Thirty Years Earlier

  Howan laughed beneath the pounding rain.

  The sound tore through the storm, devouring the rhythm of falling water until only the echo of his madness remained. There was no joy in it—only pain, bitterness, and a hatred fierce enough to burn through his chest.

  His aged body lay sprawled in the mud, barely recognizable as human. His right arm was gone. His left leg was mangled beyond repair. Blood mingled with rainwater, streaming from his wounds and spilling from his mouth.

  Three young men stood around him.

  None moved to help.

  They were the reason he had fallen.

  Slowly, Howan’s laughter faded into a bitter smile as his dim eyes traced their faces one by one.

  He was the last of his generation. His comrades were dead, or swallowed by time. Once, he had believed the new generation of Cygnus would be easier to guide.

  He had been wrong.

  This generation was narrow-minded. Naive. They believed Cygnus existed only to guard the forest—nothing more.

  No ambition.

  No hunger for power.

  When the world itself could have been theirs.

  “You fools…” he rasped. “If Cygnus refuses to claim it… someone else will seize that treasure.”

  One of the young men stepped forward. His arm was scorched, blood veiled half his face, yet his gaze remained sharp.

  “You know we would never allow anyone near the Nirwana Core Forest, Uncle.”

  Howan knew that strength. Even wounded, the young man had matched him—an elder of Cygnus. The sword in his hand had severed Howan’s arm without hesitation.

  No wonder the previous Leader had chosen him to lead Cygnus.

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  The bearer of the White Knife — the sacred blade of their order — was always the worthiest among them.

  If only that knife had been his…

  Cygnus would already be kneeling.

  The world would follow.

  “Let’s end him, Leader.”

  The flat voice came from the youth beside him—cold, untouched by emotion. Once, Howan had found that detachment amusing.

  Now, it was the gaze of someone looking upon an enemy.

  Crimson threads still trembled between the young man’s fingers—the very weapon that had torn through Howan’s leg.

  “Ikna,” the Leader said quietly, yet his voice pierced the downpour, “do it.”

  Howan turned toward the last youth.

  A gentle face.

  Far too gentle for a battlefield like this.

  Ikna knelt beside him, hands trembling.

  “I never wanted this…” he whispered. Rain and tears blurred together on his cheeks. “I hope this is the last time.”

  Realization came too late.

  The moment Ikna’s palm pressed against his head—the world collapsed.

  The pain was beyond agony. It did not merely tear at flesh—it ripped something deeper. His internal energy.

  Decades of training…

  Gone.

  He tried to scream, but the sound strangled itself in his throat. His body felt hollow, as though everything within him were being violently drained away.

  His eyelids sagged.

  Then—a white light pierced through the rain.

  The White Knife rose in the Leader’s hand.

  Beautiful.

  Cold.

  Untouchable.

  Howan trembled.

  “Everyone deserves a chance to repent,” the Chairman said. There was no anger in his voice—only judgment. “That is why I will not kill you.”

  A brief silence followed.

  “But not everyone is worthy of guarding the Golden Forest.”

  The blade lifted slightly.

  “By the authority of the White Cygnus Blade… Red Cygnus Blade — come forth.”

  For a fraction of a second—the world stopped.

  Then a crimson glow pulsed from Howan’s chest.

  Not blood.

  Not a wound.

  Light gathered… shaping itself into a blade.

  The red knife burst from his body like a second heart being torn free.

  “NOOOOO!”

  His roar shattered the storm.

  That knife was not merely a symbol.

  It was his life. His identity. His pride as a Cygnus.

  Memories crashed through his mind—training, oaths, honor—decades of existence stripped away in an instant.

  As the red blade drifted toward the white, its glow flickered, as if resisting submission.

  Only for a moment.

  Then it stilled.

  Howan’s chest felt empty.

  For the first time since his youth, he felt nothing inside himself. Not pain. Not weakness.

  Only a terrifying void.

  And within that void… something began to grow.

  Not strength.

  Hatred.

  His eyes gleamed.

  This was not the end.

  Whatever they had taken from him today—he would reclaim.

  Even if he had to rise from death itself.

  Just wait…

  Even when your bones have long turned to dust—I will still destroy Cygnus.