The next morning, the city gate opened with the creaking grind of wooden wheels against stone. The team returned while the sun was still low in the sky. Behind them was a crude wooden cart, piled high with emaciated bodies of young women—hair tangled, clothes torn, skin covered in bruises. All of them were unconscious, their breathing faint and fragile.
The townspeople stopped to watch. Some were curious. Some turned away, as if unwilling to get involved.
The mayor hurried over, his expression tense and wary.
Mayor:
"What happened, Lioren?"
Lioren kept his hand on the cart's shaft, his voice dry and hoarse.
Lioren:
"We accepted a request to eliminate monsters at a noble's farm outside the city."
"The monsters were bogeymen. They kidnapped the farmers there."
"After clearing out their nest, we rescued the survivors."
The mayor's gaze swept over the girls on the cart. He fell silent for a moment, then asked:
Mayor:
"Where do you intend to take them?"
Lioren:
"To the infirmary."
A brief silence followed. Then the mayor sighed softly, his voice lowering.
Mayor:
"I think… you should return them to their owner."
Lioren froze.
Lioren:
"But—"
Mayor:
"You know this, Lioren."
"They are all slaves."
"The life and death of slaves… belong to their masters."
"Your help should end with bringing them back to the city."
"I don't want you causing trouble with the nobility."
He placed a hand on Lioren's shoulder—a light pat carrying the weight of a warning—then turned and walked away, as if what had just happened were nothing more than routine paperwork.
Basle:
"Lioren…"
Basle glanced at him. Lioren's face had darkened, his jaw clenched, his eyes so cold that others instinctively avoided meeting them.
Lioren:
"Basle."
"Take them to the client."
---
The estate of the noble Ovarle was vast and magnificent. The gardens were immaculately trimmed, white stone statues lined the paths, and the heavy fragrance of flowers masked the stench of blood and filth clinging to the wooden cart.
Lioren stepped forward.
Lioren:
"You must be the one who issued the request."
Noble Ovarle—a plump man dressed in luxurious attire—smiled.
Ovarle:
"How fortunate to meet you, Lioren."
Lioren:
"The request has been completed."
Ovarle glanced at the watch on his wrist and deliberately sighed.
Ovarle:
"Oh… you were rather slow, weren't you?"
Lioren said nothing. Ovarle snorted and tossed over a heavy pouch of coins.
Ovarle:
"One million coins."
Lioren took the pouch without thanking him.
Lioren:
"During the mission, I rescued your slaves."
"They were violated many times."
The cart was pulled forward in front of Ovarle.
Ovarle:
"Why are there only women?"
"Where are the men?"
Lioren:
"They're all dead."
Ovarle curled his lip.
Ovarle:
"Useless slaves."
A butler stepped forward, presenting a sword with both hands. Ovarle took it and walked toward the cart without hesitation.
THUD.
The blade plunged straight into the abdomen of a sleeping girl. Her body jerked violently, blood spilling from her mouth, then she went still.
Lioren clenched his fists until blood seeped from his palms.
Lioren (through gritted teeth):
"What… are you doing?"
Ovarle:
"Can't you see?"
"They're no longer usable."
He turned his back and gestured to the butler.
Lioren:
"And the rest of them?"
Ovarle:
"Why even ask?"
"If they're useless, why let them live?"
"Feeding them to my pets is more worthwhile."
(Bastard.)
Lioren's fingernails dug deep into his flesh. Blood dripped onto the stone floor.
---
Lioren distributed the money to Basle's group and left without another word.
He walked through the crowded streets, surrounded by laughter and vendors' cries—everything felt distant. Rage churned in his chest like fire with nowhere to escape.
He bumped into a girl.
He didn't stop.
Then a voice called out behind him.
"Lioren, age twenty-two—a fire swordsman."
Lioren halted and turned.
The girl stood there—beautiful to an almost unreal degree, dark hair, eyes so deep they seemed to swallow light.
Lioren:
"Do you need something?"
(Is there really someone this beautiful in the world…?)
Girl:
"May we talk?"
---
Inside a small tavern, the atmosphere was unnaturally quiet.
Lioren:
"So, who are you?"
Girl:
"Lioren… your true name is Vandros Lioren."
His face darkened.
Lioren:
"Who are you?"
"How do you know my real name?"
Girl:
"When you were a child, Vandros Lioren was used by Kael Vandros—your father—to seal four elemental demons inside your body before you even turned ten."
"After that… you killed your mother."
Lioren's gaze sharpened.
Girl:
"Talion and Liora helped you seal them."
"Then you killed them, using their souls to maintain the seal."
"Every year… you must kill someone to keep yourself alive."
Lioren lost control. His flaming sword pressed against her throat.
Lioren:
"Who are you?"
Girl:
"I am the incarnation of the Dark Goddess—Kiriel."
Lioren froze.
Lioren:
"An incarnation of… a goddess?"
Kiriel:
"Yes."
"And because I am an incarnation… I know your past."
Lioren:
"The history books say…"
"That one chosen by a god's incarnation gains the power to control the world."
Kiriel:
"Half true."
"Half false."
A sheet of paper appeared before him.
Kiriel:
"Kill the Pope of the Turning-Head Church."
"Once it's done…"
"You will receive a wish."
Lioren still hadn't sheathed his sword. The flame on its blade trembled slightly, reflecting his unblinking eyes.
Lioren:
"Why do you want to kill the Pope?"
Kiriel took a sip of water, her movements slow and composed, as if speaking of something distant.
Kiriel:
"The Dark Goddess says…"
"She has sensed danger from the Turning-Head Church."
Lioren laughed—a dry, joyless sound.
Lioren:
"That's it?"
"Killing the Pope of a church is a grave crime."
"Your goddess merely senses danger and wants someone dead?"
"Ridiculous."
"I won't—"
Kiriel interrupted him, her voice still gentle, yet every word pierced an unhealed wound.
Kiriel:
"What if I told you…"
"That Kael Vandros is a member of the Turning-Head Church?"
Time seemed to freeze.
Lioren:
"Kael… Vandros."
The name wasn't just a sound.
It was memory.
A dark room.
Magic circles carved into flesh.
His mother's cries.
The stench of burning blood.
The sword in his hand trembled violently.
Lioren lowered it.
Lioren:
"Fine."
"I accept."
He lifted his head and stared straight at Kiriel, hesitation gone from his eyes.
Lioren:
"If I get a wish…"
"I'll wish for his death."
"A death as vile as possible."
Kiriel looked at him—neither smiling nor showing pity.
Kiriel:
"Then…"
"The contract has been formed."
---
Lioren's consciousness was pulled backward.
The cloud he had been lying on came to a halt. No drifting. No wind. No blue sky.
Lioren stood up.
Before him was an altar—pure white, flawless, without a single crack. Ancient patterns were carved deep into the stone, carrying the breath of divinity.
He stepped forward.
Each footstep echoed as though crushing something alive.
Lioren raised his hand.
The skin of his palm darkened—not from shadow, but from darkness surging up from within. An invisible pressure radiated outward, making the air tremble.
He slammed his hand down onto the altar.
BOOM.
Blackness spread from his palm, crawling along every groove, every carved pattern. The white altar was completely stained black, as though light had never existed there.
Above the sky, clouds gathered.
Not by chance.
They were dragged together, twisted, compressed—until they gradually formed a colossal face, vague yet majestic, its gaze piercing straight through the soul.
A voice descended, low and judgmental.
"Even sealed by me…"
"You still haven't learned your lesson."
Lioren lifted his head and stared straight at that face. No fear. No pleading.
Only hatred.
And in that very moment—memories came flooding back.