On the other side, right at Azbirut's Eastern Gate, a large company of riders and wagons began to enter the city. The dust of the road still clung to their clothes, yet the weariness on their faces was swept away by the warmth of finally seeing home once more. This company was none other than that of Aldric Ashenblade — leader of the Ash Knight The Guardian — returning from a long journey with his men and carriages. They were warmly welcomed by family and attendants of the city, shaking off the fatigue that had long weighed upon them.
In the courtyard of the grand Ashenblade mansion, Aldric — a man with ashen hair and deep gray eyes — stepped down from his horse-drawn carriage, accompanied by a middle-aged man named Roric. Roric's face showed fatigue, his dark gray hair duller and more somber than Aldric's.
They passed through the gates of the mansion, opened by ranks of knightly guards. A neatly dressed butler hurried over to greet them.
"Welcome back, Master of the House," the butler said respectfully, bowing deeply.
Aldric gave a faint smile. "Yes, I have returned, head butler."
The butler then turned to Roric. "You as well, Lord Roric."
"Yes," Roric answered curtly.
After only a few steps into the courtyard, a small boy with bright ash-colored hair came running down the stairs with joyous laughter.
"Yay, Father's home!" he shouted, embracing his father with all his might.
Aldric bent down, returning the hug with a relieved smile. "Yes, Father has come home."
Moments later, a young girl with ash blonde hair— slightly older than the boy — followed with quick, light steps, joining in to hug her father. The two children giggled, clinging to his arms.
"Oh, my lovely children," Aldric murmured, filled with joy.
Watching this sight, Roric chuckled. "It seems your life is very harmonious, Aldric."
"Hehe… it seems so," Aldric replied lightly, lifting both of his children into his arms.
From the upper floor, a graceful blonde woman descended slowly. Her simple gown only enhanced her charm. Her face radiated the gentleness of a wife and the strength of a true partner. A sweet smile bloomed on her lips as she welcomed her husband.
"It seems my husband has returned," she said softly.
"Ohh… my wife, come here. I want to hold you," Aldric answered with joy.
The woman chuckled lightly. "Aren't you embarrassed, being watched by Uncle Roric?" she teased, then turned to the older man. "Come, Uncle Roric. Let me show you to your quarters."
Aldric, ignored, could only hide his disappointment, though he well knew the maturity of his wife's ways.
"Wouldn't it trouble you, Lady Celyne? Let the Maid guide me," Roric said politely.
"That won't do. Since when does a guest of honor of the Ashenblade family get attended by a maid?" Celyne replied firmly. She gestured with her hand. "Come, follow me, Uncle."
Roric followed her, accompanied by several Maids. Meanwhile, Aldric returned to his private chambers, dragged along playfully by his children.
Soon after, cleansed and changed, they all gathered in the grand dining hall. At the long table adorned with tall candles, Aldric sat with his wife, children, and Roric. Lighthearted conversation colored the dinner, speaking of journeys, family, and the latest news of the Ashenblade clan.
But the peace was suddenly shattered.
"BOOOOM!!"
A massive explosion tore through the night. The blast split the air, shaking the very foundation of the mansion. At once, all within the house fell silent. Roric and Aldric exchanged sharp looks. They rushed to the upper balcony, staring westward toward Azbirut's Western Gate.
Thick smoke rose into the night sky.
"Damn…!" Aldric cursed under his breath. "I must go there!"
But before he could move, Roric caught his arm.
"Let me go there first," Roric said firmly, his tone calm yet commanding. "Prepare your troops first, Aldric. I'm sure they're numerous."
Aldric hesitated for a moment, weighing the choice. But Roric's eyes burned with certainty, and at last Aldric nodded. "Very well… then so be it." He shouted at once, "Bring a horse for Lord Roric, quickly!"
A knight dashed away and returned with a steed, leading it before the mansion. Without delay, Roric mounted and sped off toward the blast.
Aldric watched the departure of his uncle and former master, then turned to the knights now gathering in the courtyard.
"Ready the entire force! Tonight… we cleanse the scum who dare disturb Azbirut's peace!" he roared, his eyes cold and blazing with fury.
The knights cried out in unison, swiftly preparing their arms and armor. The fire of battle had been lit that night, and blood was soon to be spilled.
