Chapter 31: Memories Buried in Smoke

The Oesterian Forest wind tore the facial skin. Cold. Freezing. The air carried sharp ice particles mixed with the scent of filthy copper and sulfur residue from the mountain base.

Luka stood petrified on the castle's stone balcony. Both his hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. His eyes stared straight up. Toward the rotting sky.

No white clouds. Devoid of a soothing marble blue. The horizon was smeared with a brownish-orange hue. Rusted dusk. In the middle of that scrap iron expanse, the giant Red Ring hung defective. The celestial body bore a massive hole in its center, letting the void darkness peek out horrifically. Its light was dim and pale, illuminating the Oesterian land with the color of drying blood. Glowing stone debris orbited sluggishly around the ring, dancing in the silence of dead space.

Down there, the forest grew no life. The pine trees grew elongated unnatural due to light deprivation and soil poisoning. Their trunks blackened gaunt and dry, turning into stone pillars. Long leafless branches curved wild, exactly like millions of desperate human skeleton fingers reaching for empty air, begging for help that would never arrive. The friction of dead branches echoed from afar. The clatter of broken bones.

Luka's chest tightened. Filthy oxygen refused to fill his lungs full.

He pulled a forced breath. Dense white vapor spewed from his mouth. A pain emerged lacking warning. Not from his monster flesh. Not from the remaining fight against the Echo Ruler. The pain crawled from behind his left ribs. A hollow void demanding to be filled by past fragments.

His head throbbed. The coarse semi-circular stitches on his neck heated up.

His brain was forced to work backward. Yanking memories buried beneath trauma debris. Soul erosion tried burying those memories, but his human instinct fought feral.

The rust color in his eyes faded. Replaced by a clear blue expanse. An intact sky. Warm golden light touched the skin. Spring.

The loud clash of metal shattered the silence.

Clang. Crack.

Teenage Luka retreated two paces. Sweat soaked his white linen shirt. He gripped the silver-plated training sword hilt. His breaths hunted. Before him, a man stood firm. A middle-aged man with bright blonde hair and a towering posture. His father. King Reinhardt.

The king smiled. His hand lowered the wooden sword. Lacking black eyebags. Devoid of an exhausted face from the world's burden. The man radiated the charisma of a continent ruler.

"A good swing, My Son." Reinhardt's voice was heavy. Warm. The man stepped forward. His large warm hand landed on Luka's head. Ruffling his blonde hair. A subtle gesture of arrogance masking affection. "Your stance grows firmer. Your sword no longer hesitates to cleave the wind."

Teenage Luka bowed his head. He steadied his roaring breath. "Thank you, Father. I merely try to mimic your movements."

Reinhardt laughed open. His voice echoed soothing the palace marble courtyard. The man pulled his hand. His eyes sharpened. Locking his son's gaze.

"Luka." The king's tone turned serious. He embedded his wooden sword tip into the dirt. "What do you think a king is?"

Teenage Luka's brain fell silent. He racked his mind. The question was too heavy for a thirteen-year-old boy. He stared at his father. Staring at the gold lion crest on the man's chest. He sought answers from the old parchment books in the royal library.

"A king..." Luka answered low. He took a breath. His teenage jawline tensed. "A king is the strongest person. Someone holding the sharpest sword, so he can protect his people from all danger."

Reinhardt's eyes softened. The man nodded faint.

"An honest answer." Reinhardt opened his mouth. Preparing to reply. "A true king does not only protect with a sword. He must..."

Crack.

The sentence cut off. The memory inside Luka's head snapped by force.

Something tore the gray matter inside his brain. His father's mouth moved, yet no sound emerged. A gray distortion swallowed Reinhardt's face. The king's face melted into a pile of filthy wax. Illusionary blood flowed from his father's facial pores, melting the eye and nose features flat.

Luka tried sharpening his hearing. He squeezed his remaining sanity. He had to know. What was his father's answer? What was a true king's duty?

His brain thrashed. Pain. A long needle pierced behind his corneas. The metallic tang of fresh blood clogged his nose from the inside. This was the Law of Erosion. The toll for burning soul energy when he fought in the forest. His memories were being amputated without anesthetics.

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Footsteps halted the compulsion. A woman walked, approaching them. Her silk dress fluttered, blown by the spring wind. The woman's face remained unseen. Thick fog covered her facial features. His mother.

"Enough training," the woman's voice flowed faintly, trembling and swallowed by static. "You two need rest."

Luka turned his head toward the palace garden table. There, a young maid arranged crystal glasses. Her pitch-black curls tied neatly. Her pale marble face looked down, focused on pouring cold drinks. Rhea.

The memory stopped dead.

The spring light dimmed. White marble shattered turning to ash. His father's face, his mother's silhouette, and the sun's warmth vanished swallowed by black mud. The Law of Erosion burned that recording tape to ash.

Luka opened his eyes.

His breaths roared wild. Oesteria's freezing wind slapped his face again. The rusted sky still hung defective above his head. He returned to hell.

