The smell of garlic and pepper filled the cozy house tucked near the edge of the forest. Outside, the sun had just dipped past the horizon, spilling soft amber light through the windows. Inside, Elara Kinsley stood by the hearth, gently stirring a sizzling pan of vegetables with practiced ease.
Across the room, Lyra lay on her stomach over the couch's armrest, her chin resting lazily atop the cushion. Her bright eyes followed Elara's every movement, her gaze curious and quietly affectionate.
Elara noticed. She glanced back with a small smile. "What's the matter, Lyra? Do I have something on my face?"
Lyra blinked once, then shook her head. "Nope. I was just thinking... would you ever consider marrying my brother?"
Elara froze mid-stir. Her eyes widened a little before she let out a surprised, airy laugh. "Where did that come from?"
Lyra shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just wondering."
After a pause, she added quietly, "Is it... because he's blind?"
Lyra tried to keep her tone even, but her small frown betrayed her. "Maybe people overlook him for that. But he's kind. And smart. And strong in ways that matter."
Elara turned away from the pan and leaned against the counter, arms crossed thoughtfully."It's not like that," she said after a moment. "Marriage isn't about pity, or even admiration. It has to go both ways. I don't think your brother sees me like that."
Lyra sighed, giving a slight nod. "Well... at least I tried," she muttered, puffing her cheeks.
Elara chuckled. "Tell you what. If your brother brings me a souvenir next time he comes back from one of his missions... maybe I'll reconsider."
Lyra sat up straighter. "That's all it takes? A souvenir?"
"I'm easy to please," Elara corrected with mock seriousness.
The two burst into laughter together, the sound echoing warmly through the house.
Then—crack.
The laughter died instantly.
A photo frame had fallen from the shelf by the fireplace, shattering on the wooden floor. The picture inside—one of Soren and Lyra from a rare, peaceful day—now lay at a crooked angle beneath a spiderweb of broken glass.
Lyra gasped. "Ah! That scared me—"
"Don't move," Elara said calmly, already switching off the stove. "Let me take care of it. Dinner's done anyway."
"Thanks, Sister Ela..."
Lyra watched her bend down to carefully gather the broken pieces. Elara picked up the photo and inspected it briefly before glancing over her shoulder.
"Your brother looks handsome in this one. Maybe I will reconsider," she teased.
Lyra offered a small smile in return.
But deep in her chest, something twisted.
She didn't believe in superstitions. Or maybe she did—just a little. A falling photograph... a cracked frame. It was such a cliché omen. But she couldn't shake the feeling.
---
The forest blurred past him in streaks of black and green, each breath searing Soren's throat like fire. Branches tore at his cloak. Roots clawed at his boots. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop!
His chest heaved. His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat. Behind him, smoke still coiled upward where the carriage had burned—splinters and bodies left strewn across the ruined trail like discarded dolls.
Everyone was dead.
The guards. The driver. The men who had boarded with him—strangers whose names he never learned.
All gone!
They had all died screaming.
And he would've joined them, if not for the eye.
A spear—an inch from his ribs.Then, the world tilted.
The Eye of Ruin flared. Reflex. He reached out—Greed.To consume the force.
But the instant he touched it—Reality screamed.Space tore like wet parchment. The energy slipped through his grasp, wild and volatile.
Unabsorbable.
Tch. A worthy opponent, Greed whispered, amused.
No time.
The spear kept coming.
His breath caught—then fell into silence.The world slowed.
No—he slowed it.
Sloth.
Time bent at the edges. Dust froze midair.
He turned, one slow heartbeat at a time.
He moved.
But, even with time dilation, the spear before found him!It tore into his ribs—missed his stomach by inches, but not enough.
Blood spilled.Pain bloomed.
He was bleeding because of it.
Now he ran.
Faster.
Faster.
A few hundred paces behind him later, two figures stood side by side on the smoking remains of the path, their silhouettes sharp against the full moon.
