At the edge of the high mountains of Yan, where the wind never truly rests, and even stone seems to lean under its pressure, two figures waited on a narrow ridge.
Clouds moved below them like a broken sea.
A man with a faint halo hovering above his head sat cross-legged on a flat slab of granite. A rifle rested lazily across his knees. Steam curled from the porcelain cup in his free hand.
He did not rush.
He did not hide.
Far below, three silhouettes were climbing the final stretch toward the ridge.
The man took a slow sip of tea.
Then, he casually adjusted his aim.
Beside him stood a towering Wendigo, spear grounded, shield strapped across his back. His breath fogged in the thin air.
[Grrovae'zzeal]: Teacher… why didn't we leave before they reached the slope?
The haloed man squinted down the mountain, measuring distance. Wind tugged at his coat, but his aim never wavered.
He chuckled softly.
[Haloed Man]: And deprive them of the satisfaction of thinking they cornered us?
He clicked his tongue.
[Haloed Man]: Besides, you forget.
He tapped the side of his head with the barrel of the gun.
[Haloed Man]: Your teacher is cursed.
A lazy sigh escaped him.
[Haloed Man]: Can't think outside the box. Can't improvise. Can't run unless the plan says "run."
He took another sip.
The halo above him flickered faintly.
[Haloed Man]: Honestly, if the heavens were going to curse me, they could've chosen something simpler.
A faint smirk.
[Haloed Man]: Death, perhaps.
The Wendigo shifted his weight.
[Grrovae'zzeal]: You do not sound distressed.
The man lowered the rifle just slightly, studying the approaching trio more carefully now.
[Haloed Man]: I'm not.
A small pause.
[Haloed Man]: I'm annoyed.
The wind howled harder, carrying the faint crunch of boots against rock.
The three figures were close enough now to distinguish their postures from their silhouettes.
The haloed man adjusted his aim slightly.
Not tense.
Not hurried.
Just precise.
A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
[Haloed Man]: So… friends.
His voice carried easily despite the wind.
[Haloed Man]: Tell me you climbed all this way to deliver good news.
A pause.
The rifle steadied.
[Haloed Man]: Has your emperor finally died?
He tilted his head slightly, as though genuinely hopeful.
[Haloed Man]: I've been meaning to try that Gualis royal wine reserve.
A faint chuckle.
[Haloed Man]: It would be a shame if it aged into a thousand-year relic before I got a taste.
His finger rested lightly on the trigger.
Not tightening.
Just waiting.
[Haloed Man]: Or did you come to disappoint me?
The three finally reached the ridge.
One stepped forward.
He wore flowing red robes trimmed in gold thread, the fabric untouched by dust despite the climb. A polished golden mask concealed his face entirely — smooth, expressionless, imperial.
He simply stopped within speaking distance.
[Masked Man]: Oh, great Scholar—
A beat.
The Scholar didn't lower the rifle.
{Note: Name changes from Haloed Man to Scholar}
[Scholar]: Here we go again.
He didn't lower the rifle.
He didn't blink.
[Scholar]: The answer is no. And yes — you may signal the army surrounding us to begin whenever you like.
A faint pause.
[Scholar]: It saves us time.
The Masked Man hesitated.
[Masked Man]: We… didn't come for that.
A glance up the slope.
[Masked Man]: How many times has Yan invited you back? Or threatened you?
The Scholar sighed.
A tired sound.
[Scholar]: Since your first emperor decided I was "interesting."
He made a small, dismissive gesture with the rifle barrel.
[Scholar]: Curiosity is a dangerous trait in rulers.
The wind shifted.
[Masked Man]: Just how old are you?
A quiet beat.
The Scholar finally looked directly at him.
Not amused.
Not offended.
Just measuring.
[Scholar]: I spoke with the Prophet.
A pause.
[Scholar]: And the Priestess.
The air seemed to thin.
[Scholar]: You likely don't know those names.
A faint, almost private smile.
[Scholar]: I suspect there are only five of us left who do.
The smile vanished as if it had never existed.
His gaze hardened.
