Achlalt passed through the village gate and turned east.
This area—about 20 kilometers out—had recently been assigned to him. Most scouts had been sent west, where raider activity had increased. But here, in the quiet east, they placed newcomers like him.
At first, traveling alone through the dense woods terrified him. Even the sound of a rabbit would make his heart leap.
But now… he was starting to feel like a man.
If he could find just one hidden stash from the raiders—just one!—he'd prove himself and bring glory to his name.
After four or five hours of walking, he arrived at the designated zone. It was uncharted, and that meant high risk—but also high reward.
The terrain was steep. Jagged cliffs towered on either side. One wrong step could mean a deadly fall.
Then—a noise.
Something shifted behind him.
His heart slammed in his chest. He turned too fast—his foot slipped—and he plummeted down into darkness.
Splash.
His body hit shallow water. Pain flared in his limbs. His head spun.
He was still alive—barely. The fall had left him bruised and aching.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he wasn't in a regular ravine.
This… was a man-made pit.
Its sides were lined with stone. Passageways extended from either end, stretching into darkness.
The rain from earlier had made the stone walls slick—there was no way to climb out.
So, he made a choice.
He reached into his bag, found his oil-soaked cloth, and lit it with a match. The flame sputtered, then steadied.
With a makeshift torch in hand, he ventured deeper.
The tunnel walls were lined with rusted metal and eroded carvings. Strange symbols—artwork—skeletons.
He moved quietly. Carefully.
Eventually, he came upon a sealed steel door.
Achlalt (thinking):Could this be… what Azriel once mentioned? That "possibility" buried in the earth?
The center of the door had collapsed slightly, likely from pressure above. That weakness gave him hope.
He drew his blade and began prying at the door.
Sparks flew. Metal screeched. After a long struggle, he managed to force a hole just wide enough to crawl through.
What lay beyond was a long, dim corridor. About three meters high, six meters wide. The air smelled of dust and metal.
He kept moving forward.
More artwork. More bones. Ancient coffins. Small rooms with sarcophagus-shaped containers lined the walls.
Then—another steel door.
This one was warped. Deliberately, perhaps. As if someone had tried to seal it… or tried to keep something in.
Achlalt took a deep breath, pushed the door, and stepped inside.
The room was cube-shaped. Ten meters across. Walls decorated with old relics and strange ornaments. Desks lined the far right side.
At the center, a coffin-like container stood—sealed tight.
Faint light flickered from within it.
His eyes were drawn to the control panel beside it.
He hesitated.
Then, with a deep breath—he pressed the button.
Click.
With a slow, grinding groan, the container began to open.
Steam hissed. Light poured out. Achlalt stepped back, holding his torch high.
A figure rose from inside.
Muscular. Old. Hair silver-gray. A scar ran across his face, and one eye was blind. Even from a distance, the aura he gave off made Achlalt's instincts scream.
This was no ordinary man.
This was a killer.
Every bone in Achlalt's body told him to run.
So he did.
He dropped everything and bolted for the exit.
But the figure moved.
It chased him.
Fast.
Achlalt looked back—and what had been ten meters was now five.
Four.
Three.
Panic surged through him.
He had no weapon. Nothing useful. Nowhere to hide.
He turned, desperate.
Achlalt: "Wait! Stop! Let's talk! I'm a Sharkow! I mean no harm!"
The figure didn't slow.
Achlalt (thinking):No choice. I have to fight.
He dropped into a battle stance—one Azriel had taught him.
But his opponent was bigger. Faster. Stronger.
As the stranger lunged, Achlalt struck first—but his blow was deflected with terrifying ease.
A punch landed in his gut. He gasped, stumbling.
Another strike—across his head.
Darkness swallowed him.
Achlalt stirred.
Pain bloomed across his shoulder, and the cold surface beneath his back made him flinch. His arms were strapped down. The room was dim and narrow, lit only by a flickering ceiling lamp. Nearby, a metal table stood with a gleaming syringe resting on it.
His chest tightened.
Then, the door creaked open.
The man from before—towering, scarred, cold-eyed—stepped into the room.
Thorvard.
