The clash of steel echoed through the grand throne room, the air thick with tension and power. In the center of the battlefield stood a man—a shadowy figure, his appearance concealed in darkness, exuding an overwhelming aura of malevolence. Around him, a small group of warriors fought fiercely, their resolve unshakable, though the odds seemed insurmountable.
Noah’s gaze swept across the chaotic scene, his heart pounding in rhythm with the battle. He was not alone. His comrades surrounded him, each fighting with a relentless fury. At the forefront was his younger brother, Isaac, wielding two massive greatswords. With every swing, Isaac's strikes cleaved the air, carving at the enemy with brutal force. No wound could hold him back—his body healed almost instantly, his resolve seemingly unbreakable.
Beside him, a woman with vibrant pink hair and piercing yellow eyes nocked arrow after arrow, each one aflame. Her fiery missiles arced through the air, exploding in bursts of heat as they struck the enemy, forcing the figure to constantly evade. Her sharp gaze never wavered, her precision deadly.
Flitting across the battlefield was a man with blazing orange hair, his movements a blur of speed and strategy. He was methodical, applying curses and restrictions onto the foe with every strike. Each movement was calculated, each spell designed to weaken their shared adversary, whittling away his strength piece by piece.
Then came a vampiric figure—blonde hair tied back into a neat ponytail, his crimson eyes glowing with power. Lightning crackled at his fingertips, spreading through the room in erratic arcs. His electricity paralyzed their opponent’s movements, giving the others openings to strike.
Standing nearby, a man with stark white hair and luminous purple eyes cast his magic with careful precision. He was the group's lifeline, healing any injuries sustained by his comrades. His hands glowed with soft light, mending cuts, and closing wounds before they could become fatal.
Finally, Noah stood amidst the chaos, his own weapon glowing with an ethereal light. He gripped the hilt tightly, the sword pulsing in his hands. With a battle cry, he lunged forward, prepared to deliver the final blow to their enemy.
But just as his sword neared the figure's heart, everything shattered. Noah's world dissolved in an instant.
He woke with a start, his heart racing and his head throbbing. The remnants of the dream clung to him, fading with every breath. He sat up in his bed, rubbing his temples, trying in vain to remember the details. But it was slipping away, elusive as mist, leaving him with nothing but the sense of something vital lost.
Noah slowly pushed himself up from the bed, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. Each movement sent a dull ache through his body, but he forced himself to cross the room. As he reached the mirror, he paused, gazing at his reflection. His black hair was a wild mess, tangled from restless sleep, and he absently began brushing it down, though it did little to tame the chaos. Atop his head, two white, spiraled draconic horns jutted out.
Black spots marred his pale skin, radiating from his body like dark bruises. Each one pulsed with a deep, unrelenting pain. His breath hitched as a violent cough overtook him, and a spatter of blood escaped his lips, staining the mirror. His emerald draconic eyes stared back at him, piercing yet haunted by his own frailty. Noah wiped the blood away with the sleeve of his sleepwear, hiding the evidence of his suffering. He was only 15, yet his body felt worn, and fragile—like it could break at any moment.
He stumbled through his bedroom, the world swaying with every step, until he reached the stairs. Just as he gripped the banister, his legs gave a slight tremble, and then a sharp pain shot through the back of his leg as he was kicked from behind.
“You know, a responsible older brother would check on his poor, sick sister,” came the voice of his younger brother, Isaac.
Noah glanced back, irritated but too tired to argue. Isaac stood there, arms crossed, his expression a mix of annoyance and expectation. The boy’s hair was stark white, a sharp contrast to Noah's, and atop his head were two black, spiraled draconic horns. His eyes were strikingly different—his right was a deep, blood-red with draconic origins, while his left was an emerald green, marked by a crosshair-like symbol. Though only 8 years old, Isaac’s gaze held a sharpness beyond his years.
Noah sighed, rubbing his leg. “You know, my health isn’t that great, either.”
Isaac scoffed. “Sure, but you're always sick. Isabelle’s been stuck in bed for a week now, barely able to move. You’re supposed to be the older brother.”
Noah ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of Isaac’s words. “Fine, I’ll go check on her.”
