Zephyr lounged in his chair around the round table, his posture as relaxed as if he were reclining in a field rather than sitting inside a grim command chamber. His gaze drifted lazily toward the ceiling where several floating orbs of light hovered, their pale glow casting a cold, sterile hue over the room. The chamber itself was heavy and suffocating, its walls of enchanted grey stone pulsing faintly with runic light, each heartbeat of blue energy a reminder of the power woven into every inch of the fortress.
Six figures sat around the table, each cloaked in their own aura of authority. Rune-etched devices hummed across the polished surface, and at the table's center, a holographic projection displayed another chamber and another table—occupied by six distant figures. Their images wavered slightly, distorted by the spell's distance and strain.
Zephyr, however, paid it all little mind. The heated voices, the pointed debates, the stifling tension—they washed over him like meaningless noise. His thoughts were a fog, slipping through cracks in his control. Memories, purpose, even his own will felt distant and fractured. There were moments—rare, fleeting moments—when he could bring his mind together long enough to think, to act on his own desire. But those moments were like sparks in endless darkness. Most of the time, he simply drifted, moving through his missions like a puppet animated by the king's command.
He didn't care for politics or plans; all he needed was the briefing. The next target. The next order.
"Zephyr! Are you even listening?"
The sharp voice cut through the hum, dragging him back to the present. He turned his head slowly, meeting their collective irritation with a languid grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Nope," he said lightly.
The single word landed like a slap. The man across from him—a broad-shouldered warrior with twin axes strapped to his back—bristled. His orange hair flared under the light as he leaned forward, knuckles cracking.
"Then perhaps you should leave," the man growled.
Zephyr's grin didn't falter. His eyes, half-lidded a moment ago, now gleamed with a faint, dangerous shimmer. The shift in the air was subtle but suffocating; murderous intent leaked from him like a scent, instinctive and uncontrolled. He wasn't angry—Zephyr had long since lost the capacity for anger—but whatever restraint he once had was gone too.
The air grew still. Even the holographic projection flickered slightly under the sudden weight of killing intent.
Then, just as suddenly, Zephyr looked away, returning his gaze to the orbs above as though nothing had happened.
"Just tell me the mission already," he muttered. His tone wasn't impatient—just tired, empty. "I'll get it done."
The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the projection. Even the heated arguments on the other side of the hologram seemed to falter, as though the ripple of tension in Zephyr's voice had reached across the distance.
The projection shifted, focusing on a figure shrouded in shadow. Tendrils of darkness wisped off his form like smoke, and a single eye of white light opened where his left eye should have been. His voice, calm yet unyielding, cut through the silence.
"Leave him be. I don't want to clean up the mess. We already have enough on our plates," the figure said, his gaze fixing on Zephyr with a weight that could crush lesser men.
Zephyr tilted his head slightly, recognition flickering in his unfocused eyes. Noctis Umbra, he mused, the name stirring faint embers of amusement in the haze of his thoughts.
The orange-haired warrior winced but obeyed, his fiery bravado dimmed by the quiet authority in Noctis's voice. He sank back into his seat, though his glare toward Zephyr still burned—sharp enough to draw blood if looks could cut.
A low chuckle escaped Zephyr, smooth and edged like a blade drawn in jest. "That was a long time ago, Noctis," he said, amusement threading through his tone. "Are you sure you could still stop me?"
Noctis's own laughter followed—a dark, knowing echo that seemed to hum with restrained power. "With your mind in the state it is now?" he replied evenly. "Undoubtedly, yes."
Zephyr's grin lingered, its predatory edge melting into something quieter, almost wistful. Beneath it, though, the shadow of something far more dangerous coiled—something even Noctis couldn't quite name.
"I suppose so," Zephyr murmured at last, voice soft but heavy with the kind of acceptance that sounded far too calm to be harmless.
Rising from his seat, Zephyr gave an exaggerated bow, his long black coat sweeping behind him in a theatrical flourish. Silver strands of hair caught the cold light above, gleaming starkly against the shadow he cast across the polished floor.
"I'm bored," he announced, his voice light yet utterly dismissive, like a man excusing himself from a dull play rather than a council of power. "So, I'll be taking my leave."
He spun on his heel, coat flaring wide as his form fractured into a cascade of radiant motes. The light shimmered and scattered through the chamber before fading into nothing, leaving only the faint hum of disturbed mana in his wake.
Moments later, Zephyr sat high atop the mountain—a dark silhouette against the restless sky. The wind clawed at his coat as he perched on a narrow stone ledge overlooking the stronghold that lay carved into the mountainside below. From his vantage, he could see the main base halfway down the slope, its walls alive with faint runic light, and beyond that, smaller clusters of buildings stretching toward the foothills far below.
