Tharion let out a long, heavy sigh. "So, that is how things stand." He gazed out the window, his eyelids drooping heavily, as if refusing to stay open.
Suddenly, the door to the room burst open with a loud thud. A five-year-old child appeared from behind it.
"Father!" The word spilled from the lips of the young boy, who was smiling warmly at his father as he dashed toward him with quick, eager steps.
His small arms wrapped tightly around Tharion's leg, his head tilting upward. "Father! Father!"
"What is it, Zevaron?" Tharion asked softly, gently stroking the boy's head.
"Mother said that my sisters and I have to leave because you and Mother need to take care of the clan." Zevaron puffed out his cheeks. "But is that really the only reason the three of us have to leave for a while?"
Tharion laughed softly, kneeling down with a warm smile. "Well, what can we do? This is a matter that cannot be known by the three of you while you are still minors."
Zevaron tapped his two index fingers together sheepishly. "Alright then." He turned around and bolted back toward the door.
That night, a full moon soared high into the sky, casting a brilliant glow that illuminated the dark.
Yet, a beautiful sight could not alter what could be heard.
Silence.
The night was deathly quiet.
Not a single sound of a living creature could be heard; there was only the phantom rustle of the wind traveling from one place to another.
The wind blew gently over the estate of the Valerion Clan—a clan of mages once feared across the entire continent. Crystal lanterns emitted a serene, bluish light… before everything shattered.
Suddenly, black shadows blanketed the horizon.
A hundred thousand dark-robed figures materialized soundlessly, encircling the clan's entire territory like a tidal wave of darkness swallowing the light.
A man cloaked in black stood at the vanguard of the hundreds of thousands of robed figures, his hands tucked behind his back.
"Form up." The black-cloaked man's voice was calm, yet it carried absolute authority.
Fifty thousand soldiers immediately fanned out, their hands rising in unison. Glowing crimson runes ignited in the air, weaving together to form a colossal magic circle that domed over the entire Valerion estate.
The air grew suffocatingly heavy.
The ground vibrated subtly.
Clouds began to drift, veiling the moon.
An invisible pressure descended from the sky like a titan's hand pressing down from above. Several clan members in the outer courtyard instantly collapsed, their breaths choked out by the unseen weight.
"Attack." The command was brief—and the massacre began.
Fifty thousand troops stormed into the clan territory. Flashes of magic and agonizing screams mingled with the thunderous collapse of structures.
Yet amidst the chaos—a single man stood tall in the main courtyard, his gaze sharp and piercingly cold.
Tharion Valerion.
A pale blue magic circle manifested beneath his feet. The surrounding air froze instantly; everyone near him began to shiver violently as every exhaled breath turned to frost. From the magic circle, small but incredibly dense ice needles emerged—translucent, beautiful… and lethal.
With a single sweep of his hand.
Thousands of needles launched forward.
Every single needle found its target. Precise. Without a single miss.
Within seconds, thousands of the black-robed troops collapsed simultaneously.
Now, only 34,896 remained.
"The Patriarch of the Valerion Clan… Tharion."
A faint, mocking smile etched across the face of the black-cloaked man hovering in the air. His crimson eyes glowed dimly in the dark of night.
"Fall back. You are no match for him."
The troops immediately retreated, clearing a wide space as the black-cloaked man casually walked through the air.
Every step he took unleashed a crushing pressure.
The man—Kael—drew a black spear from his storage ring.
He then dove downward, the black spear in his right hand ripping through the air.
"Kael… you brought an entire army just to attack my clan?" Tharion's voice was as chilling as the ice he commanded.
Tharion extended his index and middle fingers. The gap between his fingers snapped shut the exact moment the tip of Kael's black spear drew near, catching the blade. "If this is what you seek… then you and your men have chosen death."
The temperature around them plummeted drastically. The freezing air rapidly crystallized—shaping into an ice sword in his hand. The ice blade was instantly thrust toward Kael's left chest, slicing through the air, aimed directly for his heart.
As the ice sword pierced his body, a searing cold surged through flesh and bone alike, freezing everything in its path. Kael's breath grew heavy, escaping in thin, frosty puffs that felt frozen in his throat.
Tharion's eyes widened, his pupils constricting sharply. "Your heart isn't where it's supposed to be." But in the next split second, the shock vanished. Tharion narrowed his eyes again, as though his momentary surprise had never occurred.
"Kael… you are too weak."
A new voice resonated. The very ground they stood upon trembled from the sheer depth of the speaker's voice.
A man with bound eyes stood a few paces behind Kael. The aura emanating from him was silent… yet terrifyingly oppressive.
He stepped forward, and in a single stride, he was already standing directly in front of Tharion.
The blindfolded man flicked his sleeve.
The gesture appeared utterly mundane, yet the air inside Tharion's lungs was instantly squeezed out, forced out without mercy. His eyes widened, his breath severed before he could even draw it.
His body was hurled backward, cutting through the air at terrifying speed.
His back crashed violently into a stone wall.
Cracks spiderwebbed out from the point of impact as dust and stone debris rained down around him. His momentum stopped abruptly, but the residual force caused him to bounce slightly before he finally slumped helplessly to the ground.
He coughed violently.
A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his lips. His chest felt completely crushed, every ragged breath stabbing deep inside him.
The blindfolded man shifted his gaze toward Kael.
A thin wisp of cold vapor rose from the wound on Kael's left chest, spreading slowly across his blood-stained clothes. With each passing second, the frost crept deeper, gnawing at his flesh and bone from within.
Then—slowly…
Kael turned toward where the blindfolded man stood—and bowed his head. His body inclined forward, even as the wound in his chest seemed to scream against every movement. The embedded ice sword vibrated faintly, forcing his breath to hitch roughly.
