East of the ruined kingdom of Virelith stood a modest-sized fortified city.
Arenhast. Once a husk of its former self, the city had been reclaimed by Xiaran forces and redeveloped with military precision. Collapsed buildings now stood tall again, pristine under fresh white paint that bled into the snow—turning the city into a ghostly, beautiful monument of rebirth.
At its heart stood the Inner Tier—Crownward Bastion, home of the Command Barracks.
A woman walked briskly through its stone corridors, her boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. Her dark green hair flowed with each hurried step, and her piercing eyes, calm and cold, commanded silence. She wore a dark blue robe over a green dress that matched her hair, her entire presence radiating unspoken authority.
"Lady Miras," a voice called.
She halted, turning toward a young mage jogging up behind her.
"What is it, Matteus?"
The boy stopped, momentarily forgetting why he had come. "Ah—report, ma'am," he finally blurted, snapping out of his daze. He extended a crumpled parchment with both hands. "It's the battle report from Virelith."
Miras took it, scanning its contents. Her lips curled slightly.
"Good. We won again," she said with a faint chuckle. "You've brought good news, Matteus."
But the smile soon faded.
Her finger landed on a section of the document. "What is this?"
"Uh… a death report, ma'am," he replied, scratching the back of his head.
Miras smacked the top of his head with the paper. "I know what it is."
She studied the page again, narrowing her eyes. "What I want to know is who killed them?"
She tapped the parchment. "I know those Velgrynd brutes are barbaric, but this?" She handed it to him. "Look at this. Some were hanged, others burned to ash. And then there are those whose throats were bitten off."
A chill crawled down Matteus's spine.
"What could've done this… in the outskirts of Virelith?"
"I… I may have an answer," he muttered, his face pale.
"Oh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, there's a rumor. Out there, near the ruins… something that looks like a boy has been sighted."
"A boy?"
He nodded slowly. "A longsword almost as tall as him. The few survivors mentioned that he hunts the weakened in the outskirts, its only goal—toying with the victims"
Miras tilted her head. "Does this thing have a name?"
Matteus gulped.
"The survivors call it… The Ghost of Solmira."
---
In the outskirts of Virelith, a battle raged.
Two young men stood opposite each other, breath clouding in the cold air.
Lior rested his odachi across his shoulder, calm as stone, gray eyes like mist.
He smirked. "What's wrong? Aren't you going to attack?"
Across from him, the warrior frowned. "No, child. You should stop."
Lior blinked. "Pardon?"
"I don't want to hurt an innocent boy."
Lior pointed his sword at a corpse nearby. "You'd let me go? After I killed your comrade?"
"Of course not. But you'll come with me. You'll answer for that crime."
Clicking his tongue, Lior scoffed. "You Velgrynd people are dumber than I thought."
The man's tone sharpened. "What do you mean?"
"That's enough talk," Lior said, stretching his neck. A grin cracked across his face. "Let's begin. Use your Immanence."
He dashed forward, gripping his odachi.
"Wait, child—!"
The warrior barely had time to react. He thrust his sword forward in panic—a perfect stab.
Lior couldn't dodge.
So he didn't.
The blade pierced straight through his outstretched hand. Blood gushed, warm against the winter air.
Pain kicked up his arm like flame, but he locked it down. He had been through worse. Much worse
He gripped the sword tighter, locking the man's arm in place.
The warrior's eyes widened.
Lior ignored the pain. He had to.
With a single brutal motion, he brought his odachi down on the man—cutting deep between the shoulder and neck.
The blade stopped near the chest. The man collapsed, kneeling in shock.
Lior pulled the sword from his own bleeding hand and stepped back, panting.
"You bastard," the man rasped, "Have you no honor? Dirty tricks like that..."
Lior said nothing. Blood dripped from his palm onto the snow.
Slowly walking toward the man, he took out a small bottle of clear liquid and uncorked it.
"What—"
He poured the contents onto his head.
Then, he pulled a scroll from his pocket.
"You know why I like the Kindlechant scroll?" he asked playfully.
He began tearing it slowly.
"It allows a Dormant like me to play with fire."
A wicked smile twisted his lips.
The man's face twisted in horror. "You devil!"
Too late.
The scroll tore.
A sudden blast of sparks—and flame.
The man ignited like dry paper, screaming and writhing. He tried rolling in the snow, but the odachi lodged in his shoulder pinned him like an insect.
Lior watched, flames dancing in his eyes.
Minutes passed. The screams died. All that remained was blackened charcoal and a gleaming blade.
He retrieved his sword with a grimace.
What a strange sword.
He looked at the corpse and sighed. "If you'd let me go, you'd still be breathing."
He turned his back. "Oh well. This should keep them away from the outskirts."
There were two reasons Lior hunted there.
First: to grow stronger. Battles taught him more than any mentor could—about swordplay, magic, and Immanence. Due to his own strength, he could only fight Awakened warriors, as well as badly injured Kindled ones. Even so, they were starting to bore him.
I need to form a core. Soon.
Second: deterrence.
Brutal, theatrical killings. Just enough survivors to spread the tale. It made the outskirts too frightening to patrol.
He glanced up at the clear blue sky.
"What did those Xiaran mages call me again?"