The village of Tona was no more.
What was once a lively settlement, filled with warmth and laughter, had been reduced to ruins. The air that once carried the scent of fresh bread and sun-dried herbs was now thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The once-bustling streets, where merchants bartered and children played, were silent—save for the crackling of dying embers and the distant, broken murmurs of the few who remained.
And amidst the destruction, Ryen stood in silence.
The world did not grieve with him. It did not pause to mourn the lives lost, nor did it turn its gaze toward those who had suffered. The world moved forward, as it always had, as it always would—uncaring, relentless.
For two days, the villagers had endured the invaders. For two days, they had held their pain in silence, hoping, waiting. And then, when they could wait no longer, when there was nothing left to lose, they had fought.
And they had lost.
Ryen had tried to fight, too. He had acted. Reached out.
And yet, in the end, it had made no difference.
Perhaps, nothing ever did.
So he made a choice.
If the world would not stop for grief, then neither would he.
He would move forward—not to seek vengeance, not to reclaim what was lost, but simply to exist. To live out whatever life was left to him. He would fade into the next village, become a nameless face in the crowd. If fate had a plan for him, he would follow it. Not because he believed in destiny, but because there was nothing else left to believe in.
But something felt different.
A strange sensation, like an unseen thread pulling at the remnants of Tona, tying itself to the grief and anger that lingered in the hearts of the survivors.
His thoughts—his sorrow, his resentment, his quiet fury—seemed to ripple outward, sinking into the villagers as if they were not merely his own. Their anger deepened, their sorrow solidified. It was faint, unspoken, yet undeniable.
Something was happening.
And though Ryen remained silent, he was no longer just a part of the moment. He had become its center.
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Soen's POV
Soen was not the strongest of warriors.
Nor was he the most skilled.
But he endured.
His body, his mind—both had been tempered through hardship, sharpened by the weight of responsibility. Where others wavered, he remained firm. Where others hesitated, he acted. He was not reckless, nor was he blindly obedient. He was practical, methodical, and above all, relentless.
That was how he had risen through the ranks.
Not by talent.
But by necessity.
While others sought glory, Soen sought purpose. While others chased power, he chased understanding. It was this pursuit that had led him from an ordinary soldier to one of the Majors of Hymmn's Army—an elite force sworn to uphold order in a world that seemed intent on tearing itself apart.
But the kingdom's teachings had never satisfied him.
They preached harmony, the idea that one must submit to the greater order of things, that true strength came from unity and obedience. That a warrior was merely a part of a whole, and to stand apart was to fall.
But Soen had seen otherwise.
It was after a battle, long before the ruins of Tona, that he first stumbled upon the truth.
The battle had been brutal, not because of the enemy's numbers, but because of a single man.
A bandit, or so he had been labeled. But he was different from the others.
The way he moved, the way he fought—there was no hesitation, no fear. Every strike was calculated, every movement precise. He was faster, stronger, more resilient than any ordinary man should have been. As if something deeper had been awakened within him.
Soen had barely survived.
The duel had been the longest of his life. Every strike he made had been returned with equal force, every opening he thought he found had been a trap. By the time he finally killed the man, his own body had been battered, his armor shattered, his sword stained not just with his opponent's blood, but his own.
And in the aftermath, among the wreckage and corpses, he found the book.
The Book of the Frozen Chimes.
A relic of Dissonance.
The teachings of Hymmn had always preached order—a way of life built upon balance, on following the structures laid down by those who came before.
But Dissonance was the opposite.
It was raw. Unrestrained.
It was the pursuit of self—not submission to the world, but domination over oneself.
Where the kingdom spoke of harmony, Dissonance whispered of something greater.
It told of warriors who had abandoned the path of unity, who had sought only their own strength and, in doing so, had transcended their limits.
It was dangerous. Forbidden.
But it held truth.
If a person could endure it—if they could truly reach the pinnacle of themselves—they could break past what was believed to be possible.
They could rise beyond the constraints of the world itself.
Even now, as he stood among the ruins of Tona, watching the broken villagers struggle to stand, he thought of the words written in its pages.
"Maybe I was born this way—to have an impact. To execute what I have in mind. To minimize the noise of the world."
The world is loud. Chaotic.
Filled with suffering that had no meaning.
Perhaps it was time to silence it.
However, a single man cannot change the world the world has to change with him.