The fog crept back in—slowly, deliberately—sealing away those fractured flashes, as if the world itself still refused to let go of a past carved in blood. And yet, within that pale emptiness, Ezra remained standing. His figure looked older now, as though time had finally gathered the courage to collect every vow he had once forced upon his own shoulders.
His gaze fell to the ground, piercing through dusty gravel, as if searching for answers he had never had the chance to find—or perhaps, had never dared to acknowledge.
"I trained you… not to turn you into a tool," he said quietly, his voice fragile, nearly swallowed by the fog and the wind.
"I trained you… because my time was running out."
The words cracked. Caught halfway. Dragging out a pain he had kept sealed for so long—a pain he had never allowed to show, not even in front of Kael himself.
And then—something snapped.
Ezra's breathing suddenly grew heavy. His chest tightened, as if his lungs had been locked shut by a thousand knives of guilt stabbing from within, pressing down without mercy.
His body bent forward slightly. One hand rose to cover his mouth. And in the span of a heartbeat—
"Uhhhuuukkk… uhhhuuukkk…!"
A violent cough tore through him, uncontrollable, like a small quake that shattered the defenses of a man long known to be unshakable.
Kael froze. His body went rigid, eyes widening—he had never seen his father reduced like this before. Not as the Abyssal Walker… but simply as a man. Fragile. Aging. Wounded by something no sword could kill.
"Wh… what's happening…?" His voice broke. His throat tightened with a primal fear he had never understood as a child.
"All this time… Father…?"
Kael trembled. A hazy memory crawled through his mind, carving out a strange unease—as if somewhere deep within, he already knew: there had never been a time when Ezra had looked this weak.
And before he could ask anything more, something warm slipped from his own eye. A tear. One drop at his left temple. Falling before he could stop it, striking him with the realization of a loss he had never fully understood—let alone forgiven.
Ezra clutched his chest, bracing against the pain slamming behind his ribs.
"The world… the world will destroy you… if I didn't prepare you…"
"Uhhhuuukkk..! Uhhhuuukkk!"
The coughing flared, tearing apart the silence. Blood—dark, thick, blackened red—burst from his mouth, splattering across his left palm. A sign of ruin that could no longer be denied.
"I… only wanted…"
Ezra's voice sank, losing its strength, collapsing between breaths that no longer wished to cooperate.
"…for you to live longer… than I ever could…"
And just before his soul slipped from his body, he spoke that name—with a tremor of affection he had never truly allowed himself to show.
"Kael… Vieron…"
His body slammed into the ground, striking the hard surface. No time to brace. No time to resist.
That voice—the legend that had conquered wars, carved through thousands of deaths, shaken entire regimes—faded. Swallowed by silence, like a light going out at the edge of darkness.
Kael jolted forward. His blood roared. His heart tore itself apart.
"Wait…!"
"Father…!"
His hand reached out, trembling, heedless of the tears streaming down his face.
"Don't leave me yet…!"
He ran, trying to reach him. Rejecting a fate so cruel it dared to tear away a figure who, to him, should have been eternal.
But there was no answer. Only a final breath—silent. And then the fog devoured everything, closing the stage of that wound, leaving Kael standing alone atop the ruins of a hope he had never even understood… now already gone.
At the very moment he witnessed his father's death with his own eyes, Ezra's body vanished like dissolving smoke—gone without leaving anything behind, save for the pain of a fragile child standing far too close to loss.
"That's impossible…"
Kael staggered, collapsing into despair.
"Father…"
"Why… why did you hide all that pain?"
His words shattered, his tone breaking apart, as though he could no longer swallow the truth that had suddenly been laid bare before him.
"Why didn't you tell me…?"
His tears poured freely, staining the frozen ground that bore every lament he had never been able to voice.
"…I… everything I did…"
Drop after drop soaked his face, mingling with breaths that grew heavier by the second.
"It turns out… none of it mattered…"
Kael lowered his head, his shoulders trembling, holding back a shaking that spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers.
"Now, I'm nothing but a weak assassin… with no one left."
Both palms pressed hard against the cold floor, as if trying to grasp something that was no longer there.
"I'm sorry…"
His shoulders shook violently, restraining a sob that could find no way out.
