The battlefield was silent, save for the crackling embers that clung stubbornly to the air. The earth bore the scars of their battle—charred craters, molten fissures, and the remnants of a clash that shook the heavens. But despite it all, only two figures remained standing.

  Aldric, the Radiant Reaper, stood at the heart of the destruction, his body trembling, his breath shallow. His golden flames flickered weakly, struggling against the inevitable. The power of his Ascen, once radiant and all-consuming, had pushed beyond his mortal limits. His old body had given in.

  Across from him, Vaelros, the Hollow Reaper, loomed like a shadow of the abyss. His form was untouched by hesitation, his presence unshaken. The final attack had struck true, carving through Aldric’s body with merciless precision. And yet—Vaelros did not move.

  He did not press forward to finish what had already been decided.

  Instead, he stood still, his abyssal eyes locked onto the warrior before him. The silence stretched between them, not as a victor to the fallen, but as one warrior acknowledging another.

  "Aldric of the Radiant Reaper," Vaelros intoned, his voice carrying not malice, but reverence. "Even in the face of death, your flames refused to be extinguished. Against one of the Twelve Scions, you stood unyielding." His abyssal power surged around him, but there was no arrogance in his stance. Only respect. "Few can claim such a feat."

  Aldric exhaled, a weary chuckle slipping through his lips. His fingers barely held onto the hilt of Solbrand, the greatsword that had fought by his side through countless battles. His legs wavered, barely able to keep him upright.

  The embers of his wounds spread further, his body slowly crumbling, burning away as the cost of his unleashed power took its toll. He had given everything. There was nothing left to give.

  Then, through the dying light, a voice—warm, celestial, and filled with unwavering devotion—echoed in his mind.

  "You were magnificent, Aldric."

  His dimming eyes widened. It was a voice he had known for years, a presence that had never once faltered, never once left his side.

  Solbrand.

  The greatsword pulsed with light, its golden radiance flickering as if sharing in his pain. It had never spoken before—not like this.

  "Through every battle, every struggle, you carried me not as a weapon, but as a companion. I have witnessed your strength, your resolve, your unwavering fire. And I have never been prouder to fight by your side."

  Aldric’s grip on Solbrand tightened, a small, tired smile forming on his lips. "Heh… You’ve always had a way with words, haven’t you?" His voice was weak, barely more than a whisper.

  The warmth of his sword, his Relicarn, remained. Even as his body faded, even as his strength left him, she was still here.

  "You are not alone, Aldric."

  His vision blurred, not from pain, but from something deeper—a regret that had lingered within him for far too long. His thoughts drifted, carried by the dying embers of his soul, to a name he had held close to his heart.

  Lucian.

  Aldric closed his eyes. And in the darkness, he saw light—a distant warmth. A memory.

  He saw a young boy, small and frail, swaddled in a thin blanket, left upon the steps of a modest church by a stranger whose face he would never know. Aldric had been a priest then, living in quiet solitude, his days spent tending to the weary and lost. The night had been cold, the child’s breaths barely visible in the winter air. When Aldric lifted him into his arms, the boy did not cry—only looked up at him with wide, blue eyes, uncertain yet searching.

  "You are not alone anymore," Aldric had whispered, cradling the boy close. "You have a home now."

  The scene shifted. Lucian, no longer just a lost child but a boy with boundless energy, laughing as he ran through the churchyard, swinging a wooden training sword far too big for him. Aldric stood with arms crossed, shaking his head.

  "If you hold it like that, you’ll break your own nose before you land a hit," he had scolded, though there was no real anger in his tone. Just exasperation—and pride.

  Another memory. A stormy night, thunder roaring through the sky. Lucian sat by the fire, nursing a scraped knee, eyes brimming with tears. "I’m not strong enough," he had muttered, fists clenched. "I’ll never be strong like you."

  Aldric knelt beside him, resting a firm, calloused hand on his shoulder. "Strength isn’t about never falling," he said. "It’s about standing up, no matter how many times you do. And I’ve seen you stand up more times than I can count. That’s why I believe in you."

  The boy grew. No longer frail, no longer weak. His body hardened, his spirit unyielding. He had developed his own Ascen, the core of a warrior’s body, yet he had not yet called upon his Relicarn—the weapon forged from his soul. Instead, he wielded the same wooden training sword Aldric had given him, carrying it with a reverence beyond its simple form. And when Aldric looked upon him, it was not as a master to his pupil, but as a father to his son.