With a tired exhale, he made his way to Isabelle’s room, his steps slow and heavy. The bedroom was small but cozy, with two beds set side by side—one for Isaac and the other for his twin sister. Noah's eyes fell on Isabelle, who lay curled up beneath her blankets. Her long white hair was unkempt, strands falling messily around her pale face. The same white, curled draconic horns sat atop her head, but her frail condition made her look as if she could barely hold their weight. A pair of glasses rested on the nearby table, unused for days.
As Noah stepped closer, Isabelle stirred, her eyes fluttering open. They were the same as Isaac’s—her right eye a deep, blood-red, but with an X-shaped symbol carved into the iris. Her left was an emerald green, glowing faintly with draconic power, though dulled by illness. She was only 8 years old, yet the sickness seemed to have drained all her life from her.
Noah knelt by her bedside, his heart heavy. “Hey, Isabelle,” he whispered softly, his voice betraying the concern he tried to mask.
She blinked slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Noah… I feel… so tired.”
“I know,” he said, forcing a small smile. “But you’ll get better soon. You’re strong.”
Isabelle’s eyes closed again, her breathing shallow and weak. Noah sat there in silence for a moment, his chest tightening as he watched his little sister struggle. He could feel the weight of Isaac’s gaze on him from the doorway, and for a moment, he felt utterly helpless.
“She’ll be okay, right?” Isaac’s voice was softer now, the sharpness replaced with worry.
Noah didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Isabelle’s face. He wanted to believe his own words as he finally spoke, “Yeah… she will.”
“You’re a horrible liar,” Isaac muttered under his breath, turning on his heel and heading downstairs, leaving Noah in the silence of Isabelle’s room. The truth of his brother’s words weighed heavily on him, the knot in his chest tightening. He lingered for a moment longer, watching Isabelle’s frail form before finally making his way down.
By the time Noah descended, the rest of his family was already seated around the dining table. The aroma of fresh, home-cooked food filled the air. Despite their noble status, Noah’s mother took pride in preparing meals for her family, finding joy in the simple act of cooking. Her smile was warm as she served plates, though her eyes, like everyone else’s, held a quiet concern for her son.
“I’m going to skip breakfast today,” Noah said, reaching for the sword mounted on the wall, its hilt gleaming in the soft morning light. “I’ll be training in the forest again.”
His father, sitting at the head of the table, looked up, his brow furrowing in disapproval. “I know you’re desperate, son, but you don’t need to push yourself this hard. You’re already a fine successor to our family. Strength isn’t everything.”
Noah’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. The word successor felt hollow, a title that carried too much weight, especially for someone in his condition. He couldn’t bear the thought of giving up, of allowing his weakness to define him.
“I want to get stronger,” he said, his voice strained with frustration and desperation. “I need to prove myself. The entrance exams for the Hero’s Academy are in a week, and I know I can pass them.”
The room fell silent. His father’s gaze softened, but the unspoken doubt hung in the air. Everyone in the family knew Noah’s ambitions, but they also knew his limitations. Still, his mother, always the peacemaker, spoke up.
“Fine,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “If you’re going out, make sure to visit Ava as well. She’ll want to see you.”
Noah managed a small, strained smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll visit her. She is my fiancée, after all.”
He shouldered his sword and walked out of the manor, feeling the cool morning air hit his skin. But the moment he stepped outside, the whispers began—faint, but impossible to ignore. The townsfolk were talking again. They always were.
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“He doesn’t look well…”
“Poor health for so long, how can he ever lead?”
“What will happen when his father passes? Can he even take the mantle?”
Some voices were softer, filled with concern, but others were sharper, harsher.
“Maybe it would be better if Isaac took his place.”
“Can you imagine him as ruler? He can barely stand on his own most days.”
Noah’s jaw clenched, his heart aching as he walked through the village. He knew what they thought of him—the sickly son, the fragile heir. They acknowledged his intelligence, and his care for the people, but it wasn’t enough. Not for them. Strength was what they valued, and Noah’s body betrayed him at every turn.
Some whispered that they wished for his death, not out of malice, but because they believed Isaac, strong and healthy, would make a better ruler. The weight of their expectations pressed down on Noah’s shoulders, each step through the village growing heavier.
Still, he kept walking, determined to prove them wrong, to prove himself. As he neared the forest of Álfheimr, his thoughts drifted to its four ruling families. His own—the Fafnir family—oversaw a diverse population, a mix of races and cultures. Then there was the Starbell family, who ruled over the elves and fairies. Ava, his fiancée, was a Starbell, and their betrothal had strengthened the bond between their two territories. The thought of her brought him a small measure of comfort.
