Chapter 01
The scene opens in a small, cozy cottage on the outskirts of Eldoria. The crackling of the fire fills the room, its amber glow dancing across the stone walls of the cottage. The air is warm and heavy with the scent of burning wood, providing a comforting contrast to the cool evening breeze that sweeps in from the open window. In the corner, a kettle gently steams, the soft whistle of boiling water punctuating the silence.
Lyraeus Aurelian (12-years-old) sits across from his younger brother, Argus Aurelian (8-years-old). Two brothers, Lyraeus and Argus, sit cross-legged on the floor, with Lyraeus telling a story to his younger brother. Argus listens intently, his light blue eyes reflecting excitement.
Lyraeus' voice, smooth like velvet, carries the weight of stories long passed down.
"Long ago," he begins, his smile flickering in the firelight, "heroes rose to protect our land. They were known as the Heroes of Justice. Great mages and warriors, they fought against the darkness that threatened Eldoria. It was their strength, courage, and sacrifice that kept the kingdom safe."
Argus leans forward, his wide eyes reflecting the flames
"I'll be stronger than them one day!" Argus exclaims, his enthusiasm lighting up the room. "I'll be the greatest magician in the world! No one will stand in my way!"
Lyraeus chuckles, his laughter warm and easy as it fills the space between them. He tilts his head, brown eyes glinting with mischief and affection as he teasingly raises an eyebrow.
"Oh?" He grins "You think you'll be stronger than me, little brother?"
The teasing lingers in the air as Lyraeus shifts, his posture growing more dominant, more confident. He leans back slightly, crossing his arms.
"I'll be the one to surpass everyone," he continues with a proud smirk, the fire casting shadows across his face. "I'll be the strongest magician, the strongest warrior—no one can beat me."
Argus, undeterred, grins back, his youthful determination burning brighter than ever. He narrows his eyes, a flicker of ambition sparking behind them.
"I'll catch up!" Argus declares, his voice fierce, his hands balled into fists in his lap. "I'll be stronger than you, Lyraeus! You'll see!"
Lyraeus, though ever confident, can't help but soften at the sight of his little brother's unshakable resolve. He reaches out, ruffling Argus' messy white hair affectionately, his touch gentle but full of love.
"We'll see, little brother," he replies, his voice softening, "But remember, power isn't everything.It's about how you use it."
The two share a laugh, and the warmth of the fire fills the room. A moment of sibling bonding, full of dreams and challenges.
Outside, the world of Eldoria stretches on—a kingdom protected by walls, a sprawling city teeming with life, and in the distance, the towering, imposing figure of a castle.
8 years Later
The scene opens in a vast training yard, alive with motion and sound. The sharp sounds of swords clashing and the crackle of magic mixing in the air. Argus and Lyraeus are standing side by side, sweat trickling down their faces from hours of intense training. The late afternoon sky casts a golden hue over everything, the sun slowly dipping toward the horizon.
Lyraeus grins as he wipes the sweat from his brow. His chestnut-brown hair was dancing in the cold breeze of evening. His brown eyes sparkled with a hint of challenge as he teases his younger brother.
"I think you've finally gotten a bit better with fire magic," he says, his grin wide and confident. "Though I still can't let you get ahead of me, right?"
Argus laughs, a little out of breath but full of that ever-burning determination. His fiery gaze meets his brother's with a spark of competitive spirit.
"Maybe. But one day, I'll catch up," he replies, a grin stretching across his face. "Magic and sword fighting. I'll be the best at both."
Then a voice breaks through the air, light and teasing, full of playful mischief.
"You two never stop bickering, do you?"
Both brothers turn to see, Aria Eldrin, the princess of Eldoria, walking toward them. She's wearing a royal outfit that subtly hints at her noble status, the fabric shifting with every step she takes. Her presence is commanding, but there's a warmth to her smile that melts the intensity of the training yard. She's the same age as Argus, and the three of them have shared their childhoods in this very kingdom, their friendship as old as time.
Argus grins widely, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes.
"Aria! You've got to join us in training sometime! You'd be amazing with magic!" he says, his voice full of enthusiasm, a glimmer of hope that she'll take up the challenge.
Lyraeus chuckles, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Or maybe you'll be the one to catch up with me, huh?" he teases, nudging his younger brother with a playful jab.
Aria laughs, shaking her head. Her black eyes gleam with mischief as she looks between the brothers. "You two are impossible," she says, chuckling. "But I'll leave the fighting to you. I have other things to focus on."
She steps closer, her hand lightly brushing Argus's long, shoulder-length, unruly white hair, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "You still haven't cut your hair, have you?" she mocks gently, tugging at a lock of his hair and letting it slip through her fingers like silk. "At this rate, one day you'll trip over it during battle."
Argus scowls, though it's playful, his cheeks flushing slightly as he brushes his hair away from his face. "You're just jealous because my hair's better than yours," he retorts, a teasing grin creeping onto his lips.
Aria, with her long black hair swaying behind her, rolls her eyes and smirks. "Please, your hair looks like—"
Suddenly, a deep, ominous bell tolls in the distance, interrupting the rhythm of their conversation.
Gong! Gong! Gong!
Argus freezes for a moment, his face hardening as his eyes narrow. "That's the bell..." he says, his voice a quiet murmur, a chill settling into his chest.
Lyraeus' demeanor shifts immediately, his playful grin gone, replaced by a more serious, calculating expression. "It's a signal... an attack," he says, his voice low and full of intent.
The atmosphere around them changes—shifts from light-hearted to heavy, as if the world itself is bracing for what's to come. Soldiers from the city are already on their way, running through the streets and toward the Kingdom gates.
Their booted steps creating a steady rhythm of urgency. The city's defense forces are on the move, and they're heading straight toward the gates.
A swirling portal opens with a hiss near Aria, the air crackling with magical energy as a group of mages steps out. They are cloaked in robes marked with arcane symbols, their faces grim as they survey the area with sharp, calculating eyes. The mages move quickly, their pace matching the soldiers' footsteps as they join the growing force.
And then, stepping from the portal, there is Zypher Aurelian, father of Argus and Lyraeus and leader of all magicians.
His presence fills the space, his tall form cutting through the dimming light. His brown hair and sharp brown eyes give him a stern, commanding look. His robes billow around him, embroidered with the intricate symbols of his immense power—arcane runes that pulse faintly with magic.
"Prepare yourselves. We are being attacked," Zypher's voice rings out with commanding authority, his gaze locking onto his sons. "Stay close, and do not act recklessly."
Argus, his excitement mixed with a hint of concern, steps forward. "What kind of attack is it, Father?" he asks, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Zypher's gaze shifts, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he looks toward the horizon, his tone turning grimmer. "I'm not sure yet, but we'll find out soon enough."
