The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.”
– Seneca
image [https://clipart-library.com/images_k/text-divider-transparent/text-divider-transparent-19.png]
image [https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b8/50/15/b850155ee6a6b0d13a24104de0cff48c.jpg]
The fire spread faster, devouring more of the forest while the others combed through the wreckage, desperate to find their dead comrades. In their frenzy, they completely forgot about the captive prince.
But not Icarus. He moved quickly, knowing he had to get Ulysses out of there before it was too late.
“Hey. Wake up. Come on, wake up!” Icarus hissed, lightly slapping Ulysses' face, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried again and again, shaking him, hoping for any kind of response. Nothing. But at least he was still breathing.
Without wasting another second, Icarus hoisted Ulysses onto his back and started running. The prince wasn’t heavy—not as much as he’d expected, anyway.
"THE PRINCE!" someone yelled, pointing at Icarus as he bolted through the forest. The shout grabbed everyone’s attention, including a bearded man whose scowl deepened.
"Tsk!" The bearded man clicked his tongue. "Don’t let them get away!" he shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.
“Woohoo! Now this is getting fun!” A guy with a neck tattoo grinned as he sprinted after them, his excitement palpable.
Tu-tump. Tu-tump.
Huff.
Icarus didn’t stop. The shouting behind him only confirmed what he already knew—they were being hunted. But stopping wasn’t an option. It was like his endless sword drills; once he started, he couldn’t afford to pause. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he pushed on, running like his life—and the prince’s—depended on it.
And it did.
Behind him were warriors fueled by bloodlust, ready to kill the moment they caught him. That was why he couldn’t slow down, not even for a second. His relentless training had given him insane stamina, enough to carry someone on his back without breaking stride. But despite his strength, there was one glaring problem.
He had no damn clue where he was going.
He was just running and running to save their lives.
The forest in front of him was pitch black. Icarus pushed forward, the darkness almost suffocating, but he kept his eyes locked on a faint light far ahead.
Was it an exit?
“That guy’s fast for sure.” the man with the neck tattoo said.
“Where’s the bow?” the bearded man said, his breath ragged as he kept pace.
“So you’re finally gonna show us your legendary aim, huh, Hugo?” Neck Tattoo sneered, barely masking his excitement.
Hugo snatched the bow and arrow from Von, one of his men who was still sprinting beside him. His expression didn’t change as he slowed for just a second to ready the weapon.
Huff...
Hugo raised the bow, pulling the string back in one smooth motion. Even in the darkness of the forest, he didn’t falter. This wasn’t just luck—he was famous for it. A deadly sharpshooter who didn’t need light, just sound. That even if it comes to a time when he is already blind he can still aim perfectly.
“Hm,” Hugo muttered, his sharp eyes narrowing as he calculated Icarus’ position from the faint noise of his footsteps. “Gotcha.”
Twang!
The arrow cut through the dark forest.
“The hell are you even aiming at, Hugo?” Neck Tattoo taunted with a laugh.
“Shut it, bastard. Watch,” Hugo replied, not breaking stride.
The moment the arrow found its mark, Hugo stopped running.
Drip.
Drip.
Icarus felt it instantly—the sharp, searing pain in his leg. The arrow pierced clean through, the shaft protruding from both sides of his calf. He bit his lip hard, forcing himself not to scream. Stopping wasn’t an option, no matter how much his body begged him to collapse. He learned to push beyond his limits, to keep moving no matter what. But now? Now he realized just how fragile he was. Blood poured down his leg with every step. His body screamed at him to give up.
But he couldn’t.
“Just... a little more,” he panted, barely able to get the words out. “Just a few more steps.”
Staggering to the side, Icarus spotted a thick bush and veered toward it. He carefully lowered Ulysses into the foliage, making sure the prince was hidden well enough to avoid detection. Then, swallowing the pain, he forced himself back into motion.
He stumbled toward a nearby tree, his vision swimming, and started to climb—barely. Each pull was agony, his leg throbbing with every movement, but he had no choice. If they caught him, it was over.
Tu-tump
Tu-tump....
They caught up.
"So where the hell is he?" the man with the neck tattoo growled.
"He's hiding," the bearded man said, his voice low and tense.
