Amon stepped down from the throne and walked alone through the stone corridors of his castle. The walls wept with old heat, torches flickering as if in fear.
His reflection followed in the stained glass, tall, regal—and yet questioning.
He paused by a cracked window overlooking the scorched valley beyond. His voice cut through the silence:
"Why do those skills say 'Past Life'? What does that even mean?"
The air shimmered.
| Ding… || Access Denied. |
He blinked.
"What?"
| Access Denied. |
His eyes narrowed.
"Explain. I have the right to know. This is my soul, my memories."
The system remained silent for a moment.
Then again—
| Access Denied. |
Amon exhaled slowly. The cold breath fogged against the broken glass.
He didn't press it further.
Because he understood now:
Asking meant nothing.
But his thoughts wouldn't still.
"This system… it's suspicious. Too quiet. Too blind. It just appeared when I was fifteen... when I was still a student at the Academy of Veldora."
He closed his eyes, memories bubbling to the surface.
"I remember the first quest—it told me to become king. That was all. No help. No guidance. No reason why."
His fingers curled against the stone.
"I assumed it was like those stories I read as a boy. The hero gains a system from the gods. A divine guide. A sacred purpose."
He chuckled bitterly.
"But mine…""Mine says nothing. It hides everything. Even from me."
The window creaked in the wind.
His crimson eyes glinted as he stared into the dark horizon.
"...Which means someone doesn't want me to know who I really am."
But then, the scene shifted—
Amon, now in his humanoid form, had left the obsidian throne behind.
He walked alone beneath a burnt sky, his black coat swaying with each step, the faint outline of his branch-like horns casting strange shadows behind him.
Eventually, he arrived at the gates of Ironborn City—A city not ruled by kings or gods, but by coin, luck, and blood.A place where taxes were a myth, where wealth danced hand-in-hand with ruin. A gambler's paradise. A sinner's sanctuary.
At the massive steel gates, two guards crossed their halberds in front of him.
One of them squinted, then asked, "State your purpose, traveler."
Amon smiled faintly, eyes glowing just a little too red in the sunlight.
"Gambling." he said simply.
The guards blinked.
One of them whispered to the other, "He looks loaded… with that face and coat? Probably some noble from the west coming to waste his fortune."
They exchanged a quick glance, then shrugged.
"Pay the entry token," one said.
Amon dropped a coin pouch heavier than it needed to be.
They handed him a brass chip in return—The House Mark.
"Don't lose it," one warned. "Or lose your hand."
He walked past them without a word.
As he entered, the roar of life engulfed him. Music played from corners. Kids laughed as they chased each other through merchant stalls. Men bargained, women danced. Even the air smelled different—wine, spice, sweat, and sin.
People turned to look at him. Some gasped softly—his sharp, elegant face, glowing eyes, and regal coat that trailed just above the stone.
Some looked at him in awe.
Others, with hidden jealousy.
A few men clenched their fists.
But Amon didn't care.
He didn't return a single stare.
He walked through them like a shadow cast by a star—distant, untouchable.
To them, the city might've looked like paradise.To him?
Just another illusion painted in gold.
He kept walking, eyes forward.
A plan unfolding inside him.
And something…waiting to be awakened.
But Amon never stopped at the gambling houses.
He passed by the golden-lit palaces, the lavish halls filled with laughing nobles and desperate men throwing dice like they were casting prayers to false gods.
He ignored the whispers, the flirtatious calls, the stares of women and the envy of men.All of it—beneath him.
His boots echoed across the cobblestones as he walked through the layers of illusion.
Until—
He reached the southern outskirts of Ironborn.
And there… the city changed.
Gone were the bright lights. Gone were the cheerful songs, the children chasing dreams, the scent of roasted meat and perfume.
Here, the air stank of piss, rot, and despair.
A broken sign creaked in the wind, swinging above a boarded building:"Iron Fang Slave Trading Company"The words burned into his mind like old scars reopening.
Drunks lay on the streets like discarded meat.Hollow-eyed men leaned against walls, muttering to themselves.A girl, no older than twelve, sat barefoot under a flickering lamp, her wrists bruised and bound in rusted chains.
This was the true face of Ironborn.The one hidden behind polished coin and bright music.
Amon stopped for a moment, staring down the street, unmoving.
And whispered to himself:
"Every kingdom smiles on the first night.But wait long enough… they always show their teeth."
He moved again, slower now.
As he turned a corner into a narrow alley—he heard something.
A whimper.
Then a voice. Slurred. Dripping with filth.
"C'mon, love… no one's watching."
Amon stepped forward. His glowing eyes narrowed.
Three men stood in a dark corner, half-drunk, their armor half-fitted like mercs without a master.One of them had a woman pinned against the wall—her dress torn, her mouth gagged with rough cloth.Tears ran down her cheeks.
She saw him.
And even gagged—she begged with her eyes.
Help me.
Amon just stood there.
He looked at her.
Looked at the men.
Then looked away.
He turned.
Took a step to leave—
And then—everything went dark.
A sudden sharp pulse hit his head.
The world spun.
And then—
A breath.
A strange flicker behind his eyes.
A chill that wasn't from the wind.
Amon took a step back—then froze.
Something inside him cracked. Like a door unhinging.
And then—
darkness.
Only for a moment.
But when his vision returned…
The silence felt wrong.
Like the city itself was holding its breath.
The alley was painted red.
The three mercenaries lay in ruins. Not dead—obliterated. Limbs bent the wrong way. Faces torn. Blood splattered the stone walls in wild arcs like a storm of blades had passed through.
Amon stood at the center.
His fists clenched. His coat soaked in blood.His breathing—shallow, rapid.
The woman was gone. No scream. No body. Just absence.
He stared at his hands. They trembled.
"What… the hell?"
His pulse thundered in his ears.He tried to remember—but there was nothing.
No movement. No decision. No rage.
Just… a blackout.
And now, this.
Panic scratched at the edge of his mind. He looked around again, half-expecting to see someone else. Some proof that he hadn't done it.
But he was alone.
Utterly alone.
He staggered back against the alley wall, his thoughts spinning, a quiet voice inside him whispering:
Did I do this?
"No…" he muttered. "No, I didn't move. I didn't even raise a hand…"
But the blood on his palms said otherwise.
He gritted his teeth and opened the system interface, voice low but sharp.
"System… what happened back there?"
Silence.
He narrowed his eyes.
"System—respond."
| Ding… |
| Query registered. Accessing incident record… |
A flicker of hope.
But then—
| ACCESS DENIED. |
"What?"
He clenched his jaw. "Access denied? What kind of system are you?"
| ACCESS DENIED. RESTRICTED MEMORY LOCK. |
Amon stepped back, rage flickering in his eyes. "This has to do with me. I didn't black out for no reason. Show me the log."
| Further attempts will result in system silence. |
He froze.
The alley felt colder now.
Quieter.
Deeper.
He stared at the blood. At the ruin.
Then slowly looked down at his hands again.
A breath escaped him. Barely audible.
"…What the hell am I?"