Corpses were piled into a mound, rising like a jagged mountain that pressed against the cliffside.
In a place no different from the abyss of hell, a young boy drenched in blood climbed over the stacked bodies.
He felt no sadness, no fear, no discouragement. There was only one thing left inside him—anger.
His eyes stayed locked on the cliff face. Even as his limbs trembled and his movements grew strained, he never lost sight of his path.
One after another, he climbed over them. Some were farther away, some were close, but all of them were of the same kin.
Until his heart stopped, he would never forget them.
His hand, which had been pressing against rotting flesh the entire way, finally touched solid ground.
Using his arms for support, he pushed himself upright, rising with a resentful expression carved into his face.
Suddenly, rain began to fall from the vast sky, slowly washing the blood and dirt from his body.
His eyes settled on a necklace lying on the ground—a circular metal pendant marked with a painted skull. He picked it up and clenched it tightly.
"Those bastards."
He gritted his teeth.
The skull necklace belonged to those who had murdered his kind in cold blood.
Every action they took was nothing short of evil.
His heart pounded, his face twisted with resentment, and he vowed that as long as breath remained in his body, he would use this life to seek justice—for his kin, and for himself.
But goals had to be pursued carefully. He could not let anger push him into reckless decisions.
Otherwise, everything he intended to do would be in vain—and more importantly, his grandfather, who was watching over him from the afterworld, would be disappointed if he forgot the teachings he had repeated so many times.
You are not a monster, Sartoo. You are human—and humans are meant to use their minds and wisdom, not ruthless instinct.
When those almost-forgotten words surfaced in his mind, Sartoo closed his eyes, letting the last trace of uncontrolled anger fade from his soul.
He would make it pure. Only the will for revenge would remain.
When his senses returned, he opened his eyes again beneath the rain that continued to fall. He tucked the necklace away, then stepped forward to pick up the sword on the ground.
He had wanted to become a sculptor, so he devoted himself fully to that craft and abandoned the swordsmanship he had practiced in childhood, back when his grandfather was still alive.
Violence was the most despicable thing to him. Even though he was only twenty, the memories of his early years were enough to make him never want to hold a sword again.
But this time was different. He had to force himself to take up the blade—not to kill for gain or revel in others' deaths, but to reclaim the honor that belonged to him and his kin, stolen by a monster who did not deserve to breathe the same air as he did.
The last time he had held a sword was about six years ago. If he wanted to regain those skills, he would have to start retraining himself from this very day.
The rain continued to fall heavily, showing no sign of stopping. As Sartoo walked beside the river, he noticed that the waters—once stained red with the blood of his kin—were beginning to clear.
He wondered whether, when everything finally ended, his own mind would become as pure as this river.
He followed the riverbank until he reached his village, now reduced to ruins. But at the very least, his house still had a roof to shield it from the rain.
This village was located in the Land of Rain, so frequent storms were nothing unusual. He had grown used to them long ago—but today's rain was different. It was colder than any rain he had ever felt.
No one was left. Not only his grandfather, who had already passed away, not only the people in their homes—he was the only one remaining in the entire village, and perhaps the last Tundian still alive.
Sartoo picked up a wooden sculpture. It was an elephant, the creature he loved to carve most, even though he had never seen a real one.
His grandfather had told him that the sculpture would bring him good luck, but it had never seemed to help as much as his grandfather claimed.
Even though the sky was dark, he still couldn't sleep—not because of the rain that continued to fall, but because he couldn't forget the horror that had befallen his kin.
So he began to meditate to calm his mind, grounding himself in the present and preparing for what lay ahead.
A long time passed—he didn't know how long. He only knew that when he finally opened his eyes, the rain had stopped, and light now stretched across the sky.
His clothes, once soaked through, were already drying without him even noticing.
"Once I'm done, I'll come back."
Sartoo spoke to his grandfather's departing soul.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sculpture before gently setting it down.
The Land of Rain bordered both the Land of Light and the Land of Forest.
As for those who had slaughtered his kin, Sartoo still didn't know who they truly were. All he knew was that before carrying out their cold-blooded act, they had mentioned the Tessaria Empire. Yet, strangely, not a single one of them appeared to be from the Land of Light. Instead, many of them were Dargonians.
At the same time, it made a certain sense. The Dargonians were one of the races living in the Land of Flame—a region under the Tessaria Empire. Which meant his enemies most likely came from the Land of Light or the Land of Flame.
Or worse, his enemies might come from both lands.
If that were true, his revenge could become impossible. He was just a mortal man, unable to reach the empire even in dream or imagination.
But worry or not, it was something he had to face. Even if he was only human, he could not turn away.
First, he needed to discover who his enemy truly was.
Most of the time, the Tundians never ventured far from their villages. When he was a child, Sartoo often asked his grandfather, Why don't we move somewhere better? There's nothing here but forest. Every year people die from jungle fever. Why do we have to stay here and wait for death?
His grandfather had shown little interest in answering him back then.
Only in his grandfather's final moments did those questions receive their answers.
The reason Tundians like them lived deep in the forest, far from civilization, lay in the stories Sartoo had grown up hearing.
It wasn't their appearance. It wasn't their intelligence. It was because the Tundian were not born from a higher being.
We are outsiders. We are outlanders. We came from a distant land across the endless ocean.
He couldn't say he understood all the answers, but at least he knew something.
Sartoo didn't fully understand, but he understood enough.
To identify his enemy, he had to travel to a place where civilization existed.
Unfortunately, he knew nothing about the roads that would lead him there.
But the Amphibian he had encountered in the forest might know something.
That, however, was its own problem—Amphibians and Tundians had hated each other for as long as he could remember.
And worse… he had once been one of the people who hunted them for money.
Going to ask them now would be nothing short of suicidal. But it was the only option left to him.