He walked over with steady, heavy steps and picked up the syringe.
Thorvard: "You're awake. Good. The gift I promised… is ready."
Achlalt's breath caught in his throat.
Achlalt: "W-Wait... what is that? What are you doing?"
Thorvard didn't answer.
Without hesitation, he approached, rolled up Achlalt's sleeve, and pushed the needle deep into the muscle of his left shoulder.
Achlalt: "No—!"
The liquid surged into his bloodstream.
A burning coldness tore through his body like liquid ice. It wasn't just pain—it was dissolution. Like pieces of him were coming undone from the inside out.
His pulse exploded in his ears.
His head spun violently, vision shaking, warping, fading at the edges. His limbs jerked. His body rebelled.
Achlalt (thinking):Something's wrong. Something's so, so wrong.
Sweat burst from his skin. He couldn't focus. Couldn't breathe.
The floor tilted beneath him even though he wasn't moving. His thoughts scrambled like ants in fire.
A thousand voices screamed inside his skull—but none of them were his.
Achlalt: "What... what did you do to me…?"
Thorvard (calm): "Truth serum. Military-grade. If you're lying, your own mind will betray you."
Achlalt choked on his own breath. His teeth clenched. Veins in his neck bulged.
He tried to speak, but only a strained whisper escaped:
Achlalt: "I-I… don't even know… what Empire you're talking about…"
The ceiling melted in and out of focus. Colors twisted. The lights above swam like stars underwater.
His stomach turned. His skin felt too tight. Like his body wasn't his anymore.
Thorvard (stepping closer): "Name?"
Achlalt (gasping): "Achlalt…"
Thorvard: "Where are you from?"
Achlalt: "W-Woodhaven… I live in the outer rings…"
Thorvard: "Do you know Celestia?"
Achlalt: "No…"
Thorvard: "What year is it?"
Achlalt: "New Era… three thousand… fifteen…"
Thorvard froze. The shadows in his face deepened.
Thorvard (low): "So it has been over a thousand years…"
But Achlalt wasn't hearing him anymore.
The pressure in his skull grew unbearable. His eyes rolled back.
Achlalt (thinking):Can't... hold on... can't…
He began convulsing, his body twisting violently once—then going still.
The torch inside his mind went out.
Everything went white—
Then black.
Then nothing.
Darkness.
Time lost meaning.
Only a ringing silence remained.
Thorvard stood over him, watching the unconscious boy with no hint of pity.
Thorvard (quietly): "Not bad, kid. You survived more than most."
He laid the empty syringe down.
Then turned away—expression unreadable.
I woke up. I was lying on a bed in a small, dim room. My chest was bare. My arms were free. Beside me, a familiar figure sat silently, arms crossed, staring at me.
His gray hair was tied behind his head, his expression unreadable. One eye was cloudy—blind. The other locked onto me with calm calculation.
It was the same man I had seen earlier. The one who had chased me down, struck me, and rendered me unconscious.
I tried to sit up. My body was sore.
"You're finally awake," he said, in a low voice.
"What was that... that thing you injected me with?"
"Don't worry. You're not going to die. It was a test."
"A test?!"
I clenched my jaw.
Achlalt: Don't you have anything else to tell me?
Thorvard: Ahem... I apologize for my earlier rudeness. Ask your question—I'll answer it. Then I'll give you a gift I've prepared.
Achlalt: What is the Imperial?
Thorvard: A decayed state. Every millimeter of it reeks of rot. A clown wearing the title of Emperor has turned a once-great nation into a joke over ten generations.
Achlalt: When did this all happen?
Thorvard: Around the start of the new era. About a thousand years before your birth, the Great Collapse happened. Our nations and people stood on the brink of extinction. All communication broke down. Cities and towns were swallowed one after another by the meteor storms.
And during that time, a man—who called himself Emperor—unable to restrain his greed and ambition, tried to build a world of his own dreams. He used every last weapon, soldier, and scholar from the ruins to start a civil war that pushed those of us trying to rise from the ashes to the very edge of extinction.
The real danger, though—was something no one was worried about at the time.