His left hand crushed his temple. The painful throb faded into a dull ache.

The strongest person protecting his people.

His teenage words buzzed in his ears. Protecting. He touched his right arm wrapped in thick bandages. Behind this cloth, rough-scaled red muscles demanded raw meat. The flesh of a scavenger monster.

If his fate was to be a protector, why did this body respond like a stray street dog? Why every time he fought, did he use mud and feral bites? He ate human hearts. He slaughtered enemies lacking knightly respect. He fought dirty. All the elegant sword techniques his father praised had perished. His muscles defected, regurgitating noble movements and choosing an apex predator's instinct.

Luka ground his teeth. Blood seeped from his gums.

This was not his fault. This was Ulric's fault.

That tyrant ruined his soul's foundation. That tyrant decapitated his father. His uncle forced this protector prince to turn into a filthy slaughterer. Ulric stole his throne, then let the Eisenhart people starve until they ate corpses in the Forbidden Forest. If Ulric used armored forces to oppress the people, then Luka would use pure savagery to tear that man's neck.

Justice did not need clean hands. Justice needed a sharp sword. He would be king. The king of monsters.

The wooden balcony door creaked faint.

The lily scent banished the copper smell from the air. The aroma suppressed the remaining panic in Luka's chest.

Rhea stepped out. The woman's charcoal-gray wool dress ironed with precision. Stiff. Not a single speck of dust dared cling to the fabric hem. A worn black leather choker wrapped her pale neck, hiding her pulse. Her face flat. Her pale gray eyes stared straight, calculating her master's physical condition.

"Everything is ready, My Lord," Rhea whispered. Her voice flowed cleaving the freezing wind.

Luka turned his body. He pressed the churn in his gut. "Vance and the others?"

"They wait in the main hall." Rhea bowed her head a fraction. "Vance, Lysandra, and Merrik. The vanguard horses are on standby. The journey to Varan's fortress requires time. We must move before night descends completely."

Varan. Luka's brain twirled that name. A stocky noble studded with jewel rings. A greedy rat holding the keys to high-level food logistics. Varan controlled abundant wheat granaries, his fortress secure from the direct reach of Ulric's tax forces. If they subjugated Varan, dozens of opportunist nobles under his wing would bend the knee.

The red muscles behind Luka's right sleeve twitched feral as his brain visualized the parasite nobles hoarding gold coins from soldier corpses at the border. His bile thrashed in disgust. Yet, he needed that wheat. He needed steel from the weapon factories to feed the hundreds of wild dogs under his command.

"He will kneel," Luka growled low. "Or his head will decorate our gate's spear tip."

Luka stepped inside the room. Leaving the balcony's freezing air.

Rhea closed the wooden door. Locking tight the blizzard outside. The maid walked approaching a teakwood chair in the corner of the room. Atop it, folded a set of combat attire.

"Allow me to assist you, My Lord."

Luka stood silent. He raised both his arms.

Rhea dressed him in a dark linen shirt as a base. The fabric felt cold touching his hot skin. Then, the maid lifted a dark brown leather tunic coat. The hard material produced a stiff friction sound. Thick leather belts crossed at the chest and waist. Pulled hard. The iron buckles locked one by one. Locking Luka's body posture functional. The left shoulder fitted with thick layered black steel plates, tied firm with leather straps piercing the armor holes, protecting the vital joint from sword slashes. The right arm left free. Only wrapped in flexible sleeve fabric and a worn glove, hiding the reddish scales and horrific mutated muscles behind it.

Rhea's cold fingers crawled up to Luka's neck. The touch of the woman's skin felt cold as ice, contrasting sharp with the heat evaporating from Luka's body.

The maid attached a mask. Thick black cloth. Covering Luka's nose and mouth. Tied tight behind the head. Hiding his jaw, lips, and the remaining stitches on his lower neck. The coarse fabric rubbed against his facial skin. Trapping his breath vapor.

After the mask was set, Rhea pulled a pitch-black cloak. Joining it with a red jewel brooch at the neck. The brooch radiated a sharp gleam resembling a drop of fresh blood. The woman's pale hands moved up. Pulling the dark canopy hood covering Luka's head.

Luka's face was now entirely gone. Buried behind gauze bandages, the thick black mask, and the cloak hood's shadow. The silhouette of an executioner ghost. A killer's eye peeking from the narrow fabric slit.

"Flawless." The tip of Rhea's index finger neatened the remaining dust on Luka's shoulder.

Luka stared at his reflection in the clouded window glass.

That protector prince was dead. The one standing there was merely a sharp fang ready to eat bait. A monster who would tear a corrupt noble's neck to enlarge his forces. He needed no mercy. He needed absolute dominance.

Luka pivoted his heel.

"We depart," Luka commanded. His voice muffled rough from behind the cloth mask.

His leather boot steps struck the limestone floor. Echoing loud. He walked leading, bringing death toward Varan's castle.