The night air was heavy with silence, broken only by the frantic footsteps of three desperate men.
They sprinted down narrow, winding alleys, having already crossed two streets from the scene of carnage. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their boots slapping unevenly against the cobblestones slick with moisture. The main road was near so close they could almost hear the distant hum of life from the city. Light. People. Safety. They held onto the hope that reaching the main road would save them. That no one,no matter how powerful,would dare to pursue them in public. If they made it there, they could call for help, alert the guards, inform the Count. After that, the weight of this nightmare would no longer be theirs to bear.
But fate, as always, had a cruel sense of timing.
A sharp, whistling sound sliced through the air. One of them instinctively turned his head just in time to see the lifeless body of their companion spiraling through the air, a dagger embedded deep in his back. His corpse landed in a crumpled heap at their feet.
Before shock could transform into action, an invisible force seized them.
They crashed backward into the wall beside their fallen comrade, hurled like rag dolls. Bones cracked against stone. Breath left their lungs. Pain bloomed.
The man wielding the wooden club, dazed and disoriented, tried to scream. But the cry never left his throat.
A flash of movement.
A blade danced through the moonlight,graceful, efficient, merciless.
His head fell cleanly from his shoulders, blood painting the stones in shades of crimson.
Then, the final one stood alone.
Grey materialized before him, as if emerging from the very shadows themselves. His gaze was unreadable, cold and distant, like a forgotten god gazing down at a sinner.
The man with the knife—Albert,looked into those eyes and knew it was the end. There was no escape. No salvation.
He closed his eyes.
And in that fleeting moment, he returned to a memory that had lain dormant for years.
"Albert! Why are you slacking off again?"
The stern voice of a middle-aged man echoed through the dusty training yard.
Albert, barely fifteen at the time, had looked up with irritation. "Tch. I beat George this morning. He's the strongest in my batch. That means I'm the strongest now."
The old trainer sighed, arms crossed over his chest. "And if you don't keep training, someone else will surpass you tomorrow just like you surpassed him today."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Albert had grumbled, tossing his training blade into the dirt. "But one day… I'll go even beyond those damn Paladins. I'll make them kneel."
The trainer had chuckled, not unkindly. "Young men and their dreams"
Now, standing at the threshold of death, Albert smiled bitterly as tears welled in his eyes.
It seems I failed you, old man.
A soft sound, almost like a sigh,cut through the silence. Blood trickled down his chest, his body crumpling slowly, like a puppet with its strings severed.
Grey stood over the lifeless corpse, blade slick with blood, the moonlight casting elongated shadows across the wall.
He said nothing. For a moment, he simply stared at what he had done.
Then he slowly sat down beside the bodies, leaning back against the cool stone.
The silence returned.
Above him, the moon hung solemn and full, its pale light illuminating his blood-splattered face.
He stared at it, his breath evening out, his thoughts a storm beneath a still surface.
I've changed, he thought.
No… I had to change. This world is not like Earth.