What they didn’t know was that Icarus was right above them, crouched in the branches of a tree, waiting for the moment. In his mind, it was simple: he’d either get caught or get lucky and escape. But no matter how much he tried to focus, his eyes kept drifting to the bush where he had hidden the prince. And the blood. The blood wouldn’t stop.
Drip.
His leg throbbed with every passing second, each drop of blood making his vision blur. He was trembling, on the edge of breaking, but he couldn’t make a sound. Not a breath. He stayed as still as possible, hoping they wouldn’t notice him.
Drip.
The blood from his leg dripped onto the head of the man with the neck tattoo. The guy didn’t even notice at first, too distracted by the hunt. But soon, the blood started to seep down, dripping across his forehead. It wasn’t subtle anymore.
"Shit," Icarus muttered under his breath.
Orson, the neck tattoo guy, turned his head, feeling the liquid drip down his face. He wiped it off, confused at first, then his eyes widened.
Blood.
"Hey, Orson," Von said, pointing at the blood on his head. "You got a damn period on your forehead or something?"
"What the hell is this?" Orson snapped, wiping his face and showing the others.
The bearded man, Hugo, slowly tilted his head upward, staring at the trees. "Above us," he said, his voice low but sharp. The others followed his gaze, and the realization hit them all at once. Icarus was right there, hiding in the shadows. The blood gave him away.
Icarus felt his heart race as he wiped the blood from his leg, trying to control the flow. They were getting closer, and the pressure of it was killing him.
Then, out of nowhere, the bushes where Ulysses' body is hidden moved. It was subtle at first—like he was just tossing in his sleep, caught in a bad dream. But the movement was enough to make the bush rustle, drawing their attention. Icarus saw it too. For a split second, he was torn. Should he keep fighting to save the prince? Or just save himself?
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Von started walking toward the bush, his steps slow and deliberate, moving in to check what was going on.
I’m already a failure. That’s all Icarus could think. He knew it, felt it in every fibre of his being. And now, here he was, comparing himself to the prince. If he saved him, maybe—just maybe—he could shift the tides of the chaos brewing around them and but leaving the prince to die? That would mean throwing away everything he’d done up to this point, living the rest of his days drowning in regret, haunted by nightmares of his failure.
His gut twisted. He didn’t want to sacrifice himself. He hated the thought. But something inside him snapped, driving him forward. Before he knew it, he leapt down and slashed Von’s abdomen wide open.
Swoosh!
Von’s body crumpled to the ground. He gasped, clutching at the gaping wound in his stomach, blood spilling between his fingers.
“You freaking rat!” Orson roared, his voice echoing like a war drum.
Icarus froze, his breathing uneven. Five men stood before him, their weapons gleaming under the dim light—greatswords, axes, tools built for killing. His thoughts scattered, his mind a blank slate. And yet, it was like a floodgate had opened, his memories pouring in. His family. His friends. Every smile, every laugh, every little moment—it all came crashing down on him like a final curtain call before death.
Orson charged, swinging his greatsword with terrifying strength. Icarus barely raised his axe in time to block.
Clang!
“You’re dead,” Orson snarled, slamming another heavy blow.
Clang!
“Hey, Hugo!” Orson barked, not bothering to look back. “Don’t even think about stepping in. Just sit there and watch me handle this cockroach.” He motioned for Hugo to stay put, a cruel grin spreading across his face.
Swoosh!
Icarus didn’t counterattack. He was locked in defence, barely managing to evade Orson’s relentless strikes. It was clear—Orson was no amateur. The man was a killer through and through, and it showed in every swing.
“What’s the matter? You only know how to block?” Orson laughed, his voice dripping with mockery. “Then block this!” He spit at Icarus, his sneer widening.
Swoosh!
For the first time, Icarus swung his axe. The sheer force of it sent Orson’s greatsword staggering to the side, almost flying out of his grip.
Even Orson, who’d been laughing a second ago, froze in shock.
Icarus stood his ground, silent, but inside, his heart was pounding. He couldn’t believe it either. This was his first real fight in years, and somehow, the endless hours of training—slashing and swinging until his arms burned—were starting to show.
“Hurry up, you idiot!” Hugo shouted, his patience wearing thin.
“I’ll kill you this time,” Orson growled, tightening his grip on his greatsword and raising it for another crushing blow.
