In a certain place, a village was ravaged by bandits. People, regardless of age—old, young, or children—were killed indiscriminately. Wailing echoed throughout the village as houses were burned to the ground. The laughter of the bandits mixed with the cries of the victims, creating a macabre symphony, one that a devil might relish.
"Kill them all. Leave no one alive," commanded a man who appeared to be the bandit leader, his voice cold and merciless.
A man lay weakly on the ground before the leader, his body riddled with cuts and bleeding profusely. He had likely sustained these injuries while fighting against the leader, a futile attempt to defend his home.
"W-why did you do this?" he asked weakly, his breath shallow and labored.
The bandit leader stepped closer, sneering. When he reached the man, he stomped on his face with disdain, as if he were crushing trash beneath his foot.
"You want a reason?" he mocked, his tone dripping with cruelty. "Do we even need a reason? Fine, I'll give you one: because we’re strong, and you’re weak. The strong will always dominate the weak."
With that, the leader raised his sword high before plunging it into the man’s chest.
When the bandit leader saw the man stop moving, he assumed he was dead. The village lay in ruins, smoke rising from charred homes, and the bodies of villagers scattered across the ground. Satisfied with the destruction, the leader grinned.
"Men, let’s go!" he commanded. The bandits departed, leaving behind a village reduced to ash and death.
Hours later, as smoke continued to rise into the sky, flies began to swarm around the corpses. A lone figure stepped into the village. His attire was strikingly out of place for the era—a sharp black suit and dark glasses. He smiled as he surveyed the devastation, clearly pleased.
"Ah, what a delightful scene," he said with glee. "Oh, what do we have here?"
He spotted a man with a sword embedded in his chest—the same man who had been stabbed by the bandit leader. Despite his injuries, the man still clung to a sliver of life. Intrigued, the stranger clapped his hands in mock applause.
"Remarkable resilience," he said, kneeling beside the dying man. The man’s lips moved as though he were trying to speak, but his words were inaudible. Yet, the stranger could sense the deep hatred radiating from his heart.
The stranger’s smile widened. He had found a new source of entertainment to alleviate his boredom.
"What do you wish for?" he asked, his voice smooth and enticing, yet laced with an unsettling malice. "Hmm, it seems you're struggling to speak. Let me help you."
He exhaled, releasing a dark mist that entered the man’s mouth. Slowly, color returned to the man’s face, and his breathing steadied.
"Now, let me ask you again. What do you want?" The stranger’s grin grew, eager to hear the man’s response.
"I... I want to kill them all," the man said weakly, his voice filled with pain and rage.
"Oh? And how will you do that?"
"Kill!" the man repeated, his mind consumed by hatred and vengeance.
The stranger’s smile deepened. "I can offer you help. In fact, I can give you the tools you need to achieve your desire. How about it? Will you take my hand?"
Though the man’s mind was clouded, those words seemed to bring a flicker of clarity.
"I... I will."
"In exchange," the stranger continued, "I want your soul. Will you give it to me?"
"Yes. I will."
"Then it’s settled. The pact is sealed. From this moment onward, I grant you the power to fulfill your deepest desire. Until we meet again, human."
A black mist engulfed the stranger, and in an instant, he vanished as though he had never been there.
...
A lone man was drowning in an ocean of crimson, its surface rippling like blood-stained water. He sank deeper and deeper, endlessly submerged. Time held no meaning in this abyss, and no one could tell how long he had been there.
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As he drifted, memories began to surface in his mind.
“Look at my harvest for today!” his voice rang out, full of joy. “I got us a pair of deer. We can have meat tonight!”
“Yeah!” the excited voices of children cheered at the mention of meat.
“Alright, kids. Since your father worked so hard to get us meat for dinner tonight, I’ll do my best to cook it,” said his wife, her smile warm and full of love. She felt a deep satisfaction seeing the innocent smiles on her children’s faces—faces free of worry and pain.
A happy memory. A moment of simple bliss. They were not wealthy, but they had something far greater: a loving family.
Another memory surfaced, shattering the warmth of the first.
“Martha, stay inside with the kids,” he said, his voice tense and laced with fear.
“What about you?” she asked, her worry for her husband etched on her face.
Before he could respond, the door burst open, kicked in by a ragged-looking man. The intruder’s face was scarred, his clothes tattered, and in his hand, he held a large machete. He was clearly a bandit.
“Nice! Prey,” the bandit sneered, licking his lips.
The family had no time to hide. Fear was written on their faces. Without hesitation, the man grabbed an old, rusty axe, the only weapon he had, and charged at the intruder.