  "You’ve become strong, Lucian," he had once said. "Stronger than I ever hoped."

  And Lucian had smiled. Not as a student seeking approval, but as a warrior standing beside the one who raised him.

  The memories faded, dissolving into golden embers, but the warmth they left behind did not.

  Aldric’s lips trembled, and with the last of his breath, he whispered,

  "Lucian… forgive me… I won’t be there to see you grow stronger."

  His body gave way, crumbling into golden embers that danced upon the wind, scattering into the night.

  The battlefield was left empty, save for Solbrand, resting in the scorched earth.

  Vaelros did not speak. He did not move. He simply watched as the last embers of the Radiant Reaper faded into the heavens.

  Aldric was gone.

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  -------------------------------------------

  As Aldric’s golden embers scattered into the wind, The battlefield, once ablaze with divine fury, was now eerily still—nothing remained of the Radiant Reaper but the warmth of his lingering presence.

  Vaelros exhaled slowly, his abyssal form unraveling as he relinquished the power gifted to him by the Hollow Lord. Shadows peeled away from his body, dissolving into wisps of black mist, revealing his true self beneath. His silver hair, damp with sweat, clung to his face, and his breath was heavy. His body ached—something he had not felt in centuries.

  He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers, feeling the exhaustion creeping into his bones. Never before had he been forced to fully assume the form of the Hollow Lord’s chosen. Never before had he met an opponent who stood so defiantly, even when the outcome had already been decided.

  Aldric had not merely fought—he had burned, bright and unyielding, until the very last ember.

  Vaelros closed his abyssal eyes for a moment before turning his gaze to the scorched earth where the priest-warrior had made his final stand. He did not speak, but in that silence, there was acknowledgment, respect.

  And for the first time in his long existence, hesitation.

  He had been sent here with a purpose—to hunt down Lucian, to snuff out the spark before it could become a wildfire. The Hollow Lord had deemed the boy a threat, a force that could one day upset the delicate balance of power.

  But now?

  Now, he wondered.

  Lucian had already lost his mentor, his father in all but name. He had been left alone in a world that would show him no mercy. And yet, Aldric had believed in him—enough to sacrifice everything, to stand against one of the Twelve Scions without regret.

  Vaelros smirked to himself, shaking his head.

  "Interesting," he murmured, his voice low.

  For now, he would halt his pursuit. Not out of mercy, but out of curiosity. He wished to see what the boy would become without his master’s guiding hand. Whether Lucian would crumble beneath the weight of his loss, or rise, forging himself into something greater.

  Vaelros turned, his black cloak billowing in the wind as he vanished into the night, leaving behind only the whisper of his parting words.

  "Let us see how bright your flame will burn, Lucian."

  -----------------------------------------------

  Lucian ran.

  His breath came in ragged gasps, his limbs screaming in protest, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

  Father Aldric’s voice still rang in his ears.

  "Go, Lucian. Do not look back."

  So he had run—through the smoldering ruins, through the ash-laden wind, through the night that felt far too heavy.

  But then… something changed.

  The warmth—the light that had always been there, lingering just at the edge of his senses—vanished.

  Lucian stumbled. His chest tightened as if something vital had been ripped from him. He gasped, clutching at his heart, but there was nothing. No golden presence. No quiet ember of reassurance.

  Just emptiness.

  And in that emptiness, a terrible, suffocating realization took root.

  Aldric is gone.

  Lucian turned, his body moving before his mind could catch up. His exhaustion, his fear, his pain—all of it was swallowed by a singular, overwhelming need to know.

  He sprinted back toward the battlefield.

  By the time he arrived, the chaos had already faded into eerie silence.

  The land was ruined. The earth had been torn apart, deep fissures and craters marking the sheer devastation left behind. Molten stone pulsed with fading heat, the air thick with the acrid scent of burned steel and seared flesh.

  And in the center of it all…

  A sword stood, impaled into the scorched ground.

  Lucian’s breath caught.

  Not just a sword—a greatsword.

  It towered over him, its massive form seemingly rooted in the earth itself. The blade, though dim, shimmered faintly, as though embers still lingered beneath its surface. Its golden engravings, once brilliant, were now cracked and flickering. The sheer weight of its presence made the air feel heavy.

  Lucian took a shaky step forward.

  Then another.

  He reached out—hesitant, unsure. His fingers brushed against the hilt, and the moment he made contact—

  Warmth.

  A surge of heat, not burning but familiar, rushed through his veins. A presence—vast, yet fading—washed over him.

