After several days wandering the extended Void, the King moved silently above the ground—gliding across colossal branches, hidden beneath the trees' thick green crowns.
No beasts. No watchers. Only leaves above… and shadows that moved too quietly below.
Two miles in… and still nothing.
Not a cry. Not a broken twig.
Just silence—too complete to be natural.
It felt… arranged. Not abandoned.
He finally paused—perched upon a wide branch of a tree so old, its bark bore the wrinkles of five centuries.
Ahead, a waterfall plunged over jagged rocks, catching the dying sunlight like threads of molten silver.
Yet behind that beauty… a presence lingered.
Something unseen. Watching. Waiting.
Behind him stood Kray.
She had followed him wordlessly since they entered the forest, her steps always light, her doubts always swallowed.
But now, her fingers twitched around the strap of her sword.
Her gaze shifted between the waterfall… and the boy who filled page after page in silence.
She took a breath, then said:
"Noxfyr… my dear,"
her voice was soft, but laced with tension,
"I'm not trying to question your path, but I'm confused.
We came here, I thought, to train—to fight—to gain something.
And yet… all you've done is write in that book of yours."
His response came without turning to her, eyes still fixed ahead:
— "Knowledge… is a complicated weapon.
Shaped by the will of its bearer, it can become a sword—or a cure.
And in rare hands… it becomes both at once."
He raised his hand toward the waterfall—its silver cascade roaring in the distance.
— "And more importantly…
a guest should respect their host.
The master of this place has welcomed us—
and kept the dangers far from our path."
Kray followed his gesture, squinting toward the crashing water.
Then she saw them.
Behind the veil… two glowing eyes, ancient and immense, watched them with silent power.
A breath caught in her throat. Her frustration softened into unease, then… care.
She didn't understand his words entirely—there was always something veiled about the way he thought.
But somehow, it made sense… in a way only he could see.
She stepped forward slowly, and instead of speaking from doubt, she spoke from instinct:
— "This mother only fears for your well-being, Noxfyr.
Don't mistake my concern for mistrust.
What I say… comes from the heart."
She lowered herself beside him—not kneeling, but drawing close in quiet solidarity.
The King didn't move, but the tension in his shoulders eased.
A faint smile flickered on his lips—no more than a passing shadow of warmth.
— "No sudden moves," he said quietly.
"No blade.
Just follow my lead."
With that, he leapt down from the branch—silent, controlled—landing lightly on the moss-covered earth.
He took a few steps forward, eyes fixed on the glowing presence behind the waterfall.
He inhaled slowly, letting the silence press against his chest like a weight.
Then he raised his voice—calm, precise, but carrying the weight of someone who knew he was being judged.
— "To the one who rules this place…
I come as a guest.
And so far, I have found only hospitality and generosity."
He stopped just a few paces from the cascade.
— "I am Noxfyr—
a young fighter, seeking knowledge.
Forgive my boldness…
my ignorance…
and the trespass I have committed by entering your domain uninvited."
Silence followed.
The eyes behind the veil of water remained still—unblinking.
Measuring.
Weighing his worth.
Then, the waterfall split—like breath exhaled from the throat of the forest.
And from it emerged a white panther—enormous in size, her presence so heavy it bent the very air around her.
Her fur shimmered faintly, as if laced with stardust,
and her tail cracked behind her like a living whip.
Her paws struck the ground with a rumble, and her claws shone like blades carved from moonlight.
Even the forest seemed to hold its breath as she stepped forward.
She approached slowly, gaze locked onto the King.
With each step, the tension thickened—until finally, she spoke, her voice both thunder and grief:
— "Human…
You're clever, that much is clear.
But don't think your sweet words will stop me from killing you."
The King didn't flinch.
He lifted his chin slightly, his tone rising—not in defiance, but in unshaken resolve:
— "Do not mistake me.
I don't hide behind cowardice,
nor do I start battles without cause.
But if a reason appears…
I will not hesitate—
even if the odds are not in my favor."
The panther halted.
For a moment, her eyes narrowed—scrutinizing every crack in his composure.
Then her tone shifted, faintly… as if something inside her had cracked:
— "Did I not say you were clever?
Seems you've sensed the truth… that I am weak right now.
Eyes like yours… they see through the surface.
But listen well…
The power inside you… it's dangerous.
A gift, yes—but a curse if misused.
A pot does not grow the more you pour into it.
even if you
hungry for more, blind to the cracks forming inside.
Eventually… it breaks."
Throughout the exchange, Kray stood in silence, her hand clenched tightly around the hilt of her sword.
Her eyes never left the boy—no, not the beast.
It was him who unsettled her most.
What she witnessed now… was no ordinary encounter.
She had heard tales—whispers passed through dying breaths—about Lupira, the spirit panther.
Some called her death cloaked in fur.
Others claimed she was the breath of the forest itself—
undefeated for centuries, feared even by the mountains.
And yet… it wasn't the legendary beast that made Kray's grip falter.
It was Noxfyr—
standing there, calm, exposed…
speaking to a monster like an equal, without a flicker of fear.
In that moment…
Kray forgot she ever feared Lupira.
Then, the silence broke.
— "Human…
Welcome to my home.
Come. Let us go inside."
The King tilted his head slightly, then gestured to Kray—his hand a quiet command to lower her weapon.
Together, they stepped through the veil of water.
It was like passing into a different world—
the roaring waterfall behind them faded, replaced by the stillness of deep stone.
The cavern shimmered with soft light; mana stones pulsed gently along the walls like heartbeat veins.
The air thickened as they descended, heavy and humid, as if the cave itself was breathing.