The soldiers, now fully assembled, move swiftly across the training grounds, positioning themselves strategically as the wind picks up, howling through the trees. The air feels different now—charged, as if the very earth itself knows something ominous is approaching.
They all walk toward the kingdom gates, where portcullises allow them to see outside. Mount Eldoria looms in the distance, far beyond the walls.
From the portcullises, army stared out. Then—the forest (infront of mount Eldoria) trembled.
A sickening sound followed—the rustling of leaves, the snap of breaking branches. And then, like a dark tide spilling from the forest, a massive army of undead emerged.
At the head of this legion strode a tall, ominous figure wearing a mask, draped in a black cloak, his hood hung low. In one hand, he held a long, curved scythe, its blade humming with a dark, unnatural energy.
Argus stood frozen, his fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of his sword. His eyes widened as the wave of undead crept closer.
"What… Who is that?" he breathed, voice caught between awe and horror.
Beside him, Lyraeus' expression darkened. His arms were crossed tightly, but tension lined every muscle.
"This isn't good," he said, voice low and serious. "A necromancer leading the dead… this is unlike anything we've ever seen."
Zypher surveyed the approaching army with unshakable resolve. His eyes was fixed on the standing masked figure.
"Prepare yourselves," Zypher commanded. "Eldoria will not fall today. That necromancer… must be stopped."
Steel rang and spells shimmered as troops scrambled into position. The kingdom's defenders, both soldier and mage, aligned under the banner of Eldoria, hearts pounding as the unholy legion drew near. The distant groans and thuds of the dead grew louder—closer. The wind carried the scent of decay and battle.
Argus clenched his jaw, stepping forward. "I'll fight. I won't let these monsters take our kingdom."
Lyraeus turned to him, his tone steady but firm. "Stay sharp, Argus. This will be unlike any battle we've faced before."
The brothers locked eyes—no more words needed. They knew the stakes. They knew what was coming.
But Zypher raised a commanding hand.
"No," he said, his voice like iron wrapped in flame. "You will not fight in this battle, Argus. You're not ready. Take Aria into the castle. That's an order."
Argus reeled, anger rising in his throat. "But Father! I can help! I'm not child anymore—I've trained for this!"
Zypher's eyes narrowed. "And yet I say no, Argus. You will take the princess inside the castle. Now."
Argus opened his mouth, defiance burning behind his eyes, but Lyraeus stepped between them, calm and resolute.
"Argus," Lyraeus said, gently but unshakably. "He's right. Just get her to safety. I'll be here. Trust me."
Before Argus could object again, a pair of warm hands grabbed his arm.
"Argus, please!" Aria pleaded, her voice trembling but determined. "Let's go."
He looked between her and the upcoming undead towards the kingdom's gate, heart torn in two.
"Fine…" he muttered, fury clenched behind his teeth. "But I'll be ready when the time comes."
He reached for her hand, his grip tight as he whispered the incantation.
"Teleport!"
With a crackle of blue light, the air warped around them, and in a blink, they vanished—teleported into the castle's heart.
Outside, Zypher stood tall, he lifted his both hands and magical energy crackled around him like a storm barely contained. His voice echoed across the field, booming with ancient power.
"Veil of protection… shield this land!"
A radiant wave burst from his palms, surging skyward. A translucent dome of shimmering light descended over the kingdom like a divine curtain, humming with layered enchantments. The barrier thrummed as it settled into place, an unbreakable wall of force between Eldoria and the tide of rot.
Thump!
The first undead slammed against it—and bounced off. Then came the rest.
Thud!Crack!Splat!
Dozens. Then hundreds. Bodies hurled themselves into the barrier, clawing and screaming, only to be repelled like ragdolls.
High above, in the castle's window, Argus and Aria stared through the window, eyes wide with awe.
"That's... incredible." Argus whispered.
Below, on the battlefield, cheers erupted. A soldier raised his fist with a grin. "It's holding! The veil is holding!"
A mage beside him let out a breathless laugh. "A spell like that? There's no way they're getting through."
At the front of the formation, Zypher allowed himself the smallest of smiles—just a flicker.
"For now," he murmured. "But it's not over."
His gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing with trained precision. Something had shifted. Beyond the chaos of the undead horde, his eyes locked onto a lone figure, The masked figure. His presence was unmistakable, like a wound in reality itself. The masked figure moved slowly toward the barrier—too slowly. Deliberate.
Zypher muttered under his breath, voice barely above a whisper but heavy with suspicion.
"He's coming closer… but there's something off about him."
Then—without warning—dark energy erupted around the masked figure. With a sharp flash and a hiss of twisting shadows, he vanished. One blink, and he was gone. The air where he stood was left humming with residual magic.
Zypher's jaw clenched. "So… he's more than just an ordinary foe."
The undead continued their mindless assault, bodies slamming into the shield with feverish intensity. But none broke through. None even cracked it.
Zypher's thoughts spun like a storm. "Only the human can pass this veil... and teleportation magic can't breach somewhere unfamiliar. It needs memory. Coordinates. Knowledge. He shouldn't be able to get through unless…
Boom!
A deafening explosion shattered the moment. Fire and smoke erupted behind them—inside the castle.
Zypher's head snapped toward the blast, his eyes wide, breath caught mid-thought. Gasps and shouts rose from the soldiers as they turned to the castle, confusion etched on every face.
His stomach sank. A terrible dread rooted itself in his chest. "How could this happen…?" he whispered, voice hollow. "A necromancer… but how did he…?"
His fists clenched at his sides, fury mingling with fear. His thoughts sharpened into one terrible conclusion.
"There must be a traitor among us…"
He spun on his heel, eyes blazing, scanning his men—his brothers-in-arms. For a single heartbeat, doubt touched every face.
"I have to save the King!" Zypher roared, and with a flare of magic and the crackle of raw power, he vanished in a bolt of light.
He landed heavily in the courtyard of the castle, his eyes immediately scanning his surroundings. The courtyard was eerily silent, devoid of any immediate threat, but the air hung heavy with a sense of wrongness.
Zypher surged forward, urgency driving him. His boots echoed loudly on the stone as he rushed through the massive doors leading into the castle's interior.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. Zypher's boots echoed against the stone floor as he ran through the main hall, his heart hammering in his chest. Rage surged through his veins at the scene before him.
Bodies of royal guards lay sprawled across the ground, their weapons still clutched in lifeless hands. The torches lining the corridor flickered, their flames dimming in the presence of lingering dark magic. The castle, once a place of security, now felt hollow.
