"It hurts... so much…"
The joy that once filled that night vanished like drifting dust. Dieyon felt pain—pain that split him apart—yet he couldn't even tell where it came from.
"It's like fire devouring my body… but the pain is too close."
He moved his hand. It was heavy, as if stones had been piled over it. He touched his body, searching frantically… until his fingers reached his neck—
and found it severed.
He gasped sharply, fear cracking in his voice:
"My… my head is separated from my body?"
The burning agony tore through him, forcing a scream—not outwardly, but inside his mind.
"How did this happen? I don't remember anything… If this is a dream, then I'm drowning in it."
He touched the cut again but immediately jerked his hand away, shaking it in terror.
"It's like a volcano inside my neck… it burned me just for touching the wound. No… this isn't the Eternal Dreamworld. This is real—terrifyingly real."
He sucked in a trembling breath.
"I never imagined I'd die in such a horrifying way… or—should I even call myself dead? Or someone being tortured?"
While fear clawed at him, the fires in his neck flared again. Dieyon squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to open them, but the pain forced them closed.
Black threads emerged from the torn edges of his neck, weaving themselves into his body—stitching the severed head back in place.
Dieyon jolted awake halfway, gasping like someone dragged from the depths of the ocean, desperate for air.
His trembling right hand went to his neck. There was a collar wrapped tightly around it.
"Am I imagining things… or did those threads actually reattach my head?"
He lowered his head, steadying his breath, then slowly raised it again—opening his eyes to a room he didn't recognize.
"But… before anything else… where am I? This isn't my room."
It was a large, old chamber. A wide bed. A bookshelf near the door across from him. A window letting in a slice of moonlight. A cracked mirror beside the bed.
He rose, trying to recall anything—but his mind refused to help.
"What a worn, ruined room… who could even live—"
A violent stab of pain cut him off. Dieyon collapsed to his knees as memories crashed into him like shards of broken glass slicing into his skull.
He saw only fragments:
Shadowy figures storming through the halls of a dark palace.
Screams… blood splattering across the walls…
A king raising a gleaming sword under roaring flames, his eyes burning with the color of a strange tome.
Another flash—
A hand gripping his hair, forcing him toward a ledge…
Wind roaring in his ears… then the fall… and darkness swallowing him whole.
A final fragment—
A woman with warm eyes calling his name…
And a man with golden eyes collapsing in the fire.
The headache intensified, splitting his skull apart. He tried to scream, but the air was trapped in his chest. His hand scraped the floor, desperate for something to anchor him.
His breath shook as he forced out words heavy as iron:
"That… was the palace?"
His lungs tightened. Then the truth detonated inside him like a blade shattering fragile bone.
He pressed a hand to his heart, his eyes glimmering with a mix he couldn't name—rage or fear.
With a hoarse whisper, he said:
"They… betrayed us."
As the last wave of pain faded, Dieyon finally regained control of his breath. Sweat rolled down his temple. It felt as though someone had slammed the door on his memories.
Only then could he speak clearly—his voice a blend of disbelief and buried fury:
"I remember now… those fool kings—reges fatui—sons of whores… they murdered my parents… kidnapped my brother… and I—was one of their victims."
He looked at his hand, then gripped his neck again.
"It appears… I somehow came back to life. And if that means anything…"
He stood, walked to the mirror, and stared at the reflection wearing an expression carved from rage and hatred.
"…then someone has given me another chance. A chance to take my revenge."
He turned the faucet and splashed water on his face. In the mirror, a faint gold shimmer flickered in his eyes—so faint even Dieyon barely noticed it.
"The reges fatui will pay for their betrayal… against my family, and against the empire."
But his strength vanished. He collapsed again, trembling. His elegant clothes were soaked in dried blood—
or rather, they used to be elegant.
His voice cracked as he whispered:
"I want to cry… but my eyes won't let me. I'm so scared… Mother, where are you…"
Dieyon was only eighteen, a boy who had seen far more than his age should allow.
He gripped the sink with both hands, trying to pull himself up. Looking into the mirror again with gray eyes, he noticed a figure behind him—leaning against the door, head lowered.
Dieyon spun around instantly—
But the figure was gone.
He clutched his head, muttering:
"Am I… seeing things? I could've sworn someone was—"
A soft voice cut through the air:
"It truly is… a miracle."
Dieyon turned to his left and found a mysterious man sitting on a wooden chair beside the bookshelf. The man had blond hair, sharp green eyes, and wore a black cleric's robe.
"To fall from the Mountain of the Sovereign, with your head severed, and then return to life… Only the children of the Sovereign or the cursed slaves possess such traits. Am I right, Dieyon?"
Despite the fear and uncertainty twisting inside him, Dieyon smirked coldly as he met the man's gaze.