Eventually, they arrived at a modest chamber carved by time.
At its center rested a nest—woven from rare feathers, each one glinting faintly like glass.
And within it… lay a small panther cub.
His body was frail, his fur dull, his skin almost translucent.
Dark circles ringed his eyes.
His chest rose unevenly, like each breath was borrowed time.
Slowly, he lifted his head and whispered:
— "Mother… you're back.
Did you bring the medicine?"
The terrifying presence that had once shaken the ground… vanished.
Lupira's face softened, her strength replaced by something far heavier—
exhaustion, perhaps.
Or guilt.
She knelt beside him, wrapping him in her paws like wings of warmth.
— "Don't worry, my little one…
I've made sure the medicine will come today."
The cub's voice wavered:
— "Maybe we should change merchants…
He keeps breaking his promises.
He's always late."
Before another word could form, his eyes shut once more—
caught between sleep and struggle.
Lupira turned to Kray.
And when she saw the wet shimmer in her eyes,
she offered a faint, weary smile:
— "Thank you…
for grieving with me."
Then her gaze moved to the King.
But his expression… remained unchanged.
No sympathy. No sorrow.
Only the stillness of a man untouched by such emotion.
The kind of stillness that made you wonder—
does he not feel?
Or has he simply felt too much to show it anymore?
She spoke again, her voice lower, laced with quiet desperation:
— "Human…
Make a deal with me.
I'll pay any price.
I want my son healed.
I can sense trust in you… and you're smart enough to find a way."
The King remained silent for a breath.
Then his thoughts slipped inward—
directed toward the Sovereign:
— "Can you cure him?"
The Sovereign's voice echoed gently in his mind—low, vast, and somber:
— "No… it isn't an illness.
He's been cursed.
Not by nature… but by a man.
A black spell… crafted through sacrifice. And cruelty."
Somewhere far away, deep within a ruin long forgotten…
The stone floor was littered with skulls and broken bones.
The air was thick with death—dry, still, and choking.
Faint candlelight flickered across the dust, casting twisted shadows on the walls.
At the center sat a man.
Robes black as pitch, fingers tipped with claws,
his hair hanging loose like rotting silk.
He reclined casually, legs propped on a cracked table,
sipping wine from a tarnished chalice as if time belonged to him.
His lips curled into a grin.
— "By the end of this week…
Lupira and her precious brat will be mine.
Gods, I'm a genius."
He chuckled, voice hollow.
"They'll be the perfect sacrifice…
to crack open the veil between this world and what lies buried beyond."
A knock echoed against the rusted door.
— "Who is it?"
A girl's voice—soft, flat:
— "It's me, my lord. Molly."
— "Enter, Molly."
The door creaked open.
She stepped into the candlelight—draped in robes like his,
her face colorless, drained of all warmth,
eyes hollow… but her lips still wore that faint, unchanging smile.
— "Master… she's left the cave again."
The man swirled his wine, eyes gleaming:
— "Let her feel hope.
Let her believe salvation is within reach.
It makes the breaking… so much more delicious—
when a creature of legend falls,
from the inside out."
Some time later…
The King sat beside the frail panther cub.
With a cloth dampened from the stream, he wiped her fevered skin slowly—
as if peeling death from her, layer by layer.
His touch held no warmth, yet no cruelty—only precision.
The Sovereign broke the silence in his mind, his voice deep and curious:
— "I'm intrigued.
You know the curse can be broken—
but doing so will kill her instantly.
So tell me, King…
What are you planning?"
The King said nothing.
Just then, Kray entered, arms full of herbs gathered with urgency.
Lupira followed, dragging a massive tree trunk as if it weighed nothing.
The King nodded once.
— "Everything… is ruled by knowledge."
He unsheathed his sword and split the trunk down the center.
From within, a thick white sap oozed—natural latex, viscous and rubbery.
He collected it in a stone bowl, then began carving thin wooden pieces with his knife—
shaping channels, tubes, and a crude pouch.
With the same calm as always, he poured the latex into the wooden mold and left it to harden.
— "Now… I need some of your blood," he said to Lupira without looking up.
She extended her leg instantly, no questions asked.
He pierced the vein behind her knee with a sharpened twig.
Blood began to flow—slow, steady—into the hardened pouch.
Once it was half full, he sealed the wound with crushed herbs and turned to Kray's offering.
The herbs were ground into paste, then dried over fire.
Once brittle, he crushed them again—this time into fine powder.
He sprinkled the powder into the bag of blood and stirred—no shaking.
Kray tilted her head.
— "Shouldn't you shake it first?"
His answer was as flat as stone:
— "Blood spoils when disturbed.
It becomes useless."
Gently, he lifted the cub and found a small vein near her eye.
He inserted the tube with delicate care, then raised the pouch—letting the treated blood drip into her system.
Lupira stepped closer, her breath caught in her throat:
— "Can you explain… what you're doing?"
She didn't need the answer.
It was already written across her son's face—
his chest rising calmly, evenly… at peace.
The King finally spoke, voice cool and clinical:
— "Your son is infected with what I call The Shameless Malignancy.
A disease where the body attacks itself endlessly—
mistaking loyalty for betrayal.
Slow. Unforgiving.
But it can be endured…
if the blood is regularly replaced."
He paused, eyes watching the slow drip.
— "I've infused him with a herb called Earth's Grace.
It won't cure him.
But it will dull the pain.
It gives him a chance to breathe—
long enough for me to find a real solution."
He sat still for a moment… then whispered only to himself:
— "And perhaps…
long enough to understand why someone would curse a child in the first place."