Vengeance

In a shadowed alleyway nestled between a rowdy bar and a modest weapon shop, stood the frail Rafael, partially shielded by the towering figure of Eriksson. His scrawny legs trembled beneath him as he stammered, "I-it's here."

"Is it now?" Eriksson's tone was as indifferent as his expression, his imposing frame steady amidst the cold breeze that swept through the narrow street.

The pair advanced deeper into the dim corridor, the chill of the night settling into their bones. It was the 15th of Astra, the Day of Amber Glow, year 0 after Astarion. Overhead, the golden moon hung resplendent amidst a sea of stars, casting a faint ethereal light onto the cobblestones. The wind tousled their brown hair, carrying the faint scent of oil and metal.

They arrived at a door shrouded in shadow, the faint hum of conversation seeping through its cracks. A passphrase was exchanged, muffled yet firm, and they were granted entry. The heavy door creaked open to reveal a room bathed in the warm orange glow of oil lamps. The space resembled a clandestine tavern; every table was occupied by at least two individuals clad in a mix of elegant attire and understated suits. Despite the subdued sophistication of the scene, Eriksson's sharp gaze immediately locked onto a man with black hair and deep, almost drowning eyes.

"So, Rafael," the man drawled, his tone laced with mockery. "Do you have the amber blood? My men struggled more than expected. That village of yours—tougher than they looked, weren't they? Who would've thought they'd have a yellow-blooded among them? Those fools caused us no end of trouble."

Eriksson's fists clenched tightly, his green veins faintly pulsing with an orange hue beneath his long-sleeved shirt. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly.

"And who," the black-haired man continued, his dark brows furrowing, "is this? A bodyguard, Rafael?"

Before an answer could be given, Eriksson lunged.

In a flash—faster than the blink of an eye—he crossed the two meters separating them.

'Pow!'

A single, decisive punch landed squarely on the black-haired man's face. Blue blood spurted from his nostrils as his body crumpled to the floor like a sack of bricks. Gasps and shouts erupted around the room, the previously hushed ambiance dissolving into chaos. Chairs scraped violently against the floor as patrons scrambled to their feet, weapons gleaming in the lamplight—revolvers were drawn, blades unsheathed.

"You dare strike our boss?!" one shouted, his voice thick with disbelief.

"Who the hell are you, bastard?!" another growled, his knife trembling in his grip.

An older, stocky man stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a long, slender sword. His voice was calm yet commanding, a sharp contrast to the rising panic. "You've got one chance to explain yourself, or you'll leave here in pieces."

But Eriksson didn't flinch. He moved like lightning, a storm embodied, his strikes thunderous and swift.

'Pow! Peng! Peng! Pow!'

Gunfire rang out, but Eriksson was faster than their trembling hands could aim. Each movement left a distorted trail, as if reality itself struggled to keep up. With brutal efficiency, he dispatched one opponent after another, his blows rendering them unconscious before their bullets found their mark.

In the heat of the battle, Eriksson bit down on the inside of his cheek, his own blood—a deep violet—spilling into his mouth. As it coursed through his veins, the green lines beneath his skin shifted into a vibrant, glowing purple, spreading rapidly throughout his body. His presence flickered like a dying light, and then—

He vanished.

The room fell eerily silent, save for the labored breaths of those who remained standing. Eriksson was gone. No footsteps, no shadows—just confusion painted on the faces of his adversaries.

Seconds later, bodies began to drop. One after another, they collapsed in synchronized agony, until only Rafael remained standing, his legs buckling beneath him. He sank to the floor, trembling, his wide eyes darting around the room.

"W-w-what was that?" Rafael stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He stared at the black-haired man sprawled on the ground, and then at Eriksson, who had reappeared as abruptly as he had vanished.

"Lensing," Eriksson said simply, his voice calm as his violet veins dimmed and returned to their natural state. "Through violet blood."

His tone held no room for further explanation. He stepped toward the black-haired man, who groaned weakly, cradling his bruised and bloodied face.

'Slap!'

The sound echoed sharply in the room as Eriksson struck him with an open hand, leaving a vivid blue imprint on his cheek. The man's head lolled to the side, and Eriksson's cold voice cut through the silence. "Wake up."

The black-haired man groaned again, his dark eyes fluttering open. His confusion deepened as he squinted up at Eriksson. "W-who are you? What do you want from me?"

Eriksson's expression darkened, his brows knitting together as a storm of fury brewed within him. "Who am I?" His voice rose for the first time, the sheer weight of his words suffocating the air in the room. "That's what I should be asking 'you'. A hundred years ago, your filthy crew razed my village to the ground!"

"A hundred years ago?" the man repeated, his face contorting in bewilderment. "I'm only 69 years old!" His voice cracked as he stammered on. "If—if that happened, it must've been my father. But he's been dead for decades!"

"Dead?" Eriksson's voice was sharp, laced with disbelief and barely contained rage.

The black-haired man nodded weakly, blood still trickling from his nose. "Yes... but the other two who worked with him—they're still alive. I only know where one of them is now. He's moved south—off Elisia. He's set up operations on the Underground Continent, scouting for resources to export here."

Eriksson's gaze bore into him, unrelenting. His hands twitched at his sides, as if struggling against the urge to strike again. So this man wasn't the one responsible? And yet, his father's companions lived, their atrocities continuing to ripple across the years.