[Scholar]: Now… why are you here, Nian?
He didn't lower the rifle.
[Scholar]: You know I hate you and all your siblings the same.
A pause.
Cold.
Measured.
[Scholar]: No. That's inaccurate.
His jaw tightened slightly.
[Scholar]: I hate Dusk the most.
The masked man exhaled softly.
Then he removed the mask.
The robe fell away.
White hair spilled over her shoulders, bright even in the mountain gloom. Two curved orange horns framed her head like living flame.
It was Nian.
[Nian]: Still holding onto that, old man?
Her voice lacked its usual playfulness.
[Nian]: It's been three hundred and fifty years.
A faint, almost pleading tilt of her head.
[Nian]: Can't you forgive us now?
The wind cut sharply across the ridge.
The Scholar did not blink.
His voice did not rise.
That made it worse.
[Scholar]: Your sister — Dusk — killed Toner six years ago.
The name lingered in the air like something sacred.
[Scholar]: A child.
A quiet breath.
[Scholar]: A kind child. He loved to sing.
His grip on the rifle tightened just slightly.
[Scholar]: He swore the Oath. To spread happiness. To ease suffering.
His eyes returned to hers.
Not furious.
Not wild.
Simply unwavering.
[Scholar]: And you ask me for forgiveness.
A long pause.
[Scholar]: As for you… and the rest of your kin—
The wind seemed to retreat from the ridge.
[Scholar]: Every one of you carries the blood of at least one Oathskeeper.
Silence settled between them.
Old.
Unsettled.
The Scholar's voice did not rise.
That made each word sharper.
[Scholar]: Should I remind you how you drove your blade through Smith's heart?
A pause.
[Scholar]: Or how your brother forced Arthur to give his life to shield him from a Feranmut?
His jaw tightened.
[Scholar]: Or Green—
He stopped himself.
A small exhale.
[Scholar]: No. It doesn't matter which name I choose.
His eyes locked onto hers.
[Scholar]: I cannot stop hating you.
The words were quiet. Absolute.
[Scholar]: Especially when your eldest swore he would come when I called.
A brittle smile.
[Scholar]: I called.
The smile disappeared.
[Scholar]: He never came.
The rifle did not waver.
[Scholar]: Leave, Nian.
A beat.
[Scholar]: I want to kill you.
Wind tore across the ridge again.
[Scholar]: But I promised your brother I wouldn't.
For a moment, Nian said nothing.
Then—
[Nian]: Scholar… just tell me where Protector is.
Her voice had lost its defiance.
[Nian]: We came to apologize for—
A gunshot split the mountain air.
The sound cracked like thunder against stone.
Nian staggered half a step.
A thin line of blood traced down her left cheek.
Behind her, an Originium cluster shattered into fine dust where the bullet struck.
The message was clear.
The word echoed.
Not shouted.
Carved.
[Scholar]: You made him suffer enough.
His eyes burned now — not with rage.
With memory.
[Scholar]: Take your siblings.
And do not return.
Nian's fist clenched until her knuckles whitened. The masked figures behind her shifted uneasily. One hesitated — and had to be pulled along as they turned and descended the slope.
None of them looked back.
The Scholar watched until they vanished into cloud.
Then he lowered the rifle.
He entered his house without another word.
Inside, he walked through dim corridors until he reached a dark room.
He struck a match.
Lit a candle.
Warm light flickered outward.
The walls were covered in paintings.
Hundreds of them.
Each is carefully framed.
Each bearing a name beneath it.
He moved slowly past warriors, scholars, children, and kings.
He stopped before one.
A boy.
Seven… perhaps eight.
Smiling — happily.
The robe he wore was far too large for him — dark and heavy against his small frame.
His eyes were pale silver.
Gentle.
A crown of dark feathers rested crookedly in his violet hair.
Beneath the frame, a single name.
Toner.
The Scholar reached out.
His fingers hovered over the painted cheek.
He did not touch it.
The candlelight trembled.
And for the first time since the mountain fell silent—
The Scholar closed his eyes and cried.
[Chapter end]
[The bullet hit the target]