*

The dark and unfathomable Acdepin Mountain, even when illuminated by the fiery tongue shooting towards the sky or covered by thick smoke, still stood straight and proud between light and dark, as if carrying the history of commanding the wind and rain, and bearing an unyielding dignity.

The battle had reached its final stages with everything in shambles, and Acdepin had been defeated by the coalition Sawtooth Crown. The war for unification had now turned into a competition between the victorious clans to plunder wealth. The city was in ruins and everyone was gone, but in the dark palace, the door suddenly opened, and a tall figure rushed in along with the sounds of slaughter outside, sweeping away the sighs of wind echoing through the pillars.

The person was dressed in a black robe, holding a staff made of pine wood with a golden wolf head on top, and with each step, he made a clacking sound like a limp. But no expression could be seen from the gold mask covering the entire face, and only the hurried breathing of Minte II could be heard.

He walked towards the depths of the palace and collapsed onto the hard and cold throne as if he had let out a sigh of relief. He sank deeply into the throne, as if he and it had become one, and his old fingers, adorned with rings, tightly grasped the armrests.

And from his gaze, amidst the raging war flames, a dark figure holding a reversed blade emerged and ominously spread into the grand entrance of the palace.

The firelight shone through the edges of the wolf-hair cloak, emitting a hazy glow like a coronal aura. The gusts caused by the high temperature blew the tattered sky-blue battle robe. The figure stood still for a moment, then stepped into the long-unvisited palace.

"My son, the nameless prince, or should I say... Vasili?" Minte II said with a deep and elegant tone through the gold mask, "You have gone through hardships and finally returned to my side."

The other person stopped in front of the throne. The flames of war illuminated the true identity of the Avalanşăn warrior through the tall and narrow window. He lifted his pointed helmet with a visor. Since leaving Acdepin, Vasili's face is no longer youthful and has gained some scars, but still remains gloomy.

"For seven years, I have been waiting for this day, Father," said Vasili with a heavy tone as his helmet hit the ground. "You once said that I would embarrass your army, and I did it, as an enemy soldier. You could have had this power if you had let me serve our family."

Faced with the nameless prince's advance, Minte II appeared deflated and weak, like an old, worn-out black carpet thrown over the dull throne. However, his golden mask still exuded nobility, and his eyes shone like torches, projecting a sharp and piercing gaze. "What do you want? Do you want me to apologize to you and love you after you destroyed my army and country?"

"No, I don't expect you to give me something that is not beneath that mask," Vasili replied with emotion trembling in his voice. "I only hope to hear from you, 'Vasili, my son, you are a qualified warrior.' It's my humblest request."

Under his black curly hair, Vasili leaned on his reverse-blade. He knelt down on one knee, and the sky-blue sash, the symbol of an Avalanşăn warrior, hung down to the ground from his armor.

"Come closer, my son," said Minte II, lowering his gaze and leaning forward, extending his old right hand. Vasili looked up with tears in his gray-blue eyes. The prince leaned forward and entered the arms of his father, with the strong arms hooking around his protruding vertebrae.

It was a moment of victory. After all the hardships and bitterness, he finally felt his soul return to the right place. He could rebuild Acdepin with his father, conquer the Sawtooth Crown together, and even if he died in battle, his soul would fly back to the land of the peaceful goddess Soineanta, but only if Minte II did not say what he did next.

"You want your efforts to be recognized, but all I can give you is cold ridicule and ruthless curses. Because you, Vasili, are a lowly traitor, just like your mother."

Vasili saw the bright red blade pierce through the black royal robe. In his arms, Minte II trembled, his shoulders shaking as if he had seen a petrified serpent, his whole body stiff. Vasili stepped back, loosening his left hand from the hilt of the reverse-bladed sword and pushing with his right hand to make the old lord fall onto the throne. With his eyes staring blankly at the empty dome, Minte II's body collapsed.

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Vasili held his forehead, gasping for breath, and looked down in disbelief at his right hand, which was stained with fresh blood. The blood flowed incessantly from his fingertips, corroding everything it touched, including his armor. The pool of blood that gathered at his feet expanded outward, eventually dissolving the entire palace.

At that moment, a coarse and loud laughter suddenly sounded, gradually transforming from Minte II's laughter into another familiar voice. Vasili looked up and saw the man still lying on his back, smiling. As he walked toward him, stepping on the blood pool with bare feet, his figure became clearer and clearer. It was Stenka, with his grayish-white short hair and slab-like face.

Vasili, naked and unarmed, knelt beside Stenka, helplessly watching the fresh blood continuously flow from the reverse-bladed sword plunged into his foster father's chest.

