1st-person POV - Kaito Mugenrei
The town of Korvath lay quiet under the pre-dawn mist, streets winding and empty, rooftops glinting with the faintest trace of dew. I walked alone, boots silent on the cobblestones, my black-and-red sword strapped across my back. Even this early, the faint stirrings of townsfolk hinted at a day that would come, oblivious to the storm approaching from the north. I said nothing. I could warn them, but why bother? No one would believe me. Never has anyone.
The memory of Bustleburg returned, vivid and relentless. Ten years ago, I had been just a boy, small and frail, in a town under siege by ogres. The air was thick with smoke and screams. I remember running through the streets, the sound of splintering wood and collapsing roofs all around me. I called for help, my voice breaking with fear, desperation. But no one came. Not my parents. Not the soldiers. Everyone had abandoned me to survive their own skin. I was a child alone in the chaos, forced to watch death and destruction unfold around me. The pain, the helplessness, burned into my bones. That day taught me a harsh truth: the world would not bend for me. If I wanted to survive, I had to rely on no one.
Even then, I had acted. I had run, ducked, climbed, dodged. Every narrow escape, every moment I survived, it was through my own cunning, my own speed, my own resolve. My body and mind became weapons, my instincts honed by the constant threat. I carried those lessons with me into every battle since, every fight alone, every confrontation where no one would be there to back me up. I became what necessity demanded: self-reliant, unyielding, silent.
Korvath would not suffer Bustleburg's fate on my watch. I could not allow it. I scanned the horizon, noticing faint, cautious movements beyond the town walls—kobold scouts, prowling and alert. They did not yet see me. They had no idea what awaited them. And the people here—if they were foolish enough to step into the line of danger—I would not stop them. It was my responsibility, my burden, and mine alone.
No one would stand with me. No one would listen. That was the way of my life. I had learned, long ago, that speaking of danger or asking for help led only to disappointment, to vulnerability. Even the strongest cries are wasted on ears that will not hear. Every time I had called out in the past, every time I had sought aid, it had been met with silence. I would not repeat that mistake. Not now. Not ever again.
I adjusted the grip on my sword, feeling the familiar weight and balance. The black steel glinted faintly, red and yellow stripes running along its edge, a silent promise of its power and precision. My eyes swept over the terrain ahead, noting potential chokepoints, natural cover, and vantage points. Every instinct, every calculation, sharpened by years of solitary combat, told me where the enemy would strike, how they would advance, and how I would meet them.
The memory of Bustleburg still stung, the cries of children echoing in my mind, the faces of those I could not save pressing against my consciousness. But that pain had become fuel, a cold fire that burned steadily in my chest. Every scar on my body, every bruise, every wound I had endured in battles fought alone, was a reminder that survival required only one thing: resolve. And I had it. I had always had it.
I stepped quietly toward the outskirts of Korvath, where the first movements of the kobolds were becoming visible. Scouts, perhaps three or four, moving cautiously, sniffing the air, unaware of the shadow advancing toward them. My pace was measured, silent, deliberate. Each step reinforced the truth I had long accepted: no one would stand beside me, and no one would understand my methods or my motives. I would act alone, and that alone would be enough.
From the corner of my vision, I glimpsed the rising sun, pale light breaking over the horizon, casting long shadows across the empty streets. A city unaware of the storm approaching, a town that might yet survive, but only if I made it so. I would not fail. I could not fail. Not after Bustleburg, not after all the years of fighting, surviving, and learning that reliance on others was weakness.
I paused briefly, hand resting lightly on the hilt of my sword. Silence stretched around me, broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the streets. The kobolds would come, larger numbers following the scouts, and they would be confident in their strength. But they would not know the force that awaited them, the precision and fury of someone who had survived alone for years, someone who had learned to turn pain into purpose, solitude into strength.
I drew a slow breath, feeling the weight of the past and the weight of the responsibility I carried now. The memories of failure, of helplessness, of being unseen and unheard, surged briefly, only to be steeled again by the resolve that had guided me for so long. I would not fail Korvath. I would not allow history to repeat itself. Not here. Not now.
And with that, I stepped forward, moving toward the massing kobold forces outside Korvath, every motion silent, deliberate, and deadly. My black-and-red sword gleamed in the dim light as I approached, the shadow of a lone warrior striding into the unknown. My mind was calm, focused, and merciless.
From that day in Bustleburg, I learned to depend on no one. Never again will I speak. Never again will I ask for help.
The thought repeated in my mind like a mantra as the first of the kobolds came into view.
Today, I walk alone.