Raul's POV
Raul spent the day there.
Laughing. Eating. Listening.
He walked the halls of the mansion like a ghost wearing a child's skin, smiling when spoken to, answering when addressed, letting himself sink into the warmth of it all. Servants bowed. His sister teased him. His mother watched him with gentle concern. His father joined them for dinner, tired but present.
For a moment, just for a moment, Raul wondered what would happen if things stayed like this.
If the trial never ended.
If the world outside never came back.
Night fell quietly.
Raul lay down on the bed, exhaustion finally claiming him. The soft sheets wrapped around him like an embrace, and for the first time in years, sleep came without fear.
Yet even as his body relaxed, his mind refused to rest.
He stared at the ceiling, its familiarity twisting into something almost threatening. The faint cracks near the corner, the chandelier casting warm shadows, the quiet hum of the mansion settling for the night. Every detail felt painfully real, and that was what frightened him the most.
What if this disappears?
His fingers clenched the sheets, knuckles whitening. The fabric was warm beneath his hands, solid, tangible. He pressed his palm harder, as if trying to anchor himself to the moment.
Laughter echoed faintly in his memory, his sister's voice from earlier in the day, his mother calling his name, his father's rare, tired smile at the dinner table. Simple things. Precious things.
He was afraid to close his eyes.
Afraid that when he opened them again, the bed would be gone. The room. The mansion. All of them.
Afraid that this kindness, this fragile peace, was nothing more than borrowed time.
A knot formed in his chest. His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, he felt like that helpless child again, clutching at warmth while the world prepared to tear it away.
If I stay awake, he thought desperately, maybe it won't end.
But his body betrayed him.
The exhaustion ran deeper than his fear, heavier than his will. His grip loosened. His breathing slowed. The warmth of the bed pulled him under, gentle and merciless.
As sleep finally claimed him, Raul made a silent, selfish wish.
Just a little longer.
Let this dream last just a little longer.
Unaware that the night would answer him not with mercy, but with blood and horns screaming through the dark.
A deep, violent blare tore through the estate, echoing across stone and sky. Alarm bells rang in a frantic chorus. Shouts followed. Steel clashed.
Enemy attack.
Raul jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. He didn't think; he moved. His hands grabbed the first thing he saw: an ornamental dagger mounted on the wall. Useless. Decorative. But it was all he had.
He ran.
The hallways were chaotic.
Men in armor poured through shattered doors, blades wet and merciless. Blood sprayed across walls, soaking tapestries and priceless paintings alike. The smell hit him next. Iron, smoke, and burning flesh.
Death.
Death was everywhere.
The maids fell screaming. Butlers tried to run and were cut down from behind. No one was spared. No mercy offered.
Raul's feet carried him toward his sister's room.
Please. Please be alive.
He burst through the door—
And stopped.
Rina lay on the floor.
Her throat had been cut cleanly. Blood pooled beneath her, still warm, still spreading. Her eyes fluttered open weakly as he dropped beside her.
"Ra…ul…" she whispered, every word tearing at her lungs. "Run…"
"No—no, no, no," Raul choked, cradling her. "Stay with me. Please."
She tried to smile.
Then her body went limp.
"AGHHHHHHH—!"
The scream ripped out of him, raw and animal, shredding his throat. He clutched her tighter as if sheer force could pull her back from death.
Blood soaked into his clothes. His hands trembled.
He stood, lifting her lifeless body into his arms.
Knights stormed past him, wearing the duke's insignia.
They didn't even look at him.
As if he didn't exist.
Raul walked.
Through halls drenched in red. Over broken glass and bodies. Step by step, numb and hollow.
He reached the central hallway.
Aina's body lay there, broken and twisted, eyes staring at nothing. His mother lay nearby, her form disfigured beyond recognition, white hair matted dark with blood.
His father knelt ahead.
Bound. Bleeding. Defeated.
"Raul," Ravian said hoarsely when he saw him. "What are you doing here? Run."
A man stepped forward, clapping slowly.
"Oh? Isn't that young Master Raul?" His smile was smooth, practiced. "Don't you remember me? Your uncle. Duke Albrecht Thorn."
Raul stared with a hollow look in his eyes.
"Sadly," Albrecht continued, feigning sorrow, "your father committed a national-level crime. So his entire bloodline must be executed. Including you."
He sighed theatrically. "It pains me so much."