"I didn't even make it to your funeral…"
"I was… stupid. Still selfish back then. But now…"
Kael clenched his teeth, suppressing a sob that threatened to tear his chest apart from the inside.
"Now… I can't even speak to you anymore."
The voice fell. Empty.
No answer. No echo.
Only white fog, slowly swallowing his breath, as if the world itself had chosen to let those words vanish without a trace.
Then—the air changed.
From the directionless void, seven arrows shot forth one by one. Not with the roar of battle, but with a sharp hiss—like regret accelerated by fate.
One came from behind.
One from the front.
Two from the sides.
The remaining three flew from angles he hadn't even realized existed.
But Kael did not move.
He didn't dodge. He didn't close his eyes. He didn't raise his hands.
The arrows pierced his body—yet without blood, without open wounds. Only sensation.
The feeling of failure.
The feeling of being too late.
The guilt he had buried all this time beneath discipline and blades.
His body trembled, yet he remained standing, accepting it all—as if every arrow were a sentence he had never managed to say to his father.
Suddenly—
The fog began to spin faster.
And as everything collapsed, a storm of wind tore through the space. The world felt as though it was seizing him once more, dragging him toward another face of suffering he had not yet begun to understand.
The wind was not merely cold—it froze.
Kael's body, once dull and monochrome, faded completely. His skin was sheathed in a thin layer of ice, his hair suspended midair as it froze, his breath turning into white mist that shattered before it could warm.
For a moment, he became a statue.
Still.
Cold.
Lifeless.
Then—snow began to fall.
Not violently. Not cruelly.
Slowly, white fragments descended one by one. Covering the floor. Sealing away the traces of pain. Calming the storm that had just torn him apart. The ice on Kael's body cracked gradually, melting—and with it, color began to seep back into him.
His breath trembled. An unfamiliar warmth started to slip in, hesitant, as though unsure it would be welcomed.
Now… it was no longer emptiness that consumed him, but a cold that opened space for something else.
Something gentler.
Something that would test a different kind of wound.
Snowflakes fell again.
At first sparse—uncertain—as if the world itself were weighing whether it had the right to touch him. Then they multiplied, thickening across the ground, covering wounds that had only just been opened, wrapping everything in a deafening cold.
Kael drew a short breath. His chest felt heavy.
He lowered his gaze—and only then realized the arrows were still there.
Dark shafts were embedded in his body from every direction, glinting faintly beneath the white light. There was no blood. No open wounds. Yet every time he moved, the pain throbbed—not in flesh, but in memory.
With a trembling hand, Kael grasped one of them.
He pulled.
There was no tearing sound. No splatter.
Only a tightness surging up his throat—like words he had never managed to speak.
The arrow vanished in his grip, dissolving into shards of cold light swept away by the wind.
One step at a time, Kael moved forward. And one by one, he removed the arrows.
Every step felt heavy.
Every arrow he pulled free felt like a confession made too late.
Whhoouuuussshhhh!
A biting gust struck without warning, slapping his skin and cutting straight to the bone. The snow spiraled more wildly, forcing Kael to straighten his still-shaking body.
His form—once monochrome—paled entirely. A thin layer of ice crept from his fingertips, freezing his breath in the air.
He nearly stopped.
But then another cold wind came—softer, yet deeper.
And the ice… cracked.
Color slowly seeped back into him.
Not fully.
Not warmly.
But enough to keep him standing—and moving.
Kael lifted his head, staring into the white void around him—whether to surrender, or simply to make sure his feet were still planted in the same world.
"It feels…" His voice was hoarse, nearly swallowed by the wind. "…like this place has changed."
His shoulders still trembled. Tears welled up again, spilling from the corners of his eyes—but before they could touch the ground, an unfamiliar gust brushed across his face.
The droplets stopped.
Suspended.
"H-huh…?"
Kael stared in stunned silence. The tears hovered in the air, glimmering faintly, refusing to fall—as if the world itself were holding them there, forcing that sorrow to remain visible.
He hastily wiped his face.
"Why… are they floating…?"
There was no answer.
The gray fog around him shuddered, eroded by a new, stronger current.