---
Before The Explosion...
Under the moonless midnight sky, the band of mercenaries clad in ash-gray robes had gathered before Azbirut's Western Gate.
The air was heavy, thick with the stench of iron, dust, and the reek of bloodlust radiating from their feral faces.
Upon the walls, the city guards had already met their end — their bodies slumped, pierced by arrows loosed with lethal precision before they could even sound an alarm.
This was no mindless rabble.
Though they craved slaughter, they did not move without a plan.
At their head stood a man with brown hair, his right eye glowing crimson, a scar in the shape of a cross cut beneath it. Around his neck hung a crimson pendant. He smiled with an air of command — yet behind that smile lurked the mind of a psychopath who would slaughter foe and ally alike without hesitation.
This was Zoyern, a Fourth Circle sorcerer infamous for his cruelty and insatiable hunger for destruction.
"Prepare the Storm Disaster Crystals!" Zoyern bellowed, his voice cracking across the night like a whip of lightning.
Several dark-robed sorcerers hurried to bury the crystals in the ground at measured intervals. Each stone pulsed faintly, ready to unleash a sandstorm blast that would strike the city like a tidal wave.
"And do not forget the Summoning Crystals! Let the beasts of the wastes wild on the ground!" he ordered again. His mages obeyed, planting cursed stones at the gate's threshold, ready to lure savage creatures into the city once chaos erupted.
A gaunt subordinate with a twisted grin approached him.
"Everything is ready, Lord Zoyern. Shall we begin?"
Zoyern smirked. "Of course… the time has come," he whispered, as if greeting the chaos he longed to unleash.
The mercenaries drew back a few paces, leaving space for their master.
Raising both hands, Zoyern began his incantation. Black mana coiled around him, dust swirling like a vortex. In his palms, a ball of flame formed — big crimson red flame, its heat suffocating even before it touched flesh.
With a final chanted, he hurled it.
BOOOOM!
The city wall quaked.
The western gate shattered, stone exploding outward in a cloud of dust and fire. The air turned blistering, and sand surged in violent gusts.
The mercenaries surged forward without pause. Screams tore the night. Horses thundered, steel clashed, and the cries of lust and slaughter filled the air.
"Kill them all!!"
"Tear this wretched city apart!!"
"Find me the plump women!!"
"This is a goldmine! A blood-feast!!"
"Hahaha… what a beautiful night!"
Madness engulfed the streets.
Beside Zoyern marched his lieutenant — a brutal knight clad in blackened armor, helm obscuring his face, but his eyes gleamed with murderous intent. He carved through the remaining guards with sweeping strikes, heads and limbs flying.
Civilians ran shrieking. Children were dragged, women torn from their homes. Houses were ransacked, bodies cut down where they stood.
And amid the carnage, Zoyern stood tall, smiling wide. His crimson eye gleamed, delight written across his face.
But then… his smile faltered.
Something stirred.
A presence.
A storm of aura approached — swift, violent, suffocating.
Not the tread of common soldiers. No… something else.
"Activate the Storm Disaster! Release the Summoning Crystals, now!" Zoyern barked. His mages immediately chanted, their crystals blazing as forbidden energies surged.
The cursed power burst forth. A sandstorm howled into the city, swallowing streets in choking dust. The storm blinded guards and civilians alike, leaving them stumbling, lost in terror.
But to the mercenaries, the storm was nothing. Their eyes glowed faintly with the spell Eyes of the Sandstorm, their sight unclouded in the choking haze.
Through the storm, a lone rider broke forth.
His aura tore the sand aside like a curtain of mist, revealing his path.
Roric Ashenblade — one of the Three War Spears of the Ashenblade clan, guardian of the city, a man whose very name carved dread into foes.
He cut down mercenaries as he rode, three strokes — swift, merciless, final. Blood spattered, merging with the sand. An arrow whistled, grazing his cheek. He leapt from his steed, kicking it away to safety before the battle thickened.
He stormed the archer, his blade thrust through the man's throat, ripping free just in time to use the body as a shield. Two sorcerers loosed a combined spell — flame and gale fused into a blazing arrow of death. The corpse shield held for a heartbeat before it was obliterated in a burst of fire.
But when the smoke cleared, both sorcerers coughed blood, eyes wide.