Countless beings, made in laboratories, escaped. And in just a thousand years, they had become creatures capable of standing alongside us.
Achlalt: Can you explain more clearly?
Thorvard: You've probably met them already. They look human—but they're not. Their bodies, behaviors, and everything else are different. We call them Dondariaks.
In other words, they're the offspring of creatures that escaped from laboratories during the Great Collapse.
Achlalt: Them…? I know them well.
Thorvard: If we had acted faster—if we hadn't let ourselves be consumed by power struggles and had turned our attention to them—we could've wiped them out.
Achlalt: But the Emperor ignored them and only focused on fulfilling his own desires. That's why they've become our problem now. Isn't that right?
Thorvard: Exactly.
After a long silence, I asked again, my voice quieter this time.
Achlalt: So… humans aren't the ones who escaped from the labs?
Thorvard didn't answer right away. He was staring at something far away—something that probably didn't exist anymore.
He finally looked at me, his expression serious but not cold.
Thorvard: Humans are our ancestors.
Achlalt: I don't understand.
The older man exhaled through his nose, sat back slightly, and began to speak more slowly, almost like a teacher explaining a bitter lesson.
Thorvard: Long ago, this planet was ruled by humans. They spread across every land and learned to shape life itself. They experimented endlessly—on each other, on animals, on whatever they could get their hands on. Eventually, they created new beings... like us.
I could feel my pulse quicken.
Thorvard: We, the Sharkow, are one of their creations. Their masterpiece, perhaps. Longer-lived. Smarter. Stronger in mind, if not in numbers.
He placed a hand on the old table between us. The scars across his knuckles seemed to tell the story of a hundred lost years.
Thorvard: We are not gods. We are not the chosen. We are the result of someone else's ambition.
I swallowed hard. The weight of that truth settled on my shoulders like a stone.
Achlalt: And the Dondariaks?
His eyes hardened.
Thorvard: Escaped failures. They broke out during the Great Collapse—creatures born in tubes, not in wombs. Some still half-formed. Some far more dangerous than anything we expected. And in just a thousand years, they've carved themselves into this world, same as we have.
I clenched my jaw.
Memories of my family. The blood. The screams. That night in the woods.
Achlalt: If only… if only they had never existed.
Thorvard nodded slightly.
Thorvard: Maybe. But you and I—we wouldn't exist either, if not for the same twisted science.
We both sat in silence for a moment.
The underground light flickered faintly above us.
Somewhere deeper in the bunker, something creaked like a sleeping beast turning in its cage.
Not for the first time, I wondered just how deep this place went.
Thorvard stepped into the corner and returned with the rifle again—Magar33. Scratched, old, and as weary as its owner.
He held it out.
Thorvard: Not the best piece. It jams in the dust. The recoil is awful. But it's mine. And now, it's yours.
I hesitated before taking it from his hands.
The cold metal stung my palms, but more than that—its weight. It wasn't just a gun. It was his trust. His judgment.
Achlalt: Thank you.
Thorvard: Don't thank me yet. Use it well. And don't rely on it. Learn to survive with it—not because of it.
I gave a slow nod.
There was a silence between us.
Then Thorvard turned and walked toward the far end of the room.
He didn't say goodbye.
He didn't need to.
I stared down at the rifle once more. My grip tightened around it.
The past few days played behind my eyes like fire:
The screams.
The blood.
The woods.
Everything I couldn't forget.
Everything I didn't want to.
I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and turned toward the ladder.
Step by step, I climbed back into the cold world above.
I climbed out of the sunken path using the ladder Thorvard had provided.
The forest greeted me with its chilling silence. The sky had already dimmed—sunset's final rays bleeding into shadow. I didn't have much time before night would fully take over.
There was no choice but to find shelter and wait out the darkness.
After securing the area, I climbed a tall tree and spent the night cradled in its branches. The full moon overhead was the only source of comfort in that vast, black ocean of leaves.
When birds began to chirp, I climbed down.
The forest looked the same.
Still.
Deceptively peaceful.
As I walked, Thorvard's words spun around in my head like leaves in the wind. His voice—gruff, cold, and oddly truthful—echoed in my memory.
