The chamber reeked of incense and iron—high marble ceilings veined with gold, runes glowing faintly beneath every pillar, and silence so perfect it felt carved by blade.
Twelve stood in a circle.
Twelve Arbiters.
Their silver masks reflected the flickering torchlight, and their cloaks bore the sigil of supreme order: a flame rising beneath a set of ancient scales. The kind of symbol that frightened kings more than war.
At the center stood one figure draped in violet-black. His mask bore no eyes. No mouth. Just a smooth, expressionless void.
"Has it been confirmed?" the masked commander asked, voice calm as still water.
One of the Arbiters stepped forward. "Yes, Grand Arbiter. Inquisitor Varn completed the sweep of Colva. The bodies were sufficient. No survivors. No contradictions. The village has been reduced to ash."
A hush lingered.
And then—laughter. Dry and soft, like leaves crushed underfoot.
"Then it is done," said the Grand Arbiter. "A clean burn. The world now believes the Demon Realm moved first. We've won."
"Won?" murmured a woman from the circle. "We wiped out an entire village. Children. Elders. Families."
"Sacrifices," the Grand Arbiter said without pause. "To sever a thread before it became a rope."
Another voice chimed in, sharp and precise. "The prophecy spoke of one born beneath the quiet sky. A child of no name, from no bloodline. They said he would upend the balance. That he would tear down our walls."
The Grand Arbiter tilted his head. "Then we buried him before he could learn to stand."
"And the flames?"
"Covered the truth. The world mourns. They beg us to protect them again. And we… oblige."
Silence answered him.
Not out of agreement—but because no one dared disagree.
The Grand Arbiter turned slowly, addressing them all.
"The Demon Realm remains our greatest shadow. Let the people fear it. Let them cling to our justice. So long as they believe we are their shield… they will never ask who lit the match."
He paused at the chamber's threshold.
"The boy is gone. The prophecy is ash."
Then he left.
---
He was wrong.
---
Far from the marble walls and silver lies, beneath a canopy of forgotten skies, a boy opened his eyes.
Not Aisu Erlic. Not anymore.
He no longer dreamed. He no longer remembered the warmth of morning bread or the voices of laughter beneath summer sun.
What stirred inside him now was colder. Sharper.
He sat before the hearth, unmoving.
Silent.
The silver-haired woman watched from the corner of the room, her mask lifted just enough to show a scar on her chin.
"You don't cry anymore," she said softly.
No answer.
"You haven't spoken since that night."
Still nothing.
The scarred man entered through the threshold, tossing a wrapped bundle of raw meat onto the table. "He doesn't need to speak. Not yet. Let silence do the carving."
The younger boy leaned beside the fire, arms folded across his knees. "He's like a blade with no edge. No name. But… still sharp."
The woman tilted her head. "Then it's time."
---
They took him to the wilds.
To where the forest whispered with teeth. Where bones cracked underfoot, and every shadow carried breath.
The scarred man handed him a staff.
"No aura. No mana. No tricks," he said. "Survive."
The boy didn't blink.
He fought. He stumbled. He fell.
Then he rose.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until his hands bled and his breath rasped like stone against steel.
The monsters they loosed upon him were real—fang, claw, hunger. Each fight left a bruise. Each victory, hollow.
But he survived.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he didn't know how to do anything else.
---
Nights came quiet.
The fire crackled.
The boy sat alone.
Watching.
Becoming.
The younger one studied him from across the flames. "You never told us your name."
A pause.
For the first time in a month, the boy turned his head. His voice came low, gravel and smoke:
"It doesn't matter."