Was he just a joke to these guys? A punching bag for their amusement? Icarus tried his hardest to parry every swing, his injured leg screaming in protest with each move. The greatsword's weight drove him deeper into the dirt with every clash, the pain sharpening like a blade against his nerves. He couldn’t afford to glance at the bush where the prince was hiding—not that he even knew if he was still there. His focus was locked on the madman in front of him, the one swinging like a lunatic.
Clang!
Icarus’ axe flew out of his hands, embedding itself in a nearby tree. Empty-handed. Exposed. It was over.
In a proper duel, being disarmed would be the end—an automatic loss. Maybe an injury, a first blood, or sometimes even death would decide the fight. But this? This wasn’t a duel. This was survival: a no-rules, kill-or-be-killed brawl where the strong always came out on top.
The moment his axe left his hands, Icarus knew he’d lost. He should’ve been terrified, should’ve been ready to give up. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t. Something inside him was raging, boiling over. He was scared, sure, but it was more than that—he was thrilled.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins like fire. He barely disarmed someone for the first time in his life, which ignited something primal in him.
He wanted more. He needed more. Even in the middle of losing, he craved it.
But his body betrayed him. His muscles locked up, frozen under the crushing weight of pain and exhaustion. His legs gave out, forcing him to knees as his opponent’s heavy footsteps drew closer.
“Hah! Look at this guy. Look at him, Hugo!” Orson laughed, his voice dripping with mockery but almost sounding impressed. “He still can’t surrender, can he?”
Orson’s grin widened as he stopped in front of Icarus, raising his greatsword and pointing it at his neck. “So,” he said casually, his tone now cold, “where’s that blonde prince hiding?”
No response came from Icarus. He was still kneeling, the arrow in his leg now buried deeper, making the pain unbearable. It felt like the wound had consumed him entirely. Five men stood in front of him. Sure, he’d taken down a few, but there was no way out. He stared at the ground, motionless, silent.
Why did he do it in the first place? Why save this prince? Why not hesitate? If he’d just stayed in the forest, cutting trees and minding his own damn business, would he have been better off? Would he have been at peace?
“I’m... a coward,” Icarus whispered, his voice barely audible as he knelt, his head down, a sword pointed at his neck.
“What was that?” Orson asked, leaning closer. “Say it louder, you bastard.” He grabbed a fistful of Icarus’ hair, yanking his head up roughly.
Hugo stood to the side, watching with a bored expression. His bow and arrow were in hand, though his sword rested at his waist. He didn’t care about Orson’s theatrics, nor did the other three men, who stood glaring at Icarus, their faces twisted with rage at the sight of their fallen comrades.
“Just make it quick,” Hugo said flatly.
“I am making it quick, Hug—” Orson cut himself off as Hugo interrupted.
“Not you,” Hugo said, his voice sharp. “Him.” He pointed at Icarus.
Icarus still didn’t move, his body frozen.
Thwack!
“Hey, you fucking bastard, speak up when someone’s asking you nicely!” Orson yelled, stomping on Icarus’ injured leg.
Pain exploded through Icarus’ body, his eyes widening as he let out a sharp cry. The force of the repeated kicks sent him trembling, tears spilling uncontrollably—not from fear, but from the sheer, excruciating agony.
“What’s this? Crying like a little girl now?” Orson sneered, pausing to glance at Hugo and the others, who smirked at the pitiful sight before them.
But Hugo wasn’t smiling. His patience was wearing thin. This wasn’t supposed to drag on. The longer this went, the more time they gave the prince to escape. He narrowed his eyes, raising his bow and aiming it—at Orson.
Icarus stayed hunched over, his breathing shallow, trying desperately to suppress his cries.
“I’m giving you one last chance,” Orson growled, pointing his sword closer to Icarus’ neck.
“Orson,” Hugo called, his voice cold.
Orson glanced back, only to freeze, when he saw the arrow aimed directly at him. “What the hell? Are you trying to kill me?”
“Step aside,” Hugo said, pulling the string taut.
Thwack!
The arrow didn’t hit Orson. It was aimed at Icarus.
When Icarus heard the release, he looked up just in time to see the arrow speeding toward him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t dodge.
Splat.
The arrow lodged itself in his forehead. His body slamming against a tree. Blood trickled down from the wound, staining his face and neck.
“Perfect shot,” Hugo muttered, letting another arrow fly.
