Boom!
The explosions were relentless, sending hot drafts through every street—a force some had come to call the devil's wind.
Along with this fierce wind came embers that cared nothing for anyone caught in their path. Scorched adventurers staggered out of the blazing inferno, only to fall a few steps later, adding to the ever-growing number of casualties.
Off to the side, a young boy knelt over his older brother's body, trembling, unmoving, and weeping.
Trapped by the encroaching embers with nowhere to run and no one to help him, the boy wondered if a quick death might be a mercy in such a cruel time.
After all, even if he survived, how could he live alone in a city so harsh and indifferent to the suffering?
Swoosh!
A sudden gust of wind forced the boy to shut his eyes tight to keep out the flying debris.
When he opened them again, his gaze fell on a silver spear lodged in the ground before him.
Clack! Clack!
As shock made the boy stagger, another sound drew his attention.
A man—no half-elf—was approaching him.
There was only one word that could describe the man: beautiful.
Amid the chaos of smoking ruins and flickering flames, this striking figure captured the very essence of both beauty and strength.
He stood 1.7 meters tall, golden hair cascading like molten sunlight in the fiery glow of the night. His vibrant red eyes, both piercing and mesmerizing, seemed to call forth the attention of everyone around him.
Clad in intricately crafted armor that gleamed with detailed images of dragons, his attire was both elegant and practical, decorated with ornate designs that celebrated death in a strangely poetic manner.
The armour fit him perfectly, highlighting his well-toned body and noble bearing.
As he strode forward, his magnificent cape billowed dramatically in the hot drafts, fluttering like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
Hoisting the long silver spear he had thrown earlier, the man locked his gaze on the boy.
"A… a-are you here to save me?" the boy asked hesitantly, his words catching in his throat.
In the short time since the war began, the boy had experienced so much that he could sense the man before him was not truly good.
"Perhaps...…. I sensed your desire for death, and so I came," the man replied, his voice a soothing whisper in the boy's ear.
"I see," the boy murmured, offering no resistance.
In the hours he had spent watching his brother's lifeless form, he had reached a decision.
Yet a small flicker of hope remained that this nightmare was just a dream, that someone might arrive to save him or at least dissuade him from his fatal path.
But this was reality, and the one before him was pure evil.
What use was there in fighting? Staring at the hellish surroundings, he thought it might be better to join his family in the afterlife, for the living world had nothing left for him.
Seeing the boy's quiet surrender, the man ended his life swiftly and painlessly.
This was his creed: those who did not resist and accepted death willingly were given mercy, while those who fought were doomed to a slow, excruciating end.
All mortal lives were equal before death, and those who welcomed it were, in his eyes, the true holy ones.
"Not very often do I meet someone who understands the truth," he mused, glancing at the lives he had taken with genuine pleasure.
Squatting down, he placed his hand on the boy's body, and something frightening occurred. Within seconds, the boy's skin turned as white as bone, as if all warmth had been drained from his dead body.
"Aaaaah, that hit the spot. Now I wonder how those two brats are faring—it must be so easy for them. This city has become stagnant. In the 40 years I was away, it has grown terribly weak. I wonder if anyone still remembers an old man like me," he muttered, then turned to seek his next prey.
This was Mors—a twisted man who had severed the dragon god of death.
Just as Mors prepared to move on, he spotted someone sneaking nearby.
Casually, he threw his silver spear; the weapon flew through several buildings before striking its target.
Clang!
The sound of clashing metal echoed in the distance, yet Mors knew his target was still alive. "Interesting," he thought, hurrying toward his thrown weapon with astonishing speed.
"Cough, cough," a voice emerged from among the rubble.
Stumbling to his feet, a man came into view.
"Finally, someone interesting appears," Mors said, a hint of joy coloring his tone, though his opponent did not share the sentiment.
"Tsk, what kind of terrible luck do I have today," Allen cursed, fixating on yet another monster in his path.
Having fled from the clash between Ottar and another beast, Allen had taken the shortest route to Babel Tower in order to protect their goddess, not knowing that a monster was along the way.
He had tried sneaking by, but he couldn't fool Mors senses.
Now his options were limited: face a hopeless battle in the hope of backup arriving soon or flee once more.
Both options had severe consequences.
.........…
In another part of the city's northwest, a lone woman stood amid the chaos, silent and removed. A hooded robe concealed much of her face, though her eyes remained shut as she absorbed the sounds around her in deep contemplation.
"What are you doing?" a voice broke her reverie. It was Riveria.
"Trying to block out all these detestable noises, but I must listen just this once," the woman replied.
Riveria was taken aback by the mocking tone, though the woman's voice remained eerily calm.
"As painful as it is to listen, ignoring it would bring even greater sorrow when their absence becomes your regret. Is that not what it means to be alive?" the woman said, her words roundabout yet clear to Riveria, who felt a swell of anger at her callous perspective.
"You have no right to speak of life, witch—not when those people lie at your feet," Riveria snapped.
The woman had killed many without a hint of remorse, yet now she pretended that the cries of her victims were worth hearing.
"They were nothing more than trash," the woman replied coolly.
Riveria nearly lost composure at the woman's blatant disregard for life, but she forced herself to stay calm; now was not the time to be overcome by emotion.
"Very well, I shall eradicate you. Perhaps your life will atone for your sins," Riveria declared, raising her staff and beginning to cast her spell.
"Blow with the power of the third harsh winter… my name is Alf," Riveria finished her incantation.
Three bursts of arctic wind surged forward, rushing toward the woman.
Yet the woman seemed utterly unfazed.
With a single raised hand, she spoke one word.
"Ataraxia…"
In that moment, Riveria's spell was completely annihilated by the overwhelming force of sound that filled the streets, pushing everything aside and extinguishing her magic.
Still reeling in shock and disbelief, Riveria saw Gareth—who had been hiding—launch a sneak attack.
Dropping from a rooftop, Gareth swung his great axe with all his might at the woman's head. But once again, with one word, the woman countered him.
"Gospel," she said, and a low rumble shook Gareth's body, hurling him away with tremendous force.
"Gaaaaah!" Gareth gasped as he was sent hurtling past Riveria, crashing into a building and demolishing it.
After several seconds of dodging falling rubble, Gareth rose, using his great axe for balance, while the woman continued to stare at them without making a single move.
"You people are still so noisy. Even after eight years, nothing has changed," she remarked. Something about her words, presence, and power felt all too familiar.
Both Gareth and Riveria felt an instinctive dread as they recognized the face beneath the cloak. The woman's dazzling display of magic had knocked it off.
"I…I can't be," Gareth muttered in fear.
"It's Alfia, the Silence!" Riveria whispered.