The campfire was still burning, though it had nearly dimmed in the dry afternoon air, crackling softly and in rhythm with the breathing of Sora, who sat motionless in his position, his eyes fixed on his sword as if the sword were whispering something about what would happen next, the reason he was in a place like this, and the freedom he felt while being in a strange place without his friends.

  However, Sora's silence was the only thing he possessed and was something heavier than anything ever offered on a battlefield or in any fight he had ever participated in. Suddenly, his fingers gripped the hilt of his sword tightly because Sora heard footsteps from afar that were initially inaudible from the direction of the entrance to the revolutionary headquarters, then slowly the sound of hurried footsteps began to be heard more clearly now.

  Every hurried step made Sora's heart feel strange, and when the silhouette of a shadow appeared coming out from the direction of the entrance into the revolutionary army's place, Sora saw Rose walking hurriedly carrying someone she was embracing from a distance, and that person felt strange for Sora to recognize, yet he had never known the person Rose was carrying before.

  Until Rose's footsteps slowly slowed down and Rose's voice began to be heard asking for help from everyone there to assist her quickly, however, Rose's voice reaching inside the revolutionary army's headquarters felt like it tore something inside Sora when he saw Rose acting like that towards the figure Rose was currently carrying. As Sora observed her and realized he was now seeing Kaelith being embraced by Rose, to him, that Kaelith looked nothing like the Kaelith he had ever met.

  Kaelith, who was just silent and whose gaze didn't know where to look, was still being carried by Rose who was shouting for help; standing, but her legs were weak and her breathing was regular yet as if there was no intention to live, and her eyes were hollow because of the events she had witnessed and experienced. Kaelith currently looked like something far more terrifying than the undead in the view of Sora, who choked up at what had actually happened to her during her capture at the front gate earlier.

  Rose's shouts, calling the people there and also shouting to the available doctors, made everyone from inside the tents come out and see what was happening outside, and those who were outside doing activities were stopped by Rose's shouts asking for help and looked at what was happening there as well.

  Even Feron's hammer, which was forging, stopped for a moment, and Veyla also came out of her tent to see what was happening until she heard Rose shouting like that. Sora, who could only watch, could not move from his spot, and seeing Kaelith like that only made his heart feel more than his current suffering, as if he was now experiencing mental torture directly by what he saw, to the point of being unable to move from where he stood, even though his mind kept telling him to go there, but his legs refused to walk there, obeying his heart which was already shattered.

  Even when Lyra stepped out of her tent and saw what was actually happening, her facial expression upon seeing it outside was unreadable as usual, but her calculating eyes wavered when she saw Kaelith's condition like that.

  Lyra hesitated to come out of her tent at that moment because she was afraid to see Kaelith's expression like that, knowing what had actually happened to her at that time. Then, not long after seeing the event, Lyra turned back towards her tent because she knew from Kaelith's eyes, which spoke indirectly of what she saw there and what she experienced there to make her like that. The doctor who came hurriedly shouted orders that were almost inaudible to Sora's ears to make way for him through the crowd that had already surrounded Rose. Rose guided Kaelith towards the doctor and helped Kaelith to sit down as well, slowly.

  The others stepped back slowly to give space to the doctor, Rose, and Kaelith who were in their midst, as they realized what had actually happened to Kaelith and what the people of the Jargmund kingdom had done to her. Sora, who was still remaining in his standing spot, whose clenched fists began to tremble, his breathing irregular, and his entire mind suddenly chaotic when seeing the condition of Kaelith, who had introduced him to a meaning of life for Sora, as well as being his first partner and someone precious in his life, now not like what he had seen before.

  Sora indeed could not scream because he was mute since birth, but if he could voice out, perhaps all of Jargmund would hear his rage when seeing the thing that made him hurt by treating his friend and someone precious in his life to be made like Kaelith currently. His head looked up towards the city above and saw the sunlight through its gaps with the sounds in Jargmund city; the towering palace and the people who did this, as well as its government system throughout Jargmund, were just like predators watching their prey because of the law of the jungle that was enforced.

  It was not just a building but a monument built by people greedy for worldly things, built for everyone within his kingdom to be destroyed in this kingdom that was already rotten to its roots by humans who only prioritized their own personalities above the rights of others. Goulash, who became the king of this kingdom from the people around who kept repeating his name around the street corners until it was heard by Sora inside the revolutionary army's headquarters at this time.

