*A Ballad in Blood and Starlight*
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**I. The First Death**
Beneath the chandeliers that burned like frozen tears,
A man named Ayronee counted down his final years.
Twenty-seven, hollow-eyed, measuring the fall,
Forty feet to pavement where his shadow would sprawl.
His cousins came with poison wrapped in silk and smile,
Their mockery a dagger turned and twisted for a while.
"How many chances does one failure need," they said,
"Before he learns his place among the living dead?"
The whiskey burned like prophecy, like truth he couldn't face,
Each glass a step toward ending, toward his fall from grace.
On the rooftop where the stars looked down with eyes of ice,
He made the choice that broken men will make—he paid the price.
His friends, they screamed behind him, "No! Please don't, we love you so!"
But Ayronee was falling, falling, falling far below.
And as the ground rushed up to meet his shattered, weeping heart,
He thought: *At last, the ending. At last, the final part.*
**But death, it seems, is not the end for souls that burn too bright—**
**The universe had other plans for him that fatal night.**
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**II. The Reincarnation**
An angel descended, wings like shattered stars and sacred flame,
She spoke of second chances, spoke of mercy, spoke his name.
"You'll live again," she promised, "in a world of sword and spell,
But take your life again, dear boy, and I will send you straight to hell."
He woke as Hexia, infant small, in loving parents' arms,
In Korn Village where the simple folk knew nothing of his harms.
His father taught him swordplay, his mother magic's art,
But deep within that child's chest still beat a broken heart.
At six years old he found her—Lhoralaine with golden hair,
Surrounded by three bullies throwing stones into the air.
And something ancient, something cold, awoke inside his soul,
He broke their bones and made them beg, made bleeding his control.
"Heads will roll," he whispered to the darkness and the sky,
"For anyone who dares to make me feel that small, to make me want to die.
I'll become a weapon, forged in pain and polished bright,
And none shall ever wound me, none shall dare to mock my plight."
**The prophecy was spoken. The promise had been made.**
**In the heart of broken Hexia, the seeds of death were laid.**
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**III. The Poison Takes Root**
They trained together, three young souls beneath the summer sun,
Hexia and Lhoralaine and Fred (the poison, masked as one).
But Fred was patient, cunning, saw the love that Hexia hid,
And year by year, with subtle art, beneath her heart he slid.
At twelve, when Hexia finally knew the truth his heart had held,
Fred's hands were already holding hers—the die was cast and spelled.
"I love you, Lhora," Fred confessed beneath the ancient tree,
While Hexia watched from shadows, dying silently.
At fifteen they were lovers. At sixteen, they walked away,
To seek adventure, glory, gold—while Hexia chose to stay.
"I want only peace," he told them, hollow-voiced and cold as stone,
"Go find your destiny together. Leave me here alone."
**And so the walls grew higher, stone by stone and year by year,**
**Until the boy who once felt everything felt nothing, knew no fear.**
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**IV. The Swordsman of Rolling Heads**
At eighteen he was legend—the protector of the weak,
With crimson eyes like winter storms and violence cold and sleek.
When bandits came, he ended them with surgical precision,
Each head that rolled across the ground fulfilled his dark decision.
Fifty men and monsters fell before his dancing blade,
The witnesses who lived to tell spoke of the death parade.
"His eyes," they whispered, trembling, "hold nothing—just the void,
He kills like others breathe—mechanical, aloof, deployed."
They called him Swordsman of Rolling Heads, the Guillotine, the Blade,
The angel-faced and demon-souled, the debt that must be paid.
Three weeks of silence followed, three weeks of empty peace,
Until the day his legend died and suffering found release.
**For in a tavern, blood was spilled—Fred's blood upon the floor,**
**And Hexia stood above the corpse, his hands still wet with gore.**
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**V. The Trial and Revelation**
They chained him for his murder, dragged him to the public square,
Where thousands gathered, baying for the justice waiting there.
But angels tore the heavens open, demons cracked the ground,
And truths more terrible than death came crashing, screaming down.
"Fred opened ancient seals," they said, "and doomed your world to fall,
In six years comes the first Ancient, and they shall devour all.
In thirty-six, all six shall wake, and if they're not contained,
The Primal Ancient shall return—and nothing shall remain."
An angel touched his forehead, burned a mark upon his hand,
A six-pointed star, a hexagram—the hero's cursed brand.
"You are chosen," Myraelle proclaimed, her voice like thunder's roll,
"To save this world or watch it burn. Immortal now, your soul."
Hexia, the suicidal, who had died to find release,
Was told he could not die again—condemned to life's caprice.
They slammed him to the earth to prove their point with brutal grace,
And laughed as bones that should have shattered healed without a trace.
**"You wanted death?" the demons cackled, grinning ear to ear,**
**"Too bad, dear boy—you're stuck with life, with suffering, with fear."**
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**VI. The Prophecy Fulfilled**
Now Hexia stands beneath the stars, mark burning on his hand,
Immortal, unkillable, hero to a dying land.
Five others bear the hexagram, scattered far and wide,
Each chosen by the universe, each bound to stem the tide.
Sirenia of silver hair, who loves him fierce and true,
And Lhoralaine, who lost him once, now desperate to renew.
His parents watch with breaking hearts, their son both near and far,
A weapon wrapped in human skin, guided by a star.
The clock is ticking—six years hence the first Ancient shall rise,
And every six years after that, beneath apocalyptic skies.
Can a boy who wanted death become the one to save?
Can a heart that's turned to ice still learn to be that brave?
The Trinity of Death awaits—past, present, future bound,
A story forged in suicide where no salvation can be found.
Or perhaps within the darkness, within the empty shell,
A spark of something human fights its way up out of hell.
**The heads will roll, the prophecy declared it long ago,**
**But whose heads fall when the Ancients come—hero, foe, or both?—we do not know.**
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**VII. The Invitation**
So step inside this story, dear reader, if you dare,
Where suicidal becomes immortal, where answered prayers despair.
Where love and loss and vengeance dance their eternal, bloody waltz,
And broken boys become the heroes—or commit apocalyptic faults.
Six Ancients. Six Heroes. Six years until the end.
Will Hexia learn to live again, or will his emptiness descend?
Will the girl he loved return to him, or tear his world apart?
Will the swordsman of rolling heads remember how to feel his heart?
The angels call him blessed. The demons call him cursed.
His enemies call him monster. His friends call him the worst.
But Hexia calls himself a prisoner, trapped in flesh and fate,
And prisoners with nothing left will burn the world or make it great.
**Come witness the Trinity of Death, where every choice is dear,**
**Where heads will roll and worlds will burn and heroes learn to fear.**
**The first death was a rooftop. The second, a reborn chance.**
**The third? Well, that's the question, dear reader—care to dance?**
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*Welcome to the Trinity of Death. The fall has just begun. And when you force a man who craved oblivion to become the one who must save everyone—the only question that remains is this: will he save the world, or will he finally, beautifully, catastrophically let it burn?*
*Turn the page. Find out.*
*The heads are already beginning to roll.*