Chapter 37: Nightmares
General Fallacy Elorn sat motionless among the screaming nobles, the chaos below reflected in his calm, wine-dark eyes.
He didn’t flinch when the first explosion hit. He didn’t move when the arena cracked open like a dying beast. He simply watched silent, poised, expression unreadable.
Exactly as expected.
The Order’s strike had begun.
For months, the Empire’s golden general had orchestrated this moment under the guise of loyalty, quietly feeding information to the Order of Nowhere, positioning the assassins, ensuring the perfect chaos to cripple the royal image.
The prince would die. The people would panic. And the cracks in the Empire would widen.
He had accounted for almost everything.
Almost.
So she really came after all, he thought, watching the black-haired woman standing amidst the storm.
Belle Ardent.
The Reaper of Humanity.
Fallacy let out a long, silent sigh through his nose, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. "Of course," he murmured. "She would ruin it."
He wasn’t surprised. He had predicted her arrival as a contingency, the one variable he couldn’t control. But seeing her there, standing like death incarnate, grinding one of his knights into nothingness without so much as a twitch, still stirred an ember of irritation in his chest.
The nobles gasped as the shockwave tore through the field, dust rising like a funeral shroud. The invisible clash ended in an instant, the knight’s form twisted, caved, and then ceased to exist.
Fallacy narrowed his eyes, lips tightening.
"That one was an S-rank," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for no one to hear. "A year of training. Billions of thalgar. Dozens of sacrifices. And he evaporates like smoke."
His fingers drummed the armrest, the faintest crack forming under the pressure of his grip.
He shifted his gaze to the four remaining knights surrounding the dark-haired boy. The supposed prodigy.
At least kill him, he thought coldly. Make the message worth something.
But instead of attacking, the knights stood frozen. Their blades trembled. Their bodies shook.
And then one of them, without a sound, got crushed.
Fallacy’s jaw flexed.
Unbelievable.
He could practically taste their fear from where he sat. S-rank knights, assassins tempered in the shadows of the Order, hardened by blood and madness, reduced to shivering animals.
His calm cracked, a vein pulsing in his temple.
"Pathetic," he hissed softly, his voice drowned by the roaring crowd. "You shame the creed. You shame me."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing as Belle slowly walked toward the boy, ignoring the knights entirely, ignoring everything but him. The crowd watched in reverent silence as she knelt, her black dress soaking in mud, the perfect image of serenity.
Fallacy’s teeth clenched.
Of course, she would turn a massacre into a stage.
Of course, she would look divine.
And the nobles would eat it up, Belle Ardent, savior of the Empire, hero of the day.
Exactly the kind of myth he despised.
He adjusted his coat, forcing the frustration down. His breathing leveled. The faint glow beneath his collar, the hidden insignia of the Order, dimmed again, retreating beneath his skin.
He had known the risk. He had foreseen this possibility.
Belle Ardent’s presence wasn’t a surprise only an inconvenience.
But still... losing four S-ranks to sheer terror? That stung.
"Fine," he murmured under his breath, rising from his seat as the nobles continued their panicked whispers. "So the message failed."
His lips curved slightly, not into a smile, but something colder.
"We’ll simply send another."
Sebastian Nekros
The morning light filtered through the window, soft and gold, spilling across the wooden floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, catching the glow like sparks suspended in time.
I sat at the table, half awake, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. The coffee had gone cold, but I drank it anyway. The taste reminded me more of routine than flavor.
Outside, the village stirred to life. A cart rolled down the dirt path, wheels creaking. Someone called out a greeting. The scent of bread wafted in from the bakery next door — warm, sweet, familiar.
"Arlen," a voice called.
I turned.
She stood in the doorway, a small smile on her face, flour dusted across her cheek. Elara. My wife. Her hair was tied in a loose knot, and she wore my old shirt again.
"You’re daydreaming." She crossed her arms. "Don’t tell me you forgot the festival."
I smirked. "Festival? No, of course not."
Her eyes narrowed, playful and sharp. "You did forget."
"I didn’t," I said, though even I could hear the lie.
She laughed light, effortless. The sound filled the room and somehow made it feel more alive. "You’ll go this year. No excuses."
I raised the mug in surrender. "Fine. I’ll go."
That earned me another smile, the kind that made everything feel simple. Safe.
The day drifted by in pieces. The smell of harvest fruit, the chatter of neighbors, the sound of hammers setting up stalls. I helped an old man fix his fence, bought roasted corn from a street vendor, and watched Elara trade ribbons with the children who adored her.
For the first time in a long time, the world felt still.
When the sun went down, the festival began.
Lanterns lined the square, their light swaying in the wind. Music filled the night flutes, laughter, the rhythm of drums echoing against the hills. Elara danced among the crowd, her skirt catching the firelight as she twirled. I couldn’t stop watching her.
She caught my eye and grinned. "Come on!"
I shook my head, smiling back. "You know I don’t dance."
"Then learn!"
I gave in. Just for her.
For a while, it was perfect.
And then —
A scream tore through the music.
It cut the laughter in half.
Everyone froze. Then the sky lit up red, not from lanterns but from fire.
Flames climbed the rooftops, thick smoke rolling in from the eastern ridge. Shouts turned to chaos. The Order of Nowhere had come.
Their armor was black and cold, symbols carved like spirals into the metal. They moved in silence, their blades cutting through villagers as if the world itself had turned against us.
"Elara!" I grabbed her hand and ran. The heat burned my skin, the air thick with ash. The ground shook beneath the weight of collapsing homes.
We turned the corner a soldier stood there. His visor reflected the firelight, gold eyes staring from behind the steel.
I pushed Elara back and reached for a fallen tool a kitchen knife. My grip trembled.
I swung.
The blade connected and snapped.
His gauntlet struck me across the face, and I crashed into the wall. Pain flared, my breath gone.
"Elara!"
She screamed my name and tried to reach me. The knight moved faster. The sword came down in a single, perfect arc.
She didn’t even have time to fall.
Something broke inside me.
I stumbled to her side, my hands shaking, blood soaking through my fingers. Her eyes were wide but already fading.
Then the knight turned toward me.
I lunged unarmed, desperate, and the world went white as his sword pierced through my chest.
Everything blurred. The fire. The screams. Her face.
Then nothing.
Only silence.
—
My eyes flew open.
The ceiling above me was stone. My body slick with sweat. My heart pounded as if I’d been running for miles.
The dream again.
I sat up, hands clutching the edge of the bed. My breath came ragged, uneven. The air was cold. Too real.
The image of her Elara lingered behind my eyelids. Every detail felt carved into my skull.
I pressed my palms to my face.
"...five months," I muttered. "I’ve been having these nightmares every day for the past five months."
Silence.
The words tasted bitter.
"Ever since I started using mana..."
My reflection in the dark window stared back, eyes hollow, tired, almost afraid to sleep again.
Somewhere deep inside, I knew the dream wasn’t just a dream.
It was something else.
And it was getting closer.