"You're going to take me to him," Eriksson said coldly. "In two days, I'll return. When I do, this place will be empty—no one here but you and me. As for Rafael and his brother, you will release them from your service and ensure they have a proper start to a new life. Do you understand?"

The black-haired man hesitated, then exhaled shakily, his resolve broken. "Understood," he muttered, barely audible.

…

Outside the Astor Estate, on the 2468th Base of the Imperial Battlefield overlooking the Violet Seas, a crowd of onlookers had gathered. Among them were nobles of the Astor house, their servants, and a handful of butlers. At the center of their attention, two young men in light gold-yellow armor faced off, their long rapiers clashing in rapid strikes. These were training blades, meant to simulate combat without the lethality.

Their golden masks shimmered faintly under the waning sunlight, both combatants moving with graceful precision. One hand rested behind their backs, the other guiding the elegant blades as they lunged, parried, and danced across the marble training ground.

A faint beep sounded inside their masks, accompanied by a flicker of golden light within the visor.

"An excellent performance, young Master Leninger," one of the attendants praised, kneeling beside one of the combatants.

"That? That was nothing," Ergon replied, running a hand through his neatly combed hair and flashing a smug grin.

From where he stood, Fynn scowled, his fingers tightening against his side. 'What's wrong with him?' he thought bitterly. 'I've been here for just one day, and he's already mocking me. He thinks I'm a threat to his little romance, but in truth, he's the one betraying her trust.'

Fynn's thoughts churned as his expression darkened. His lips pressed together tightly, and his gaze drifted momentarily toward his left leg. Though he could now move it without much difficulty, the faint trembling betrayed his lingering unease.

Donning his own yellow-gold mask, Fynn joined the training ground. Unlike the others, however, his movements felt weighted—unnaturally so. Every step dragged, every shift of his body felt like hauling an invisible anchor.

The culprit lay within his armor. The 'Asphanium', a lightweight yet mysteriously potent material unique to the Astor house, was reacting to the program set for his training. The settings had been adjusted to mimic a gravity of 'three times the norm'. Fynn's body, weighing scarcely 60 kilograms under ordinary conditions, now felt as if it carried three times that.

'This isn't training—it's punishment,' he thought grimly. His muscles burned with each step, his breaths came shallow and sharp. 'By the Goddess of Knowledge... what kind of madness is this?'

Even so, Fynn refused to falter. He straightened, suppressing the ache in his limbs as best he could. The whispers of the past still haunted him—his near brush with death, his fleeting vision of salvation. 'The Goddess of Creation saved me,' he thought, a hint of doubt creeping into his mind. 'But why? What purpose could a life like mine serve?'

His introspection ended abruptly as the sparring began. His opponent, a soldier loyal to the Astor house, wasted no time closing the distance. Their rapiers clashed in quick succession, each strike calculated and precise.

The crowd watched intently, though it had dwindled to a few key individuals. Among them stood Algar Astor, the patriarch of the noble house, his piercing gaze fixed on the training. Beside him were a handful of guards, maids, and butlers, and—most notably—Diana, Algar's daughter.

Diana's eyes followed the combat closely, though her expression remained unreadable. Her attire, a flowing yellow-gold gown accented with delicate embroidery, shimmered faintly in the evening light. Her hair, tied into an elegant updo, framed her sharp features.

'She's watching,' Fynn realized with a pang of anxiety. 'Of course she's watching.'

Pow!

The sound of clashing blades jolted him back into the moment. His opponent was relentless, forcing Fynn to retreat with every strike. He managed to parry several blows, his movements increasingly deliberate, but his footing was unsteady. Each lunge felt heavier than the last, the strain on his left leg growing unbearable.

The duel continued, the rhythm of their blades filling the training ground like a symphony of tempered steel. For a brief moment, Fynn regained his composure, his form tightening. He bent his knees slightly, one hand positioned neatly at his back while the other guided his rapier with newfound focus.

'Just hold out a little longer.'

But as he moved forward, disaster struck. A sharp pain shot through his left leg, the muscle seizing violently. His footing faltered, and in that split second of weakness, his opponent struck.

The blow landed squarely against Fynn's mask, the force of it sending him sprawling onto the ground. His back hit the marble with a resounding thud, the weight of his armor pressing him further down.

Gritting his teeth, Fynn clutched his left thigh, the pain radiating through his body like fire. He blinked up at the golden sky, his vision swimming as he processed his defeat.

A shadow loomed over him. His opponent, a broad-shouldered man with a coarse demeanor, extended a hand to help him up.

Fynn hesitated. 'Why must I endure this?' he thought, his gaze drifting toward Algar. The nobleman stood a short distance away, his expression unreadable save for a faint smirk. Diana, who had been beside him moments ago, was now gone.

'Of course she left. I've only sunk further in her expectations, haven't I?'

"Not bad, Fynn, not bad at all," Algar's voice rang out, warm and teasing. "When I was your age, I trained under G5. But even so, I wasn't half as composed during my first attempts."

Fynn gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his feet.

"And don't worry about Diana," Algar continued with a hearty laugh. "She'll come around eventually. Give it time."

Before Fynn could respond, Algar clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. The sudden force, amplified by the still-active gravity setting, drove Fynn to his knees once more.

Laughter erupted from the gathered onlookers, but Fynn ignored it. He pressed his hands against the ground, forcing himself upright. Algar's laughter faded, replaced by a satisfied hum as he watched the young man rise.

Through it all, Fynn managed a smile. It was faint, strained, but genuine enough to mask the storm brewing in his heart.