His steps quickened as he made his way toward the King's chambers. With a flicker of arcane energy, his staff snapped into his hand in a burst of shimmering light. He didn't know what he would find there, but he knew one thing for certain. Whoever was responsible for this... would pay.
Zypher brust into King's chambers, where King Ryker Eldrin stood near the grand window, his posture tense, two royal guards stationed at his side.
Zypher exhaled, just slightly. Relief washed over him like a fleeting breeze.
Ryker looked with concern, the lines of worry etched deeply across his regal features. "What was that sound, Zypher?" His voice trembled under the weight of uncertainty. "What's going on out there?"
Zypher stepped forward, eyes scanning the room instinctively. "We're under attack, Your Majesty. And worse…" he lowered his voice, cautious, "…I believe there's a traitor among us. Please. Do not leave this room, no matter what."
He turned, cloak sweeping behind him, intent on rejoining the fray outside—when it happened.
Slash!
A jolt of pain lanced through his back. A dagger tore through flesh. His breath caught.
Zypher stumbled forward, the shock anchoring him in place as blood dripped to the polished floor. Slowly—furiously—he turned, eyes wide, expecting to see a blade-wielding traitor behind him.
But what he saw twisted his stomach into knots. King Ryker's body... was changing.
The royal robes dissolved into shadow. The face that had once held wisdom and age melted away—replaced by a smooth, mask. Two glowing, crimson red eyes pierced through the mask's sockets, radiating with malevolence.
The masked figure stood where the King had been.
"No…" Zypher's voice cracked, a mix of rage and horror. "What have you done to the King?!"
He spun toward the two soldiers beside the masked figure. "Soldiers! Capture him!"
But they did not move. They stood still. Unnaturally still. "Why are you just standing there?" Zypher demanded, his voice rising in urgency. "I gave you an order—GET HIM!"
Then— their bodies began to contort and twist, bones snapping beneath their skin as their forms warped into monstrous shapes. Their faces stretched into something inhuman, cruel grins spreading as the illusion shattered. They were never human. They were the masked figure's guards in disguise.
Zypher stepped back, revulsion crawling over his skin.
"You…" he growled, gripping his staff tighter, fury blazing in his chest. "You will pay for this—with your lives."
With a roar, he slammed his staff against the marble floor.
Boom!
A massive wave of energy erupt from the staff. The wave of energy surged forward, incinerating the twisted guards in an instant. Their forms disintegrated into ash and bone with a howl.
Zypher stood in the aftermath, chest heaving, the air around him crackling. But as the smoke cleared... the masked figure still stood. Untouched. Unbothered.
His cloak fluttered slightly in the magical wind, and from behind the mask, those eyes stared at Zypher—cold. Calculating. Amused.
Zypher's voice fell into a whisper, disbelief thick in his throat. "You're... still alive? That spell should have destroyed you…"
The masked figure raised one gloved hand and began to murmur in a low, guttural chant. The air turned cold.
Zypher tried to raise his staff, but it was too late.
A blast of unseen force struck him like a battering ram. He flew backward, smashed through the stone wall as if it were paper, and plummeted down into the throne room below. The floor cracked and buckled under the impact, marble shattering like glass beneath his body.
Zypher groaned, struggling to rise as his body ached from the blow. His palms pressed against the cracked marble floor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His robes were torn, and his chest heaved with each breath. Gripping his staff tightly, he forced himself to stand, his posture trembling but unyielding.
From above, the masked figure descended into the throne room, floating gracefully as though untouched by the chaos he had wrought.
"He's so damn powerful..." Zypher's thoughts were ragged as he stared at the masked figure. "I've never faced anything like this before. Just who is he? A monster? No... it can't be. Maybe... a Curse User."
But his fear did not win. Zypher lifted his staff high, magic crackling at its tip, and shouted with defiance that echoed across the chamber. "Now let's end this play!"
The throne room trembled as he began chanting, ancient words spinning into the air like a storm. Light flared around him. The floor shattered beneath his feet from the sheer energy he summoned.
But before the spell could be unleashed...
Slash!
A sudden, cold pain drove through his spine. Zypher's body went rigid. The incantation shattered mid-word, the magic dispersing in a gasp of wind and broken light. Blood poured from his lips.
He looked down, eyes wide in disbelief, to see the tip of a crimson blade piercing through his chest. His staff fell from his grip. The weapon clattered to the marble floor.
He staggered, falling to his knees. He turned his head slowly. His gaze met the cold, unfeeling eyes of the one who held the sword. Lyraeus.
"Lyraeus…" Zypher's voice cracked with pain, with heartbreak. "I knew it. I knew it from the beginning that you were the traitor... but I didn't want to believe it."
A memory flickered—brief and sharp—of moments before the teleportation. Mages, soldiers, his allies were there but Lyraeus was not. He hadn't been there. The memory darkened, swallowed by the present.
"Why, Lyraeus?" he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes. "Why would you do this?"
The son he had raised, the one he had fought to protect… sneered down at him, blade still dripping with his father's blood.
Lyraeus wiped the sword clean with deliberate cruelty. His voice was cold, mocking. "Expected from you, Father. Always the sharp one."
He took a slow breath, then let loose the words he had kept caged for years.
"Why? You ask me why?" he growled, stepping closer. "It's always been Argus! Argus this, Argus that! The golden boy, the prodigy, the future of everything! And me? I was nothing. Just a shadow. A footnote. A background character in your grand epic story."
Zypher's heart broke further with each word, his lips parting but no voice escaping. Tears falling on floor.
Lyraeus's voice rose, shaking with rage.
"You praised him for every little thing while I was left to rot. No matter how hard I worked, how much I tried, it was never enough for you! But now... now I'll finally take what I deserve!"
Behind them, the masked figure—silent until now—trailed his gloved fingers along the polished armrest of the throne. A twisted grin played across his hidden face.
"This throne…" he whispered, voice like silk dipped in poison. "It's magnificent. It deserves a king like me."
He sat upon it, the image of conquest and corruption, laughing softly, a sound that echoed with vile delight.
Lyraeus turned, his gaze fixed down the hall.
"And now, I'll finish this," he muttered. "I'll kill Argus. Then I'll take what should've been mine from the beginning."
He stepped away, boots echoing on the stone floor.
Zypher, still kneeling, gasped.
"No!" he cried out, raising a trembling hand. "Stop! Don't do this! Argus is your brother—your family! I won't let you harm him!"
He began to cast one last spell. A soft hum of magic stirred the air, laced with desperation—a sleep spell, a final act to stop his son's descent into darkness.
But he never finished. The masked figure moved like a phantom—one moment seated, the next in front of Zypher. The curved scythe appeared in his hand.