  Then, a voice.

  "Lucian…"

  Lucian gasped, his grip nearly slipping from the sheer force of it. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. "Who—?!"

  The voice was strained, filled with sorrow, but undeniably there.

  "I… could not protect him."

  Lucian’s stomach twisted. His fingers tightened around the hilt. "No…" His voice was barely a whisper. "Who… what are you?"

  The greatsword pulsed weakly, its golden radiance flickering.

  "I was his blade. His companion. His will, made steel."

  Lucian’s breath caught.

  His blade? He had seen Aldric fight many times before, wielding a greatsword with effortless grace, but he had never once spoken of a weapon like this.

  "He called me Solbrand."

  Solbrand.

  Lucian looked down at the greatsword, now realizing that this was no ordinary weapon. It was something far more.

  Something alive.

  His fingers curled around the hilt. "If you were his weapon…" His voice trembled. "Then tell me. Where is he?"

  There was a pause.

  Then, Solbrand whispered a single word.

  "Gone."

  The world blurred.

  Lucian’s legs gave out, and before he could stop himself, he slammed his fist into the scorched earth.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The pain barely registered, drowned beneath the storm raging inside him.

  His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His body trembled—no, shook—with something too vast to contain.

  Then, a sound tore from his throat.

  A scream.

  Raw. Unrestrained. The kind that ripped through flesh and soul alike.

  The greatsword quivered in his grip, but he didn’t care.

  Aldric was gone.

  The man who had raised him. Taught him. Stood by him when no one else had.

  Gone.

  Lucian squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers clawing into the dirt. His breath shuddered, his grief threatening to swallow him whole.

  But beneath it, something stirred.

  A flicker.

  Not just sorrow. Not just loss.

  Resolve.

  He forced himself to listen.

  "But he did not leave you without a path."

  Lucian swallowed, his throat raw. "What path?"

  "He gave me one final will—a direction for you to follow. A place you must go. A man you must find."

  Lucian’s breath steadied. He pushed himself up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Who?"

  There was a long silence. Then, Solbrand uttered a name.

  "Orin Kael."

  The name sent a strange shiver through Lucian’s spine. He didn’t know it. Had never heard it before. And yet, there was weight in it, something unshakable.

  Lucian clenched his fists. "Who is he?"

  "Aldric trusted him. And he will know you by these words."

  The battlefield fell deathly silent.

  Then, in the last echoes of Aldric’s will, Solbrand whispered the words that only two souls in this world would understand.

  "Even the smallest ember can set the world ablaze."

  The moment the words left her, Solbrand trembled in Lucian’s grip. The warmth that had once pulsed through her now flickered like a dying flame.

  Lucian’s eyes widened. "Wait—what’s happening?"

  Solbrand’s glow began to dim, golden cracks forming along her once-magnificent blade. Tiny motes of light—embers of her existence—drifted into the air, vanishing into the night.

  "My time is ending, Lucian…" Her voice was softer now, weaker.

  Lucian’s heart pounded. "No—no, you can’t—!" His grip tightened as if holding on could somehow stop the inevitable.

  Solbrand merely gave a quiet, almost sorrowful chuckle.

  "You are stubborn. Just like him."

  More of her form crumbled into golden dust, carried away by the wind.

  Lucian’s vision blurred. He gritted his teeth, trying to steady his breath. "You… you don’t have to go. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do."

  Solbrand’s presence flickered, but her voice remained gentle.

  "Follow the path Aldric left for you. Find Orin Kael. And… do not let the fire in your heart fade."

  Lucian clenched his jaw, forcing back the emotions threatening to break free.

  Solbrand gave one final pulse of warmth—her last ember—and whispered,

  "Burn brightly, Lucian."

  With that, the greatsword shattered into countless golden fragments, dissolving into the air like scattered embers.

  Lucian remained kneeling, his empty hands trembling as the last remnants of Solbrand faded from the world.

  The battlefield was truly silent now.

  No Aldric.

  No Solbrand.

  Nothing remained but the weight of their final words.

  Lucian bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. But beneath the grief, beneath the pain, something burned.

  He would not let Aldric’s sacrifice be in vain.

  He would not let Solbrand’s final wish be forgotten.

  He would find Orin Kael.

  He would uncover the truth.

  And he would ensure that Aldric’s fire—his legacy—never faded from this world.

  Lucian rose to his feet.

  The night was dark. The road ahead was uncertain.

  But even the smallest ember…

  Can set the world ablaze.