The lights returned to pulse through the veins of the dilapidated city once more, as if that night of hell were nothing but a fleeting nightmare washed away by the dawn rains. The streets that had witnessed the screams of the burning and relished the scent of death regained their usual din; vendors called out their wares, cars exhaled smoke into the faces of passersby, and people rushed to their work with cold faces, unaware that a youth had passed through here, leaving behind open graves and accounts settled in blood.
But in a forgotten spot on the outskirts of this city, where the bodies departed by the clamor reside, the silence was heavier than the anchored mountains. There, amidst the ancient cemetery guarded by mournful willow trees, stood the black-haired youth. He did not wear the mask of the professional killer seen by "Moore," "Ayr," or the "Gang Leader"; rather, in that moment, he appeared small, fragile, as if a passing breeze might scatter him like dust.
He stood before three graves lined up next to one another like soldiers fallen in a losing battle, their marble headstones cold and dusty—just like his heart, which he had emptied of all human emotion, leaving nothing within but a regret that gnawed at him like a maggot.
The youth bowed slowly and knelt before the first grave, upon which the name (N...) was engraved in eroded letters. He touched the cold marble with the fingertips that, just hours ago, were stifling breaths. In a broken voice, trembling with the echo of old memories, he whispered:
"I did it, my friend... do you feel peace there? I went to your father—that man who thought his authority and his wine would protect him from my curse. I made him taste the terror he planted in your heart for years."
"I tortured him in ways that would not occur to the most bitter of demons, until he began to beg me to grant him a mercy bullet. I have taken your right from him, (N...); I washed your insult with his filthy blood. Do you hear me now? Is your tortured soul at rest?"
A long silence prevailed; nothing answered him but the rustle of dry leaves dancing around the grave. He moved his grief-laden gaze to the second grave, the one bearing the name (M...). He sighed deeply and passed his hand over the marble as if patting the shoulder of its owner on an old winter night:
"As for you, (M...)... I went to that viper who was cloaking herself in the skin of angels. (Ayr)... the one who stole your dreams and your parents' house, who shattered your bones and left you for death in the alley. I made them all taste—her and her family—from the same poisoned cup they forced upon you. I cut out her tongue that lied to you and burned her false heart. I have restored the dignity they trampled upon, and no one in this cursed city will dare mention your name with ill intent again. I have purified your memory with blood."
Then he turned slowly, his body convulsing with a powerful shiver he could not control, toward the last grave... the grave bearing the name (The...). The youth fell with his full weight to the ground and leaned his forehead against the marble, which was cold to the point of freezing.
"You... whose entire world burned while you watched helplessly. I burned them all, my brother. I made their leader see hell with his own eyes before his body touched the soil. I told him about your little sister... about that child who was like a butterfly before the fires of their treachery devoured her."
"I told him how she screamed your name as she died... I made him feel every second of the terror you lived through in 그 fire. I have avenged you... and your family... and that little one who knew nothing of life but the smoke."
Suddenly, the icy fortress the youth had built around his soul throughout those bloody nights collapsed. The first hot tear fell upon the cold marble, followed by floods of oppression and regret that exploded like a suppressed volcano. He began to weep with a muffled wailing—a wail emerging from profound depths—his body seizing violently as he covered his face with his hands, their pores still exuding the scent of gasoline and clotted blood.
"I'm sorry... I'm truly sorry," he cried out in a voice choked with tears, the words coming out like shards of glass tearing his throat. "If only I had known... if only I hadn't been absent for a single second. If I had been there when death knocked at your doors, I would have been the one to face it instead of you. I am the one who failed you with my late strength... I am the one who did not protect the flame of your lives from being extinguished. Forgive me... I was far away when I needed to be your invincible shield. I am the one who deserves death, not you."
The youth remained for long hours under the weight of that psychological collapse, speaking to the graves as if they were living people sitting with him, apologizing to the soil, and emptying what remained in the recesses of his soul of words and feelings he had found no one to share with for a long time. He spoke like a lost child in a dark forest searching for his mother's embrace, until the sun began to tilt toward setting, coloring the sky with a crimson hue that reminded him of the color of the blood that had not left his imagination for even a moment.
Finally, the youth stood up and wiped his face with a strange, sudden coldness, as if the reservoir of tears in his body had dried up forever. He turned to leave, but stopped and looked back one last time—a look that was not a farewell, but a sacred vow to follow them.
"I am coming to you... I will not leave you alone in this stillness for long. You are the only candles that lit the darkness of my life, and I will see you very soon... I promise."
The youth walked with confident steps, the steps of a person who knows his final destination and does not fear it. He headed toward the heart of the city, where the giant bridge rises over the surging black sea like a hungry beast. He stood on the thin edge, the cold wind playing with his long black hair, the twinkling city lights reflecting in his bulging eyes that were void of any fear. He did not hesitate; he did not review his memories, nor did he look back to see a world that had granted him nothing but pain. He cast his body—burdened with sins, pains, and blood—into the depths of the cold waters that were waiting for him eagerly.
He felt the icy water embrace his body with force, and the air escape his lungs to be replaced by the stillness of death. He closed his eyes in deep peace, surrendering to the end he had planned for so long, ready to meet his friends on the other side where there is no injustice or fire. He sank into absolute darkness—a calm, warm darkness with no pain, no screaming, and no scent of death.
But... suddenly...
He felt a sharp sting of air hit his face. His balance faltered as if he had fallen from a height once again. He tried to inhale the water to end his life, but instead, he inhaled strange, pure air, smelling of herbs he had never known before. He opened his eyes in terror, and instead of the blackness of the sea, he saw a ceiling his eyes had never seen in his previous life. It was not the concrete ceiling of his bleak city, nor the ceiling of his filthy room. It was an ancient wooden ceiling, crafted with extreme precision, decorated with strange, golden engravings and symbols, shining under a mysterious light filtering from somewhere.
The youth stood up quickly, his body aching in a strange way—not the pain of bruises or a fall, but the pain of someone waking up after a sleep that lasted for centuries. He looked around in a bewilderment that paralyzed his movement. The room was very wide; its furniture looked as if it had come out of medieval legends, and the light filtering through the high window was a brilliant golden light, completely different from the pale sun of his city.
He placed his hand on his chest, feeling the racing beats of his heart that had not stopped as he had intended. He looked at his hands; there were no traces of blood, no scent of burning—instead, his hands appeared stronger and fairer.
"Where am I?" he whispered in a strange voice, a voice carrying a resonant tone he had never known before, as if his voice had become deeper and sharper. "Is this hell? Or has cursed fate not had enough of me yet and decided to mock me?"
He looked toward the window and saw a clear blue sky, towering mountains reaching the clouds, and castles looming on the horizon. Everything was new, terrifying, and mysterious. The youth did not know that his death in the old world was nothing but a new birth certificate in a new world.