Prologue: Downstream the Red River
Time is a cruel executioner. It not only steals moments, but gnaws at the soul, leaving behind a dense fog that blurs the line between true memory and waking nightmares. One moment, I was at the peak of power, my breath dictating the life and death of many. The next, I was a living carcass sprawled among the roots of an ancient tree in a forbidden forest.
Crack.
That sound wasn't a twig. It was my rib shifting as I tried to breathe. My consciousness struggled to rise from the black well, dragged to the surface by a thirst that burned my throat and the metallic stench wafting from the damp earth.
"Where... what hell is this?"
My voice was like the scraping of stones in a coffin. Sunlight pierced through gaps in the leafy canopy like swords of light, burning my heavy eyelids. Memories flashed—the glint of steel under a blood-red full moon, screams cut short, and a searing hot pain between my ribs. The smell of iron, burning flesh, and ash.
"Parasites...," I growled, my spit tinged with rust.
My hand crept over moss and roots, my wounded fingers searching for something familiar until they finally curled around the cold, notched hilt of a sword. Its grip still bore the impression of my last hold. I tried to move my legs. Every joint creaked like a tomb door, every muscle burned as if pierced by rusty nails. The pain was a blessing. Proof that this cursed life still clung to me.
With a hateful hiss, I pushed my body to stand. The old sword, Darksoul, became a crutch.
Krrrk-krtak!
"Quiet," I spat at my own body, which sounded like a pile of dry bones. My voice echoed too loudly in the suffocating silence of the forest.
My steps faltered down the slippery slope. My throat felt like it was packed with sand and shards of glass. In the distance, the trickle of water sounded like the whispers of demons—tempting and dangerous. This body, however, was a traitor. My right foot sank into mud, and the world spun.
Splash!
My face hit the water before the rest of me. Instinct urged. Hands grasped, mouth gulped wildly—
Cold. And rusty.
I froze. My remaining eye—the other sealed shut by dried blood—stared at the reflection on the surface. The liquid wasn't water. It was murky red, thick, carrying fragments darker than the earth. This river carried its burden from upstream—the remnants of Larkspur village, which I destroyed and slaughtered on command. Their blood, the blood I spilled, was now part of its flow, returning to me.
"A curse," I muttered, wiping my lips with the back of my hand, blackened by dirt and gore. But what difference did it make? In the rotten Kingdom of Veridia, everything was contaminated. Souls, land, even rivers. At least this quenched the fire in my throat.
Sssshhh…
A deeper, darker wave of pain hit. Not from physical wounds, but from something digging from within my bones. I let my body partially submerge in that bloody river, letting the chill of a grave soothe the fever and wash the filth from my scarred skin—marked by whips, swords, and dark magic. Each wound throbbed, reminding me of the price of every cursed breath I drew.
At the edge of darkness, shadows came. Not memories, but ghosts. Faces. Those I let die. Those I killed. Those I betrayed.
"Balt," I hissed, the name felt foreign on my tongue, like it belonged to someone else.
Not a birth name. Just a label given by a grey-cloaked woman years ago, before she vanished into the mist, leaving me with this sword and eyes that made people shun me. A legacy heavier than any armor.
My story will not end as a nameless carcass by the side of this cursed river. Not yet. There are debts to be paid, and my life is too cheap to settle them all.
Chapter 1: Living Commodities
Splash!
Liquid as cold as a grave hit my face, washing away the remnants of nightmares and dragging me forcibly into a crueler reality. The water was salty, mixed with filth.
"Wake up, scum! Wake up or you'll be fish bait!"
The voice was like grinding stones. My vision, with one functional eye, caught the silhouette of a burly, muscular man with a wooden bucket in hand. The stench of cheap alcohol and rotten sweat assaulted my nose. Pain came in waves. My hands were tightly bound behind my back by rough rope, tying my wrists to dozens of other children, forming a chain of desperate humanity.
We were herded like cattle to the slaughter. Small, wounded feet trudged over rocky paths, through dark forests, and up steep slopes. Finally, we arrived at the top of a cliff. Below, hidden behind a curtain of sea mist, lay Nidhogg Bay. The free port city of Blackwater, where laws were written in gold and enforced with steel. Its fortress loomed darkly, its harbor crowded with ships bearing unfamiliar flags. A perfect hell for any trade—including humans.
We were washed haphazardly in a murky, shallow river. The cold water made fresh wounds sting and gape. The goal was simple: to make us look "saleable," not dead before being sold off.
As the city's large wooden gate opened with the shriek of rusty hinges, the stares of the inhabitants we passed were a catalog of human sin: indifference, disgust, morbid pleasure, and occasionally, a fleeting flicker of pity that died before turning into action.
Thwack!
"Arggh!"
The boy with tangled brown hair beside me arched his body. His thin back had just been lashed by a leather whip. A red line immediately appeared. The perpetrator was The Bearded Man, the one who had doused me earlier.
"Don't slow down, maggot!" he barked.
Blackwater's docks were an exhibition of misery. Hundreds of people—children, women with empty eyes, broken men—stood in lines. They were numbers. Living merchandise. Currency of flesh and obedience.
The brown-haired boy cried in sobs, his shoulders shaking violently. I looked around. Most children were around our age, between ten and fourteen seasons. Some faces I might have seen in villages I passed, but I didn't remember names. Remembering names was a dangerous luxury. Names created bonds, and bonds were snares in this world.
My attention then shifted to the child tied directly behind me. His hair was blonde, but dull and dirty. His face was too delicate, too pretty for a boy. And since earlier, he had been like a broken spring—his weeping constant, monotonous, deafening.
