The world is never truly silent. For the people of Nordvik, silence is the moment the wind stops howling through the cracks in the pines, or when the ice in the bay no longer moans under the pressure of the undercurrents. But for me, Napoleon, silence is the greatest lie ever fashioned by human senses.
Ever since I crawled out of that dark fissure they call the Abyss, a gaping hole in the belly of the earth that swallowed me for three days that felt like three centuries, I lost the ability to enjoy stillness.
I sat at the edge of a decaying wooden pier, letting my feet dangle just inches above the surface of the frozen sea. The air in Cyberia this morning was cold enough to freeze tears before they could track down a cheek, but I didn't perceive it as a threat. To me, this cold was merely a thin veil covering something far greater.
Beneath that two-meter-thick layer of ice, I could hear it. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It wasn't the sound of fish. It was the heartbeat of the earth, an ancient rhythm, heavy and slow. I could feel the shift of the water in the darkness below, carrying messages from the deepest trenches that have never been touched by sunlight. And above, the wind didn't just blow; it whispered. It carried the scent of iron, the aroma of coming death, and echoes from a place where the sky is the color of rotting purple.
"Leon!"
The voice struck my back like a wooden mace. I didn't turn. I knew it was my father's voice. That name... Leon. Every time he shouted it, I felt as if I were being forced into a coffin that was far too small. That name belonged to a young boy who loved to fish, who was afraid of the dark, and who always came home before sunset.
That boy died in the Abyss. He was devoured by the darkness, and the thing that crawled out was merely a shell that resembled him.
"Leon! Get down from there! The ice could break at any moment!"
I slowly turned my head. Father stood there, wrapped in a thick fur mantle that made him look like a tired old bear. His face was a map of wrinkles and worry. His eyes, which used to sparkle with pride when I caught my first fish, now held nothing but a faint flickering of fear.
"This ice will not break for me, Father," I said flatly. My voice sounded like the grinding of two ice blocks. "It knows me."
My father flinched. He took a step forward but stopped three paces away. It was as if an invisible line separated the warm world of humans from the cold aura radiating from my body.
"Come inside. Your mother has prepared warm tea. You've been out here since dawn," he said, his voice trembling not from the cold, but from the desperation of a parent realizing their child has become a stranger.
I stood up. My movements were fluid, too efficient for a teenager. No wasted steps, no faltering balance. I stared at my empty palms. In this village, every youth yearned for something called the 'Fusaka.' They gazed toward the heavens, begging the gods for an elemental gem that could raise their status to that of a hero.
My older brothers often spoke of great knights who could summon fire or freeze oceans with a wave of their hand. To them, the Fusaka was proof of the Gods' love.
To me? It was a mere child's toy.
Down there, in the place my mentor, Malphas, called the "True Reality," I learned that power does not come from the permission of a god sitting atop the clouds. Power comes from hunger. Power comes from the moment you realize that if you do not rip the throat out of the monster in front of you, it will feast upon your flesh.
Malphas. My teacher. That man had eyes colder than the fiercest Cyberian blizzard. His blade didn't just cut flesh; it cleaved through space and time.
"The world up there is a stage play governed by contracts and elements, Leon," he had whispered once as we rested among the giant skeletal remains of creatures I didn't recognize. "But here, the law is pure. You are either the predator, or you are the prey. Choose one, or die as trash."
I chose to be the predator. And a predator does not need a Fusaka to know how to kill.
I walked past my father without meeting his eyes. The smell of his body—a mixture of sweat, cheap tobacco, and fish oil, felt pungent to a nose now accustomed to the scent of ozone and sulfur from the Abyss.
"You've changed, son," he muttered as I passed him. "Since you returned from those woods... you've never smiled again."
I paused for a second, staring at the freshly fallen snow. "A smile is useless when you are trying to breathe in the darkness, Father. Down there, only muscle and instinct speak."
I continued walking toward our shack, leaving my father frozen on the pier. I could feel his gaze on my back. It was the same look people gave to a wolf that had lost its way and wandered into a sheep pen. They feared me, but they didn't yet know that I was the only thing standing between them and the destruction that would soon be knocking on Nordvik's door.