"Are we sure this is the one?"
The first figure's voice was smooth, almost bored. His long coat fluttered faintly in the breeze. At his side, a spear shimmered—sleek and deadly, its tip stained with blood.
"He doesn't look like someone who killed a Crimson Apostle."
"Maybe it was just a false report," the other said, voice gravelly with disdain. "A blind cripple… running like a cornered rat."
The spearman twirled his weapon with a flick, the metal catching moonlight. "He almost dodged my Absolute Thrust," he muttered, more intrigued than angry. "No one's ever done that."
There was a beat of silence.
Then the first one chuckling dismissively and stepped forward. "Whatever it is… we'll carve it out of him soon enough."
Soren... He didn't get far.
A wave of nausea hit him mid-sprint. The world folded inward.
Trees twisted like corkscrews. The moon flickered. His boots stepped on dirt, then snow, then glass—then back again.
No.
This wasn't his mind failing. This wasn't exhaustion.
This was magic.
"Gotcha," said a voice.
Soren turned—there was nothing. He turned again—now there were three of the same tree. Three moons. Three forests.
Then suddenly—three men.
Twelve, to be exact. All versions of one of the attacker.
Illusions.
And they all raised their hands.
One of them is real.
Before he could find which, they struck.
A barrage of spells launched toward him: spirals of fire, jagged ice, sickly green bolts of cursed mana. Each aimed perfectly.
No hesitation. No test.
They meant to kill him now.
He couldn't dodge them all.
But he didn't need to.
The Eye opened.
Time did not slow—he didn't use that aspect. Instead, he simply knew.
One spell—deep crimson, laced with entropy, humming with power—was real. Not a projection.
It struck him full-on in the chest.
But instead of tearing him apart—
—it vanished into a spiral of darkness.
A black wound opened in the air where the spell touched him. It twisted, swallowed, and consumed.
The facade stuttered, cracked, then shattered like fragile glass. The illusionist now wide-eyed with disbelief.
Soren coughed blood and straightened. His voice came ragged.
"I took it."
The Eye of Ruin pulsed. Cracks appeared in the air around it, glowing with white-hot energy.
And then—
Greed stirred.
My turn now.
Soren lifted a trembling hand and released.
The spell—warped, compressed, and enhanced—erupted from his palm, no longer crimson but pitch black, laced with gravity and Ruin. It didn't fly—it pierced the air, a jagged lance of pure vengeance!
The illusionist, Faux, raised a dozen barriers in desperation.
They crumbled on impact.
The blast ripped through him, launching him backward. He smashed through trees, skidded across the dirt, and finally exploded in a column of fire and shrapnel.
When the light faded, only ash remained.
Silence.
Smoke curled upward from the crater.
Greed laughed softly in Soren's mind. "Clever, yes—underestimated his enemy. A fatal mistake."
Soren staggered. His legs threatened to give. He dropped to one knee, breathing raggedly, one arm limp from overchanneling.
Footsteps approached.
The spearman appeared, wiping a smudge of dirt from his collar.
He gave a long, appreciative whistle.
"I'll admit it. That wasn't luck."
He walked to where Faux had stood and stared at the scorched earth for a moment.
"He was difficult to work with," he said. "Arrogant. But good at what he did."
He turned to Soren.
"You took him out just like that."
There was no anger in his voice. Only… interest.
The man looked to be in his thirties—broad-shouldered, with a faint beard along his jaw and slightly disheveled hair that gave him a rugged edge. His spear rested casually against his shoulder, but his eyes were sharp, assessing.
He stared directly at Soren, or more precisely, at the crimson glow burning from his left eye.
A blood-colored gleam, alive with power. Like a sliver of the moon dipped in fire.
Ocular power? he thought, brows tightening. Those were rare. Often hereditary. And deadly.
His grip shifted subtly on the spear shaft. Silent. Intentional.
It should be easy to kill him now.
The thought lingered like a blade at the edge of breath.
Then—he moved.