Roric's sword had already pierced them from behind.
The mercenaries froze. Tension spread.
"That's… Roric… one of the Three Ashenblade Spears…"
"Damn it, don't falter — he's just a man!"
"Stay sharp! Do not underestimate him!"
From their ranks stepped a towering brute clad in rusted, bloodstained armor. In one hand he carried a spiked mace, in the other a battered round shield. His voice was low, guttural.
"I challenge you, Roric Ashenblade… to an honorable duel."
Roric's eyes narrowed. "How... A butcher dares speak of honor? Your morals drowned long ago in rivers of blood."
Yet he swung his blade, declaring his readiness without the need for many words.
The mercenaries roared wildly.
"Kill him, brother!!"
"Break that old man's neck!!"
"Sell me his heart!!"
The shielded man burst into loud laughter. He picked up a stone from the ground and said, "When this stone touches the ground… our duel begins."
He tossed the stone into the air.
But as the stone fell — it was his head that struck the ground first, severed clean. Blood sprayed violently, soaking the sand.
The mercenaries froze, some stepping back, others suddenly silenced.
Then — crack!
Two blades slipped into Roric's back and thigh without him realizing. His body wavered slightly. The mercenaries immediately cheered mockingly.
"Look at him! He thought we were fools!"
"Damn old man, it's time you stepped off the stage!"
"Just like the rumors… he likes to stall for time!"
They began to swarm, attacking him from all sides. Roric managed to hold them off, but in a brief moment of carelessness, their blades slipped through his defense, leaving several cuts across his body.
Roric drew in a deep breath. It seems I underestimated them a bit… this mercenary group seems to be on par with mid to high class terrorists…
But his gaze remained cold. Aura surged within his body, flaring thick like ash-smoke from burning wood. The wounds on his body slowly sealed, his blood ceased to flow. The mercenaries bodies trembled, some couldn't even move as the sudden pressure of his aura weighed down the air around them.
Roric lowered his stance, steadying his breath. He stepped into Footsteps of the Ash — the Ashenblade family's secret technique. Each of his steps left faint trails of drifting ash in the air.
And then, in an instant, he moved. His figure shot forward, elegant and lethal. Ashen aura swept across the battlefield, a silent swirl over the sand. With a single spinning motion, Roric's position shifted behind them.
Slash after slash followed. Every swing of his sword left burning traces of ash, every foe struck collapsed instantly without a scream. Blood spattered, spraying through the air and mixing with the ash, painting a one-sided massacre both beautiful and terrifying.
The night of Azbirut is getting darker, and for the mercenaries, it was only then that they truly realized — they were facing one of the three legendary slayers of the Ashenblade family.
---
[PoV Evran]
At Rosem Bloom Clinic, I awoke from a deep sleep. The clamor outside disturbed the stillness of the night, forcing my heavy eyes open. My head still throbbed, my body sluggish, yet there was something in the air that made me rise and step slowly toward the window. My hand drew aside the thin curtain, and beyond it, sand was whipping fiercely, striking against the windows and the walls of the clinic.
I squinted.
Sand…?
A sandstorm in this city should have been impossible. The walls of Azbirut were too high and solid—never once had a storm breached them. A creeping unease began to stir in my chest.
I hurried out of the room, following the corridor of the clinic. There, nurses, doctors, and several others had already gathered. Some were panicking, others were busy dragging shelves and tables to shut the doors before the sand could break in. Faces were filled with worry, voices blending into a frantic chorus.
I stood there, bewildered, until a familiar voice called out.
"Evran? What's wrong?"
Sister Nayari, the nurse who had been tending to me, approached quickly. Her face was anxious, her eyes studying me closely.
"I… woke up," I answered softly, still half-asleep.
Not long after, Sister Rina arrived with light steps, her slightly messy hair caught by the draft sneaking through the door that hadn't been fully closed. "What's the matter, Evran?" she asked gently.
Sister Nayari quickly explained. "He woke up because of the storm."
Sister Rina looked at me for a moment, then sighed. "In that case, let's go back to your room. Try to sleep again, Evran. Your wounds aren't fully healed yet."
"But…" I wanted to refuse, sensing something wasn't right, but Sister Rina's hand had already taken mine.
"Come now."