Whhoouuuussshhhh!
This was no longer just wind.
It was a storm.
A snowstorm spun wildly, lashing his cheeks like a rebuke from a nightmare that refused to end. Kael braced his still-trembling body, the cold piercing down to the marrow, as if trying to freeze his very breath.
Snow fell thicker now, sealing cracks in the ground, wrapping the world's unhealed wounds in white.
"This…" Kael murmured softly. "…snowflakes?"
And in the next second, the storm struck again. Harder. Deeper.
Whhoooouuuussshhhh!
The cold pressed down on his mind, nearly lethal, stealing his breath.
"…have I… been moved to another side…?"
The words barely escaped him, drowned beneath the wind. He couldn't finish the thought—only a vague sense that the world was once again pushing him toward a wound he was not yet ready to face.
He raised his elbow, trying to shield himself from the white fragments swirling through the air. But his tears were carried away once more, dragged by the cold wind that crept all the way into his bones.
Kael began to walk.
His steps were heavy.
Yet he forced himself onward.
Crunch… crunch… crunch…
White fog swallowed his vision. Then—far in the distance—something flickered faintly.
"Light…?"
Amid the storm, that small golden glow swayed gently, like a lost star drifting in a frozen sea. A lantern, held by a black silhouette with barely any discernible shape.
Simple.
Warm.
Kael tried to call out to it.
"Hello…?"
"Who's there…?"
There was no answer.
And yet, his heart was drawn toward it. Something was guiding him—not with words, but with feeling. A subtle pull that compelled his steps forward, as if he were chasing after something he had once lost.
When he drew closer, the silhouette vanished. Like an illusion born from a past wound he had never truly understood.
Kael let out a quiet sob. He wiped away the tears that had nearly frozen on his cheeks, then lifted his head.
To his right and left, the silhouettes of old buildings rose faintly through the storm—half-ruined, yet painfully familiar. Fragments of memory that stubbornly refused to fade.
He understood.
This was not merely a place.
It was a direction.
And the closer he came, the more warmth waited there—silent, patient, daring him to step closer.
"That's impossible…" Kael whispered.
"This… is my home…?"
The lantern flickered again at the end of the road, defying the cold that devoured everything.
And though the snow continued to tear at his skin, Kael felt a trace of warmth—faint, like the embrace of someone he once loved.
Calling him home.
And far ahead—one house stood intact amid the chaos. Like a fragment of memory forcibly pulled from the past. It faced the storm head-on, standing firm without wavering.
Its walls were built of old, medieval-style bricks, paired with small modern glass windows cracked at the corners. A single teakwood door, warm brown in color, stood solid at the center of the façade, adorned with a bronze handle weathered by time.
Just above it, an ancient lantern swayed gently in the wind, casting a dim orange glow that trembled—defying the fury of the storm.
Kael stared at the house in silence. His heart pounded, something unfamiliar flowing through his veins. Warmth crept into his chest, mixing longing, fear, and a suffocating sliver of peace.
"Who's waiting for me?" he murmured softly, almost lost to the storm.
His gaze fixed on the trembling lantern above the door, its light piercing the snow like a guide for wandering souls.
And in that very moment… something whispered in his mind, something that urged him forward, even as every step resisted.
Kael exhaled deeply, feeling the cold stab into his lungs.
He lowered his head, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then squared his shoulders.
"No. I can't stop here…" he whispered, more to himself than anything else.
Slowly, he climbed the stone steps half-buried beneath the snow before the house. The wind seemed to ease for a moment as his fingers touched the teakwood door handle—cold, yet not deadly.
And right then, nostalgia surged through his thoughts—the scent of old wood, the rustle of fabric, even the faint smile of someone dancing at the edge of his memory. But alongside it came a sense of unease.
A strange chill seeped from behind the door, like a whisper of death trying to conceal the truth.
Kael swallowed, then looked at the handle once more. Steeling himself.
"Whatever it is… I have to be ready for what's truly waiting for me inside."
He drew a deep breath, bracing his heart, even though he knew the answer he would find might cut deeper than the snowstorm outside. With a hand still trembling, Kael slowly pushed the door open—as if reopening a wound in his memory that had never truly healed.
***