Pestry entered through the polished door into the grand office, his steps soft but hurried. He looked human—plump, round-cheeked, and youthful by Yilheim standards, though he had just turned one hundred. Brown hair curled around his ears, and his brown eyes flickered with unease as he stopped near the towering desk.
"Sir," he began, breath short, "we can't get in contact with Pungence. The last we heard of him was a week ago. He's currently in Iftiar."
The red-bearded man raised an eyebrow. "Iftiar? What's he doing on another continent?"
"We don't know why he went, sir."
The man dragged a hand through his thick crimson hair and exhaled slowly, frustration pulling at the edge of his lips.
"So he left for another continent… and didn't even report why? Why is he always such a pain in my ass? If it were anyone else, they would've been executed by now for such blatant disregard for protocol."
He picked up the newspaper from his desk and stood. At thirteen feet tall, his presence was overwhelming. He strode to the coat rack, retrieved his coat, and slipped it over his shoulders. It matched his tailored suit—deep blue with elegant white markings. On the back of the coat, embroidered in gleaming white letters stacked one beneath the other, were the words:
NONE
IS
ABOVE
THE
LAW
The coat reached down to his ankles, swaying with each step. He turned to Pestry without looking directly at him.
"Return to your office."
Then he walked out.
His boots echoed down the marble corridor as he strolled through the hallways of Kaldome, newspaper folded under one arm. After several long turns, he arrived at a colossal door—pure black, darker than shadow. It absorbed every trace of light, like a void in the world, a rip in reality. A portal into silence.
He approached its edge and placed his palm against the wall beside it. The stone flickered faintly, and a mechanical voice reverberated from within.
"Access granted."
The door slid open silently, and he stepped into the dark.
The chamber he entered was vast and hollow, its scale incomprehensible. A single bridge of glowing blue light stretched into the abyss—narrow, seamless, and suspended in a sea of nothingness. No walls. No floor. No ceiling. Only endless void.
At the center, a circular platform hovered, smooth and radiant, humming with a faint azure pulse. It was there that the room's true purpose awaited.
Six holograms hovered silently above the platform, humanoid in form, but far from human. Their translucent bodies flickered and pulsed with faint currents of light. They said nothing. But their presence was undeniable—watchful, ancient, and impossibly intelligent.
The air vibrated with a low frequency, as if the room itself were sentient.
This was no ordinary hall.
It was a sanctum of judgment and memory.
A place reserved for only the highest ranks of The Binding Hand.
The red-bearded man stepped onto the platform. He raised the folded newspaper into the air. A moment later, a massive projection of it unfurled before the six figures, the headline blazing across the void:
THE BENIEK RUIN—FIRST ANCIENT RUIN EVER OPENED
He spoke with restrained force. "It says there are Elvheins who understand Synellee. I don't want to believe it… but we cannot allow such a variable to exist."
One of the holograms responded, its voice unmistakably artificial—twisted by a voice modulator. The tone was too perfect. Too clean. Hollow. Calculated.
"It seems we must erase the Beniek Ruin entirely—along with everyone inside."
The red-bearded man's eyes narrowed.
"That's too much. If we deploy that, it'll wipe out the bordering countries. I'll send Pungence instead. He's more than enough to get the job done."
Another hologram responded—sharper, colder.
"Pungence is too unpredictable. You can barely control him."
A third voice joined in, smoother but equally firm.
"We will send one of our own."
Tension swirled in the chamber, subtle yet potent.
Something was brewing.
And the events set in motion today
Would shake the course of history tomorrow.
---
Back at the Unbound hideout, Beily raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
"She really did that? Mavriks are one of the weekest beasts though, but still." he asked, glancing sideways.
Anuel nodded. "You can ask Lisa—she was there. She saw everything."
Eliana, standing nearby, turned toward Ziraiah in surprise. "You actually did that?"
Ziraiah scratched her head, her tone casual. "Well… yeah. I guess I did."
Lisa chimed in, her voice calm but impressed. "She crushed its skull—with her bare hands."
Beily's grin widened. "I guess I need to test your strength for myself."
Eryndor stepped forward, his voice refined and clipped. "Such measures are unnecessary. We have endured an abundance of strain already."