Sister Nayari waved with a little laugh. "Bye-bye, lucky boy."
I only caught a glimpse of the old man who had sat with me yesterday on the clinic's garden bench. He walked past with his usual warm smile. I wanted to greet him, but Sister Rina was already pulling me along.
In the room, she laid me down on the bed, tidied the blanket that had gone askew, then sat at the edge, holding my hand gently.
"Rest now, Evran…"
"I can't sleep," I whispered back. "What if… Sister Rina reads me a story?"
She smiled faintly. "Alright… what story would you like?"
I thought for a moment. "Anything."
Sister Rina rose and lit the torch in the corner of the room. The chill that had crept in slowly gave way to warmth. She returned to sit at the corner of my bed, adjusting my pillow.
"Then… I'll tell you about Closterium, the Revolutionary Disciple. A young man who journeyed across the world… from east to west, from north to south. Crossing deserts with no preparation, armed with nothing but a tattered cloak and a small bag. Just like you, Evran, walking unprepared."
She teased with a playful smile.
"That's not true…" I muttered, blushing at her jest.
And so, Sister Rina began her tale. Her voice was calm, her tone warm. The story flowed gently, carrying me along. Before I realized it, my eyelids grew heavy. The room's warmth, the torch's dim glow, and her soft voice lulled me to sleep.
Until at last, I remembered nothing more.
---
Rina gazed at Evran, now fast asleep, a faint smile on her lips. She gently adjusted the boy's blanket and brushed his hair with a tender touch.
"Get well soon…" she whispered, then quietly left the room.
Outside, chaos still lingered. People crowded near the door, praying for the storm to subside. Nayari greeted her with a worried face.
"You came, Rina. The storm's only getting worse, you know."
Suddenly, a man in expensive formal attire appeared among the crowd. His face carried a smug, overly familiar smile.
"Well, well… isn't that lovely Rina? How have you been?" he greeted, hand extended.
Rina didn't even glance his way. "Fine," she answered curtly.
"You're not going to ask about me?" the man pressed, hopeful.
"No need," Rina replied coldly, brushing past him toward an elderly woman who sat exhausted in a chair in the waiting area. Her warm smile bloomed again as she crouched beside the old woman, offering comfort.
The man glared at Rina in frustration, then turned to Nayari, resting a hand on her shoulder.
"Getting her to fall in love is impossible. Tell me how to do it, Nayari. You're close with her."
Nayari sighed heavily, then scoffed. "You've been rejected countless times. Still not enough for you, huh?"
The man put on a dramatic act, sighing as if wounded, a hand clutching his chest. "How could it be," he said with exaggerated sorrow, "that a woman so caring, so gentle in tending to others, could be so cruel as to reject a man like me?"
Instead of feeling moved, Nayari only rolled her eyes. To her, his words were nothing but shameless noise. Even when warned, the man drowned in his own cheap theatrics.
Damn… no wonder Rina never wants anything to do with this fool, Nayari thought bitterly. If the situation weren't this dire, she would have gladly shoved him out into the sandstorm.
Amidst the commotion, fear was etched on every face. The sandstorm showed no sign of ceasing. Then came a pounding knock on the door that made everyone turn.
"Help… please…!"
A voice from outside.
"Who is it? Save him!" someone shouted.
"No! He's suspicious!" another retorted.
"Please… my brother is dying!" cried the voice. The figure outside appeared to be carrying a young man whose body shook violently.
"Open the door, quick!"
"Don't! It's a trick!"
"It can't be a lie—look at him!" someone argued, pointing.
At last, a few people shoved aside the furniture barring the entrance. The moment the door swung open, the storm swept in along with the two strangers. The sick youth was immediately tended to, laid on an empty bed and wrapped in warm cloth. His supposed older brother was given a seat, a cup of water, and a piece of bread.
The clinic door shut once more, muffling the roar of the storm outside. For a moment, the place felt like the only sanctuary in the raging night.
But that peace was nothing more than a fragile illusion.
The supposed older young man who moments ago had seemed so weak now wore a wide grin. As soon as the door locked, he slowly rose from his bed. His right hand gripped the hilt at his waist, and in a single pull, steel flashed under the lantern light.
"Enough pretending, fools!," he declared, standing tall, eyes sweeping the room.
