Kamil’s eyes shot open. The damp air of the prison cell clung to his skin, the flickering fire casting long, restless shadows along the stone walls. He leaned against the cold bricks, trying to gather his thoughts—until he saw her.
His sister.
She was locked up behind rusted iron bars, chains binding her wrists and ankles. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that crushed his chest.
“Kamil… you could have saved me. You could have given me freedom.”
Kamil’s breath caught in his throat. His body tensed, his mind racing.
“What…? What’s going on?” he shouted, scrambling to his feet.
But something was wrong. Her voice—it wasn’t just sorrowful, it was twisted, possessed. The way she spoke sent chills through his spine.
Panic set in. Kamil turned and bolted, rushing through the corridors of the prison. But the faster he ran, the more warped the walls became. They stretched taller, then narrowed, then shrank so small he felt he’d suffocate. The stone beneath his feet cracked and twisted, tripping him, forcing him to crash into a jagged rock that had appeared in his path.
Dazed, he looked up.
What he saw made his eyes widen in horror.
Shadows—countless shadows—loomed over him, the silhouettes of the people of the City of Saharaan. Their forms swayed unnaturally, flickering like flames, yet their presence was overwhelming.
And then they spoke.
“It’s you.”
Their voices merged into one, distorted and dreadful.
“It’s because of you that we all died.”
“You did nothing for us.”
“You joined the wrong side.”
The words struck him like iron chains, tightening around his body, dragging him down. His knees hit the ground, his strength leaving him.
And then—footsteps. Slow, uneven footsteps.
Kamil turned, his heart hammering against his ribs.
His sister stood behind him, but she was no longer human. Her body had melted into a sludgy, black tar-like substance, dripping and twisting with every step she took. One of her feet dragged behind her, deformed, as if she were nothing more than a corpse being forced to move.
She raised one trembling hand and pointed directly at Kamil.
“You are the reason we all suffered. You were never punished for what you did.”
A wave of cold terror crashed over him. His breathing quickened. Shivers raked down his spine.
And then—
Chinggggg!!!
In a dimly lit forge, the air was thick with smoke and embers. The scent of burning metal clung to the wooden walls. A fire crackled in the corner, barely illuminating the countless swords hanging along the racks.
At the center of it all, a man sat on a worn-out stool, hammering a glowing blade against an iron anvil. Sparks flew with each strike, the steel’s red-hot tip shimmering in the darkness.
Noya stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper.
“…Father.”
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
His father didn’t stop. His hammer struck again. And again. Until finally, without looking up, he spoke.
“Boy, what brings you here?”
Noya hesitated, his throat dry.
“…I’m not sure,” he admitted.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
The blacksmith halted. He lifted the hammer—but just before it could strike the sword again, he stopped, hovering over the blade.
“I told you,” he murmured. “Our swords are meant to protect lives, not spill blood. Especially not with our own hands.”
His voice was steady, but there was something behind it. A weight. A pain.
“A swordsmith who forges weapons with the intent to kill… Those swords die before they are even used.”
Noya’s brows furrowed. Confusion swirled in his mind.
“What…?”
His father finally looked up, picking up the sword he had been forging. Without hesitation, he handed it to Noya.
“This,” he said, “is the great sword I forged for General Akhil. But what he does with it is not my sin. I am just a swordsmith.”
He stared deep into Noya’s eyes.
“A sword is like a spoon,” he continued. “It can be used to eat. To stir sugar into tea. Or—to kill.” His fingers tightened around the blade. “All it takes… is making it sharp enough to cut through human skin.”
Noya swallowed. The weight of the weapon in his hands suddenly felt heavier.
“…Father, are you mad at me?”
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then—
The atmosphere shifted.
Something invisible gripped Noya’s heart, squeezing, suffocating.
His father’s form twisted before his eyes, his body inflating, distorting. His head snapped unnaturally to the side, his flesh warping, stretching into something inhuman. His eyes darkened, empty pools of blackness.
And then, it spoke.
“You left us.”
A shudder ran through Noya’s bones.
“You chose blood over family.”
The forge dimmed. The fire crackled weakly, as if suffocated by the overwhelming darkness.