  Sora would always remember his name and carve that name into his mind and heart, which was already ignited like fire mixed with the rage of his storm, to tear down anyone who made her like this. Sora also swore to himself after seeing the catatonic Kaelith that he would free Vael, Arelan, and Namien as soon as possible before the three of them were made to be like Kaelith or even worse.

  Then, Sora thought of doing something no one had ever thought of, to tear down that palace made of bricks, destroying it brick by brick, ensuring the screams of the rulers who made it like it is now would be their last sounds, and blood for blood that had not been avenged until the root of this problem disappeared from the surface that had sickened the entire kingdom. This was certainly for the sake of Kaelith, Vael, Namien, and Arelan. Also for all the women who were given suffering like Kaelith as offerings for the ruler or his people, and for everyone who could not stand up anymore because of their fear of being unable to fight it.

  But for now, he stood with hands that could no longer tremble from sadness or fear in the slightest; Sora turned and walked with his emotion towards Feron's workshop, which was working again.

  'Then, let me make my sword blade that ends this nightmare forever!' his eyes seemed to say, originating also from his heated mind and his heart, not through words, but with the clarity of a burning anger.

  The whispers outside the doctor's tent had subsided slowly, Rose stepped out of the tent when the doctor told her to help carry Kaelith into his tent for further treatment; Kaelith was helped to walk with heavy steps, and her gaze was empty, looking who knows where.

  The crowd that had formed in concern around the doctor's shelter instinctively retreated when they saw Kaelith had entered the tent, except for Sora who was still standing in his spot, still shaken by his anger. Rose, the last of the people leaving the tent area, walked forward until Rose saw Sora whose gaze was now fixed towards the doctor's tent. Sora, who was still standing with his fists clenched tightly, his breath exhaled slowly, until the atmosphere around him felt very tense with an unbearable nuance of heavy silent sorrow mixed with emotion. Rose headed towards Sora and stood beside Sora, asking him about what was clearly visible from Sora's expression at that moment.

  “Are you… her friend?” she asked softly.

  Sora gave no reaction, writing, or even any signal, as at that moment he was drowning in what he was feeling. After that, he turned to Rose just enough to hide the tears flowing slowly down his face and nodded slowly, which Rose saw as an answer that needed nothing more.

  "She didn't scream at that time. That was the first thing I realized, when I saw her, that she had become a shattered vessel along with its contents. She just stared with an empty gaze, which I understood why she became like that, as if her soul had been snatched away and left just like that with suffering that was not commensurate." Said Rose as she recounted when she helped Kaelith.

  Sora who hearing this, unconsciously moved his hand tremblingly, and taking a piece of wood lying near him, he began to write slowly on the ground to respond to Rose's words, writing,

  ‘Thank you for telling me everything. Now, I have business I must finish myself regarding that.’ Rose, reading Sora's writing, began to think about what his words meant.

  Then Sora continued his writing again, but now more than before.

  ‘And for what that beast has done, having sent her to a hell that shouldn't be for these friends of mine, and a hell deeper than the world has ever known, even I myself have never experienced it. I will not forgive those whose heinous acts are more than the actions of demons.’ Reading Sora's writing like that, Rose did not speak because she could not say something that was entirely nearly true, and her throat choked up with her tears starting to flow before Rose could stop them.

  Now, Rose looked at the man beside her, a quiet boy with eyes carrying a storm now unstoppable in its rage, and a friend destroyed in his silent suffering. Rose's voice now trembled as she said to Sora.

  "Then, do it for me too, for your friend, for Lyra, and for every girl in this camp who knows or has even experienced that their past experiences behind those palace walls made them silent for the rest of their lives."

  Sora looked into Rose's eyes, seeing her serious gaze, and no more words came out of his mouth. Then, Sora made a gesture with his clenched fist towards his chest, held there like an oath burned by the tears of every victim and as a promise that would soon ignite the fires of war.

  The fire burning within Sora had raged when Rose said something even worse than what Kaelith had experienced, but the fire inside him had just been ignited with revenge for one precious person, now multiplied by dozens or more beyond his closest circle.