"Draw your sword, Vasili," Stenka said softly. Vasili, with slippery hands, pulled out the blood-stained falx from Stenka's body. Stenka slowly turned his head, looking proudly at his disciple.

"Remember, only the sword is your friend. If you can trust your sword, why do you need to trust others? Look at the people around you, they are only suitable as sword targets - just like yourself. So clash, destroy each other, let ugliness and evil collide and see what beautiful sparks it can create."

Vasili raised his sword and looked around, realizing that he was surrounded by eight tombstones that were tightly packed together. Each tombstone was inscribed with the words:

stubbornness (Pertinax), weakness (debilis), arrogance (arrogans), ignorance (ignorantia).

forgetfulness (oblitus), shortsightedness (improvidus), selfishness (adrogantia), and numbness (torpor).

His gaze returned to the starting point, only to find that Stenka had disappeared, leaving the ninth tombstone behind. There were no inscriptions on it, but instead a mirror was set into it, reflecting his naked self. A young girl was leaning over the tombstone from outside, her chin resting on the sleeves of her mourning clothes. Through her black veil, she smiled at Vasili and said, "You must be proud, walking such a lonely path."

"Repara, what's going on? Why are you outside?" Even though half of her face was hidden behind the veil, Vasili recognized his childhood friend.

"It's not me who's outside, it's you who's trapped inside," Repara wiped the tombstone with her fingertip and pointed at the naked Vasili in the mirror, and the cage that bound him. "These are the monuments you have established, after all, you are the king."

Seeing Vasili take a step back and being blocked by the tombstone, Repara couldn't help but laugh softly, "But unfortunately, you're just a 'king of nine.'"

"Come in, Repara! Or let me out! Don't leave me alone here!" Vasili reached through the gap between the tombstones, trying to grab the girl's sleeve, but she agilely backed away, like a radiant elf, slowly walking among the tombstones, bringing distant words to Vasili.

"No, I can't. I'm just behind one of the tombstones. If you keep killing, maybe you can find me, find that strand of kindness and comfort. But, oh, Vasili, it seems your journey ends here."

The tombstones around him kept rising, and the huge shadows blocked out the last bit of light. Kneeling down in the enveloping darkness, Vasili bowed his head, begging fate, "Don't leave me behind, I'm willing to do anything, just to feel the warmth of the flame."

"Willing to do anything?" A female voice came from above. Slow, proud, and icy, it was accompanied by the cries of the dead and the mournful wails of crows, as clear as if it were spoken directly into his ear. Vasili raised his head and saw the silhouette of a huge crow, wearing feathers and holding a long spear, sitting on the edge of the tombstone, hidden in the darkness.

"Then become my apostle, and spread death and fear to every corner you set foot in, bringing the peace that everyone secretly desires but dares not pursue to the world."

"Who are you?" Vasili shouted at the storm stirred up in the vortex of the apocalypse.

"I am Greadadh, the goddess of war, plague, and death," the majestic voice was surprisingly clear, making people involuntarily feel intimidated.

"I am willing to become your apostle and spread your gospel to all corners." Tears fell and pounded on the fists that hit the ground. Fate has made even the bravest warriors bow down.

And Greadadh just raised her chin under the half-faced helmet made of crow bones, listening to the prophecies spoken in different languages from afar. "Looks like you'll have to serve two masters now," she murmured to herself. At the same time, flames lit up under the tombstone, and soon the entire cemetery was engulfed in fire. Under the flickering flames, Greadadh calmly proclaimed to Vasili, "Rise, Vasili, my warrior, because your time has not yet come..."

Vasili looked up again, and Greadadh had disappeared from the top of the tombstone. He slowly got up and saw the tongues of fire creeping up his body, starting from his feet, ankles, and calves, like a rich and interesting snake observing a wolf cub. The orange tongues licked Vasili's skin, but he felt no pain. The flames burned away all the dirt, and his broken body shone brightly. Finally, like an affirmation, the flame snake penetrated Vasili's heart.

Unprecedented confidence and strength surged from the depths of his soul. However, a dragon roar also rang out, and Vasili remembered the storm he had thrown himself into and the knight who had transformed into a dragon. The licking of the flames caused him to fall to the ground in agony, curling up his body. That fierce battle rewound before his tightly closed eyes:

The flames retreated into the throat of the demonic dragon, and the deep darkness swallowed the bloodthirsty jaws. Only in the center of the darkness, a faint and brilliant golden light floated. The cemetery collapsed, and the dream collapsed with it.