Snow had begun to thin, leaving long stretches of icy ground between shallow drifts. The forest ended abruptly, replaced by open plains dotted with frozen ponds and skeletal trees. Broken One walked without sound, his pale metal mask reflecting the dying light of dusk. His steps pressed into the frozen earth, yet even the cold refused to hold them. Footprints formed and vanished as quickly as they appeared—a silent echo of the world already erasing him.
The watch in his pocket ticked steadily. **Three.**
Three days since the mask had sealed him. Three days of total power, of fully unleashed will. And with each tick, the weight of the gift pressed heavier against his mind, reminding him that even infinite strength carries a price.
He did not look at it. He did not need to. He felt it in every pulse of his veins, in every heartbeat. Time was both ally and enemy—slipping through his fingers even as he tried to bend it to his will. Every tick a silent judge of his choices, every tock a reminder that nothing would wait for him—not the past, not the world, not anyone he remembered.
---
As night fell, he came upon the outskirts of a small village. Smoke curled lazily from a lone chimney, faint and hesitant. He slowed, listening. Footsteps, the creak of doors, the murmur of voices. The patterns were clear: some walked with fear, some with hope, some with nothing but routine.
Children peeked from windows, wide-eyed, clutching the edges of curtains. A man leaned against a fence, shifting uneasily, while two guards stood near the well, hands twitching near the hilts of their swords. Stories had reached here, even in this small corner: whispers of the man with the eternal smile, the X-shaped eyes, the one who moved silently and left no trace.
Broken One paused. The mask reflected the dim light, pale metal gleaming faintly, an eternal smile etched where no true human joy existed. The X-shaped eyes borrowed from a distant memory—a symbol of certainty, of inevitability—stared out at the world without compassion, without hesitation.
The villagers whispered among themselves, though none dared speak directly.
"He's here," one murmured.
"He's the Broken One," another replied.
He did not react. He observed. Each heartbeat, each twitch, each glance cataloged. Who carried fear, who carried hope, who carried weakness? The answers came unbidden, clear as ice breaking underfoot.
---
By midnight, he encountered a young merchant, desperate and foolish, stepping into the road with a map rolled in trembling hands. The boy had heard stories, and now he hoped to survive by offering what little information he possessed.
Broken One tilted his head. **Information or life. Trust or extinction.** The mask did not flinch.
"Truth," he said softly, each syllable a blade of precision. The merchant trembled, nodding frantically, aware that misstep would be fatal.
The boy led him through winding streets, past locked doors and shuttered windows, to a hidden cache of notes and maps detailing troop movements, patrols, and settlements. Broken One accepted the guidance without hesitation. Each exchange was a calculation, every word a test of subtle fear or loyalty. The mask smiled eternally, yet inside, he felt nothing—neither pleasure nor regret, only the cold logic of strategy.
As they passed through the village, Broken One's presence left a mark unseen yet palpable. Whispers followed him like a shadow:
"Did you see him?"
"He smiled, but… it wasn't a human smile," a guard murmured.
"Eyes… like Xs," a child added, shivering.
He noted each reaction, each hint of awe or terror. The legend spread faster than he could track, and in each fearful glance, he saw not only the power he wielded but also the isolation it demanded. Humans are predictable, he thought, predictable and fragile. Every hesitation, every flicker of doubt, every trembling hand could be turned into advantage.
---
Night deepened, and Broken One moved to the frozen river at the edge of the village. The moonlight glinted off the ice, reflecting the pale metal of his mask. For a moment, he paused, staring at the distorted reflection. X-shaped eyes, eternal smile, and the faintest outline of what had once been a man—Akero, Airon—now only a ghost behind the mask.
Time ticked on. **Four.**
The fourth day since the mask had taken him, since the world had begun to forget his name. He felt the weight pressing into his bones, into his thoughts. The watch continued its relentless counting. Each second chipped away at the remnants of his humanity, each moment pressed the consequences of his choices deeper into the marrow of his mind.
Even as he moved, he reflected. He remembered his parents, the warmth of his childhood, the laughter now drowned beneath the echoing horrors he had created. The mask remained eternal. Pale. Perfect. A reminder that there was no turning back, no chance for redemption, no safe harbor in the memory of a name.
---
The patterns shifted further as he traveled. Beyond hills, beyond forests, beyond towns yet untouched by his legend, the Unknown noticed. Energy flickered, subtle, invisible, but enough to mark him as a force to observe, to measure, to perhaps control. Broken One moved unaware, yet not unseen.
Every step, every breath, every action was precise. Every village, every frightened child, every map held a thread of opportunity. And yet he felt the pressure of the watch in his chest, reminding him that even this power was fleeting.
He did not speak. There was no need. The world had begun to write the story of the Broken One without his consent. And still, he pressed forward.
Snow fell silently, soft, relentless. Footprints vanished behind him. A pattern shifted in the air, unnoticed by all but those who understood. The world was beginning to recognize him, not as Akero, but as the eternal shadow of inevitability.
**Tick.** **Three.** **Tick.** **Four.**
The days moved with ruthless pace. The mask remained, pale metal, eternal smile, X-shaped eyes. And somewhere, beyond sight, the Unknown observed, waiting. The hunt had begun, and Broken One would not pause.