With a flash of silver and a wet slash of death— The blade tore through Zypher's neck. His head struck the floor.
Thud!
His body followed seconds later. Blood spilled like ink, staining the pristine white marble. The throne room fell deathly silent.
The masked figure looked down at the corpse, tilting his head like a curious beast.
"One down!" he purred, voice thick with sadistic joy. "I've been wanting to do this. What a satisfying end."
His laughter rose, cruel and unrelenting, echoing through the chamber like a funeral bell.
Lyraeus paused and looked back once—just once—at his father's broken body.
The scene opens on hurried footsteps pounding through castle halls, clashing with the distant roar of war. Shadows flickered across cold stone as Argus and Princess Aria ran—breathless, wide-eyed.
As they turned a corner, Argus caught a glimpse through the towering stained-glass window. He skidded to a halt, eyes widening.
The magical veil surrounding the kingdom—his father's ultimate protection spell—was shimmering violently, its radiant glow flickering like a candle in the wind. And then, right before his eyes, veil vanishing entirely.
"No…" Argus whispered, voice raw. "The veil is vanishing. That means… Father!"
His feet rooted to the floor, his mind spiraled. The explosion—was that when it happened?He spun around. "I have to get there quickly!"
"Argus!" Aria shouted. "You can't go alone! We don't know what's—"
But he was already sprinting. Aria clenched her jaw. "You stubborn…" She gathered her skirt and dashed after him
He reached the throne room. Argus slammed the grand doors open—and froze. He stopped so suddenly that Aria nearly crashed into his back. Her gasp froze in her throat at the scene before them.
Zypher Aurelian, the Archmage, the strongest magician of the kingdom, lay lifeless in a pool of crimson. His severed head rested a few feet away, eyes still open.
"F-Father…" Argus dropped to his knees, his sword clattering beside him. "No…"
A strangled sob ripped from his throat. His shoulders shook. The weight of grief crushed into his chest like a blade. Tears came from his eyes.
Aria staggered in behind him, her hand flying to her mouth.
She kneel beside Argus, gripping his shoulders tightly, grounding him.
He looked at her, eyes filled with tears, lips quivering. "Aria... he's gone. I—I didn't make it in time... I couldn't..."
Clap!Clap!Clap!
A slow clap echoed through the chamber, followed by the sound of deliberate, mocking footsteps. Lyraeus emerged, his face calm, almost serene. But his eyes—those familiar, once-brotherly eyes—burned with something twisted and cold.
"Oh, Argus," Lyraeus said smoothly. "Thank goodness you're here. I was just coming to you."
Argus lifted his head slowly, his face pale, heart pounding, his gaze landed on his brother...
"No..." Argus whispered. "You... You did this!"
He pointed a shaking finger at Lyraeus, grief turning to fury. "You killed him!WHY LYRAEUS? WHY?"
Aria squeezed his hand—tightly.
Lyraeus answered simply "To get what is mine" his eyes flicked to Aria.
Argus noticed. His jaw tightened as he reached for his sword. Tears still shimmered on his cheeks, but his voice steadied.
"My master gave me one order," he said, rising to his feet with effort. His voice was hoarse but unwavering. "To protect my princess..."
He stepped in front of Aria, placing himself between her and Lyraeus, back straight despite the pain.
"...And I will do so... until my very end.".
A low, mocking chuckle interrupted. The masked figure who was silent all this time, stepped forward, his scythe now resting against his shoulder. "As you wish" the masked figure taunted, his tone laced with amusement.
But Lyraeus raised a hand, his tone smooth and commanding. "No, no. He is my brother. I will deal with him myself."
The masked figure paused, reluctant but compliant. He stepped back, boots echoing softly against the marble. His gaze shifted to Zypher's corpse, and he crouched beside it with unsettling interest, fingers brushing the fallen mage's cloak.
Meanwhile, Lyraeus unsheathed his sword. It shimmered with a dark magic—his aura pulsing with corrupted energy.
Argus took a fighting stance. "I don't want to fight you… but I will."
"Oh please," Lyraeus sneered. "Let's see if you're truly worthy of all that praise. The 'prodigy' son of Zypher."
"Flame Barrage!" Argus shouted, hurling a volley of searing fireballs toward his brother. Lyraeus waved a hand.
"Void Shield!" The fire was swallowed into a swirl of shadow. Lyraeus countered—"Dark Pulse!"—and a wave of black energy blasted into Argus's chest, sending him flying back into the stone wall.
Argus coughed blood, gripping his ribs, but forced himself to rise. "Lightning Breaker!" he screamed, launching forward with speed enhanced by crackling thunder. Their blades clashed mid-air.
Clang!
But Lyraeus was too strong—too precise. Argus stumbled again. Another blow. Another spell.
"Chaos Spear!" Lyraeus intoned, and a spear of pure malevolence pierced Argus's shoulder. He cried out, collapsing to one knee, blood dripping freely now. His sword clattered away across the floor.
"Is that all you've got?" Lyraeus mocked, circling him. "Is this the strength that made Father proud?"
Aria gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. "Argus!"
She moved. But before she could reach him—
Thud!
A dagger slammed into the floor inches from her foot. She froze. Across the room, the masked figure sat cross-legged atop a broken slab of stone near Zypher's body, one arm lazily resting on his knee, the other casually lowered after the throw.
"Tsk. I said stay back," he said smoothly, voice like velvet dipped in poison. "Let the brothers finish their little dance."
Aria's breath caught. Her hands clenched at her sides.
Back in the center, Lyraeus stood tall above his broken brother, sword raised high.
His voice rang with cruel finality. "Goodbye… my dear brother."
But then—
Clang!
A flash of steel appeared between the brothers, striking the ground with a force that sent Lyraeus stumbling back, his sword clashing with the earth, creating a shockwave that rattled the very stones beneath their feet.
A figure stood in the center of the room—tall, solid, and unwavering. Robin. His armor was scarred, his sword gleaming in the dim light, held firmly in his grip as he met Lyraeus's furious gaze.
His voice, though calm, carried the weight of years of experience.
"It's not strength that people praise, Lyraeus." Robin's tone was steady, but every word held a cutting truth. "It's his kindness, his obedience, his respect for others. Things you would never understand."
Lyraeus sneered, brushing the dust off his cloak as he regained his stance. His eyes narrowed in contempt.
Robin continued, his gaze now flickering briefly to Argus—whose body was still trembling, barely able to stand—and then back to the traitor who had once been a brother.
"I trained both of you, same as my own children." Robin's voice softened, a touch of sadness creeping into his words. "But you... you never learned. You only cared for yourself. What you did to Zypher—what you've become—it's unforgivable."
Before the tension could snap, slow, sarcastic applause echoed again.
