But instead—
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, circular object, flicking it through the air with a practiced flick of his fingers. It landed near Soren's knee with a faint clink.
A coin. Smooth and black as obsidian.
Soren's eyes widened.
His breath caught upon seeing the engraving, a chill crawled down his spine. There was a weight to the coin—not magical, not cursed, but historically infamous.
He picked it up with trembling fingers.
The coin etched with a striking image:
A lone figure kneeling in vow—head bowed, hands clasped in solemn prayer. But behind the figure loomed a towering silhouette with horns, wings curled inward like a shadowy devil.
He knew this symbol.
The mark of Black Vow.
Everyone who dabbled in history, politics, or underground lore did. It was forbidden in some countries, burned in others. He had seen it only once before, buried in a redacted volume inside the restricted archives of Astralis Academy.
The symbol of a group whispered about in old war records, assassination reports, and fearful barroom tales.
A name spoken only in caution.
The most elusive and dangerous rogue organization on the continent. No known base. No known leader. Only sightings, rumors—and corpses.
"Soren Noctis. You're strong. Whatever that eye is..."
The man with spear began walking away, then stopped.
"One spot just opened."
"Join us. Became a member of Black Vow. Join, and the contract on your life is nullified."
"Refuse…"He shrugged. "Well. You can imagine how most refusals end."
He vanished into the trees, as silent as he'd come.
Only Soren remained, bloodied, breathing, and alone with the coin beside him.
---
A small hill overlooked the cityscape below, its lights twinkling gently in the night like scattered stars on earth. Standing atop that hill was a man — broad-shouldered, faint beard along his jaw, hair slightly disheveled in a rugged, almost lazy charm. His long spear was planted in the soil before him, unmoving.
The wind carried silence… until a woman's voice cut through.
"What's with that look? Trying to look cool again?"
He didn't turn around.
"Mystic. You came."
Still gazing at the city lights.
Behind him stood a woman with striking presence — long silver-blue hair, phoenix-shaped eyes sharp as blades, and a gorgeous face framed by arched brows. Her figure was graceful yet deadly, a silhouette that could seduce or slaughter. She was, without a doubt, a femme fatale.
"Lancer," she called his alias, voice now edged with something colder. "I heard you let our target go. And even tried to recruit him on the spot? Have you gone mad?"
He smirked.
"Must be Stalker who told you, right?" Lancer replied dryly. "He can't keep his nose out of other people's business with that power of his."
"Well, Boss did order him to watch all of us. And don't change the topic. "She stepped beside him, joining his view. "What are you thinking? Faux is dead, I heard. Do you really think Boss will let this slide?"
Lancer's answer came calmly.
"Faux was an arrogant fool. It was only a matter of time before someone took him out. I never liked him."
A pause.
"But this one... our target... he intrigued me. He dodged my Thrust. And I didn't hold back. I wanted to kill him and go home."
Mystic's apathy cracked — her eyes now sharpened with interest.
"You're not serious..." she muttered.
Lancer said nothing more.
After a moment, Mystic's tone turned suspicious.
"Last time, you said you were looking for a disciple. Don't tell me your real plan wasn't to recruit him... but to make him your successor?"
Lancer chuckled.
"Getting both would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"Lancer..."
He cut her off.
"Mystic, you know I don't have much time left."
Mystic fell silent.
They all knew. Everyone in Black Vow was aware: Lancer had been poisoned by something no one, not even their Boss, had found a cure for.
She exhaled slowly.
"Don't say more. Then... I'll side with your decision. That's the least I can do."
Lancer turned to her, flashing a wide grin, all teeth and mischief.
"You're the closest one to me in this whole organization. I knew you'd back me up."
---
Soren, he didn't leave right away.
Even after the battle ended. Even after death had brushed past his throat and chosen, inexplicably, to spare him.
He made the long walk back. Limping. Bloodied. Half-dead. Yet determined.
The ruined carriage was still there—splintered wood, shattered glass, blood dried into the soil. Bodies strewn like broken dolls. The smell of death lingered in the air like a curse.
With what strength he had left, Soren began to dig.
No magic. No shortcuts.
Just with his bare hands.
A piece of broken wood. A half-rotted plank. Stones dug out of the earth. The task was agonizing. Every movement flared pain in his ribs, his muscles screamed in protest, and the night cold bit through his tattered cloak.
But still he dug.
It took hours.
One by one, he buried them—passangers, guard, driver, even the horse. Marked their graves with makeshift stones, aligned carefully. A gesture that most would deem foolish. Pointless.
"Sentimental fool…""Why bother? They're already gone.""Waste of time."
The voices again. Faint, insidious. Crawling at the edge of his thoughts like shadows with tongues.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. The Eye of Ruin pulsed faintly behind the lid of his left eye.
It's creeping in.Every time I use it… it gets louder.
Soren clenched his fists.
Either I control it… or I become its puppet.
That was why he stayed. Why he buried them.
To remind himself that he was still human.
He's not a monster.
He stood before the row of fresh graves, the wind tugging gently at his cloak. A moment of silence. His throat tightened.
"I'm sorry you all got caught up in this," he murmured. "You didn't deserve this."
He didn't pray.
But he promised.
At least I'll avenge you.
Not against Black Vow. They were just a knife.
The one who held it… he sure it was Vellian.
The thought sent a surge of cold rage through him. Vellian had crossed a line—not just plotting behind closed doors, but reaching into the underworld itself. The man would pay. Not just for trying to kill him, but for treating lives like disposable tools.
Soren turned away.
And didn't look back.
The nearest city welcomed him with lights and distant noise, a fragile illusion of peace. He kept his hood low, his steps quiet. This time, he booked his passage under a false name.
He trusted no one.
Even if Black Vow had spared him—and offered him a place among them—he would not let his guard down. Mercy from devils was never free.
Days later, at last, he stood once more before a familiar gate.
Home.
The faint glow of the lantern she always left on for him.
...He reached for the handle with his remaining hand. Paused.
He could already sense her inside. Moving around. Reading, maybe. Or boiling tea like she always did when she was worried.
I can't let her know everything. Not yet.
But I made it back.
Soren opened the door.
And stepped inside.
The warmth struck him first. Not just the firelight flickering from the hearth, but the quiet hum of familiarity—the worn floorboards, the faint smell of ink and dried herbs, the subtle creak of a chair shifting in the next room.
Lyra's presence was unmistakable. Soft footsteps, a page turning, the brief pause in movement as if she had just sensed something… or someone.
He exhaled, slowly.
For a moment, everything outside—coins, corpses, mission—felt like a distant nightmare.
But he knew it wouldn't last.
The storm hadn't passed.
It had only just begun.