The war had ended, but the world hadn't changed.
Ten years of slaughter. Ten years of flame and steel, of divine banners flying over mountains of the dead. The Church called it the "Holy Purge."
To them, it was a righteous cleansing. To Azel, it was a genocide.
He sat on the edge of a crumbling stone bridge, staring at the broken reflection of himself in the river below. His black cloak clung to his shoulders, wet from mist and morning frost. Wind bit through the fabric, but he barely noticed. His eyes were lost in the water, in the rippling image of the cursed mark faintly glowing on his chest beneath his clothes.
"All of them..... gone. Every last one."
No one answered. Not at first.
Then came a voice from within.
"You knew it would happen. The moment they saw us as a threat."
Forbanna. The Spirit of Suffering. The thing inside him that had kept him alive again and again, even when his heart was carved open and his breath stolen. The reason he still walked when the others were dust and ash.
"I'm the last. The only one left."
"Yes. So hide your name. Your curse. Everything. Survive."
"For how long?"
"Until you're ready. When you're strong enough... you'll summon me. In flesh."
He clenched his fists.
"And then what?"
"Then we burn the rot. Reclaim our kind. Bury those priests in the same graves they dug for your kin."
Azel stood, pulling the hood over his head.
"They called us monsters. But we lived with them. Helped them."
"That's what makes it worse."
The town of Arlam was quiet in the early morning. Smoke rose gently from chimneys. Merchants set up stalls. Life continued, oblivious to the memories Azel carried.
He stepped into the Adventurer's Guild, a modest building with wood-paneled walls and the scent of ink, firewood, and metal. Inside, a small crowd of would-be heroes lingered, swapping rumors and waiting for jobs.
At the front desk, a woman with crimson hair glanced up from her parchment. She smiled with a warmth that didn't feel forced.
"Welcome! Looking for work?"
Azel gave a slight nod. His voice was low.
"Anything paying well."
She motioned to the mission board behind her. "
Most tasks are posted there. You can take what suits you."
His eyes scanned the board—monster hunting, herb gathering, missing persons. One parchment stood out.
Escort Mission — High Risk.
Reward: 20 gold.
Client: House Vernhart.
Azel pulled it from the board. Maria's smile faltered.
"That one's… difficult. Most adventurers passed on it. You sure?"
He looked her in the eye.
"I'm sure."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Alright. Good luck. The client's waiting in the east district. Look for a blue coat and too many rings."
The client was exactly as described.
A young, rotund noble stood near a carriage loaded with ornate crates and velvet-wrapped parcels. His clothing was lined with gold thread, his perfume sharp and excessive. He turned as Azel approached.
"Ah! You're here for the escort? You… don't look like much."
"I'm enough."
"Truly? You're not even carrying a sword."
"I don't need one."
The noble arched a brow.
"May I ask your qualifications?"
Azel extended a hand. With a whispered word, a sigil formed in the air—a glowing seal of burning script. Power rippled from it, pressing the noble's breath back into his chest.
"I was with the Inquisitors. Before I left."
The noble's eyes widened.
"Ah. I see. Yes, of course. That will do."
The caravan wasn't large—just one carriage, four horses, and six armed men in chainmail. They departed an hour later, the noble humming tunelessly as he sat inside with his belongings.
Azel walked beside the carriage, silent, scanning the treeline with every step.
The snow grew heavier by the hour. The path narrowed as they passed into a wooded valley. The noble's men grew nervous.
That's when it happened.
A sharp whistle cut through the air. Then the sky filled with arrows.
The first volley took two guards. One screamed, pinned to the carriage door. The other fell silently, his throat pierced. Screams echoed as fireballs erupted along the road.
"AMBUSH!"
One of the guards shouted, drawing steel.
Azel was already moving. He ducked behind the carriage, scanning the attackers.
Too organized. Too precise.
Not simple bandits.
Figures emerged from the woods—dozens of them, faces hidden, blades and magic ready. Disguised well, but Azel could see the formation. This was a hired force.
The noble shrieked from within the carriage.
"DO SOMETHING!"
Azel raised his hand, muttering a curse under his breath. His palm turned black, and veins pulsed up his arm. A blast of dark energy burst from his hand, slamming into a group of attackers and sending them flying.
He rushed forward, slipping between sword strikes, snapping necks and crushing chests with the power of his magic. Blood sprayed the snow.
But it wasn't enough.
A sharp pain tore through his back. He gasped, looking down to see the end of a blade pushing through his chest.
He dropped to his knees.
The world spun.
"FUCK!!"
The noble screamed from behind a shattered crate.
The attacker behind him—a tall man in a wolf mask—pulled the blade free and kicked Azel to the ground.
"Found the real one. Get the noble."
The red snow soaked into Azel's cloak. His breath stuttered. Everything went numb.
Footsteps approached. The leader of the attackers stood over him, grinning. He knelt and drove a dagger into Azel's stomach.
"Thought you could scare us with a fake badge? Idiot."
Then he turned away.
To the young noble.
Everyone of his men were dead.
The leader approach him and drove his dagger fatally wounding the noble.
For Azel, death didn't come.
"Get up." a voice whispered inside.
Forbanna. The voice was calm. Flat.
"This again?"
Azel's heart, though pierced, thumped once. Then again.
Veins blackened. His wounds closed. Blood reversed its flow.
The curse was alive.
The Spirit of Suffering didn't scream or rage. She simply existed. Her magic reached from within him and pulled him back to life.
He coughed once. Then rolled over, fingers curling in the snow.
The pain was still there. But the weakness was gone.
His eyes opened.
"I'm not done."