Beily ignored the protest, strolling toward the mountain wall. He casually placed a hand against it, then gestured for Ziraiah to come closer.
"Relax," he said smoothly. "Hey, come here. I want you to hit right here—give it everything you've got."
Ziraiah stepped forward without hesitation. Eryndor raised a hand, concern lining his features.
"You are under no compulsion to acquiesce. There is no merit in depleting your strength further for the sake of mere spectacle."
Ziraiah shook her head gently. "It's okay. I want to try. I feel like… I've gotten stronger too."
She approached Beily, dwarfed by his 10-foot-9 frame, and planted her feet. Taking a steadying breath, she pulled back her fist and launched it forward with full force.
The sound of impact cracked like thunder. A gust of wind burst outward, rustling hair and clothes.
Valerius's mouth fell open. His eyes widened in disbelief.
Before them, a five-meter-deep and nearly eight-meter-wide crater marred the mountain face—clean, precise, and monstrous.
Even Eryndor's brows rose, his typically composed demeanor betraying a rare flicker of awe.
One thought thundered through Valerius's mind:
When did she get this strong?
What neither brothers realized was that Ziraiah had undergone two body reconstructions—one in Ignir, and another during her recovery under Gustein's care. She had quietly surpassed them both in raw physical might.
Valerius rushed to her side, flustered.
"What happened to you?" he asked. "Like—how? This doesn't make any sense!"
Eryndor stepped forward, his tone measured, aristocratic.
"You would do well to forsake the fallacy of perceiving us through the framework of humankind. Though our mother draped us in mortal veneer, the truth is irrefutable: we are not beholden to human logic, nor were we ever crafted for such confines."
Eliana, standing off to the side, remained silent. Her gaze swept over Ziraiah, eyes sharp with realization.
She's physically stronger than me… Judging from her brothers' reactions, she wasn't like this before. So what changed?
Anuel crossed her arms, watching Ziraiah with curious intensity.
"Were you holding back in Oustar?"
Ziraiah shook her head. "No… I really gave it everything I had back then."
Beily turned to Anuel, his expression tightening. "Are you saying she wasn't like this a few days ago?"
"Definitely not," Anuel replied firmly.
Beily rubbed the single horn on his forehead, then stroked his chin in thought. "Hmm… So do you guys just get strong really fast or something? Is that your innate ability?"
Ziraiah blinked, uncertain. "Uh… I don't really know?"
Beily looked from her to the two brothers. "Alright. You two—your turn. Come try."
Eryndor took a breath, then exhaled slowly. He gazed at the crater Ziraiah had left, then at the stone wall ahead of him.
If my dear sister commands such prodigious might, then it is incumbent upon me to exhibit no lesser prowess
With graceful composure, he stepped forward and drove his fist into the rock.
A deep, guttural impact echoed through the clearing.
When the dust cleared, the result stood evident: a four-meter-deep, six-meter-wide crater.
Eryndor studied the damage, nodding ever so slightly.
Evidently, I have surpassed even the thresholds I once deemed insurmountable.
Then Valerius stepped forward, a mix of nerves and resolve on his face.
Okay… Eryndor was already strong, so I'm not surprised. He looks like he's twice as strong as he was on Earth. Maybe something similar happened to me. I'll try.
He punched.
The ground cracked, the stone wall shook—but the damage was modest. A two-meter-deep and three-meter-wide crater spread across the surface.
Valerius stared, then slowly turned to look at his siblings' craters.
His face fell.
His eyes narrowed. "What the hell? How are you guys so much stronger than me?"
Ziraiah gave a faint shrug. "It is what it is, Val."
But inside, Valerius's thoughts spiraled.
Is something wrong with me? Why didn't I get a strength boost like that?
He clenched his fists.
What he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that since arriving in Yilheim, he had not faced true mortal danger. Not like Ziraiah. Not like Eryndor. The bloodline that flowed through them responded to death. To desperation. To survival.
His time would come.
But not yet.
---
The sun was at its peak, high and golden, casting long, crisp shadows across the stone courtyard of the Unbound stronghold. A warm breeze swept through the open terrace where the group had gathered, ruffling hair, tugging at loose garments, and carrying the faint scent of the distant lake.
For once, there was no danger. No mission. Just the stillness of shared company.
