.
It was the face of the old clergyman. The only man who had ever fed him scraps when the rest of the world chose to let him starve.
"...You were a kind old man," Leornars murmured, his expression hardening into stone.
Before he could take another step, a strong hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder, violently yanking him backward into the deep shadows of the castle walls.
"Don't swing—! We're allies!" a voice hissed desperately.
Leornars froze mid-motion, his stolen sword glinting dangerously under the moonlight. He narrowed his eyes, inspecting the three figures hiding in the dark beside him.
The first possessed sleek, feline ears and a nervously twitching tail. The second had sharp, pointed ears and luminous, intelligent eyes. The final figure possessed mottled green, scaly skin reminiscent of a desert serpent.
"What exactly are you?" Leornars asked, his breathing heavy but controlled.
The elf stepped forward, lowering his hood. "We've been waiting for you... You are 'him.' The one spoken of in the ancient prophecy."
Leornars frowned, his tone dripping with icy indifference. "I don't know you. You don't know me. And I don't know who this 'him' is supposed to be. Frankly, I don't care."
He turned on his heel to leave.
The cat-eared youth quickly stepped into his path. "Wait! I'm Leux. A beastfolk of the cat tribe."
*A talking cat... That's a new one,* Leornars thought, his face remaining entirely expressionless.
"I'm Shuelt. An elf," the second introduced himself.
"Crov. Reptilian," the third added with a grim, respectable nod.
"I don't have anything of value to offer you," Leornars said coldly, tightening his grip on his sword.
"The prophecy spoke of a silver-haired, crimson-eyed boy originating from another world," Shuelt insisted, his eyes wide with reverence.
Leornars paused for a single fraction of a second. But the moment passed, and his indifference returned.
"For eight hundred years, our people have waited for your arrival," Leux added earnestly.
"That's a terribly long time to waste on a fantasy," Leornars replied. He relaxed his stance and dropped the heavy blade into the mud.
Leux let out a tense, breathy chuckle. "It certainly is."
But the world gave them no time for pleasantries. A distant, sharp whistle echoed from the castle walls, followed by the thunderous rhythmic stomping of dozens of approaching boots.
Leornars' eyes darted across the courtyard until they locked onto a small, ragged breach near the base of the stone wall. A hidden drainage tunnel. He didn't hesitate; he bolted straight toward it. He forced his body into the narrow opening, squeezing through the tight space.
"Live or die, that's your own problem," Leornars muttered back toward the group, pressing forward into the absolute pitch-black of the tunnel.
Leux and Shuelt scrambled in directly behind him. But as they cast a final glance backward into the moonlit yard, their expressions twisted in horror. Crov had been spotted. A swarm of heavily armored soldiers descended upon the reptilian, dragging him down by his chains.
"Don't stop! Keep moving!" Crov roared, his voice echoing fiercely into the tunnel as the spears closed in. "Make sure he escapes this cursed nation!"
Behind them, the shouting of the guard grew deafening. "They're heading for the outer wall drainage! Block all the lower exits! Burn the entire slums to the ground if you must, but do not let them escape!"
### **A Palace in Turmoil**
Inside the pristine, brightly lit throne room, Bishop Walker stood trembling before the highest authority in the land.
The King sat atop his golden throne, flanked by the Queen, the First Princess, and the Crown Prince. The atmosphere was thick with suffocating tension. The report had just arrived: the deepest cell in the dungeon was entirely empty.
A knight burst through the grand double doors, panting heavily, his armor clattering.
"Your Majesty! The silver-haired boy... he's escaping through the outer walls as we speak! He's heading straight into the lower slums!"
"Bring him back to me!" the King roared, slamming his fist onto the gilded armrest, his face contorted in pure rage. "I don't care what it takes! I don't care if you have to burn the entire civilian slums to ash! Bring me his head!"
The knight saluted sharply and vanished from the hall.
The Crown Prince crossed his arms, a cynical smirk on his face. "So... are we not going to see this savior after all?"
"We went through all the trouble of summoning him... and now we want nothing more than to see him dead. How deeply ironic," the First Princess muttered under her breath. She turned away from her father, walking toward the grand balcony with a look of profound disgust. "We claim to act on divine orders... yet we ruthlessly persecute our own people."
Silence reigned over the court, heavy and damning.
### **Two Days Later**
The storm had settled over the capital, leaving a relentless, cold rain in its wake.
The First Princess stood alone on her private balcony, watching the heavy sheets of water drench the royal gardens below. She closed her eyes, taking a deep, exhausting breath of the crisp, damp air, trying to wash the politics of the court from her mind.
Then—a sudden shift in the wind. A subtle movement in the shadows of her bedchambers.
The princess gasped, spinning around.
A figure stepped slowly out of the darkness of her room, crossing the threshold into the dim moonlight. He was thoroughly soaked in a mixture of rainwater and drying, dark crimson blood.
His eyes were entirely void of life, glowing with a faint, terrifying red light. His hair, which the archives had sworn was a pure, silk-like silver, was now stained a matted, violent red.
He walked forward, his bare, scarred feet leaving bloody prints on her pristine rug. In his right hand, he loosely held a jagged, dripping dagger.
"Your father killed my allies..." the boy whispered.
His voice was entirely hollow. Emotionless. A sound born from the very depths of a frozen abyss.
The Princess stumbled backward, her back hitting the stone railing of the balcony, her face turning a stark, terrified white. She opened her mouth to scream for the royal guard, but as she looked into those dead, crimson eyes, she realized the truth.
It was already far too late.