Thwack!
Abdomen.
Thwack!
Chest.
Each arrow hit its mark with so much precision, sending an unimaginable amount of pain through Icarus’ body. His consciousness started to fade. His vision blurred, and his trembling hands were soaked in blood. The men around him laughed, treating him like a living target.
He was terrified—terrified of death. He felt his heart slowing, his lungs failing, the darkness closing in.
Through the haze, his eyes focused on the bush where the prince had been hiding. It took him a moment to focus, but when he did, he realised something. The prince wasn’t there anymore.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Look, he’s smili—”
The voices faded as his consciousness finally slipped away. But before he was entirely gone, he caught a glimpse of something.
A figure.
Tall, with long black hair, moving toward him.
It wasn’t human.
And it hadn’t been there before.
It felt like something was watching him die. Even after falling into death’s embrace, Icarus couldn’t escape the torment. The other three men took turns slicing into his lifeless body with knives and swords, mutilating him for sport.
“Shhh…”
A low, unfamiliar voice cut through the silence.
Icarus was dead—he knew that. But somehow, he could still hear it. A voice, clear as day, echoed inside his mind. He wasn’t physically there, but his consciousness lingered, trapped in a void of darkness.
“It’s been a while since someone entered this forest and died on the same day,” the voice said, calm yet unnerving. It wasn’t attached to any physical form—just pure darkness surrounding him.
Icarus didn’t understand what was happening, but he kept listening. The voice was oddly soothing, but there was an ageless authority in its tone, like it had existed far longer than it should.
“Hahaha… they’re still playing with your corpse,” it chuckled.
Then the tone shifted.
“Do you want to kill them?”
The question lingered in the air for a moment.
“I can kill them for you.”
What the hell was this? The voice felt like a whisper crawling into his ears, pulling him deeper into a nightmare. It was calm, almost comforting, but it carried the weight of death itself.
“Hmm… but you don’t really have a choice, do you?” The voice paused, almost playful. “I’m going to use your body now.”
Use his body? He was dead, wasn’t he? Did it mean rebirth? No, it wasn’t rebirth. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t him—it was something else entirely, something darker.
“In exchange for your body, I’ll kill them. Fair trade, don’t you think?”
Icarus couldn’t respond. He couldn’t even process what was happening. He was dead—what options did he have?
“Now, time to bring hell to these bastards,” the voice declared, casual yet menacing.
image [https://clipart-library.com/images_k/text-divider-transparent/text-divider-transparent-19.png]
“Wahahaha! Look at this guy!” Orson cackled, pointing at Icarus’ bloodied, mangled body. “He’s like… ugh, I can’t even describe it! Hahaha!”
“Serves him right,” one of the others said with a smirk.
“Stop wasting time,” Hugo snapped, cleaning his arrow, still slick with pieces of Icarus’ brain. “We need to find the prince. No way he got far on his own.”
Icarus’ body was unrecognizable—riddled with holes, drenched in blood, and carved up like a grotesque joke. They’d drawn crude “X” marks all over his torso, slashed at him repeatedly, and even hacked off his arms. His eyes bulged grotesquely from the abuse, completing the scene of pure brutality.
“Hey, Hugo, you forgot one of your arrows,” one of the men called out, grabbing an arrow stuck in the dirt near Icarus.
The man picked it up, glancing one last time at the shredded body on the ground. A smug grin spread across his face as he turned back to join his comrades, casually twirling the arrow in his hand.
"This is mess." The man said while still walking and raising the arrow to see it more clearly.
"Quick." Hugo snapped.
"Ah! Yeah, here—"
Swiiiiish!
"Aghhh!" The man screamed, looking down at the hole now torn in his stomach, a hand pushing through, tearing him apart from the inside.
As the man collapsed, Hugo, Orson, and the other two stood frozen. They were completely stunned, their faces drained of color, paralyzed by what they had just seen. When the man’s body hit the ground, Icarus’ body began to heal. No blood, no scars, no sign of injury. His dark brown hair had turned black, and he stood tall, oozing confidence, his hand stained red from the man’s death.
“You better run, guys,” Icarus said, his voice cold. But it wasn’t really Icarus anymore—his body was being used, controlled by something else.
The two men ran, but Orson and Hugo remained, their swords raised as a dark shadow appeared, two swords forming from it, appearing above them.
