Astaroth snatched Torum’s sword from the ground. He sprinted toward the shooter, evading incoming fire from both the front and the back. A Flux Burst sent him skyward, and he used the momentum to scale a tree trunk.
From there, he leaped between branches, agile like a wildcat.
At the first opening, the sword flew from his hand like a missile. It found its mark. The enraged shooter fell, silenced forever.
Left behind by his comrades who went in the afterlife before him, the last regular fled to meet with Jester and Marlow.
“Run! He’s coming! He’s a monster!” The regular strangled a cry as he stumbled through the forest, shardspire rifle clutched protectively over his head.
“He killed everyone,” Marlow muttered, his voice laced with a mix of disbelief and dread. His scope revealed no movement, just the aftermath of the carnage. Broken branches, uprooted vegetation, and bodies scattered like discarded dolls.
“Shit. Take what you can and let's get the hell away from here,” Jester snapped with urgency. He slung his bag over his shoulder, his hands trembling slightly as he grabbed another sack of loot.
“Why?” Marlow asked, unwilling to let go of the opportunity. He adjusted the focus on his scope, his eyes narrowing. “With everyone dead, we can split the loot. Just you and me.”
“If we live that long,” Jester hissed. “You saw how this guy moves.”
Marlow shook his head, stubbornness hardening his expression. “He can't have unlimited reserves of flux. He’s wounded—bleeding, tired. He took down our boys, yeah, but that must’ve drained him. We don’t leave empty-handed. Not after all this.”
His scope tracked across the clearing, scanning for any sign of their assailant. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves. Marlow exhaled slowly. “I don’t think it’s worth running for nothing.”
At that precise moment, a stone sliced through the air, barely rustling the foliage. It struck Marlow’s temple with a sickening crack. His body jolted, the rifle slipping from his grasp as he crumpled. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the grass.
“Shit!” Jester dove for cover, his eyes wide as he stared at Marlow’s motionless form. His hand hovered over his own head, as if expecting the next projectile. “Who the fuck is this guy?” he growled through clenched teeth.
Looking left and right, Jester grabbed his bag and Marlow’s, slinging them both over his shoulders. Survival was his priority now. Loyalty be damned. He bolted using Gale Stride II, a movement ability of the aero element.
“Boss!” the returning man called out, stumbling into view, his breaths ragged and panicked. “Wait—”
Jester didn’t stop. He didn’t even glance back. The man’s cries were drowned out by his pounding heart and the crunch of his boots against the forest floor. The physique of a 2nd Sky mancer carried him faster than any of his underlings.
The regular hesitated for a second before grabbing a bag of loot himself. Fear drove his steps as he chased after his boss. But his flight was short-lived. Another rock whizzed through the air with surgical precision, slamming into the back of his skull.
His body toppled forward, the bag spilling open as he lay motionless.
Astaroth emerged from the bushes. His hands, caked with mud and blood, hung at his sides. His burnt robe clung to him, streaked with grass stains, revealing partial wounds on the body.
Out of danger, Astaroth relinquished control, retreating into the void as Azyen’s consciousness surged forward to reclaim his battered body. The shift felt like waking from a nightmare, only to realize the horrors were real.
"Rest well." His gaze swept across the clearing, falling upon the corpses strewn across the bloodied grass. Their lifeless forms seemed to accuse him, though their voices would never rise again. He waited, expecting a pang of sorrow, a wave of disgust.
But instead, there was nothing—just a hollow echo where emotions should have been.
A sense of shame pricked at his skin like cold needles. Not for what he had done, but for his reliance on Astaroth. Summoning the program to clean up his failure? It wasn’t strength; it was a crutch, a glaring reminder of how far he still had to climb.
Azyen gritted his teeth. This was not victory. It was survival—and it came at a cost he wasn’t sure he could bear. His pride. His ego.
Closing his eyes, he focused inward. The karmic-score* flared to life, an ethereal tally glowing in his mind’s eye. Positive seven hundred ninety-one. Up from six hundred eighty-four. The numbers were a balm for his frustration, soothing but not erasing it.
His theory was right—those with negative karmic scores carried an invisible bounty above their heads, a cosmic ledger balanced by their deaths. Taking such lives added to his positive score.
But the implications twisted in his mind. If the karmic system rewarded the deaths of the wicked, then what of the righteous? Azyen imagined the opposite: killing someone with a highly positive score must bring calamity upon the killer, dragging their own score into darkness.
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It was a revelation, a system that seemed to delineate good from evil. Yet even with this clarity, doubt churned within him.
What of retribution? What of the morality of his actions? Killing killers, stealing from thieves—did it make him just, or merely a hypocrite cloaked in righteousness? Could he claim to be a good person when his hands were stained crimson, his choices guided by a self imposed "duty" rather than virtue?
Azyen’s thoughts spiraled into torment, remorse gripping him like chains forged from his own guilt. He had believed himself prepared—prepared to punish, to kill, to survive by any means. But now, the weight of his actions crushed his resolve.