But then his thoughts darkened as he recalled the ruined Eldenwood territory, once home to a proud demi-human population. A criminal organization had attacked and decimated their land, leaving it in ruins. The survivors had fled to the Fafnir lands, seeking refuge, and Noah’s family had taken them in. And finally, there was the domain of the Black Witch—a quarter of the forest claimed by a being so powerful that no citizens lived there, yet none dared to question her authority.
The forest loomed ahead, its towering trees casting long shadows across the path. Noah gripped his sword tighter, the weight of everything—his family, his health, the expectations of the town—bearing down on him. But he pushed forward.
He had to prove himself. Not just to his family, or the town, but to himself.
Noah moved through the forest, his sword heavy in his grasp. Even the simplest creatures—the boars and slimes—proved to be a challenge. His strikes lacked power, his body betraying him at every turn. Every swing of the blade felt like a burden, his muscles straining under the weight of exhaustion. Despite his determination, the forest seemed to mock him with its dangers, the simplest tasks turning into struggles.
He pushed forward, determined not to return home empty-handed. But as he ventured deeper into the forest, something caught his eye. Just ahead, through the thick foliage, a group of individuals stood in quiet conversation.
Noah quickly ducked behind a tree, his heart racing. He observed them carefully. The first figure was a man draped in a black cloak, his hands concealed by red gloves. A sinister plague doctor’s mask obscured his face, giving him an unsettling presence. Beside him was a young girl, perhaps no older than Isaac, wearing a cow mask with a brown cloak that concealed most of her small frame. Next, a man with long, dirty blonde hair, and a fox mask covering his face, stood with a katana resting at his side. Finally, a man with striking neon green hair and piercing orange eyes stood tall in armor, a sword sheathed at his hip.
Noah’s breath hitched. He recognized the plague doctor’s mask immediately—it belonged to the leader of The Crows, a notorious criminal organization feared throughout the land. They were said to be a group of harbingers, some whispering that they could bring about the next apocalypse. The most disturbing rumor tied to them involved a man dressed in all white, who had been present in every recorded apocalypse in history. Seven apocalypses had already scarred the world, each one led by an individual who sought to bring about total destruction. And now, standing before him, was one of the very people responsible for the attack on the Eldenwood territory.
The leader spoke, his voice calm but commanding. “It seems we have a watcher. Faker, deal with him.”
Noah’s heart stopped as the neon-haired man, Faker, turned in his direction, his lips curling into a cruel smile. Before Noah could react, Faker lunged with terrifying speed, his sword glowing with an emerald hue as he swung it in a wide arc. The tree Noah had been hiding behind was cleaved in half, the blade narrowly missing his head as he ducked at the last possible moment. The raw power of the strike sent splinters flying through the air.
“If it isn’t the failed son of the Fafnir family,” Faker sneered, stepping closer, his voice dripping with mockery. “Hey boss, we’re here for the brother, right? It’s fine if I kill this one, isn’t it?”
The leader, still unmoved, gave a dismissive nod. “Of course. He isn’t even worth feeding to Viper. Inari, Labyrinth, follow me.” With that, he turned and began to walk away, his presence cold and indifferent, his codename Blank hanging in the air like a shadow.
Noah’s blood ran cold as he realized the gravity of the situation. He was alone, outmatched, and facing down a member of one of the deadliest organizations in the world. He barely had the strength to fight lowly monsters—how could he possibly survive this?
Faker’s grin widened as he slowly unsheathed his sword, the emerald glow growing brighter. “Don’t worry, we plan to kill most of your family, too. So you’ll get to meet them soon enough in the spirit realm.” He tilted his head, his orange eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. “But I’m feeling generous today. I’ll give you one good hit. Try to kill me.”
Noah’s hands trembled as he gripped his sword. His body screamed in pain, his vision blurred by the weight of his sickness. But despite the terror gnawing at him, something deep inside him refused to give in. He knew this was hopeless, but the thought of doing nothing—of simply allowing himself to be cut down—was unbearable.
He straightened himself, tightening his grip on the hilt of his blade, every ounce of his remaining strength funneling into this one moment. Faker’s smirk widened as he watched Noah gather himself, amused by the sight.
“Come on then,” Faker taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Give me your best shot. Let’s see what the ‘failed son’ is capable of.”
