Chapter Two: Ashes and a Seed
Corpses lay scattered around him. The bodies of bandits sprawled lifeless across the blackened earth—some still bleeding from fresh wounds, others frozen in the grimace of death. In the middle of this carnage stood a man in his mid-twenties. Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale skin untouched by sunlight. His jet-black hair draped over his shoulders, and his ashen-gray eyes carried a cold, merciless glint. His clothes were torn and stained with blood and dust. In his right hand, he clutched a broken sword. His left hand pressed against a deep wound at his side.
His breath was heavy, but his expression remained composed—disciplined despite the pain.
Memories surged—of his other half, his soul before the merge:
(A suicide assault… there was no other way. When the bandits overran the village, nothing remained but vengeance. I fought them one by one, until none were left. Mercy had no place in my heart—only a burning need for retribution.)
Through the smoke and ash, he raised his eyes—and saw a boy, standing at a distance behind a pile of charred wood, watching.
The boy looked about fourteen. Slim, sun-kissed skin, short dark-brown hair, and wide eyes the color of dark honey. They shimmered with defiance despite the fear. His clothes were ripped, hands trembling, but he stood with a silent stubbornness.
The man approached with slow, deliberate steps. His voice was rough, but steady:
—"What's your name?"
The boy hesitated, then whispered:
—"Gyro…"
He studied the boy's face for a moment.
(Gyro… A willful spirit. But today, broken.)
He sat in front of him, eyes sharp with resolve:
—"I didn't kill your village. I killed the ones who did."
Gyro trembled, tears welling in his eyes.
—"If you want to survive, follow me. Crying won't bring anyone back."
The boy hesitated—then gave a slight nod.
The man stood, cast one final glance at the burning corpses, then walked away. Gyro followed, silent.
. . .
They walked through the ash. The ground was scorched, the air heavy.
When Gyro grew tired, the man carried him on his shoulder, ignoring the pain in his new body.
(This body… stronger than I expected. But worn. My old soul never knew rest. I won't allow myself to weaken.)
They reached another village—smaller, but destroyed.
A scorched sign read:
"Welcome to Verlain Village."
He entered cautiously. No sound. No movement.
Inside a burnt shack, he found an old newspaper:
"Issue No. 1554 – Year 421 of the Iron Empire – Ninth Month."
(Iron Empire… Year 421… rebellion… chaos. This world is no stranger to pain.)
He searched a drawer and found a pouch of coins:
"Iron Empire currency – Ten centis."
(Every piece is a clue. Every detail, a weapon.)
Then Gyro's voice came from behind:
—"Sir… Are there monsters here?"
—"Maybe. But the smell of fire keeps them away."
—"I'm… thirsty."
He searched and found a jug of stale water:
—"This is undrinkable. We'll find a well tomorrow."
He sat beside the burnt wall and gestured for Gyro to come closer.
—"Sleep here."
Gyro crawled toward him, clinging to his side in fear.
The man closed his eyes, thoughts racing—of battles past
, of the body now his, of a strange world he'd been thrown into.
✨ End of Chapter.