“Move.” Icarus ordered, and the shadow blades shot forward, piercing the heads of the two men in an instant.
Swish.
“F-fuck! What are you?!” Orson screamed, watching in horror as his comrades dropped dead in seconds.
Icarus stood still, then made a chilling smile at Orson and Hugo. “I’m your friend,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery.
“What the hell are you talking about—?” Orson started, but he didn’t get to finish.
Swish.
“Huh?” Orson gasped, confused, then looked down in shock. His arms were gone, severed clean off.
“ARGGGHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!” Orson screamed, falling to his knees, his body shaking in agony.
Icarus walked towards Hugo, who, despite his tough exterior, couldn’t hide his fear. Hugo shook uncontrollably, his mind scrambling. A man they’d killed was now picking them off one by one. What was happening? Had they messed with the wrong person?
"Hey, you," Icarus said, pointing at Orson, "Aim your bow at him and shoot."
Hugo, still shaking, hesitated but knew he had no choice. His heart pounded in his chest as he aimed the bow, his hands trembling.
Tu-tump. Tu-tump.
“Shit,” Hugo muttered, sweat pouring down his face as he aimed at his long-time comrade.
Orson, horrified, cried out, “Hugo, don’t do it! Don’t kill me!”
Icarus spoke with calm seriousness, “Every thirty seconds you hesitate, I’ll start cutting your fingers off. So hurry the hell up.”
Huff.
Tu-tump.
“Look, Orson, you’re gonna die from that injury anyway. Let’s just end it quick, alright?” Hugo said, still visibly shaken.
Swish.
“F-fuck y—!” Orson screamed, but the arrow struck his throat, cutting off his words and sending blood splattering everywhere.
Hugo’s heart raced, guilt now over him. He’d just killed his own comrade. He felt sick, but he knew he had to survive. If he didn’t obey this thing, he was next.
"Now... I can go, right?" Hugo asked, his voice still trembling. “I can run now, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just get moving.” Icarus waved him off, gesturing for him to leave.
“You wouldn’t kill me?” Hugo asked, his feet already moving, panic driving him.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Icarus replied, a smirk creeping onto his face as Hugo turned his back. “hmmm.”
Above Hugo, five shadow blades formed, sharper and darker than earlier. They looked like pure death, ready to pierced through him.
“Hell’s Gate,” Icarus muttered, and the blades shot forward, blocking Hugo’s path.
“F-fuck…” Hugo cursed, his legs freezing in terror.
“Good luck escaping hell,” Icarus said, giving him a wave as the swords began to encircle Hugo, trapping him in an impenetrable prison of darkness.
The darkness that controlled Icarus was Erebus—the god of darkness. Erebus wasn’t a simple god; he was the kind of being whose motives could shift between good and bad, depending on what benefited him. Once a revered god, Erebus was now cursed to stay in this forest until he found a body to inhabit. Now, he had control of Icarus.
"Whew, I guess I’m still not at full power," Icarus said, watching Hugo’s body, now locked in the Hell’s Gate for a minute. "Just a skeleton huh?." He chuckled, kneeling to grab the the body of hugo that turned into a full skeleton and hide it in the dirt.
“ahhh! Finally going out into the world after centuries…” Icarus mused, studying his own body more, but then a sudden headache hit him.
“What the…?” He staggered, falling to his knees. He murmured before losing consciousness again.
image [https://clipart-library.com/images_k/text-divider-transparent/text-divider-transparent-19.png]
Somewhere near the border of Kingdom Eldrun...
Huff... Huff...
Ulysses kept running, desperate to escape, until he finally spotted a town in the distance. He had been running nonstop for four hours, but now he could barely stay on his feet. He collapsed against a building wall, exhausted, and thought about the man who had saved him from those kidnappers. He couldn’t forget him. But fatigue took over, and he passed out from sheer exhaustion.
The next morning, Ulysses awoke to find himself tended to by a group of villagers, mostly elders. He could hear snippets of their conversation, but it was hard to make sense of it.
“Who is this boy?” one elder asked.
“He looks like someone from a noble family,” another replied.
Ulysses awake, shocking the elders. His eyes were wide, his expression full of panic and determination.
“Help…” he muttered weakly. “Help him.” His words confused the villagers.