"Albrecht," Ravian snarled, straining against his bonds. "You traitor. I thought of you as a friend, and you repay me like this? I'll kill you."
"Now, now," Albrecht said lightly. "Criminals shouldn't speak so much."
Raul stood there, his sister's corpse heavy in his arms, his world collapsing for the second time.
Just hours ago, they had laughed.
Now there was nothing.
"RAUL, RUN!" Ravian roared.
Albrecht walked toward him, slow and deliberate.
"I'm sorry, little one," he said softly. "But you all must die."
The blade plunged into Raul's chest.
Pain exploded.
The world blurred, colors bleeding into one another until nothing made sense. His knees buckled, the strength leaving him all at once, as if his body had finally accepted what his mind could not. Grief swallowed everything: sound, sight, even breath.
This is it, he thought dimly.
His sister's weight was still in his arms. Too light. Too still. Her warmth was already fading, and with it, the last lie that told him this could still be fixed. His mother's smile from that morning felt like a cruel joke now, twisted into something sharp and unbearable.
What could a powerless child do against a duke? Against a Grandmaster with an army at his back?
Nothing.
The word echoed inside him, hollow and absolute. His hands trembled, slick with blood that wasn't all his own. He didn't feel anger. He didn't feel hatred. Just grief, an endless, crushing loss that pressed down on his chest until breathing itself felt pointless.
He was so tired. Tired of running. Tired of surviving while everyone else paid the price.
He was about to give up—
Then a memory surfaced.
His father's voice.
"Raul, there's no need to rush things. Take your time growing up."
"Become a man I couldn't be."
"We'll always be proud of you and your sister."
His mother's warmth.
Rina's teasing smile.
How could he abandon that?
Raul forced himself upright.
Blood poured from the wound, soaking the floor. Tears streamed down his face, red and burning.
"ALBRECHT!"
The name tore itself from his throat, raw and broken, ripping through the smoke‑choked halls. It wasn't just a scream; it was a wound opening, years of grief forced into a single sound.
"I'LL BE THE ONE TO END YOU."
His voice cracked, but he didn't stop. Blood dripped from his fingers to the marble floor, each drop striking like a ticking clock. The flames licking the walls flickered, bending toward him as if listening.
"NO MATTER WHAT IT TAKES. NO MATTER HOW LONG IT TAKES."
His legs shook beneath him. Every instinct screamed that he would fall, that he would curl around the body in his arms and disappear with her. But he didn't. He clenched his jaw until it hurt, until the pain anchored him to the moment.
"I'LL SLIT YOUR THROAT WITH MY OWN HANDS."
The words were quiet now, low, steady, terrifyingly calm.
His scream echoed through the bloodied estate, bouncing off shattered pillars and blood‑stained walls, rolling through corridors that had once been filled with laughter. The sound lingered long after his voice gave out, as if the mansion itself was bearing witness.
The air felt heavier after that, thick with smoke and something else, finality.
Raul lowered his head. Tears streamed down his face, burning hot, mixing with blood on his skin. His chest hurt, not from the wound, but from the weight of everything he had lost. His family. His childhood. The future that had been stolen from him in a single night.
But beneath the grief, something hardened.
This pain would not break him.
He would carry it.
He would let it carve him, shape him, sharpen him into something that could endure.
He gently set his sister's body down, his hands lingering for a moment too long, memorizing her face, the way she looked at peace even in death. Then he stood.
Each breath was a struggle. Each step felt like wading through deep water. Yet he moved.
Not as a helpless child.
But as someone who had something to live for.
The world had taken everything from him.
So he would take something back.
And as the flames roared and the estate crumbled around him, Raul Slade made a promise that would follow him for the rest of his life, etched not in rage, but in resolve.
No matter how many years passed.
No matter how much blood it costs.
He would survive.
And one day…
Albrecht Thorn would die by his own hands.
The promise settled into him, heavy and unyielding.
Then the world started to break.
Not outward, but inward.
Like glass collapsing toward a single point, reality splintered and folded in on itself. The flames froze mid‑flicker. The screams cut off. The mansion fractured into countless shards of light and shadow, each one reflecting a memory he refused to forget.
Raul collapsed.
The ground vanished beneath him—
—and he woke.
___________________________
You have overcome the Trial of Grief. The Temple of Trials congratulates you.
Reward Acquired:
Skill: Enduring Heart