To give up your life for a few pages… was the war truly that important to them?
Even in death, they had chosen not peace, but purpose. Even when they could no longer save themselves, they still wished to spare others from the same fate.
Ere could not understand that.
After he vanished, why should he care what became of the world after him? Why should tomorrow matter to someone who might not even live to see it?
Those thoughts lingered only for a few seconds—a brief pause, a moment of hesitation.
It was not care. Not truly.
But what he had witnessed here—Dasteni's sacrifice, the century she had spent guarding these pages—deserved at least this much.
Respect.
He pushed the thoughts aside and opened the box.
Inside lay exactly three pages. They glowed with a deep crimson light, their edges pulsing softly against the darkness of the ruins. Across them, black ink curled in precise lines and symbols, untouched by time.
Ere lowered himself onto a broken stone in the middle of the shattered village and began to read.
The pages were not merely instructions. They were understanding. Every line explained the reason behind each movement—each step, each breath, each angle of the blade.
This was more than technique.
It was philosophy.
A way of becoming.
They called it the Shadow Steps.
The concept was simple in words, yet impossibly profound. Strength was not something forced through a weapon—it was shared. The knife lent its speed and agility to the wielder. The wielder lent purpose and will to the knife.
Neither was master. Neither was servant.
Both grew stronger together.
A bond. A union.
That union would allow the dagger to evolve alongside its wielder, growing sharper, faster, and more attuned with every battle, while granting the one who held it a body as light as a feather in combat—every step quicker, every movement smoother, as if the air itself carried them forward.
That was where the name Shadow Steps came from.
The pages went further.
There was a ritual—not one fueled by magic, but by blood.
A contract.
A sacrifice of essence that allowed the weapon and its wielder to become one. To advance together. To evolve through shared strength.
But even then, the pages warned: success was never guaranteed.
The weapon itself had a will.
It would decide whether the bond was accepted. There had to be compatibility—a match between blade and bearer.
Ere kept reading. The method was clear. The execution, simple. The risk not mentioned.
He rose to his feet.
The pages would serve as the catalyst. He placed them carefully at the center of the ruined stone floor, then set his dagger on top of them. Its dark metal caught the crimson glow. For a moment, it almost seemed alive.
Following the instructions, he drew a large circle around the pages using a shard of broken stone—symbols, lines, ancient markings copied from memory. The shape formed slowly beneath the moonlight.
Then came the final step.
Blood.
Ere drew the dagger across his left palm. A deep cut—sharp enough to force a hiss through his teeth. Blood spilled quickly, warm against the cold night air, dripping into the circle until the markings were filled.
A lesser sight might once have shaken him.
But bloody hands… that was something he had long grown used to.
He stepped back. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the pages began to burn. Slowly. Not with ordinary fire. Their crimson glow deepened as the edges blackened and curled inward. At the same time, the blood within the circle darkened—red turning slowly into a deep blue-black.
It moved.
Not flowing outward.
Feeding inward.
Drawn into the dagger.
The blade trembled.
Then—
an explosion.
A violent burst of force threw smoke and dust into the air. The shockwave knocked Ere off his feet and sent him crashing onto the ruined stone behind him.
For a moment, all he could hear was ringing.
Then silence.
He remained on the ground, gathering his strength, waiting for the smoke to clear.
When it finally did, he pushed himself up and approached.
The dagger was still there.
Exactly where he had left it.
Same shape. Same white metal. Unchanged.
Still.
Ere stared at it.
So… it failed.
The pages were gone—burned away completely. Nothing remained of them. No glow. No writing. No trace.
Only the dagger.
He let out a slow breath.
Well.
It was worth trying.
He had not been deceived. Dasteni had been honest—he could feel that much.
It simply meant one thing.
He was not ready.
Not yet.
Ere picked up the dagger and looked once more at the ruins around him, then turned toward the forest.
It was time to go back.
He started making his way toward the village, but his steps were nothing like they had been on the journey here. Gone was the sharp urgency that had carried him through the night. Now every movement felt heavier, slower.
His body dragged forward, burdened by blood loss and the deep ache left behind by the impact. Each breath came rougher than the last. The cut in his left hand had clotted badly, dried blood stiff against his skin. His muscles throbbed with every step.
He already knew the truth.
There was no way he would make it back before morning.
Still… he kept walking.
The forest felt different now.
Less silent.
More aware.
Halfway along the path, Ere stopped.
A sound. Soft at first—leaves shifting across the dry forest floor. A slow, dragging rustle.
Then another. Somewhere to his left.
He turned slightly, listening. The dry leaves squeaked beneath something moving through them.
He was being watched.
His fingers tightened around the dagger at his side.
In this condition… He was easy prey.
He forced himself to move again, changing direction. His steps became uneven, deliberately breaking the pattern of his trail. He moved through patches of fern and roots, trying to leave as little trace behind him as possible.
If something was following him, he had to lose it.
For a few moments, the sound disappeared.
Then it returned.
Closer.
Branches shifted. Leaves crushed under something heavier.
Coming his way.
Ere froze. The sounds multiplied. One behind him. Another somewhere ahead. He was being surrounded. His breathing slowed instinctively. Stillness felt safer than movement now.
Then—
voices.
Familiar voices, ahead of him.
Low. Urgent. Human.
He pushed through the brush.
"Mika—"
Mika turned immediately, his face sharp with anger and relief all at once. Behind him stood several villagers, each carrying spears and hunting blades, their lantern light trembling against the darkness of the trees. Their faces were drawn with exhaustion. They had clearly been searching for hours.
Ere stepped out fully, trying to catch his breath.
"We need to run—"
But Mika cut him off.
"Your mother has been worried sick."
His voice was low, tense.
"We looked everywhere for you."
His eyes moved briefly over Ere's injuries, then narrowed.
"The only clue we had was the smoke that erupted from this direction."
He stepped closer.
"Explain yourself."
"How does a child wander this forest alone in the middle of the night?"
Ere tried again.
"Listen to me, there's something behind us, we need to—"
"I don't want excuses."
Mika's tone hardened.
"You are grounded for a long time, trust me."
And then—a sound tore through the forest. Branches snapped. Bushes exploded outward. A massive creature stepped out from the undergrowth. It resembled a grizzly bear—if a bear had been twisted into something monstrous.
Its body was larger than any beast Ere had ever seen, broad enough to block the path. Its fur was dark and matted, streaked with mud and dried blood. Its shoulders rolled with unnatural muscle. Its eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
Then it reared its head back—
and roared.
The sound shook the trees.
And held everyone in place.