"I don't know who you are, but it seems you have information worth listening to… Are you one of the reges fatui's dogs?"
"Oh, what a harsh way to treat the one who saved you," the man replied with a hint of sorrow, then continued:
"And for your information—not all dogs are traitors. Some would protect you until the last drop of their life…
I am merely a humble leader of a small village. I found you lying near it with your head torn off, but I saw it—your refusal to die, and your will to live."
Dieyon's eyes widened at the revelation, and he muttered internally:
So there's a village under the mountain of that 'saint'… but weren't the lands surrounding it supposed to be barren?
"What exactly are you implying? Stop speaking in riddles," Dieyon said, slipping into a defensive stance.
"What I'm saying," the stranger began, his voice calm but heavy with knowledge, "is that I know what happened to you… and to the royal family. And I know that the reges fatui betrayed the empire."
He paused, letting the tension cling to the air before adding:
"I am simply a man who wishes to topple the Empire of Lucia… and execute the reges fatui. The empire has rotted beyond repair."
"Even your father could not restore order because of the chaos caused by the rulers beneath him."
This man is no ordinary villager… he hides too many secrets… and he knows far more than he should, Dieyon thought.
And his revolt… it targets only the reges fatui, not my father. Interesting. He knows exactly how the hierarchy works.
"So from your fragmented, puzzle-like explanation, what I understand is: you're planning a coup, and your target is the reges fatui."
"Very sharp," the stranger said, clapping slowly. "A coup requires powerful individuals. That's why I've gathered an exceptional group—people who harbor hatred for the empire, people who lost something precious because of the reges fatui, or even the Sovereign."
The man rose to his feet, extended his right hand, and gave a faint smile.
"Dieyon. How about joining The Wrath and ending this blasphemous reign with us?"
Dieyon looked at the man's hand, then at his green eyes. Calmly, he murmured to himself:
A coup with a group… so these 'Wrath' followers are his disciples? Strange… but I have no interest in that. The empire, the people, the crown—they can all burn.
My goal is to slaughter every one of them—from the weakest soldier to the reges fatui—cruelly, as they did to us.
Dieyon smiled, leaning in slightly as he whispered near the man's ear:
"I appreciate the offer… but my goal isn't to save the empire or overthrow its rulers. My goal is simple. Revenge."
The stranger let out a soft laugh.
"What a selfish purpose… It seems you don't care about the lives of those living in your empire, Prince Dieyon."
Dieyon waved a hand dismissively, replying with a proud grin:
"No. When everything is taken from you… life loses its meaning. Their lives don't matter to me anymore."
"And besides—I'm no longer a prince. After what happened in the palace… after everything I loved was destroyed before my eyes… I became a dead man walking through the ruins of my past. I've become the Prince of Death."
"Prince of Death… quite the heavy title."
"You're stubborn," the man said with a shrug. "Fine. I won't argue. In that case, I have another proposal. Care to hear it?"
He paced around the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"And what might that be?" Dieyon asked, confused.
The stranger snapped his fingers. A glowing number six flickered briefly in the air.
"Six months. Why not train for six months here? Then you can pursue your revenge. You'll train with my disciples—gain strength, spells, and techniques."
He then stood before Dieyon, lowering his head slightly.
"Boy, your enemies are not ordinary humans. They are Demi-gods. Even the Second Sovereign fell against them. Sharpening your skills is the only wise path."
I don't want to sound naïve… but he's right, Dieyon thought.
The reges fatui are far too powerful. If I rush in, I'll only ruin my chance at revenge.
I don't have another option… Not in this state. I doubt I could even kill the First Fool King…
"Fine. I agree to train… but when I enter the empire again, I'm going alone. I don't want to see anyone die. I hate losing people."
Dieyon pushed a strand of hair back, sadness clouding his expression.
"As you wish. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to The Wrath."
The man placed his hand on the door handle, glancing back with a strange smile.
"Before you go," Dieyon called out, "you still haven't told me your name."
The smile vanished momentarily… then returned as he whispered:
"You may call me False… Saint False."
With that, he left—closing the door behind him like a ghost slipping into the night.
Dieyon lay on the bed, stretching his arms as he spoke cautiously:
"I don't know if he's a traitor or not… but his words, his posture—everything screams hatred for the empire and the reges fatui."
"But what's frightening… is how he knows what happened. And how he knows my name. I can't afford to show him my back. He could be a wolf wearing a sheep's mask."
He clutched his head as another wave of pain struck, then whispered:
"The Wrath… it's carved into me now…"
"Prepare yourselves, sons of whores… filthy ghouls… your deaths will be a blessing to the world."
And as Dieyon finally closed his eyes, he drifted into sleep—
never noticing the unseen eyes watching him in the darkness