A young man lay peacefully asleep upon what seemed to be a swaying surface. When his eyes fluttered open, he found himself inside a horse-drawn carriage, its wheels groaning over the muddy road. The cramped space smelled faintly of damp hay and iron. Around him sat children of various races—slender elves with pointed ears trembling in silence, weary human boys and girls clutching their knees, and frightened beastkin with fur and tails twitching nervously. Every face carried the same look of sorrow and despair. They had all been stolen from their homes by the infamous Corpse 13, a name whispered with dread across kingdoms.
Orien, however, appeared untouched by the misery surrounding him. His dark blue-ish eyes were heavy, grim—like those of someone far older, someone who had already grown weary of life. Even in captivity, his expression remained calm, almost detached, as though none of this truly mattered.
He leaned back, tilting his head toward the barred window above. A patch of the sky revealed itself through the cracks in the carriage's wooden frame. Cloudy, huh, he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible over the rhythmic clatter of hooves. Almost mockingly, as though the heavens themselves had heard him, the clouds swelled—and a cold rain began to fall. Droplets pattered against the wood, drumming in time with the horses' steps.
Orien closed his eyes, oddly at peace while the others cowered. But the calm was soon shattered.
The carriage lurched to a halt. The sudden stop jolted the children forward, gasps rising in confusion. Then—a long, mournful horn echoed through the rain, its deep tone vibrating in their chests. It was the sound of danger.
Curiosity stirred within Orien. He shifted, peering through the narrow slit of the carriage wall. Outside, the road stretched into mist and rain. There, standing alone in the middle of the path, was a lone man.
He had unruly black hair plastered to his face by the rain, and striking green eyes that glowed faintly even beneath the gloom. His clothes were plain, shabby—no more than those of a wandering commoner—yet his stance carried a weight that unsettled even the downpour. He did not fidget, nor flinch. He simply stood, unmoving, as though the storm bent around him.
A heavy silence spread. The carriages behind them, dozens in number, fell into the same uneasy stillness, their drivers exchanging wary glances.
At last, a massive man at the front of Orien's carriage rose to his feet. His bulk filled the narrow space, muscles bulging beneath torn leather armor. A thick scar carved across his jaw gave him the face of a butcher rather than a soldier. This was one of the Corpse 13's wardens. His presence was enough to hush even the sobbing children.
The scarred man stepped out into the rain, his boots sinking into the mud with a dull squelch. He stood opposite the stranger, glaring, water streaming down his scarred cheek.
For a long while, only the storm spoke. Then, at last, the lone man broke the silence. His voice was calm, steady—yet carried an edge sharper than steel.
"I'm looking for one of the strongholds of the Corpse 13. Would you happen to know?"
There was no deference in his tone, no fear—only quiet certainty, as if he were asking directions to a tavern rather than standing before one of the Corpse 13's executioners.
The huge man with the thick scar only glanced at the stranger, his silence heavy with disdain. He did not speak a word.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, then stepped forward through the curtain of rain.
"Maybe you're not listening."
In the blink of an eye, his figure blurred. By the time the scarred man realized it, the stranger was already behind him, voice low and cutting.
"Do you know of the Corpse 13's stronghold?"
The warden's eyes widened in shock. He spun, blade flashing from its sheath in a desperate slash. But it was already too late. His strike cut only air. Blood welled along his throat, spilling down as his massive frame crumpled into the mud with a heavy thud.
The stranger sighed, his shoulders loosening as though the kill had been more troublesome than satisfying.
"Man… I didn't even want to fight. But you had to be that guy, huh?"
His atmosphere shifted in an instant. Where before he had seemed like a shabby commoner, now his presence pressed down like sharpened steel. His green eyes gleamed like blades, piercing through the rain.
"I didn't even use aura to attack," he muttered, almost to himself, though the words carried in the silence. "I'm sure you all understand now… whether you resist or not, you're already dead."
From the shadows of the carriages, masked figures slipped out one by one. Their weapons gleamed wickedly as they circled, attacking from every angle at once.
The stranger didn't even move at first. His stance remained relaxed, his grip loose at his side. But the moment they closed in—
Shing!
A single, clean motion.
The rain itself seemed to pause as their heads fell, one after another, rolling into the mud. Their bodies collapsed without so much as a cry, the strikes too swift for pain. It had all ended in one blinding instant, as though the storm had simply erased them.
Inside the carriage, silence reigned. The children stared wide-eyed, their fear momentarily replaced by awe. Even the bravest among them could not comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Orien, for the first time since awakening, felt something stir within him. His usual detachment faltered. His lips parted as his thoughts, heavy and uncertain, slipped into his mind.
Can I ever become that strong?
If I had that kind of power… could I escape my cursed fate?
The rain continued to fall, but for Orien, the world had already changed. For some reason his perspective has been changed by this unknown man.
The man began walking toward the carriage, his footsteps steady against the rain-soaked earth. He reached for the steel bars that kept them imprisoned, thick frames meant to ensure no one could ever escape. With a casual motion, he pulled them open as though they were no stronger than wooden gates.
Then, with what seemed to be a warm and genuine smile, he spoke softly.
"Are you all okay?"
The children didn't hesitate. Tears streamed down their faces as they rushed into his arms, clinging to him desperately, their cries breaking into the storm.
But I did not move. I remained where I was, staring at him, still overwhelmed—amazed and bewildered by what I had witnessed.
And for the first time in what felt like forever… I felt something stir inside me.
Emotions. Real, raw emotions.