Ashes of the First Kill
The stench of blood still clung to them as Kaele and Tarin walked through the stone archway of the Adventurer Guild.
It was not the sharp smell of fresh gore, but something heavier—iron mixed with sweat, fear, and the lingering weight of violence. Even after washing their hands at the public fountain outside the guild, neither of them felt clean.
Between them hung a small leather pouch.
Inside were ears.
Green-skinned. Ragged. Hardened by battle.
Goblins.
And one larger ear, thicker and darker than the rest.
A hobgoblin's.
Proof of completion.
The guild hall was busy as always. Adventurers came and went, laughter echoing near the quest boards, mugs clanking near the counter where cheap ale was sold even this early in the day. Veterans told exaggerated stories, rookies listened with bright eyes, and clerks moved swiftly behind wooden desks stacked with parchment.
Kaele noticed all of it—and none of it.
His steps felt heavy, as if the stone floor resisted him.
Tarin stopped before the reception counter and cleared his throat. A middle-aged clerk with tired eyes glanced up.
"Mission report?" the man asked, already reaching for a ledger.
"Yes," Tarin replied, placing the pouch on the counter. His voice was steady. Too steady.
The clerk opened it, examined the contents without a flicker of emotion, and nodded.
"Six goblins. One hobgoblin. Iron-rank extermination confirmed." He scribbled something into the ledger, then slid two small cloth bags across the counter. "Two hundred bronze coins. Standard reward."
Kaele watched the coins spill slightly as Tarin picked them up. Bronze. Dull. Ordinary.
And yet…
Two men could live three days on that money. Food included.
The price of blood.
"Good work," the clerk said casually. "Next time, try not to bleed on the paperwork."
They turned away without another word.
Outside, the sunlight felt too bright.
They stopped near the guild steps. Tarin loosened the string of one bag and began counting the coins, then paused.
"We'll split it evenly," Kaele said.
Tarin looked up, surprised. "No. You should take more."
Kaele frowned. "Why?"
"You saved me back there," Tarin said quietly. "If you hadn't distracted the hobgoblin, I wouldn't have landed that strike. This quest—"
"No," Kaele interrupted. "That's not true."
Tarin blinked.
"We fought together," Kaele continued. "We survived together. We're a party. A party shares the reward."
For a moment, Tarin said nothing. Then he smiled faintly.
"…Alright."
They divided the coins evenly, each taking one hundred bronze.
"I'm getting late," Tarin said after tying his pouch. "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
They exchanged one last look—both smiling.
But behind those smiles hid something dark.
Not pride.
Not triumph.
Fear.
Not of goblins.
Not of death.
But of something far heavier.
They had taken lives with their own hands.
Neither spoke of it.
And then they turned away, walking down separate streets.
Kaele arrived home just as the sun dipped toward the horizon.
The familiar scent of stew drifted from the kitchen.
"Welcome home, dear," Elara Ashford said warmly as she turned from the stove.
"Thank you, Mother," Kaele replied.
She studied him for a moment. "How was your first adventure?"
Kaele didn't answer.
He walked past her, his steps slow, and climbed the stairs to his room. The door closed softly behind him.
Elara stared after him, concern flickering across her face.
"…I suppose he's tired," she murmured.
But exhaustion was not what weighed on Kaele.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, yet all he could see were green faces twisted in rage.
Hear snarls.
Feel resistance as steel cut flesh.
He had told himself it was survival.
That it was necessary.
That goblins killed travelers.
That they burned villages.
That they deserved it.
And yet—
His hands trembled.
"I killed them," he whispered.
Not monsters.
Lives.
His thoughts thickened like fog, blinding him to everything beyond guilt. Each breath felt heavy. Each memory pressed deeper into his chest.
A knock sounded.
The door opened.
Dornin Ashford stepped inside.
He took one look at his son lying rigid on the bed and understood immediately.
He had worn that same expression once.
Dornin sat beside him and spoke gently. "What happened, son?"
Kaele's lips parted, but no words came.
Dornin nodded slowly. "I see."
Silence stretched between them before Dornin spoke again.
"This is the fate of an adventurer," he said. "We kill monsters and receive rewards. That is the harsh reality of this world."
Kaele clenched his fists.
"But reality doesn't ask whether we are ready," Dornin continued. "It only demands that we face it."
He placed a hand on Kaele's shoulder.
"You once said, 'I will become an adventurer like you.'"
Kaele's eyes trembled.
"Now is the time to strengthen your will," Dornin said firmly. "Power alone is not enough. Many fail not because they lack talent, but because their will shatters when the path becomes painful."
He leaned closer. "Strengthen your body. Strengthen your mind. Do not let your thoughts control you—or they will devour you."
Kaele remained silent for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"…Thank you, Father," he said at last. "I will become strong. Both physically and mentally. And I will become great—like you."
Dornin smiled.
"Good. Now that you've returned to your senses," he said, standing, "let's eat dinner."
Kaele sat up, a faint spark returning to his eyes. "Haha… yes."
That night, as he lay in bed once more, his thoughts were different.
The pain remained.
The guilt remained.
But beneath it all, something else took root.
Resolve.
Tomorrow, he thought. I start anew.
The fierce battle had ended.
But from its ashes…
A new Kaele Ashford was born.
At the same time—far across the seas.
On the eastern continent.
Within the shadowed borders of Thornwick.
A dense forest lay scorched and silent, its trees blackened as if burned by an ancient fire. No birds sang there. No wind stirred.
A boy walked alone among the ruins.
His name was Malrec Corvex.
He was the same age as Kaele Ashford.
And he had nothing left.
His parents had died years ago in a fire that consumed the forest's edge. No bodies were ever found. Only ash.
That day, as Malrec pushed aside fallen branches, his foot struck something solid.
Metal.
Buried beneath roots and soot.
He uncovered it slowly.
A sword.
Blackened steel.
Crimson runes faintly etched along its blade.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the forest seemed to breathe.
At last, something whispered.
Malrec staggered back, heart pounding.
But he did not drop the sword.
He carried it home.
And in his eyes burned the same dream as another boy far away.
To become a hero.
Unaware that the paths of ash and flame had already begun to twist toward one another.