The Citadel was quiet. Too quiet. Midnight had always carried its own weight, but tonight Murphy felt something heavier gnawing at his chest. Sleep would not come.
He rose from his quarters, steps echoing faintly down the long stone corridor, until he reached the old armory—his private sanctum. The door groaned open, revealing rows of ancient weapons, relics of battles long past. Each blade carried stories of kingdoms risen and fallen. But his eyes sought only one place: the sealed chamber.
The seal glimmered faintly with etched runes. Untouched. Unbroken. Yet something inside him urged him forward. Murphy pressed his palm against it, whispering the words only he and the Council knew. With a crackling sigh, the seal opened.
And there it was.
The stand for Kinslayer—empty. No sheath. No blade. Only a slip of parchment tucked where it once rested.
Murphy's breath hitched. He lifted the paper, his stomach tightening as he read the scrawled warning:
"DO NOT OPEN. The Spade blade is cursed. To wield it is to be devoured."
Beside it lay a second sword, wrapped in black cloth—the true Kinslayer, its presence muted, dormant, untouched.
Murphy froze. His pulse thundered in his ears.
If Kinslayer was here… then what was Axel carrying?
He pulled back the cloth, staring at the dull, dangerous gleam of the real weapon. And then it struck him, cold and merciless:
Axel hadn't run off with Kinslayer. He had been tricked. Manipulated.
The blade in his hand was the cursed Spade Blade, forged in shadow by Axel's own bloodline—a weapon that fed not only on flesh, but on the wielder's soul.
Murphy staggered back, clutching the edge of the stand. His mind raced through the events of the last days: Axel's sudden violence, his mercilessness, the ghosts in his eyes. It wasn't just trauma. It was the curse eating him alive.
MURPHY
(hoarse whisper)
Egon preserve us… what have we done?
The chamber darkened, a faint hum vibrating through the stones as if the cursed blade sensed his realization, even from afar. Murphy's jaw set, his grief carved into fury.
MURPHY
(growling, to himself)
You're not carrying Kinslayer, boy. You're carrying your damnation.
For the first time in centuries, Murphy felt fear—not for himself, but for Axel. Because if the Spade Blade had awakened, then forces far older than Espada's wars were moving again.
Murphy stood in the silence of the armory, the weight of his discovery pressing down on his chest like a mountain. The Spade Blade was free. And Axel carried it.
No council could know of this. Not yet. If word spread, the kingdoms would collapse in panic. This was his burden to bear.
He moved quickly, pulling aside an ancient tapestry. Beneath it, a sigil carved deep into the stone pulsed faintly. He knelt, pressed his hand into the groove, and whispered the forbidden incantation.
The runes flared, swallowing him in light.
When the glow faded, Murphy stood in the Underrealm of Espada—a cavernous expanse carved beneath the earth, veins of crimson ore glowing faintly in the walls. It smelled of smoke and old iron. This was where the cursed weapons had been born.
The forge should have been alive with fire. Sparks. Hammer strikes. But instead, silence ruled. Ash drifted in the air like snow. The forge was cold.
Murphy's boots crunched on the blackened stone as he stepped deeper, eyes narrowing. Then he saw him.
The forger—the last of the blacksmiths who had crafted the Spade Blade—lay slumped against the anvil, his chest split open. Lifeless. His calloused hand still clutched the tongs that had once shaped damnation into steel.
Murphy's jaw tightened. He bent down, pressing two fingers to the forger's neck. No pulse. Whoever did this had come prepared.
And then, a voice. Smooth, mocking, carrying the faintest echo.
???:
"Long time no see… Egon."
Murphy froze. His name. His true name. One buried beneath glory. He rose slowly, hand already hovering near the hilt of his sidearm.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward—a man draped in a dark cloak, his face half-hidden beneath the hood. Only the faint gleam of his smile broke the darkness.
???:
"Oh… forgive me. You don't go by that anymore, do you? Murphy, was it?"
The stranger chuckled softly, tilting his head as though savoring the moment.
???:
"Names are such fragile things. You wear yours like a mask, but deep down… you're still the Monarch who thought he could outrun his past."
Murphy's brow furrowed. His heart hammered, not from fear, but from the pull of recognition—something in that voice stirred memories he had locked away lifetimes ago.
MURPHY:
(gritted teeth)
"Who… are you?"
The man's smile widened, his cloak shifting as though the darkness itself bent around him.
???:
"Oh, Egon. You already know. You've always known."
The forge crackled faintly, though no fire burned. The shadows thickened, and Murphy felt it—that suffocating presence of something ancient. Something patient. Something that had been waiting for him.
And for Axel.
Murphy sat in the half-dark, the cigarette burning down between his fingers, ash spilling lazily into the tray. The air was thick, heavy with smoke and silence. He reached under his desk and dragged out a relic—an old rotary phone, blackened with age, its brass edges dulled. A 16th-century design, out of place in this era, yet humming faintly with arcane life.
He lifted the receiver, the static crackling like whispers from another time, and dialed a number only his memory still held.
The line clicked.
MURPHY (low, steady):
"…Damion. It's me."
A pause. Only the faint sound of breath on the other side. Murphy's eyes softened, though his jaw stayed hard.
MURPHY:
"Take care of yourself, boy. Pass the academy. Don't… don't end up like me."
His throat tightened, but he didn't allow it to show. He hung up slowly, the echo of the click reverberating through the room like a gunshot.
Murphy opened the drawer beside him. Inside lay a weathered revolver, steel polished by years of handling. His hand lingered on it before lifting it free. With a slow, deliberate motion, he thumbed open the chamber, slid out five bullets, and set them gently on the desk. One round remained.
The revolver spun in his hand, the cylinder clicking as it rotated—Russian roulette with destiny itself.
He pressed the cold muzzle against his temple.
MURPHY (a whisper, almost prayerlike):
"…Axel. Forgive me."
A beat of silence. Then—