So much so that I stopped paying attention to the path.
That was a mistake.
A sharp crack tore through the stillness.
Gunfire.
I threw myself to the ground and rolled. My heart pounded. I turned, eyes scanning wildly.
Behind me—a figure.
Bleeding from the shoulder, gun raised. A raider.
Must've been injured in a past skirmish. Maybe that's why his aim was off.
I adjusted my grip, aimed my rifle square at his head, and pulled the trigger—
But just then, something shoved me—hard.
The shot went wide.
The bullet hit his helmet but didn't stop him.
Maybe it was a dud. Or maybe this rifle really was as unreliable as Thorvard warned.
I stepped from behind the tree and took the shot.
The bullet hit him square in the chest. He dropped like a stone—no scream, no final word.
Just silence.
The last breath escaped his lips, shallow and slow.
His body lay motionless—eyes closed, mouth still. There was no more fight left in him.
I stepped forward, cautious, listening for his breathing.
He was still alive. Barely.
Peacefully waiting to die.
I aimed the rifle at his temple.
A single pull of the trigger, and everything ended.
His blood sprayed the leaves beside me, and my hands began to tremble.
This wasn't war.
This was execution.
I stared at the lifeless body—his hand still gripping a weapon far more refined than mine.
Karabiner 98k.
Bolt-action. Sleek. Well-kept.
I knelt and carefully pried it from his fingers.
Good condition. Better than my Magar33 by miles.
My rifle was garbage. A misfiring curse.
Without hesitation, I slung the Karabiner over my shoulder—and left the Magar33 lying in the dirt.
I gathered what I could from the corpse and turned away.
Time to go home.
The forest felt different now. Not like a home. Not like a place of danger.
Just... emptiness.
I began the long walk back to Woodhaven.
Not with pride.
Not with triumph.
But with a heavy silence in my chest.
I had killed.
And no matter what waited for me in the village, I could never go back to the boy I was before pulling that trigger.
I reached the village outskirts just as the sun dipped behind the ridge.
My boots hit the dirt road—dry, cracked. This was the path home. My mind was still back there, in the forest, in the bunker, in the blood.
But I forced myself forward.
At the gate, two familiar figures sprinted toward me.
Axel: Big brother!!
Asher: You're back!
I dropped to one knee, arms open.
Achlalt: Look at you two. Grown so fast while I was away a single week, huh?
Axel (pointing): What's that on your back?!
Achlalt: A new rifle. A real one. Karabiner 98k.
Asher: Did you win it in a fight?
I grinned.
Achlalt: Something like that.
They ran off ahead, excited.
At the corner of the path, Azriel was waiting—hands tucked behind his back, a small smile breaking through his worn face.
Azriel: My boy. Back in one piece.
Achlalt: Barely. I've got stories, but... more importantly, I need to know what happened here while I was gone.
Azriel's smile faded.
Azriel: Skirmish near the southern ridge. Thirteen of our own dead. Over forty on the other side, so they say.
I nodded, quiet.
Achlalt: I saw worse. Killed a man. Took his rifle.
Azriel raised a brow at the weapon.
Azriel: That one's old. Solid. Reliable. You've come far.
Before I could respond, a loud noise crackled across the village.
Suddenly, a loud voice echoed across the village square.
Xerex (shouting): My people! I, your leader, declare this day one of great generosity!
He stood atop a stone rise, arms outstretched. His voice cut through the air like a blade—rough, thunderous, commanding.
Xerex: From the lands along the Tsagaan River, I grant one hectare of fertile soil to each family! With it, you shall grow stronger harvests! With it, our village shall thrive!
A moment of silence.
Then, a wave of shouts and cheers:
Crowd: Glory to the Great Xerex! May his reign endure forever!
I stood off to the side, unsure how to feel.
Achlalt (quietly): That's... generous, I guess.
Azriel, beside me, didn't cheer. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth a thin line.
Azriel: When I was your age, that land belonged to all of us. After Eldric died, Xerex seized it. Now he's returning it piece by piece and calling it a gift.
I didn't answer.
His words settled heavily in my mind.