He thought he could step past his family’s teachings, tread upon the principles his mother had instilled in him.
But now... His mother's kindness, her words, his vow...
They echoed in his mind like a ghost haunting his very soul.
Azyen's chest tightened, a vise squeezing the air from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, the impact jolting his injured body. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as pain flared through his wounds, but it was nothing compared to the anguish within.
Gripping his torn robe, he clawed at his chest as though trying to tear the guilt away, but his strength faltered. His bloodied fingers fell limp, trembling as they rested on his knees. A ragged sob broke free, his tears finally spilling over.
They cut paths through the grime on his face, falling in silence as the forest around him seemed to mourn alongside him.
For the first time since that incident, the storm within him quieted. Amid the wreckage of his emotions, one stood tall, unshakable. Remorse. It clawed at his heart. Yet it stirred something unexpected—a fragile, bittersweet smile.
After so long, after all he’d buried, to feel anything was a strange comfort.
“Mother…” Azyen’s voice cracked, barely audible above the low roars of approaching beasts. “I’ve betrayed you. I’ve killed.”
The words tasted like ash. His head hung low, the weight of his confession too much to bear. For all the power he wielded, for all the strength he had borrowed from Astaroth, he felt weaker now than ever before.
. . .
On ground level, in the corner of the room rented at the cheapest inn he could find, Azyen sat motionless. The faint howl of the wind seeped through the cracks in the wall, carrying with it the sting of the cold night air.
Yet, he paid it no mind.
After robbing the Spoiled Sons, Azyen had enough funds to live in comfort for a while. But deep down, he didn’t believe he deserved it. The idea of living among humans again—sharing their warmth, their laughter—felt alien, as though he were an intruder in their world.
The verdant city of Karum, with its sprawling greenery and bustling streets, no longer held the same charm. What first might have seemed vibrant now felt cold, distant. The weight of his persona twisted his perspective, turning the lively atmosphere into a reminder of everything he lacked.
Even though he could feel something again—after so long of being numb—those feelings only pushed him further from the people he once longed to connect with.
He avoided their eyes, the good people who laughed freely, who shared joy without hesitation. Each encounter was a reminder of his own darkness. Even something as simple as buying bread felt like a trial. Their warmth burned too brightly, illuminating the phantoms he carried.
Azyen couldn’t face the gentle smiles of the people any longer.
Instead, his focus shifted to a different kind of person. The outlaws. The ones who preyed on the light of others, robbing them of their smiles and security. In them, he saw reflections of what he feared he might become.
And so, he sought them out—not to find camaraderie, but to burn them to ashes. To liberate the world of their sickening presence.
Azyen's gaze remained fixed on the holographic image of his mercenary profile. The hologram projected by the bracelet device he received from the Mercenary Hall being the only source of light that cast away the darkness in the room.
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Name: Azyen Vayne
Alias/Nickname: None registered
Age: 16
Status: Active
Rank: Soldier of Fortune
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Appearance:
* Height: 172 cm
* Weight: 66 kg
* Build: Lean and athletic
* Eye Color: Piercing blue
* Hair: Copper, curly
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Mancer Rank & Classification:
* Rank: 2nd Sky
* Element/Concept: Anima
* Class: Combat, Sensory Type
* Orientation: Damage Oriented
* Combat Rank: C
* Sensory Rank: D+
* Abilities: None registered
* Passives: None registered
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Equipment:
* Primary Weapon: Single-edged sword, lightweight and balanced for quick strikes
* Secondary Weapon: None registered
* Armor: Reinforced leather with rune-etched bracers to enhance precision in hand movements
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Skills:
* Masterful swordsmanship
* Tactical awareness, adept at reading and exploiting weaknesses
* Tracking and hunting
* Cooking
* Herb and rune knowledge
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Specialty:
* Exploration
* Hunting
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Current Status:
Assigned to Karum’s Mercenary Hall
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The faint light reflected in his eyes as he read his name again and again. Each time weighing heavier than the last.
After a while, a strange look was born into his eyes. One of painful acceptance. One that betrayed found resolve.
Three weeks. Two agonizing weeks passed since his fight with the Spoiled Sons. And three weeks passed since he had registered as a mercenary, expecting his life to finally gain momentum.
Instead, only two job offers had come his way. One had fallen through; the other had barely been worth the effort. Urgut was right. It was a cruel reality, far from the grand visions Azyen had entertained. If things continued like this, his growth would be hindered, as training by himself in the realm of his mind had its limits.
And after fighting the Spoiled Sons, after understanding how much he lacked, a choice was needed to be made. He could no longer waste time in the city. He could no longer exchange gazes with the good people. He could not smile back at the girls. He couldn't control himself.
With only the results in his mind, Azyen had decided to head for the worst. A place where he could forge himself anew. The battlefield.
His jaw clenched as he dismissed the holographic display. The light vanished, leaving him in the dark confines of his room. A tear rolled down his cheek, unbidden, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Not for the meager opportunities or the cold that gnawed at his bones, but for what he was about to leave behind.
His whole childhood.