Valerius sat cross-legged beside Eliana, a rare sense of ease softening his features. Ziraiah leaned against a stone column, arms folded smugly, and Lisa sat with her legs swinging over the terrace edge. Daiel and Sumshus were nearby, half-dozing in the sun. Beily stood apart from the group, arms folded, his massive frame outlined against the sky.
They had been talking about Earth, about Yilheim, about family.
Eliana tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her emerald eyes. "A world with no magic... no Vitalis… It seems like something from myth."
Valerius chuckled. "Yeah. Most people on Earth wouldn't believe Yilheim exists either."
Ziraiah smirked. "You should've seen Val's face the first time he realized he wasn't special."
"Don't start," Valerius groaned.
"No really," she continued, eyes gleaming. "He used to think he was some chosen one back on Earth. Then we got here and boom—suddenly I'm stronger than him, and he can't handle it."
Valerius shot her a glare. "I'm warning you."
"What are you gonna do, cry?" Ziraiah teased, crouching beside him. "Like that time you fell into the lake and screamed because you thought a fish touched your foot?"
"I was nine!" Valerius snapped.
Laughter exploded around the group, even from Eliana, who covered her mouth, amused.
"Oh, I needed this," Lisa said, wiping her eyes.
Valerius lunged forward, trying to grab Ziraiah, but she was faster. Within moments, the two were rolling on the ground—playful at first, until Ziraiah locked him in a hold, her arms wrapped around his neck like a python. Valerius thrashed but couldn't break free.
"Tap out!" she grinned.
"Never—!"
"Tap out or pass out!"
Valerius slapped the ground repeatedly. "Fine! Fine!"
Everyone laughed louder. Even Beily cracked a faint smile.
Lisa wiped her eyes again, this time for a different reason. Her voice softened.
"Festron would've loved this…"
Anuel moved to sit beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"He would have."
Eliana, still smiling from the match, let her gaze drift toward Beily. Her amusement faded slightly. There was something cold about his eyes. Something distant.
She tilted her head.
"do you guys…have a families?"
The air shifted. The rest of the group turned to beily, though the questiom wasn't directed to him, they were afraid of his reaction to the question that should not have been asked.
Beily didn't move. Didn't speak.
But the tension in his shoulders told them everything.
Then—silently—he turned and walked away.
The warmth of the moment vanished.
Sumshus breathed a sigh of relief. "Man, I thought he was gonna loose it again."
"…Did I say something wrong?" Valerius asked quietly.
Anuel closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.
"No," she said. "But that's not a question you ask when he's around."
"Why not?" Ziraiah asked, confused.
Anuel stared out at the horizon, her voice low.
"Because Beily doesn't have a family."
There was silence. Even the birds in the sky seemed to pause.
"His mother was a slave in Rekenia," Anuel said. "She was taken from her homeland and sold to the Pesterio nobles. A Pesterio—like him. Four arms. Two horns. Deep brown skin."
"She was violated. Repeatedly. One of the nobles got her pregnant."
"And Beily was the result."
Eliana's eyes widened. Ziraiah looked away. Even Eryndor's normally stoic expression darkened.
Anuel's voice dropped further.
"She hated him."
"She never saw her son. Only the face of her abuser."
"She wouldn't touch him. Wouldn't call him her child."
Lisa's hands tightened around her knees.
"When Beily was six," Anuel said, "the guards made him watch while they assaulted her again. He screamed. They laughed."
Valerius's mouth opened, but no sound came.
"They branded him with a hot iron," she added. "Right across his back. The mark of a slave. Just a child… treated like livestock."
"…Why?" Eliana whispered.
"To remind him that he belonged to no one. Not even himself."
"He tried to love her anyway. Even when she pushed him away. He brought her food. Cleaned her wounds. He wanted to hear her say his name."
Anuel turned her face toward the sky, the light glinting in her eyes.
"She only said it twice. The day he was branded. And the day she died."
The silence was unbearable.
"After that," Anuel said, "he ran. He was seventeen. Angry. Alone. Ready to kill anyone who looked at him wrong."
"And that's when Dreados found him."
Her voice softened.
"He didn't speak for weeks. Wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. But Dreados didn't care. He didn't pity him. He didn't coddle him. He trained him. Broke him down. Rebuilt him."