He exhaled softly, the sound barely audible over the wind, and reached into his pocket. From it, he withdrew an amulet—its surface gleaming like a polished mirror, though he knew the relic's true age stretched back further than memory cared to hold.
With deliberate care, he flicked the activation switch at the top, causing the amulet to open. Inside, one half held a faded image of a family—seven figures, each adorned with striking silver hair and warm, genuine smiles. On the opposite side rested a shard of crystal embedded into the metal, its faint glow pulsating as though alive.
Zephyr's gaze lingered on the older man standing at the back of the photograph, a somber smile replacing his usual cheery demeanor. I guess I've aged like fine wine, all things considered, he thought, lips twitching with faint amusement.
In truth, Zephyr was well over a hundred years old—one of the few left from a generation long past. His youthful appearance was merely a side effect of his power. Upon reaching Rank 3, a person's body began to reverse toward its prime, growing stronger, faster, and more vital with each rank ascended. But there was a tradeoff—staying too long without progress dulled the mind, eroded the will, and hollowed out the spirit. Only those with iron resolve could withstand the centuries without breaking.
For Zephyr, that strength had fractured long ago. Losing his entire family had left scars that no regeneration or ranking could mend. His youthful face was a lie; his soul was ancient, worn thin by grief and the endless march of duty.
His eyes drifted over the other faces in the picture before he finally snapped the amulet shut with a soft click. "Hope you're all still watching over this idiot," he murmured under his breath, the words nearly lost to the mountain breeze. Sliding the amulet back into his pocket, he stood and turned his attention to the base carved into the mountainside and the sprawling valley below.
Closing his eyes, Zephyr sank inward, surveying his core. It was a massive, kaleidoscopic structure of interwoven crystals, each shard shimmering with a unique hue. The fractured lens-like formation was held together by two colossal silver hands of raw energy—both stabilizing and surreal.
About sixty percent full. It'll have to do, he thought, reopening his eyes.
Reaching into his inner pocket, he hesitated before retrieving a metallic pin. Fashioned from white gold and silver, accented with gold trim, it bore the image of a slender sword crafted from glowing blue crystal. Zephyr studied it briefly, the weight of its significance pressing against his thoughts. Taking a slow breath, he pocketed the pin once more.
Without a second thought, he launched himself off the ridge, angling toward the valley below. The wind roared in his ears, and a vicious smile spread across his face as he plummeted toward the chaos.
At the heart of the valley, the second base was under siege—its walls hammered by a relentless swarm of beasts. These were no mere animals; every one of them was at least Rank 4, their monstrous forms radiating killing intent.
A streak of light tore through the sky, slicing the ranks of airborne attackers apart. Zephyr's body rematerialized near the gates, landing with a thunderous crack of displaced air.
A guard astride a massive griffin-like beast descended beside him, the creature's feathers burning with molten orange patterns. The man saluted sharply, voice steady despite the panic around them. "Sir! The beasts have launched another attack—earlier than expected!"
Zephyr's eyes narrowed. It's worse than we thought, he mused, though he kept it to himself. Morale was fragile, and truth had a way of breaking it. Instead, a dangerous smile curved his lips.
"Hold the line and protect the base," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of iron. "I'll deal with the Rank 6 leading the charge."
Before the soldier could reply, Zephyr shot into the air. The battlefield unfolded below him—a storm of blood, fire, and frozen death. It didn't take long to spot the source of the chaos: a swirling tempest of jagged ice advancing like a living blizzard.
Focusing mana into his eyes, he pierced through the storm's heart and saw it—a colossal avian beast formed of crystalline ice, each fragment shifting and regenerating like armor made of winter itself.
Is that the prey? a voice purred into his mind, smooth and melodic.
Yes, Zephyr replied silently, directing the thought toward Luxaris, his bonded companion.
His silver hair rippled with power as radiant color coursed through it. A moment later, a massive fox-like creature coalesced beside him, her form sculpted from prismatic light. Nine crystalline eyes opened one by one, radiating both beauty and terror.
Without hesitation, Luxaris surged forward, her body becoming a streak of brilliance that tore through the storm. Zephyr followed close behind—but his senses suddenly sharpened.
Another presence. Heavy. Predatory. Equal in strength.
"Another Rank 6," he muttered, eyes alight with hunger rather than fear.
Far from deterred, his grin widened, feral and alive for the first time in what felt like centuries.
The world blurred as Zephyr descended—no hesitation, no restraint. For all his weariness, all his fractured memories, there was still one truth left in him: he lived for the hunt.