Clap!Clap!Clap!
The Masked Figure, still perched atop his seat of ruin, grinned. "Aww, what a sad story." He leaned forward "I really have tears in my eyes." He paused, then smirked. "Just kidding."
He stood slowly, cracking his neck. His Scythe appears in his hand. With a swift motion, he spun his scythe in his hands. His smile widened, excitement flickering across his masked face.
"Now," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm going to do two birds with one stone."
Lyraeus, still gripping his sword tightly, lifted a hand, stopping him with a sharp motion.
"No," he said, his voice dark, focused. "You deal with Robin. I will take care of my brother."
The masked figure sighed dramatically, spinning his scythe in one hand. "Fine, fine. I guess I'll warm up with the old man."
Argus, still panting, crawled toward his sword and grabbed it tightly. With a grunt, he pushed himself up, pain searing through his chest as he struggled to regain his footing.
Robin turned to him, his face full of concern but also a quiet, fatherly resolve. "Argus, go." His voice was calm, yet urgent. "Take the princess to a safe place. I'll buy you some time."
But Argus shook his head vehemently, his defiance rising like a storm within him. "No." His voice was firm, unwavering. "I won't leave you alone. I'll fight alongside you."
Robin's expression softened, but there was no time to argue. The tension in the air thickened, the battle far from over.
From behind them, Aria's voice cracked with emotion. "Arg—"
Before she could finish, The masked figure dashed forward with terrifying speed, his scythe raised high, his voice turning into a sharp snarl.
"Run for your lives… because the devil is coming!"
He leapt high into the air. His scythe gleamed under the flickering lights, a dark omen in the shape of a deadly crescent.
With an unholy screech, the scythe descended toward Robin. But Robin was ready. With a grunt of effort, he raised his sword just in time. The weapons met with a bone-shaking Clash!—a shockwave rippling outward as steel ground against steel.
The masked figure's voice dripped with mockery, low and menacing as his scythe trembled under Robin's resistance.
"I can feel it..." The masked figure's grin widened, his eyes narrowing. "Fear... in your eyes!"
Robin's grip tightened around his sword, his stance unyielding. "A true knight knows no fear," he snarled, his voice unwavering despite the pressure. "A knight of honor stands firm in the face of any foe!"
With a sudden heave, Robin pushed the masked figure back, sending him skidding a few steps, his boots screeching across the stone floor. The masked figure laughed—a cruel, echoing sound that bounced off the walls like a death knell.
"Oh, this is going to be fun!" he sneered, spinning the scythe in his hands with terrifying speed.
Before Robin could steady himself, the masked figure dashed forward once more, his scythe cutting through the air in a blur. The two clashed again in a flurry of strikes
Swish! Clang!
Meanwhile, The two brothers stood facing each other, locked in their fighting stances.
Lyraeus smirked "Now," he purred, his voice dark and taunting. "No one will come between us, brother. Come on!" He grinned widely, almost savagely. "Let's settle this once and for all!"
Without waiting for a response, Lyraeus lunged at Argus, the air slicing open with the hiss of his sword. The strike was brutal—lightning-fast. Argus twisted just in time, but the blade grazed his side, drawing a sharp line of blood. He stumbled back, breath hitching, barely keeping his footing.
"Is that all, little brother?" Lyraeus smirked, confidence radiating off him like heat. "You'll have to do better than that!"
The battle intensified, each strike from Lyraeus growing faster and stronger, forcing Argus onto the defensive. His sword—once a symbol of his pride—now felt like a burden. With every blow, his strength faltered, and he could feel his resolve crumbling beneath the weight of his brother's unrelenting assault.
Finally, with a devastating swing, his sword shattered Argus's weapon, sending the pieces flying in all directions. Argus stumbled back, his body crashing to the floor as his breath came in ragged gasps. His chest heaved with the effort to stay conscious, his vision fading as the pain overwhelmed him.
Meanwhile, Robin's strength was fading. His movements had slowed. Each breath was a battle. And the masked figure saw it.
With terrifying speed, he feigned a downward slash with his scythe—only to twist at the last second, piercing Robin's chest from the side.
Shink!
"Ghhk—!" Robin's eyes widened, blood bubbling at his lips. His knees gave out. He dropped to the floor.
Thud!
Blood pooled beneath him, staining the floor. But even in the face of death, Robin's resolve never wavered. He managed to catch his breath long enough to look toward Argus, his voice strained but full of quiet strength.
"You... are our last hope."
Robin raised a trembling hand toward Argus, his magic flickering to life. A glowing aura enveloped around argus, wrapping around him like a shield of light. The masked figure's gaze flickered toward him, realizing what Robin is doing. The masked figure swung his scythe, severing Robin's head in one clean stroke. The body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Thud!
The teleportation spell activated just in time, whisking Argus away to safety with a crackling burst of energy.
"Oh!" The masked figure grinned, wiping the blood off his scythe with a mocking sigh. "I'm late... my apologies."
He turned to Lyraeus, who was still standing tall, his sword was near to kill Argus but he teleported.
The masked figure's grin widened, a wicked gleam dancing in his eyes. "Sorry Lyraeus."
Lyraeus didn't turn. His face was unreadable, his sword lowered, his breathing steady. But his eyes… they burned with cold fury.
Nearby, Princess Aria stood frozen, her wide eyes flickering with a storm of fear she fought desperately to hide.
Lyraeus took one slow step toward her.
"Don't worry," he whispered, voice like silk over poison.
A twisted smile curled his lips. Then a chuckle—low and venomous—slipped out. It grew, turning into a deep, resonant laugh of madness and triumph, echoing through the ruined hall like the toll of doom.
"He'll be back."
The scene opens in a windswept, hilly forest, bathed in the cold gray light of a dying day. Argus stumbled through the underbrush, breath ragged, until his knees buckled and he collapsed against a gnarled tree.
His chest heaved with every gasp, limbs trembling from the brutal toll of the teleportation spell.
Tears streaked his dirt-stained face, carving desperate, clean paths down his cheeks.
Far in the distance, silhouetted against the storm-stained horizon, Eldoria's once-proud castle loomed—no longer a beacon, but a tombstone.
"No…" he choked, voice splintering with anguish. "Everyone is dying, and I... I can't do anything. Father... Robin... the King… everyone."
He bowed his head, fists clenched in the dirt. "I'm not worthy of any praise."
The weight of failure pressed on his shoulders like a mountain, threatening to crush the last of his will.
"Lyraeus is right..." he choked out. "I'm just weak."
The wind stirred around him—and with it came fragments of memory.