"He was the first person who didn't look at Beily like a mistake."
"…He was the first person who made Beily believe he mattered."
The sun still shone overhead, but its warmth no longer reached them.
And deep inside the halls of the stronghold, Beily sat against a wall, head resting back, eyes closed.
His back ached faintly.
The brand still burned, even after all these years.
But for now, at least…
He didn't feel alone.
---
Beily recalled the day Dreados found him. Seventeen years old. Thin, bruised, and barefoot, Beily trudged down the edge of a canyon trail, his four arms wrapped tightly around himself.
The brand still burned on his back—raw and healing poorly. The wind howled through the rocky cliffs, kicking up dust that stung his eyes. But he didn't cry.
He hadn't cried in years.
The only thing he carried was a rusted chain—still shackled to one of his lower wrists. He could've removed it. But he didn't.
It was his reminder.
He reached a small ridge and collapsed under the weight of exhaustion. The sky above him was the same deep red as the dried blood on his knuckles.
He stared upward, waiting for night. Waiting for quiet. Waiting for nothing.
And then—footsteps.
Not loud, but deliberate. Crunching gravel. Approaching.
Beily didn't move.
If it was another slaver, he'd kill him with the chain. If it was a soldier, he'd die fighting.
A shadow fell across his face.
Then came the voice.
"You wear your suffering plainly."
Beily's eyes slowly opened.
The man before him stood tall and unmoving, his silhouette framed by the harsh winds. A black, tattered cloak billowed faintly around his broad shoulders. Long blonde hair fell past his neck in damp strands, and across his back was a greatsword—weathered and massive, the kind borne only by those who had survived its weight.
But it was his eyes that made Beily stir.
Eyes like cut sapphires—cold, piercing… but not cruel.
The man crouched before him, one arm resting on a bent knee.
"Your name?"
Beily said nothing.
The man studied him. His voice, low and deliberate, carried no warmth—yet no mockery, either.
No matter here i go in this world, there will always be slaves. Such a cruel world.
"You are Pesterio. I see the blood in your form. Smell the iron on your back. That brand is recent… You fled captivity, did you not?"
Still, Beily remained silent.
The man's gaze did not waver. "Tell me, then. Is your heart still willing to kill?"
Beily met his gaze. "Not unless you try to touch me."
A faint smile curved the man's lips.
"Good."
He rose, turning with the grace of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
"I am Dreados."
He began to walk away, footsteps slow, unhurried.
Beily blinked. "...What?"
Dreados paused and glanced back over his shoulder, his voice like distant thunder.
"Will you follow, or will you rot? Choose."
Beily's hands curled into fists. "Why would you help me?"
Dreados turned fully now, his expression unreadable, his tone like stone carved in shadow.
"Because the fire in your eyes mirrors one I once knew."
A silence passed. Then he added:
"But understand this—if you come, you will obey. You will bleed. You will suffer. And you will rise. No complaint. No weakness. No retreat."
His voice lowered, like a vow etched into the wind.
"And if you endure… then never again will your head bow to any soul."
Beily's chest rose once. Hard.
And for the first time in years, he looked up—not at a captor. Not at a god.
But at a man who saw him.
"...Fine," he muttered, rising shakily to his feet. "I'll come."
Dreados gave a single nod.
"Then walk."
And so they did.
A boy with chains still on his wrists.
A warrior with ghosts still on his blade.
The path behind them vanished.
And Beily never looked back.
---
Dreados sat shirtless in the solitude of his quarters within the mountain stronghold, a black towel draped around his waist. One leg rested horizontally over the other as he leaned back in his chair, a glass of amber liquor cradled in his hand. He swirled the drink gently, the ice clinking softly against the glass.
His long, wet blonde hair clung to his face and shoulders—a clear sign he had just returned from the shower. Droplets traced the hard lines of his collarbone and slid over his sculpted body. His muscles were flawless, carved in perfect balance: broad shoulders, a chest like iron, arms thick with power, and abs sharply defined beneath his skin. He looked less like a man and more like a weapon, every inch of him built for war.
A quiet smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he gazed toward the window, the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation faint in the distance.
"…It seems," he murmured, voice smooth and low, "even broken flames can warm one another."
To be continued…