"Shhh, Leon, be quiet," whispered the brown-haired boy, his voice trembling. "They'll hear."
Leon. So they knew each other. Good. Maybe they could comfort each other in the dark alley of fate that awaited.
Troot!
A metallic trumpet sounded loudly. Several warships bearing the golden lion emblem of the Kingdom of Veridia docked. Knights disembarked in gleaming armor. Behind them, nobles draped in furs and silk, and a group of what I guessed were Priests of the Order of Thymol in clean robes—I recognized them from the golden brooches shaped like a rose with thorns that once adorned the necks of their holy executioners.
Sniff... sniff...
Leon's crying grew louder, becoming a desperate melody amidst the silence of the docks.
"Leon! Quiet!" the brown-haired boy hissed frantically.
Thwack! The whip landed near Leon's feet, making him jump.
"Shut that up, or I'll use your tongue as fish bait!" The Bearded Man growled.
Buyers began to circle. A noble grabbed a little girl's chin, opening her mouth to inspect her teeth. A ship captain pinched a boy's arm muscles as if judging a horse. A pig-faced priest observed Leon with a look that made me nauseous.
Leon's crying peaked, becoming hysterical screams. The brown-haired boy tried to reach for him, pulling our chain and scraping the rough rope against my already chafed and bleeding wrists. A cold, black anger boiled within me.
"Quiet, you bastard!" I snapped, my voice hoarse like a crow's. "Or do you want them to cut your vocal cords and sell you as a mute slave?"
The brown-haired boy stared at me, his eyes blazing with tears and anger. "You little devil! He's scared!"
"Fear attracts attention!" I retorted, my words sharp as daggers. "Attention attracts pain! You want to protect him? Silence him!"
"You have no conscience—"
Thwack!! THWACK!
We both cried out in pain. The whip struck us both, splitting air and skin. The Bearded Man stood there, breathing heavily, whip raised again.
Thwack! Thwack!
Two more times. The pain was sharp, burning. Blood flowed warm down my thin back. The commotion drew stares. The knights and priests looked over. Not with pity, but with cold appraisal. A noble in a fur robe winked at The Bearded Man, as if giving a sign of approval.
Through the fog of pain, I turned. Blonde Leon was now quiet. His tears still flowed, but silently. His eyes were empty, vacant, like windows into nothingness. His lips trembled but no sound came.
My earlier words were cruel. But in Blackwater, cruelty was basic logic. Tenderness was a slow poison.
The day crawled into evening, the sky grey like cast iron. One by one, our chains were broken. The brown-haired boy—Max, I heard when Leon called him—was dragged away by the knights along with others, perhaps to become errand boys or training fodder. Leon was taken by the priests of the White Rose. They led him away with gentle movements, but his empty eyes met mine briefly before he disappeared behind white robes. Perhaps to become an acolyte, or perhaps for something only whispered about in monastery basements.
Those who left had destinations. I and a handful of others remained. Junk. Maybe their fate was better, I thought with a bitterness now worn-out. At least they knew which hell they would inhabit.
"Tch."
This world is truly no place for the weak. Here, strength is the only god. Laws are merely rhymes for those who can read, and tools of oppression for those who cannot.
My throat burned again. The Bearded Man and his cronies began collecting coins, laughing loudly. They didn't even deign to look at us, let alone give water.
"Damn it! This one still won't sell!" grumbled The Bearded Man, pointing at me. "Even for a single copper piece people steer clear!"
"It's because of his eyes, Boss," replied his underling, voice hissing. "Devil's eyes. Brings bad luck. Just dump him. Better we don't bring a curse home."
Panic, cold and wild, gripped my throat. Hunter's Eyes. The entire sclera of my eyes was pitch black, the pupils pale yellow like a wolf's. A cursed legacy from the Vars blood flowing within me—a nomadic people accused of practicing forbidden magic and hunted nearly to extinction.
"Let go! I can work!" I yelled as rough hands gripped my armpits.
"That's enough! To the sea with you, demon child!"
They dragged me to the dark edge of the dock, where black water echoed below. The shadows of ships looked like sleeping giants.
"No! I—!"
"Halt."
The voice came like a night breeze—calm, flat, yet cutting through all noise. A man in a pitch-black robe, its cut simple yet foreign, stood a few steps away. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but I could feel his gaze—like two points of pale light in the darkness.
"This is our business, stranger," growled The Bearded Man, but his voice held a hint of doubt.
Kling.
Something glimmered softly in the air and landed with a dull thud on the wet wooden planks between them. A coin. But not ordinary gold. Its color was dark, like iron forged in darkness, with a strange symbol gleaming faintly.
"As you said," said the robed man, his voice resonating oddly, as if coming from everywhere at once. "One coin. For him."
He didn't even wait for an answer. He turned, his robe fluttering without wind, and began walking away, his steps silent and sure.
The slavers exchanged glances. The dark coin seemed to emit a cold aura. One of them, with a quick and slightly trembling movement, cut my rope and pushed me to my knees.
"Heh. Go with your new master, demon child," muttered The Bearded Man, but his eyes weren't on me, rather on the dark coin on the ground. "May you bring him bad luck, not us."
I sat there, gasping for breath, watching the black-robed man recede into the distance like a lengthening shadow. Who was he? What did he want from an unsellable slave with cursed eyes?
In Blackwater, in this rotten Kingdom of Veridia, nothing is free. No salvation, no mercy. Only transactions.
And I had just been bought with one dark coin. I was sure, with every fiber of my wounded being, that the price I would have to pay for this life would be far more terrible than merely dying in the black waters of Nidhogg Bay.