WebNovels

Chapter 1 - 01: DEATH’S DOOR

"Agh—!" Zephyr's cry echoed through the shattered ruins, his voice hoarse with pain. His body crumpled against the blood-soaked stones, a crimson trail leaking from the deep wound across his abdomen.

A voice, smooth yet heavy with cruel amusement, broke the silence.

"It seems you possess quite the resilience… O great child of Truth."

Zephyr's vision blurred, the world tilting around him. Gritting his teeth, he forced words through trembling lips.

"W-who the hell are yo—agh!"

A second voice thundered with disdain. "Insolent worm! How dare you speak so rudely in the presence of His Excellency!"

"Peace, Gorath," the first voice replied, calm and commanding. "The mortal is already at death's door. Let us not stain this moment with pettiness."

The massive figure called Gorath sneered, his eyes narrowing as he lowered his head in reluctant obedience.

"Tch. As you command, my lord."

The first speaker stepped forward, his presence suffocating, his very shadow stretching across the broken ground like a shroud. "Now then, mortal. You asked who I was. And considering you will not live to see another sunrise, I suppose granting you that much is only fair." His lips curved into a cruel smile. "I am Ivrakhal, the Bearer of the Black Star."

"The… wha—agh!" Zephyr coughed violently, blood flecking his lips.

Ivrakhal chuckled darkly. "You look pitiful. Fitting, I suppose. After all, you never truly understood the gifts you were born with. Misused, squandered, wasted… A tragedy, really."

"I-I don't… understand," Zephyr rasped, clutching his abdomen. His fingers were slick with blood, his breathing ragged.

"Do you not? Perhaps it is no surprise." Ivrakhal leaned closer, his eyes glinting with ancient malice. "Zephyr Wyverndale, you were destined to be our enemy. You were to stand as the wall before the storm, the thorn in our conquest. The chosen son of the Primordial himself. Yet here you are… broken, feeble, nothing more than a disappointment."

A mocking laugh erupted from the side. "Oyi! You're still wasting breath on that pathetic insect? Just kill him already, Ivrakhal. Then we can move on to things more… pleasurable. I, for one, have women waiting for me. Hahaha!"

Zephyr weakly turned his head toward the speaker—a tall, broad-shouldered man with wild crimson hair and eyes burning with carnal hunger.

"Thamriel," another voice, sharp and cold, cut in. A woman cloaked in dark silks crossed her arms, glaring at him with disdain. "Must you always reduce every conversation to your vices?"

"What? How am I wrong, Selmora?" Thamriel retorted, grinning as his sharp teeth glinted in the dim light. "This mortal is nothing. Ivrakhal's speech is wasted on him."

"Silence, both of you," another voice commanded, deeper than Gorath's and thrumming with authority. "Lord Ivrakhal does not act without purpose."

"Oh, of course you would defend him, Ozyth," Thamriel muttered bitterly, though he dared not raise his voice further.

Ivrakhal sighed, ignoring their bickering. His gaze returned to Zephyr, who trembled beneath his looming shadow. "They are always like this. Quarrelsome, impatient. But let us return to the matter at hand—you, and your failure."

Zephyr tried to focus through the haze of pain. "Wha—what do you mean?"

Ivrakhal's grin widened. "You were blessed, boy. The Primordial—the eternal thorn in our side, our greatest enemy—chose you. His mark rests upon your soul. You were to rise as his champion, his weapon against us." He spread his arms as though mocking the heavens. "Yet look at you. Bleeding. Dying. A wasted hope."

"No…" Zephyr's eyes widened, his voice breaking. "That… can't be true. I was… I was born ordinary. A human. I never had power. I never—"

"You never awakened," Ivrakhal interrupted, his voice heavy with false pity. "The resources, the sacred catalysts meant to ignite your strength, were squandered elsewhere. Do you recall Elijah, the so-called chosen of Light?"

Zephyr's breath caught. "Elijah…?"

"Yes." Ivrakhal chuckled, shaking his head. "That arrogant fool. He received the treasures that should have been yours. Every ounce of your destiny, stolen and fed to him. And in the end, he was nothing more than a hollow vessel—useful to us only because his weakness left your world vulnerable. His failure robbed me of a worthy adversary. And you, Zephyr, never even had the chance to stand."

Zephyr's vision swam. "W-who… are you people? You… don't look like the monsters I've seen before."

Ivrakhal tilted his head, his smile cruel. But before he could answer, Selmora's voice rang out, sharp as steel. "We are the Apostles of Azh'Qorath."

Zephyr's fading eyes flickered in confusion.

Ivrakhal turned his head slowly, glaring at her. "You dare interrupt me?"

Selmora shrugged, unfazed. "Why waste your elegant speeches when the boy has only seconds left? He asked. I answered. Now at least he dies with his final question satisfied."

"Do not do that again," Ivrakhal warned, his tone colder than ice. Selmora smirked but said no more.

With deliberate slowness, Ivrakhal reached down and seized Zephyr by the throat, lifting him into the air. The young man dangled helplessly, his blood dripping to the broken ground below.

"Alas…" Ivrakhal's voice softened, almost wistful. "This is where your tale ends. If fate had been kinder, I would have relished the chance to face you as an enemy. To cross blades with the Primordial's chosen would have been… exquisite." His eyes darkened. "But you were too weak. Too slow. You could not even protect your family, your friends, your kingdom… your world." He shook his head with mock sorrow. "Truly, such a shame. You are the first being to cheat destiny… and yet, that defiance has only bought you death."

Zephyr's body trembled violently, his strength slipping away. His eyes, heavy and clouded, began to close. With the last of his breath, he forced a whisper through his broken lips.

"If… if there is a next life… I will defeat you…"

And with that, his body went limp, his final words vanishing into silence. His neck lolled, lifeless, still gripped in Ivrakhal's hand.

The Bearer of the Black Star gazed at the corpse for a moment before releasing it. The body crumpled to the ground like a discarded doll.

"Tch. Such a pity," Ivrakhal murmured. He turned away, his cloak of shadows swirling around him. "Come. The mortal is dead. Our work here is finished."

Thamriel yawned and stretched. "Finally. I thought you'd never stop your monologue. Let's go—there's pleasure waiting for me elsewhere."

"Disgusting," Selmora muttered, rolling her eyes as she followed.

Gorath cast one last disdainful look at Zephyr's corpse before turning away.

Ozyth lingered a moment longer, his expression unreadable as he studied the fallen boy. Then he too followed the others into the darkness.

And so the Apostles of Azh'Qorath departed, leaving behind only silence, blood, and the broken shell of what could have been the greatest champion of mankind.

But though his body lay still, Zephyr's final vow lingered in the air like a spark.

A promise.

A curse.

A seed of defiance yet to bloom.

More Chapters