“You were meant to create, not destroy.”
The sword in Noya’s grip crumbled.
Rust spread across its blade, devouring it in seconds, leaving him defenseless.
Noya’s hands shook. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
His father—no, that thing—tilted its head further, its mouth twisting into something that could hardly be called a smile.
And then—
The hammer struck.
DINGGGGG!
DINGGGGG!
DINGGGGG!
DINGGGGG!
The slaves shivered in their thin, barely warm clothes aboard the ship. Ramon stirred, his body stiff from the cold, hard deck. When he first opened his eyes, it had been morning—the sky pale and hopeful. But now, darkness enveloped everything, sudden and suffocating.
Before him stood his family: his young sister, his mother, and his father. Their faces were cloaked in shadow, a fungus-like darkness clinging to their heads, obscuring their features.
"Ramon, my son," his father’s voice boomed, accusatory and heavy, "because of your cowardice, we were enslaved." His finger jabbed toward Ramon, sharp and unrelenting.
"Son," his mother chimed in, her voice softer but no less cutting, "your weakness forced us to leave you behind. You were a burden."
"Brother," his sister added, her tone sharp and merciless, "you always ate too much, cried too much. We had to abandon you. You were a burden then, and you always will be."
Ramon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as he shook his head violently. "No, no, no! We were separated—I was sent to another ship! This isn’t my fault!"
But the shadows around him deepened, twisting and writhing until they formed a figure that mirrored his own. This shadow-self leaned in, its voice a venomous whisper. "You’re useless, Ramon. You pretend to help, but you only make things worse. You cling to others because you’re afraid of being cast aside—just like your family did."
Ramon dropped to his knees, his hands clawing at his head as he screamed, "STOPPPP! PLEASE, STOP!"
SCREAMING
Under the sprawling branches of an ancient tree, Kasib lay on the grass, his eyes fixed on the hazy blue sky. The world around him felt dreamlike, the air thick and surreal. But the peace was shattered by a distant scream, a sound that jolted him to his feet. Without thinking, he sprinted toward his village.
What he saw there was a nightmare. Flames devoured the homes, their orange tongues licking hungrily at the sky. Soldiers moved like specters through the chaos, their faces grim and unyielding. And there, in the distance, stood his father, cradling a lifeless version of Kasib in his arms. The boy’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene—his father’s eyes were pitch black, as were his mother’s and brother’s. Even the other Kasib, limp and lifeless, bore the same hollow, soulless gaze.
"You were weak," his father intoned, his voice echoing with a hollow finality. "You could never become the great warrior I hoped for. My sacrifice was wasted on you."
His mother’s voice joined in, cold and unfeeling. "You should have died that day. You were never worthy of this life."
And then his brother, his tone dripping with disdain. "You’re a betrayer, Kasib. You don’t deserve to live. Do us all a favor and end it."
Kasib’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. He looked down at the sword lying at his feet, its blade gleaming in the firelight. Without hesitation, he snatched it up and strode toward his father, his steps steady and deliberate. He met the man’s blackened gaze, his own eyes blazing with defiance.
"You’re not my father," Kasib spat, his voice low and dangerous. "The greatest warrior I knew would never speak to me this way." With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged the sword into the chest of his lifeless double, then turned and severed the head of the imposter wearing his father’s face.
The figures that had taken the forms of his mother and brother recoiled, their screams piercing the night. Kasib stood tall, his chest heaving, his grip on the sword unyielding. "You think you can control me?" he roared. "I am Kasib, eldest son of Rahekhet, and I will become the greatest warrior this land has ever known! Come and face me, you cowards! Let me show you the true taste of a warrior’s blood!"
But before the battle could begin, Kasib awoke, his body drenched in sweat, his right arm raised as though still clutching the sword. He blinked, disoriented, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room was dim, the air heavy with silence. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a figure seated nearby—a man cloaked in black, his form shimmering as though coated in tar. The man’s mouth hung open, his gaze fixed on Kasib with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the man spoke
This young man woke, no fear in his sight,
His greatest fear was never a fight.
No regrets, no fears, like another he’s found,
Who walks through life without looking around……