Blood dripped onto the earth.
Yet, he remained bowed.
On the other side, with fractured, agonizing movements, Tharion pushed his body upward. His shoulders trembled, his spine arching for a moment before he slowly forced himself upright. His legs bore a weight that felt foreign—unstable, almost impossible to control.
"I will tell you something; your clan has become a threat," the blindfolded man stated in a flat, monotone voice. "Furthermore… you harbor artifacts from the ancient era, and the guardians of ancient secrets."
Tharion's breathing was shallow—short, harsh, and erratic. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out immediately. His throat felt completely parched, his breath hitching between the words he desperately wanted to speak.
"…You…" Tharion's voice emerged low, hoarse, nearly swallowed by his own ragged breathing. "...How could you possibly know the secrets of my clan?"
"You have no need to know." The blindfolded man turned away, placing his hands behind his back.
"Proceed. And keep him alive until everyone else is dead," the blindfolded man commanded coldly.
And so, the slaughter resumed.
Every member of the Valerion clan who came into sight was instantly decapitated. Blood flowed through every corner of the Valerion estate—staining the sanctuary in a gruesome shade of crimson.
Elsewhere—a woman with turquoise-blue hair knelt in front of a modest house on the outskirts of the city.
Her arms wrapped tightly around the bodies of three children—two girls and one boy. Her face rested against the shoulder of her eldest daughter, her eyes tightly shut—not to rest, but to delay the grim reality that awaited her.
The turquoise-haired woman released her embrace and stood up. "Father, Mother… I entrust them to you."
The grandfather nodded slowly. "As long as we draw breath, they will be safe."
The turquoise-haired woman gazed at her three children one by one. "Lylia… Serina… look after Zevaron."
"Mother, come back quickly, okay?" Zevaron's voice was small and innocent; he was only five years old.
A gentle smile etched onto the face of the turquoise-haired woman—her very last smile.
She turned and began to walk away. She took several steps before pausing.
The turquoise-haired woman turned back, her eyelids blinking slowly, not from exhaustion, but as if she were holding back something that was on the verge of collapsing. That look in her eyes… it wasn't sharp, nor was it empty—it was full, far too full, making it heavy just to maintain. Within it lay a lingering reluctance, silently rejecting the reality that was about to unfold.
Then, holding her breath, the turquoise-haired woman turned her face away and continued walking into the distance... and after a few more steps, her figure began to blur until she finally vanished.
Yet, at that very same moment back at the Valerion estate—someone with the exact same face as the turquoise-haired woman who had just parted from her three children lay weak and broken, her body covered in countless wounds. They were not twins; they were one and the same person.
Standing before her was a black-haired woman with a chilling, dead gaze.
"Hey, look at them. These are your children, already dead." Three small, lifeless figures lay butchered beside her.
Tears streamed down the cheeks of the turquoise-haired woman, but her gaze sharpened, locking onto the black-haired woman.
Both hands of the turquoise-haired woman slowly clenched until her knuckles turned white. Her gaze hardened fiercely, and she slammed both of her fists violently against the floor.
The black-haired woman walked toward her with calm, measured steps.
When she was just a step away, she stopped right next to the turquoise-haired woman's head.
Slowly, the black-haired woman raised her leg, and in the next instant, brought her foot down, stomping the turquoise-haired woman's head into the ground. Shallow cracks webbed out from where her head slammed against the floor.
The world blurred momentarily in the turquoise-haired woman's vision. She gnashed her teeth, an even denser, suffocating killing intent radiating from her.
"Do not even dream of killing me. Wait just a moment..." The black-haired woman squatted down slowly.
Her right hand gripped the turquoise-haired woman's neck in a vicious vice. Slowly, the black-haired woman stood up.
The body of the turquoise-haired woman was lifted effortlessly into the air.
Both hands of the turquoise-haired woman trembled as she forced them to clench. She raised her arms and brought them crashing down, striking the black-haired woman's arm.
Yet, the black-haired woman's arm remained completely unmoving, as if she felt absolutely nothing. Conversely, the turquoise-haired woman's own hands became increasingly difficult to move.
The black-haired woman narrowed her eyes, scanning her from head to toe. A faint, sadistic smile curled on her face. "...If you cannot kill me, then you shall die with a burning, unquenchable hatred."
The black-haired woman leaned her face close to the turquoise-haired woman's ear. "Rest easy," she whispered. "You will be joining them shortly."
The black-haired woman hurled her into the air, and a black dagger flew at blinding speed, hurtling straight for her forehead.
Before the dagger could pierce her skull—time seemed to slow to a crawl. Her eyes widened slightly, yet it wasn't out of sheer terror—but rather a sudden, razor-sharp clarity. She knew… this was the end.
Behind the cold glint of the dagger poised to impale her head, her mind broke free—falling into something much deeper. Memory.
In an instant, fragments of past memories flooded her mind. From moments of pure joy, to sorrow, to excruciating pain—everything flashed vividly before her inner eye.
Until the memories of her three children filled her consciousness... a final thought emerged.
If I must die today.... then I have no regrets. I ripped out my own bone and used a forbidden magic that ravages my very body just to create a clone to deceive them. The pain was absolute agony, yet I do not regret it..... Lylia, Serina, Zevaron, keep living and find happiness in this world without us. And I am sorry... I cannot accompany you any longer in this world.
A fraction of a second later, the black dagger pierced through her head. Blood erupted from the wound, dripping down the dark blade and splashing onto the floor, painting the ground in a grim shade of crimson.
Every single drop that fell was a testament to her sacrifice—a mother who willingly embraced death and torment for the survival of her children.