  The promise Sora had made in the silence of his heart to Rose and to all his friends had turned stoic sadness into burning rage. Every breath he took felt like drawing fuel for the fire of his vengeance. He was no longer just a witness or a protector; Sora had decided with a calculation of the consequences he would face. With the newly forged determination for revenge, Sora walked with his hands still clenched.

  Every muscle in his body tensed because his goal now felt so clear, he took his nameless sword and walked through the silent tents, his steps steady without hesitation towards the only place that could give him what he needed at that moment, Feron's workshop for weapon forging. The sound of a hammer striking steel welcomed Sora as he approached the workshop even before he arrived; Feron the blacksmith was working under the glow of the still-blazing furnace, sweat soaking his forehead as he forged a dagger.

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  Feron was working on something that would be useful for the revolution plan, to free their leader from prison, of course. Sora approached Feron's cluttered workbench and, without a word, placed his sword on it.

  The sound of the steel sword being placed gently but firmly made Feron stop mid-swing and ask Sora upon seeing it.

  "What is it, kid? I'm—" Feron's sentence was cut short when his eyes caught sight of Sora's sword blade, his expression changing.

  His sharp focus as a craftsman turned into respectful awe, then quickly into confusion as Feron looked at it with the exact same expression Thramund had shown when he first saw Sora's sword.

  "By the Ashes of the Anvil... where did you get this sword? How can this sword be in here? This isn't even from this world." Feron whispered, placing his hammer down and approaching the sword, his calloused hand gripping the hilt.

  When Feron saw the blade, he didn't even dare touch it. Sora gave no answer to his question; instead, he simply pointed to the sword blade with one finger, then gestured for Feron to sharpen it. Then, his gaze met Feron's, full of burning emotional demands.

  ‘Enhance this sword and give me a blade as sharp as you've ever made.’ Seeing Sora's silent request, Feron shifted his gaze from the sword to Sora's eyes, and there, Feron no longer saw the stoicism of a hero desired by the revolutionary forces, but something else, something wild and uncontrolled.

  "Nope, sorry for that thing and i will not grant your request, kid. I have seen what is in your eyes; it's like a fire devouring all the good people I've ever met." Feron said, his voice suddenly flat and firm against Sora's request, staring at him with deep disappointment.

  "Those controlled by anger and revenge will never walk their path again. They will be destroyed by the fire of their own atonement as regret." Feron added before throwing Sora's sword from his table to the ground with a loud clang.

  "I refuse to sharpen it." Feron said, his voice now firm and cold.

  "I am impressed by this sword, but its owner... its owner is currently burning with his own vengeance."

  The anger that had been controlled now exploded within Sora. He darted forward, his body now right in front of the much larger Feron. Sora didn't touch him, but his presence felt like immense pressure to Feron, his eyes glowing with the remnants of his rune's power, staring sharply at the blacksmith, gesturing again, this time more demanding and angrier.

  ‘I want it right now!’

  Feron seeing Sora's action like that was undaunted by his threat; instead, he stared back with his own anger.

  "I don't make swords for someone seeking revenge! I make swords for people seeking the right path! A weapon is an extension of will, and your will right now is that of a killer, not a protector! Do you understand that, kid?" Feron snapped at Sora, who was still in front of him.

  The clash between them felt like steel colliding, and the silence was full of sparks. Seeing Sora unmoved, Feron's face softened slightly, replaced by a more pained tone.

  "If you're doing this for your friend... because of what happened to her..." Feron paused, his voice hoarse as he looked at the emotion-filled Sora.

  "Is this what your friend wants from you, huh? Seeing you become the same monster as them? Seeing you like this will only disappoint her and make her cry because you're not much different from them, you know that." Feron's words hit Sora harder than any blow.

  "Think about that before you act, you fool!"

  Feron growled before turning roughly, pushing aside the leather curtain at the back of his workshop angrily and disappearing, leaving Sora alone in the workshop. Anger still burned within Sora, a fire refusing to go out for revenge, but it was mixed with annoyance and doubt. Because he knew, behind all his anger, Feron's answer had changed Sora, and what he said was true.

  Sora just stood there, in the middle of the silent workshop, staring at his sword lying on the dirty ground. Meanwhile, Rose walked through the dark underground passages leading into the rotten heart of the palace, the show must go on. The dance planner, a middle-aged woman with eyes as sharp as steel, had returned to her role and saw Rose had returned after delivering Kaelith to the headquarters.