Zypher's voice echoed in his ears "Again! You won't survive in battle unless you push harder!" Robin's last look—bleeding, dying—his hand reaching toward Argus, whispering with everything he had left.
"You... are our last hope."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Argus's fingers curled into the dirt. His body trembled... but no longer from despair.
He drew in a shaky breath. Then another. His weeping slowed.
"No..." he said quietly. Then louder—firmer. "I can't lose hope. They trusted me... They died for me. I won't let their sacrifices mean nothing."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, golden light bled into the forest, casting long rays across the earth. Argus rose slowly, shoulders squared. His tattered cloak fluttered behind him, his eyes narrowed, burning with a new fire.
"I have to find answers," he muttered to himself. "Father's chambers... If there's anything left, it'll be there."
The scene opens under a canopy of whispering leaves, the air thick with the chill of night. Insects chirped in the distance, their rhythm broken only by the rustle of branches as Argus moved like a shadow through the underbrush. The stone walls of Eldoria rose ahead. He halts from distance, he watches them.
Twisted guards patrol the kingdom's edge. The mark of the masked figure. The wind rustled the leaves above, but the night was quiet—too quiet.
Argus crouched low behind the rocky outcrop, eyes locked onto the distant silhouette of Eldoria. Once a beacon of peace… now swallowed by darkness.
"I was right…" he whispered, breath forming a mist in the cool night air. "They've taken Eldoria completely. These guards are everywhere. There's no way I can get in through the main gates."
His jaw clenched as he stepped back, retreating into the cover of twisted trees. He shut his eyes, steadying his pulse, forcing his frantic thoughts to focus.
"Teleportation," he muttered. "But where?Not inside the castle. That's suicide.The training yard? Too open. Too risky."
He exhaled slowly. "…The stables. It's isolated. Quiet. They wouldn't waste men guarding hay and saddles."
Crack!
The sharp snap of a twig jolted him. Argus spun—hand rising just in time to meet the gleaming edge of a blade. A corrupted scout burst from the shadows.
"Divine Shield!" Argus roared.
A burst of golden energy erupted around him, stopping the blade cold. The impact cracked the forest floor beneath his boots, the sheer force rippling outward.
The scout hissed, stumbling back—but only for a breath. It lunged again.
Argus slid under the strike, dirt and leaves scattering as he rolled to the side. His fingers burned with runes as he thrust his hand forward.
"Flame Torrent!"
A stream of searing fire exploded from his palm, catching the corrupted scout mid-lunge. The creature gasped, armor melting, flesh blistering, before collapsing on the forest floor.
Argus rose, his breath ragged. Then, his eyes locked onto the blade still clutched in the twitching hand of the fallen scout.
"…You won't need this anymore." he murmured.
Argus knelt and yanked the sword free, holding it up to the moonlight. The blade pulsed faintly..
"Not elegant," he muttered, inspecting the weight, "but it'll do the job."
With one last glance toward Eldoria, he lifted his glowing fingertip and traced a rune in midair. A sigil formed beneath his boots, humming softly with ancient power.
"Let's do it" he whispered.
"Teleport!"
A blinding white flash lit the forest—and then, silence.
With a flicker of light and a rush of wind, Argus reappeared—kneeling in the corner of the castle stable. The scent of hay and sweat-laced horse fur clung to the air. He rose slowly, hand brushing the dirt off his cloak, eyes flicking about with the intensity of prey scanning for predators.
"Good... no one here." His voice barely broke above a whisper, his chest tight. "Now to find a way to Father's room without being seen."
He moved like a whisper. The few flickering sconces along the walls bathed everything in an eerie orange glow, casting long, sinister silhouettes.
Finally, he stopped before a tall, ironwood door adorned with faint golden carvings. His father's personal quarters.
Argus placed a hand on the door, hesitated a moment... then—
Krrrnnnnkk!
he pushed it open just wide enough to slip inside.
Books lined every wall, scrolls and artifacts strewn across the shelves in perfect disorder.
"There has to be something here..." Argus muttered, pacing swiftly to the desk. "Something to help me. Father wouldn't leave us without a plan."
He tore through the drawers. Rummaged through stacks of old spellbooks, shattered crystal vials, magical residue still clinging to the rim. Cabinets creaked open, then slammed shut. Nothing.
Frustration cracked through him. He sank to the floor beside the hearth, head leaning back against the wall, eyes dull.
"What should I d—" His voice trailed off.
Something caught his eye. A faint shimmer—just beneath the desk. Hidden, tucked tightly between stone and wood.
He reached under, fingers brushing against coarse fabric... and then something solid. A scroll. It was tied in black ribbon, dust coating the surface like ash on a battlefield. He stared at it for a moment, reverent and wary, before carefully untying it.
The parchment crackled as he unrolled it. His lips moved slowly, reading the words aloud in a voice barely above breath.
"The Curse Sword of the Demon King—Alexander Kael." His eyes widened. "Father killed the Demon King and sealed this sword at Mount Eldoria..."
He read on, deeper into the script, eyes racing across the lines. "Everyone who touched it burned to death..." Then a final line, scrawled in faded ink "But it says, 'not sure if anyone can...'"
He blinked. Then again. His fingers curled tightly around the scroll.
"If this sword is as powerful as they say..." he whispered. "It's the only way."
He rose to his feet, cloak fluttering around him like smoke, eyes dark with fire. "I have to try. I have to get it."
Rolling the scroll tight with trembling hands, Argus secured it within his cloak and slipped back into the hallway. Every sound was amplified—the rustle of his cloak, the faint murmur of patrolling guards. He moved like a shadow through the dim corridors
As he slipped through a servant passage and exited, he went to the stables. Restless warhorses stamped nervously in their stalls. Argus's eyes scanned them—until he found it.
A tall, black warhorse.
"Easy boy," Argus whispered, unlatching the stall. The horse flinched as he swung into the saddle, but didn't resist. He gripped the reins, leaned low. "Let's go."
With a powerful kick, the steed burst through the stable doors, hooves slamming against the cobblestone path. Wind ripped past Argus's face as they exploded into the outer courtyard. Torchlight blurred. Shadows danced wildly against the ancient stone walls.
Far above, on a balcony overlooking the city, Lyraeus leaned lazily against the railing, eyes narrowing at the galloping figure below.
He gave a mock sigh, his voice cool and dripping with sarcasm. "So, my dear brother is leaving the castle without a fight... without even attempting to save the princess. Don't you think he's up to something?"
Beside him, unmoving, the Masked Figure stood with arms crossed. He finally tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth and calculating. "He's going to retrieve something… powerful."
Lyraeus raised an eyebrow. "And that powerful thing is…?"
A slow, wicked grin spread across the masked figure's lips. "The Curse Sword."
