Ten days after Minato's death.
Northern front.
Midnight.
The night was still—too still for a place where only a few days ago the sky had burned black.
In the center of the camp, in a dark, unmarked tent, sat Arden Dalis.
No mask.
No katana in hand.
Without a look that seeks the enemy.
Just silence.
The flame of the small lamp in front of him was weak, unstable.
He didn't listen to Arden.
The fire no longer listened.
His hands were shaking.
Not for fear of death.
Not from the pain of the wound.
Ever since memory.
________________________________________
Ten days before…
his heart was beating as if it wanted to jump out of his chest.
The flame within him awoke—not as a weapon, but as a cry.
That night…
more than two thousand Voltoris fell under his blade.
Not like soldiers.
Like ashes.
He didn't feel tired.
He felt no victory.
Just one thought:
Minato fell.
________________________________________Now, ten days later, Arden was alone with himself for the first time.
Cold-blooded in front of others.
Precise.
Silent.
But in the darkness of the tent, without the sight of the world —
he was shaken.
He was afraid.
Not the enemy.
Not war.
He was afraid of himself.
He looked at his palms.
He could no longer see skin on them—
he saw the fire.
Black.
Quiet.
Hungry.
"I'm not this…" he whispered, but the words were lost in the darkness.
The katana next to him shuddered.
The metal heats up slightly, even though no one has touched her.
The flame in the lamp flickered, then went out for a moment—
and lit up again, darker than before.
________________________________________
Arden closed her eyes.
Minato's face appeared before him.
Not in the blood.
Not dead.
Already standing straight, with a gentle smile, like before.
"If you ever lose control..."
"…stop."Arden gritted her teeth.
"I didn't stop," he said quietly.
"I burned them all."
His heart pounded again.
Not like back then.
Not like waking up.
Just as a warning.
________________________________________
Outside, the wind blew through the camp.
The torches bowed.
Some soldiers twitched in their sleep, not knowing why.
In the tent, Arden Dalis stood up.
Stood up straight.
He took a deep breath.
Cold eyes.
Hands that no longer shook.
The fear was there.
The pain was there.
But also a decision.
If this power is in him—
then he will wear it.
Not for revenge.
Not for the gods.
Just because Minato fell,
and the war is not over yet.
The flame in the lamp subsided.
And in the dark of night,
Vex — Heartless Blade
realized for the first time that what had awakened in him
it didn't ask for blood.It demanded a price.
The morning after the night of ashes
The morning fog was still hanging over the camp, thick and heavy, as if it didn't want to clear itself. The smell of burnt earth was everywhere — in the tents, on the uniforms, in the breath of the people.
Standing in the smaller command tent were Rin, Taro, and Lyra.
And in front of them — Arden.
No mask.
No blade in hand.
The face is calm, stiff.
Eyes as cold as ice that survived the fire.
Lyra was the first to speak. Her voice was quiet but authoritative—the voice of someone who had seen too many wounded to pretend.
"Arden… how are you?"
Silence.
Arden only blinked briefly.
"I'm fine."
Nothing more.
Not even a tremor.
No emotions.
Rin looked at him from under his eyebrows. As a spy he knew how to tell a lie—but this was no lie.
This was a lock.
Arden didn't wait for another question.
"How's the situation at the front?"
Taro stood straight, as always. His armor was scratched, his face tired, his eyes red from lack of sleep. Now a major, but the weight of that title visibly broke him for the first time.
"Disastrous," he said without embellishment.
He took a short break.
"Half the men were killed. Some battalions were completely wiped out. Lines we had held for two years—gone in one night."
Rin clenched her jaw.
Taro continued, his voice hard, military, but beneath it there was bitterness.
"Captain Amon from the Western Front is on his way. He's coming with reinforcements, but…"
he paused, then added:
"the army is already withdrawn. We are back to the line of two years ago."
Lyra looked down. Her hands were stained with bandages and dried blood—traces of a night that had not yet ended for her.
"All the effort," he said quietly.
"All operations… all casualties…"
Taro finished the sentence for her:
"In one night — everything went down the drain."
Silence fell on the tent again.
Arden stood motionless.
No shock.
Nor anger.
Just the cold.
"I understand," he said at last.
One single sentence.
He turned toward the exit of the tent, but stopped for a moment.
"Prepare the men," he added flatly.
"If we're taken back two years ... then we're going to move forward again."
Rin watched him leave.
"He's not well," he said quietly.
Lyra knew.
Taro knew.Everyone knew.
Because he who says he's fine
while his heart is burned to ashes—
or broken…
Arden paused at the entrance to the tent, his fingers holding the canvas for a moment, as if weighing whether he would say anything more. His eyes remained cold, but focused—he was already one step ahead of everyone.
"Southern Front?" he asked calmly.
"Kingdom of Thalassa."
Taro answered immediately. He didn't need to look at the reports—he knew those numbers by heart.
"Stable," he said shortly.
"The Water Clan is holding the lines. Thalassa hasn't launched any major offensives. There are skirmishes, but no shifting of borders."
Rin continued:
"Their generals are playing the long game. They're defending themselves, conserving resources. It's as if they're waiting for the north and west to exhaust themselves."
Lyra added softly.
"The wounded from the south are rare. Compared to this…"
she looked at the bloody bandages on her hands
"...the south is peace."
Arden nodded once. Enough.
"Good," he said.
"Let it be so."
For a moment it looked like he was relieved—but only on the surface. Deep inside him, something was calculating, putting together fronts, looking for cracks.
A stable south meant one thing:
All the storm —
all blood —
all fire —
she was still in the north.
Arden released the canvas of the tent and walked out, leaving them in a silence that spoke louder than any command.