  She gathered the remaining dancers in the dim dressing room behind the stage. The faces of the young women before her were pale with fear, but their eyes watched the dance planner closely for the mission given.

  "Listen, the party has started. One of you might be chosen by the king to be taken into his chamber." The dance planner whispered, her voice low and urgent, and some of the dancing girls tasked with this began to swallow nervously and fearfully.

  "If that happens, don't be afraid. Maybe something you imagine will come to you, but we need something from you; we need detailed information about the prison, how many troops are in each block, their patrol schedules, and most importantly... a list of all prisoners held there in the last five years." The planner continued, her eyes sweeping over every face of the dancers who nodded silently, understanding the weight of the task.

  The planner leaned closer. "And if one of you is caught, never reveal anything about us or this revolution; if death is the price to pay, then pay it appropriately. Remember this one thing in your minds, we are far from the various humiliations they have inflicted upon you, us, and the people of Jargmund now, remember that!"

  Her voice was now like an icy whisper, and the dance planner straightened up, her mask of firmness back on her serious face.

  "Now, move according to your formations!" The dancers began to move, and the planner instructed their positions from behind the thick stage curtain as the stage music began, and they stepped onto the stage with fake smiles painted on their faces to entertain the audience there.

  Not long after, the great doors of the palace hall swung open, and the King of Jargmund appeared upon hearing the show had started. Goulash entered with heavy steps, his appearance the embodiment of gluttony: his body so fat he could barely walk properly, his face dirty with an unkempt long beard, and he leaned on a cane made of solid diamond to support his weight as he walked.

  At his side, beautiful women in silk dresses clung to him, whispering something into his ear that made him smile lewdly. He sat on his magnificent throne, and one of the women immediately sat on his lap while Goulash's fat hand shamelessly began to grope the woman's fair skin in front of the audience. His small, greedy eyes scanned the dancers on stage.

  Suddenly, he stopped when something felt unusual to him, prompting Goulash to call his general standing nearby.

  "Where is that Kaelith Virandel? That woman was supposed to be dancing there, right?" Goulash hissed to the general who had brought Kaelith and tasted her before the king began to nod in understanding.

  "I will check, Your Majesty." The general moved quickly towards the backstage, and from behind the curtain, the dance planner peeked at the conversation and could read their lip movements, immediately understanding what they were saying.

  Without panic, she signaled subtly to a substitute dancer who had been made up to look like Kaelith, and plan B was executed. The doppelg?nger dancer stepped to the center of the stage and performed mesmerizing dance moves.

  Goulash, whose attention was easily diverted, saw the dancer resembling Kaelith and immediately whistled loudly. The people he invited, corrupt nobles and cunning merchants, just followed what he did, clapping and whistling too, even laughing. Goulash laughed heartily, feeling satisfied with his plan which he thought was great.

  Amidst the laughter, one of his guards approached Goulash, and this figure was different from all the Jargmund royal officers he had; this officer stood not with vigilance, but with a threatening boredom. Rumors said the battlefield had given him many nicknames, but the most persistent was

  ‘The Anomaly of Flesh and Bone’.

  According to existing battle records, this officer could defeat a hundred thousand troops with his bare hands, and all the guards in Jargmund feared him. This officer became Goulash's bodyguard not out of loyalty, but because Goulash was the only person who could give him what he wanted: a stronger opponent to satisfy his fighting desire.

  The officer's name was Vorlag.

  "Hey, Vorlag. Why aren't you enjoying this party, huh?" Goulash asked jokingly, raising his wine glass and laughing.

  Vorlag, in his jet-black armor with a giant halberd always slung on his back, just said coldly, "Hmph, I'm looking for an opponent for my desire rather than standing beside you."

  Goulash laughed even louder. "Okay, okay! I'll find an opponent who can fulfill your desire, but don't complain too often, Vorlag. Look at the stage now! And choose one of them, and I'll send her to your room for some fun at least. What do you think?" Goulash offered with a sly grin on his face.

  The woman on his lap could only laugh softly listening to their conversation until Vorlag answered Goulash's offer.