Scene open as portcullises slammed shut across the gates. The walls of Eldoria ignited with torches as archers lined the battlements. Foot soldiers armed with jagged blades spilled from alleyways and courtyards. From the inner sanctum, dark-armored elites moved into formation.
From above, arrows rained down. Ahead—a solid wall of heavy infantry, shields interlocked.
"Damn it!" Argus hissed. He pulled left, the warhorse veering into the narrow merchant's quarter, dodging between ruined stalls and overturned carts. Boots pounded in pursuit. Steel rang out behind him.
The chase exploded behind him. Shouts rang out. Armored boots thundered across the stone. The warhorse weaved between crates and empty stalls.
A blockade formed ahead. Soldiers charged, spears thrust forward—aimed at the warhorse's chest.
"Hold on!" Argus shouted, jerking the reins.
The horse reared—then launched itself onto a cart. The wood cracked but held. With one explosive leap, they cleared the spears, soaring into the air.
"Haah—!" Argus ducked low, feeling the wind of the blades pass within inches.
They landed hard, but kept running.
From the sky—arrows rained down. Argus raised his free hand, chanting under his breath:
"Wind Shield!"
A spiraling gust burst from his palm, knocking many arrows off-course—but not all. A sharp sting sliced across his injured shoulder. He bit down on the pain.
Another group of enemies appeared from east. Lancers on horseback. Their spears glinted with cursed metal as they closed in.
Argus growled. "Not this way!"
He turned again. His warhorse, as if reading his thoughts, leapt toward a stack of barrels, bounding from it onto a lower rooftop. Tiles shattered beneath its hooves, but it kept moving—galloping across rooftops like a beast possessed.
Below, soldiers scrambled, shouting orders in chaos. The warhorse jumped from the rooftop and kept moving
Ahead—the final gate. Beyond it—open plains. Freedom. But—
"No..." Argus whispered.
Hundreds of soldiers stood waiting. Archers. Shields. Spearmen. Mounted elites flanking the sides.
The horse reared in panic, nearly throwing him.
He exhaled sharply. "No choice." Yanking the reins, he forced the warhorse into a full gallop. The beast surged forward, hooves pounding against the stone, charging straight toward the blockade. Soldiers braced themselves, their weapons steady—ready to strike.
At the last possible moment, Argus threw his weight forward and stood up on the saddle. The warhorse let out a loud neigh but obeyed, charging ahead. The sudden movement caught the soldiers off guard—some hesitated, confused by his action.
"NOW!"
He leapt—sailing into the air as the entire army opened fire.
Arrows. Spears.
"Focus... FOCUS—!"
His hands flew together in the teleportation stance—glyphs igniting beneath him.
"Teleport!"
A blinding light erupted. The magic snapped into place. Just as the first spear touched his cloak—He vanished.
He reappeared mid-air—spinning violently as the teleportation spell discharged.
Thud!
His body slammed into the damp earth, rolling across the forest floor, crashing into roots and jagged rocks before skidding to a stop. Blood stained his sleeve. Every limb screamed in agony.
Coughing, Argus forced himself onto his side, his fingers digging into the soil. "Ugh—dammit…" he winced, clutching his ribs. His shoulder throbbed from the arrow graze.
"Why… didn't I teleport earlier?" he muttered bitterly. "Why was I running like a fool?"
He pressed his hand against his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he focused. His voice trembled, but he uttered the words anyway.
"Light Heal!"
A soft, golden light bloomed around his hand, flowing into his wounds. Warmth replaced the sting. The bleeding slowed. Torn flesh knit together just enough to keep moving. The spell wasn't strong—barely enough for temporary recovery—but it steadied his breath and dulled the pain.
As he lifted his head, his gaze locked onto the horizon—There it was. Mount Eldoria.
A jagged silhouette rising into the moonlit sky, its peak veiled in silver clouds.
"That's where I have to go…" he whispered, voice low and determined.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, tightened his cloak—and stood. With one final glance toward the distant castle of Eldoria, now hidden behind a curtain of forest and fate, he turned toward the mountain and began to walk into the dark.
The scene shifts to Argus climbing the jagged, icy slopes of Mount Eldoria. The wind howls around him as he finally reaches the summit. He pauses, catching his breath, and looks up to see two hulking trolls standing guard before a massive, ancient gate. Their grotesque forms block his path, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
He froze. Then muttered to himself, voice low and steady.
"No turning back now... If I don't get through them, all of this is for nothing."
The first troll roared—a sound like an avalanche breaking—and charged.
Argus moved.
He dashed left, just past the troll's reach, snow exploding beneath his boots. The beast swiped with a claw the size of a wagon wheel, but he ducked low, rolled beneath it, and slashed at its hamstring. The troll bellowed, its leg buckling. Argus gritted his teeth and shoved with all his strength.
The troll teetered.
Its massive body plunged off the cliffside, disappearing into the clouds below with a fading roar.
No time to breathe.
The second troll lunged, swinging a club of fused iron and bone. Argus raised his sword just in time, the impact sending him skidding backward, boots carving trenches in the snow. The club came again. This time, Argus sidestepped, then sprang forward—spinning—and drove his blade straight into the troll's chest.
The beast howled, grabbed at the sword, but Argus pulled it free and drove it deeper, right through the heart.
With a final snarl, it collapsed, shaking the ground as it died.
Argus stood over its corpse, panting, sweat mixing with the snow on his brow.
"That should do it…" he muttered, turning to the gate. "Now for the sword."
He approached and pushed open the towering doors. They groaned like dying giants, revealing a chamber swallowed by shadows and drenched in a crimson glow.
The air was heavy—charged with something old. Something wrong.
At the chamber's center, a pedestal of obsidian and bone rose from the cracked stone floor. Upon it, the cursed sword. It pulsed with a dark radiance, humming like a living heart.
But Argus wasn't alone.
Clap!Clap! Clap!
A slow, mocking rhythm echoed.
From the shadows, a Curse-user emerged. Clad in black robes lined with red runes that pulsed like veins,
His crimson eyes flickered with cruel amusement. "You came all this way… But you won't be leaving with that sword. My master won't allow it."
Dark magic flared in his palm, twisting like smoke.
Argus stepped between him and the sword, raising his blade. His voice was steady. "I don't need your permission. I only need that sword."
The curse-user smirked. "Then die for it."
With a flick of his wrist, a barrage of black energy shot toward Argus, twisting through the air like writhing serpents.
Argus dodged left, rolling beneath the incoming magic as it shattered against the chamber walls. He sprinted forward, sword raised, and in the blink of an eye, their blades clashed. Sparks erupted as metal met metal, the force of the impact reverberating through the chamber.