Noah’s heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, his breath shallow and ragged as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had one shot, one opportunity. To seize what he wanted, in that one moment. He would make sure to capture it, he wouldn't let it slip.
His vision blurred with desperation as he steadied his blade, its weight almost unbearable in his trembling hands. His entire body screamed for him to stop, but his will was stronger than his flesh. With a deep breath, Noah surged forward, a roar of defiance escaping his lips.
The world slowed around him. His sword felt impossibly heavy, each step like wading through thick mud. But he pushed through the fatigue, the weakness, the fear. With every ounce of strength he could muster, Noah swung his sword in a clean arc, the blade cutting through the air with a desperate whistle. The cold steel met flesh.
Thwack—Faker’s head came clean off, severed from his body in one swift motion. It tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, rolling to a stop at Noah’s feet.
For a brief, fleeting moment, Noah felt a surge of hope—had he done it? Had he actually won?
But then, horror unfolded before his eyes.
The decapitated body remained standing, unaffected by the loss of its head. Slowly, the headless figure raised its hands and began to clap. The grotesque sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the clearing, chilling Noah to the bone. His breath caught in his throat as the severed head on the ground began to squirm, twisting and distorting until it broke apart into a swarm of writhing maggots. They slithered up the body’s legs in a sickening, squirming mass, crawling over its torso and reassembling into Faker’s face with unnatural precision.
The man’s cruel smile returned, as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry to inform you,” he said, his voice calm and mocking, “but I am the Primordial Regeneration, the Mimic. No matter how many times this vessel falls apart, you’ll never be able to kill me.”
Noah’s blood ran cold. Desperation gripped his chest as his legs wobbled beneath him. This couldn’t be real—he couldn’t defeat something like this. But still, he refused to stop. He couldn’t stop.
With a strangled cry, Noah swung his sword again, the blade cutting shallow gashes across Faker’s body. He hacked and slashed at the man with wild abandon, each strike more frantic than the last. But no matter how hard he tried, the wounds were shallow, and ineffective. Faker’s flesh rippled and reformed, the gashes sealing almost as quickly as Noah could make them. His strikes became weaker and weaker, until they were nothing more than desperate taps, his arms too tired to swing with any real force.
“Pathetic,” Faker sneered, watching with cold amusement as Noah struggled in vain. “Stop flailing around like that. Trash like you—someone who doesn’t even possess an ability—should learn when to give up.” He raised his blade, which shimmered with a bright emerald glow. “Ability: Enchanter.”
In one swift motion, Faker swung his sword. There was a flash of green light, and a sharp clang echoed through the forest. Noah stared in disbelief as the blade of his sword fell to the ground, cleanly severed from the hilt.
Faker tilted his head, a sadistic grin stretching across his face. “Any last words?”
Noah’s mind raced. He was out of time, out of strength, and out of options. His sword was broken, his body was failing him, and yet… he couldn’t give up. Not now. Not when his family was at stake. He raised his head, fire flickering in his eyes despite the hopelessness of the situation.
“Damn you,” Noah spat through gritted teeth. “I refuse to giv—”
Before he could finish, Noah felt a sharp, searing pain shoot through his chest. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down to see Faker’s hand plunged deep into his torso, fingers wrapped around his heart. The world seemed to freeze as the realization of what was happening sunk in.
“Isn’t this ironic?” Faker whispered, his lips brushing against Noah’s ear. His hand tightened, fingers digging into the pulsing organ. “The so-called ‘heir’ of the Fafnir family, so weak, so pitiful.” He smiled, his voice soft yet filled with malice. “You never stood a chance.”
With a sickening crunch, Faker crushed Noah’s heart in his hand. Agony unlike anything Noah had ever felt ripped through him. His vision darkened, his strength leaving him in an instant. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to the forest floor, gasping for breath that would no longer come. Blood poured from his mouth as he lay there, staring up at the canopy of trees, the sky fading from view.
“Rest in peace, failed son of the Fafnir family,” Faker said casually, flicking the blood from his hand as if Noah had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Without another glance, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Noah’s world grew dimmer, the sounds of the forest fading into a hollow silence. His chest ached with the weight of failure, not just for himself, but for his family—Isaac, Isabelle, his parents. He had failed them all. As darkness overtook him, a single, bitter thought echoed through his mind.
I wasn’t strong enough…