He swung, but the bandit sidestepped with ease. In retaliation, the bandit delivered a brutal kick to his stomach, sending him crashing into the wall. Pain exploded in his body as he coughed up blood, clutching his abdomen.
Through his blurring vision, he saw the bandit mercilessly slashing his machete at the children. Their cries were cut short. His wife, in a desperate attempt to shield them, was beheaded in one swift motion. Her lifeless body fell beside her children.
With his remaining strength, he crawled toward them, tears streaming down his face, before finally succumbing to unconsciousness.
When he awoke, the acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils. The memory hit him like a hammer. Frantically, he rubbed his eyes and forced himself to stand. Then he saw it—the bodies of his family, brutalized and lifeless.
His mind shattered. He collapsed to his knees, pulling their bodies into his arms. His wails filled the air as he begged for answers, cursing the cruel hand of fate.
Grief gave way to rage. He stood, grabbed his axe, and stumbled out of the house. In the distance, he saw a burly man with a blonde goatee, his imposing figure unmistakable. Fueled by fury, he charged at the man. But before he could land a blow, pain erupted in his chest.
The burly man sneered down at him, his mocking smile burned into memory, as the world faded to black.
Another memory rose, this one of a man in strange, otherworldly attire. The man offered him power—power to exact revenge on those who had taken everything from him. The price? His soul.
He knew the man wasn’t human, but that didn’t matter. Consumed by rage and despair, he accepted the offer without hesitation. Nothing else mattered—only vengeance.
As these memories flooded his mind, the rage returned, a roaring fire consuming all else. Then, a hand pushed against his back, propelling him upward.
He gasped, breaking the surface as if surfacing from an eternal nightmare. He took a deep breath, his lungs burning as if it had been ages since his last.
He lay weakly on the ground, his body frail and cold. His eyes opened, void of emotion. The warmth of life was gone. Only hatred and an unrelenting thirst for vengeance remained.
As he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was a sword embedded in his chest. Strangely, he felt no pain. Slowly, he rose, taking in his surroundings. The house he once called home was now reduced to ashes, its smoldering remains releasing thin tendrils of smoke into the sky. The corpses scattered around the village had begun to rot, prey to vultures and flies. The air was thick with the putrid stench of decay.
Then, he noticed something peculiar—his skin. Once a warm brown, it now appeared pale and lifeless, as though drained of blood. He gripped the hilt of the sword and pulled it free from his body. To his astonishment, the wound closed before his eyes, leaving no scar. Blood still clung to the blade, but his body seemed impervious.
It was then he realized the truth: whatever the stranger had done, he was no longer human. He could feel it deep within. Something essential, something that made him ‘him’, was gone. Perhaps it had vanished the moment his family was taken from him.
He turned his gaze toward the ruins of his home and walked toward it with heavy, deliberate steps. Inside, he found the charred remains of his wife and children. Their bodies were unrecognizable, consumed by fire, but he knew it was them.
He tried to cry, to shed tears for them, but no emotion came. The well of grief within him had dried up, replaced by a hollow emptiness. Was this another price for the power he had gained? The loss of his humanity—of every feeling except hatred and the burning desire for vengeance?
Still, he carried their remains outside, one by one. Not just his family, but the bodies of his fellow villagers as well. Gathering them in one place, he built a pyre. This was the least he could do for them now.
He watched the flames consume the dead, his empty eyes reflecting the firelight. When the pyre had burned down, leaving only ashes behind, he turned and walked toward the hill at the edge of the village.
The climb was steep, but at the top, he was met with a breathtaking view. The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold. A gentle breeze brushed past him, carrying with it a fleeting sense of peace.
He began to gather stones, piling them together to create a simple tombstone. It was rough and unrefined, but it was a marker—a place to remember those he had loved and lost.
When the tombstone was finished, he returned to the village. He scoured the ruins for anything useful—clothing, food, money. Although he no longer felt hunger, he knew he would need supplies for his journey.
At the village gate, he paused. He stood there for a long moment, dressed simply in a white tunic, worn pants, a leather belt, and weathered boots. A brown cloak draped over his shoulders, and a small bag hung at his side.
He turned back to look at the village one final time.
"I’ll keep you all in my memory," he murmured, his voice devoid of emotion. But somewhere deep inside, a fragile hope lingered—that one day, he might remember the warmth of his family, the joy they once shared.
With that, he stepped through the gate and onto the path ahead. His journey had begun—a hellish road paved with vengeance.
His first destination: Verica City, the city of merchants.