  "I don't want that, and I'd better leave now." Vorlag answered flatly and without waiting for Goulash's approval, turned and walked away.

  His presence made the nobles move out of his way because he was the embodiment of pure human strength feared by other humans, his strength forged by fighting experience, not by runes and not even by something he never understood like magic or anything else.

  Vorlag was an absolute figure with his own strength, currently seeking only an opponent who could satisfy him in battle. Goulash just laughed as Vorlag left him, considering his bodyguard's rudeness as amusing entertainment.

  The party continued, unaware that beneath the kingdom of Jargmund, a revolution was planning its move, and among the dancers, a resistance was gathering information from their findings.

  Meanwhile, in the prison, a hoarse and bitter laugh echoed in the damp interrogation room, followed by the thud of a body falling hard onto the floor as an iron gauntlet struck flesh and bone.

  "You think that's funny, wizard?" growled the head warden, his heavy breath smelling of the wine he had drunk until drunk.

  Namien, sprawled on the floor, tried to lift his head, his face no longer recognizable. One eye was swollen completely shut, his lip split and bleeding, the blood mixing with his saliva. Yet, amidst all the cuts and bruises, a cynical smile still played on his face.

  "I'm just... entertained by your inhuman behavior. You ask me about a revolution as if I created it, torturing me like this and getting information I don't have for you on this floor with my own blood. Your questions are very boring, and you have no other questions to ask, drunkard." Namien replied, each word feeling like swallowing broken glass, and the head warden's reaction was to look at him with disgust.

  "I'm sick of you today, and your face has been enough of a punching bag for today." The head warden replied, wiping his hands covered in Namien's blood from beating him to a pulp, then turned to two nearby guards.

  "Take this trash back to his cell!"

  Namien no longer resisted and let his body be dragged helplessly, his feet scraping the cold stone floor, leaving a trail of still-flowing blood. They threw Namien unceremoniously into his cell upon arrival, the sound of the iron door slamming shut marking the end of that day's interrogation session.

  The guards returned to their post where a deck of cards and a bottle of cheap wine awaited them. With a soft groan, Namien tried to adjust his sitting position, his back feeling like it was pierced by a thousand needles as he leaned against the damp wall.

  Vael sitting in a dark corner, had endured worse conditions before Namien. His tattered clothes revealed a body full of cuts, bruises, and some wounds starting to fester from infection. Opposite him, Arelan sat silent as a stone, his eyes closed momentarily to endure the pain in steadfast silence, a cut on part of his face and his hand nearly crushed by the head warden.

  "When... when will the rescue come?" Namien murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

  "When the time has come and not a second sooner." Vael answered hoarsely without opening his eyes. Arelan remained silent, but Namien knew he agreed with Vael's statement.

  The patience of these knights sometimes drove him crazy, and his gaze then shifted to the cell opposite them. There, on a pile of clean straw, Silas Verne was fast asleep like a child dreaming of delicious food, showing no anxiety and no fear, only calm peace.

  Seeing that sight, something inside Namien began to frustrate him, and his despair finally overflowed.

  "When the time comes, huh?!" he shouted towards Silas's cell, his hoarse voice echoing in the silent corridor.

  "Easy for you to say, you old bastard! You sleep soundly while we're beaten half to death!"

  The shout, sounding like a lightning strike in the prison's silence, woke Silas up. Silas just opened his eyes slowly and yawned after his sleep was disturbed by Namien's voice directed at him, and now Silas turned towards Namien who was staring at him with anger and disappointment.

  Silas sat up straight, his movements calm and measured. He looked at Namien, and when he spoke, his voice began to sound serious, without a hint of the sarcasm he usually showed.

  "A strategist never laments a piece that hasn't moved, Patriot. And a patriot never barks when he should be observing." Silas said, his tone piercing like ice.

  Instantly, Namien was stunned to hear Silas's words. "You look more like an angry dog than a clever wizard right now, and your barking won't hasten the dawn. Patience is key, and patience is also a resolve forged in silence. When the time comes... you will know the sign." Silas continued, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce through the iron bars.

  Namien stared at Silas for a long time, his anger slowly receding, replaced by cold disappointment.

  He had no answer for that, and with a heavy sigh, Namien turned his face away to lean back against his cold cell wall, letting the pain in his body become his only companion at that moment.