The curse-user moved fast, parrying every strike, his movements precise and almost effortless. But Argus wasn't deterred. He pushed harder, each swing growing stronger, more relentless. Their swords met again and again, the sound of battle filling the cursed chamber.
Then—Argus saw an opening. With a sudden twist, he feigned a leftward strike before diving right, his blade slicing cleanly through the curse-user's arm.
Slash!
"Aghh!" The curse-user let out a piercing scream, staggering backward, clutching his severed limb. His eyes burned with hatred. "You... you'll regret this!" he spat through gritted teeth.
But Argus had already turned away.
He sprinted to the pedestal, heart hammering. He reached out—
His fingers closed around the cursed sword.
A burst of pain exploded through him.
"AAAHHHHHH!" he screamed, dropping to one knee.
Black and blue veins lit up beneath his skin, spreading like fire through every limb. His eyes burned. His very soul felt like it was being torn apart.
"What… is this?! It's like my body is on fire!"
The curse-user lunged, desperate, reaching out to stop him.
But the moment his hand touched Argus—flames erupted from his body, black and violet, devouring him instantly. His screams were cut short as he crumbled into ash.
The sword pulsed.
A wave of magic burst from its core, throwing Argus backward. He hit the ground hard, sword still clutched in hand, his body steaming.
Darkness began to consume the edges of his vision. The scene faded—
In another world, far beyond the mortal world, the air inside a vast obsidian palace stirred.
Seated upon her throne of black stone, the Demon Queen remained still, her long, golden-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like woven silk. Her red eyes remained closed, her expression unreadable—until suddenly, her eyelids fluttered open, faintly glowing.
She exhaled slowly, a small smirk playing at her lips.
"So..." she murmured, her voice laced with curiosity. "Someone has finally managed to wield the sword."
A pause. Then, her smirk deepened. "Interesting."
The screen returns to Argus, Who staggered to his feet inside the ancient chamber, smoke curling around his boots. The cursed sword was gripped in his right hand, its dark metal radiating a cold that burned.
The camera shifts from behind him to focus on his face. His eyes. One was still his own—sky-blue, clear and defiant.
But the other… had darkened into something unnatural. A deep, glowing sapphire, faintly pulsing with otherworldly power. A curse now lived within him.
His breath caught. He looked down at the blade, its runes flickering in response.
He tightened his grip, knuckles white.
"That was... so much pain. But nothing happened to me," he muttered. "That must mean… I'm worthy to wield it."
Argus turned and began the descent. No dawn yet. No sun dared rise over this cursed night.
Stone crunched beneath his boots as he reached the base of the mountain path, eyes set on the distant horizon—until movement made him stop.
Figures stood before him, black silhouettes outlined by torchlight and creeping mist.
At the center—his brother.
Lyraeus.
Beside him stood the masked figure, his presence like a shadow made flesh. Behind them, a battalion of corrupted soldiers loomed, armor twisted, eyes hollow.
The masked figure casually spun a wicked scythe in his hand, its blade humming with bloodlust.
Lyraeus stepped forward, mockery painted across his smug face.
"Well, well…" he drawled. "Look who finally decided to join us. Argus, running around instead of fighting. Shouldn't you be saving the princess or something? But I wonder... what exactly were you after?"
The masked figure's voice slithered between them, cold and slow like poison dripping.
"The cursed sword… of course."
Argus didn't flinch. His breathing steady. His grip on the blade unshakable.
Lyraeus's smirk darkened into something cruel. His words were knives now.
"So… my little brother thinks he can match me now?" He let out a low chuckle. "Let's see how far that cursed sword will take you."
Argus inhaled sharply, his fingers curling tighter around the hilt. His muscles tensed, every fiber of his being preparing for the fight ahead. His gaze locked onto his brother's, filled with unwavering determination.
Argus raised the Cursed Sword, his stance unwavering as he prepared to face his brother and the masked figure. His breath was steady, controlled—until, in a blur of movement, the masked man vanished.
Before Argus could react...
Crack!
A devastating punch struck his stomach.
The blow slammed into Argus's stomach like a cannon. His ribs screamed. The world lurched sideways.
The cursed sword flew from his hand.
His eyes widened, air knocked clean from his lungs as his knees buckled. He hit the dirt hard, vision spinning.
"Ugh…!"
The masked figure stepped forward, boots crunching gravel, casually picking up the cursed sword, inspecting it with mock interest
"All this effort…" he said, holding the blade aloft, watching the cursed energy swirl and lick at his fingers. "For this?"
The sword responded—but the man didn't flinch. The corruption meant nothing to him.
"Disappointing," he hissed, before laughing—
"Mwahahahaha!"
The sound echoed across the valley like thunder in a graveyard.
Argus's vision faded to black, the last thing he saw was the blade meant for him… now in the hands of his enemy.
As Argus slowly regained consciousness, his vision is blurry. Cold chains cut into his wrists, stretching his arms out—one to the left wall, the other to the right— . His knees rested against the floor. His head hung low, his hair, damp with sweat, clung to his face
Across the cell, relaxed on a crude iron stool, the masked man sat like a king on a throne. His scythe leaned against the wall beside him, humming with cursed energy. The way he lounged, legs crossed and back arched lazily, contrasted grotesquely with the grimness of the cell.
"Oh, hello!" the masked figure chimed, his voice uncomfortably cheerful. He leaned forward with a mock-concerned tilt of his head. "You're awake. Thank goodness—you had me worried there for a second."
Argus groaned, his muscles aching as he slowly lifted his head. Eyes locked on the masked figure like twin daggers of disdain.
"What do you want?" he rasped, voice hoarse, low, and deadly.
The masked man rested a finger under his chin, pretending to think. "Hmm... what do I want? Let me think about it..."
Then—snap.
The playfulness dropped like a guillotine.
He lunged forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice suddenly sharp and burning with ambition.
"The whole world."
Argus's brow furrowed, disbelief laced with contempt. A bitter smirk tugged at his lips.
"The whole world? A necromancer who controls a few monsters wants to rule the world? Are you kidding me? You can't even show your face to others. What a pathetic excuse for a—"
A low, amused chuckle interrupted him. The masked figure's fingers tapped idly against his knee, his crimson eyes gleaming beneath the mask. "Who said I'm a necromancer? "
Argus's breath hitched. The masked figure lifted a hand, grasping the edges of his mask with deliberate slowness. With a smooth, calculated motion, he pulled it free.
No decay. No scars. Just a face—uncomfortably calm, hauntingly human. piercing red eyes that glow faintly in the dim light.
"I am Malakar Veilgrave," he said, voice smooth as poison silk. "And I will rule this world."
To Be Continued...