Without warning, the youth who had been lying on the bed lunged forward. His hand shot out and clamped around the throat of the nearest nurse. His grip was merciless, lifting her several inches off the floor. Her hands clawed at his arm, her breath choked off, eyes bulging in terror. Those nearby barely had time to react before their bodies were flung aside by his brutal kicks, crashing into walls, tables, and chairs.
The room froze. All eyes were locked on the two figures—the grim-faced youth strangling the hapless nurse, and the victim slipping into unconsciousness. Shock and dread wrapped around every chest, choking the very air from their throats.
"W-what are you doing…?" stammered one man, the very same who had insisted they open the door moments ago.
But his words were like wind. The youth never looked his way. He only sneered, head tilted, lips curved in a crooked smile.
"I was planning to make this more dramatic," he muttered lightly, as if disappointed over something trivial. His hand still clamped the woman's throat as he dragged her limp body across the cold floor, steps unhurried.
The other man—the one who had pretended to be the older brother, removing his disguise to reveal his middle-aged face with beard—watched with satisfaction. He sneered. "Heh, look at that. Seems you know how to enjoy yourself. Fine choice too. Not bad, kid. I'm proud of you," he mocked, laughing crudely.
"You're too noisy…" the youth growled, flinging the nurse aside like a rag before strapping brass knuckles onto his hand. He flexed his wrist, punching the air, feeling the weight and balance.
"Well then… let's make this slaughter quick," he said flatly.
Suddenly, two men—a knight wrapped in bandages and a wounded mercenary—snatched scalpels from the reception desk drawers. With fury in their eyes, they charged.
The crazed middle-aged man glanced at them with disdain, as though they were nothing, and rushed ahead as if ready to cut down helpless civilians. Yet the mercenary reacted swiftly, intercepting the strike with his scalpel.
Driven back, the madman only laughed, retreating a step with a twisted grin.
"Fight us! Don't drag the others into this—we'll handle both of you!" the knight bellowed.
"Hah. You think small fry like you can stand against me?" the youth mocked, advancing with a calm, steady stride.
Seeing the opening, one of the doctors gestured frantically for everyone in the room to follow. Trembling, panicked, they slipped into the corridor. A few carried the unconscious woman—her throat still bearing the strangler's marks—cradling her as they hurried toward the clinic's rear exit.
"Finally… I can fight without worry," the knight muttered.
Then the clash erupted. The knight struck first, but the youth countered swiftly—punch after punch landed squarely on the knight's injuries, forcing him to stumble. Within seconds, his face was a swollen mess, his body hurled into a wooden table that splintered on impact.
"Pathetic fool," spat the mercenary, narrowing his eyes.
Without hesitation, he dashed in, moving so fast the youth struck only his shadow. In an instant, his scalpel had stabbed the youth's right shoulder several times, blood dripping fresh.
"Ha! Next, I'll drive this blade into your skull," he taunted, spinning the scalpel in his hand before lunging again.
The youth tightened his brass knuckles, his fists accelerating, blows coming faster and faster until the mercenary could barely keep up.
How the hell are his punches getting faster?! Panic crept into the mercenary's mind.
He darted to the youth's flank, aiming a strike at his head—but at the same moment, the youth's fist drove straight into his chest.
Blood burst forth. The youth's punch pierced clean through, shattering his heart. The scalpel that was meant for his skull never landed—the mercenary's severed hand fell to the floor along with his lifeless body.
The youth glanced back at the other man who stood not far behind.
"I don't need your help," he said coldly.
The man chuckled, shoulders shaking with laughter. "You were on the brink of death just now. I only pitied a weakling," he teased casually.
Ignoring him, the youth strode deeper into the clinic's corridor, blood trailing in his wake. The man followed, grin unbroken. The storm still howled outside, but inside the clinic… the massacre event has just begun.
The killer youth walked slowly down the hallway, eyes sharp, scanning every shadow. Behind him, the bearded, broad-shouldered man—his mercenary comrade in that night's carnage—trailed close. The corridor, lit dimly by oil lamps, seemed unwilling to hold light, as if even flame shrank from the darkness they carried.
Suddenly, the youth halted, body crouching low, stance poised to strike. The bearded man frowned, puzzled by his partner's sudden tension