The third dawn after the massacre rose upon a sky that seemed carved from pale iron. The forest stretched endlessly before Ethan and his sister, its canopy heavy with mist and sorrow. For three days, they had walked in silence — two ghosts drifting through the aftermath of ruin. Their feet bled, their clothes hung in tatters, and their stomachs ached with emptiness. Yet Ethan did not stop. His vow still burned, invisible but absolute.
Every night he dreamed of fire — of the village swallowed in crimson light, of the dark knight's blade cleaving through the air, of his mother's eyes fading into nothing. And each time he awoke, that memory hardened him further, turning grief into something sharper, colder. He no longer feared death. Only weakness.
His sister, barely twelve, followed him without complaint. Her innocence clung to her still, like the last trace of sunlight before dusk. She spoke little, but her small hand always sought his when the wind howled too loud. To her, he was all that remained of home. To him, she was the single proof that his humanity had not entirely died.
By the time the fourth morning broke, the forest began to thin. The air smelled faintly of smoke — not of ruin, but of campfire. Ethan halted, his instincts alert. Somewhere ahead, a quiet hum echoed between the trees. Not a voice. A vibration — old, steady, deliberate.
He advanced, every step silent. And there, beside a broken shrine covered in ivy, sat a man cloaked in gray. His back was straight despite his age, his hands steady as he carved symbols into the earth with a piece of chalk. Around him, six candles burned, their flames unmoving despite the breeze. The man's hair was white as frost, and when he spoke, his voice carried the calm of someone who had long stopped fearing the unknown.
"You walk with fire on your soul, boy," he said, without turning. "And the dead follow your steps."
Ethan froze. The man had not even looked at him, yet his words cut through him as if they had been waiting.
"I'm not afraid of ghosts," Ethan answered.
"You should be," the old man murmured. "They are not what haunts you."
He finally turned his gaze upon him. His eyes were unlike any Ethan had seen — golden, not from light, but from something ancient. It was as if the world itself had etched memory into them.
"Who are you?" Ethan asked cautiously.
"A wanderer," the man replied. "An exorcist, perhaps, when the gods remember me. You may call me Alaric."
Ethan's sister peeked from behind him, clutching his sleeve. Alaric smiled faintly. "You've seen death, haven't you?"
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I've seen what death leaves behind."
"And yet," the old exorcist continued, "you live. That means you still have purpose."
Alaric gestured toward the candles. "Sit. Both of you. Warm yourselves. You look like creatures the night forgot to claim."
Ethan hesitated, then obeyed. The fire's warmth stung his skin, a reminder that he was still flesh, not shadow.
After a moment of silence, Alaric spoke again, his tone low but precise — each word deliberate, carved in air.
"Your village was not destroyed by mere men. What you saw were vessels — human bodies devoured by demonic contracts. Cults like theirs have existed long before kingdoms, before even the age of written names. They worship the abyss, believing that destruction purifies creation."
He paused, looking directly at Ethan.
"They seek the Twelve Artefacts of Origin — relics forged in divine rebellion. Each one holds power beyond comprehension. Whoever controls them shapes reality itself."
Ethan listened, eyes dark with restrained fury. "And the one who led them — the knight in black armor?"
Alaric's gaze hardened. "A Revenant. A servant reborn from pact and curse. There is always one among them who commands the others. If you saw him, then fate has already marked you."
Ethan clenched his fists. "Then tell me how to kill him."
The old man's smile was bitter. "You cannot. Not yet. Vengeance without strength is just suicide wearing pride's mask."
He rose slowly, his cloak swaying like smoke. "But… you can learn."
Ethan's heart pounded. "Learn?"
"Yes. Learn to see the world as it truly is. To understand the threads that bind flesh and spirit, light and shadow. Exorcists are not priests — we are executioners of corruption. We do not pray. We command."
He picked up one of the candles and placed it before Ethan. "Touch the flame."
Ethan hesitated.
"Do it," Alaric ordered softly.
He reached out. The fire licked his skin — but it did not burn. It shimmered, forming a faint pattern of sigils on his palm. He gasped.
"What is this?"
"The mark of Resonance," Alaric explained. "You carry latent affinity — the kind only born from deep loss and will. The flame answers to your oath. It recognizes your purpose."
Ethan stared at the faint glow, his thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief and awe. For the first time since the massacre, he felt something awaken in him — not rage, but power.
Alaric watched him quietly. "You've been chosen by circumstance, not destiny. Destiny is a lie nobles tell themselves to excuse their cowardice. What you have is choice. If you wish to walk this path, you will suffer. You will lose again. But in time, you will wield what even gods once feared."
Ethan looked up, eyes hard. "I'm not afraid of suffering."
"Good," the exorcist said, and his golden eyes gleamed with something between pity and respect. "Then remember this: an exorcist's true weapon is not his artefact, but his will. The artefact only amplifies what already exists. Without strength of soul, even the divine burns to ash."
That night, they camped beneath the shrine. Alaric spoke little more, but when he did, his words carved themselves into Ethan's mind. He taught him how to sense the rhythm of the world — the subtle hum beneath silence, the flicker of aura around living things. Ethan tried, failed, then tried again. When dawn broke, he could faintly feel it — a vibration in the air, like a heartbeat that belonged to the earth itself.
"Good," Alaric said. "You feel it now. That is where your strength begins. The world breathes, and so must you."
He gave Ethan a small pendant — a simple stone carved with sigils.
"This will protect you from minor spirits," he said. "But it's not the stone that saves you. It's the belief behind it. Tools are nothing without conviction."
Ethan held the pendant tight. "Will I see you again?"
Alaric looked toward the horizon, where the morning sun painted the trees in pale gold. "Perhaps. When your fire burns bright enough, the world will bring you back to me."
He turned, his cloak dissolving into the mist as if he had never existed. Ethan watched until the last trace vanished. His sister approached quietly, her eyes still filled with the innocent faith he had long lost.
"What did he teach you?" she asked.
Ethan looked down at his palm — the faint mark still glowing beneath his skin.
"He taught me that power doesn't come from gods," he said softly. "It comes from pain. From refusing to die when everything tells you to."
He looked toward the rising sun, the pendant heavy in his hand. "And I won't die. Not until I've destroyed them all."