Bairan, after unleashing destruction upon everything, was forced to retreat—only to witness the continued devastation wrought by the ferocious clash of two formidable beings.
He had to abandon the estate, withdrawing all the way into the city, yet even here the ripples of battle reached with merciless persistence.
The Estate perched at the northern wing of Fhugal, and behind it sprawled a forest that stretched toward distant mountains that melted into the horizon, their silhouettes particularly indistinct now beneath the night sky.
The Western, Southern, and Eastern wings of the city teemed with countless edifices, most belonging to the citizenry. Interspersed among them stood vital infrastructure—the Warp Gate, Public Citadel, Medical Center, and numerous others.
Most of these facilities nestled somewhere between the northeastern wing and the Estate, save for the Water Purification Plant which lay buried deep beneath the city’s center, far below the surface.
The City General Library also claimed the heart of Fhugal, standing alongside the Civic Hall.
From the Northwestern wing stretching all the way eastward, residential buildings housed the denizens—a tapestry of dwellings interwoven with parks, drainage systems, and smaller Constellation Chapels tucked delicately into the nooks and crannies of the urban landscape.
But none of that mattered now.
Upon entering Fhugal, Bairan had already noted the city’s sparse population, and through his own folly, what few remained had been further reduced to dust by the shockwaves of his strikes.
A pang of remorse flickered through him as he took solace in the fact that Northern wasn’t awake to witness such a grim tableau.
Yet greater havoc had been wreaked upon the entire city by the ongoing clash at the Northern wing. The aftershocks of each collision reverberated as far as the southern walls and even the systems beyond.
Blistering heat had vaporized the waters that once flowed smoothly through intricate channels across the city. Lush greenery had crumbled to ash, and not a single patch of ground remained unmarked by fissures that spread like veins of catastrophe through the earth.
Countless buildings had either collapsed into rubble or sunk into the fractured ground. No single soul drew breath in the city—or so Bairan thought.
But there was one. Someone had survived.
Ignoring the terrifying clash that kept thundering through the air like a violent heartbeat, Bairan marched with deliberate steps toward this lone survivor who had somehow endured the cataclysm.
As he drew closer, what could only be described as a hauntingly beautiful melody drifted to his ears. String music—delicate notes plucked from some unseen instrument.
Bairan had never fancied himself a music enthusiast. The damned art had gained popularity in the later years of his youth, but he’d been too obsessed with the sword to pay it any mind. Or had he?
He couldn’t quite remember, so he dismissed the thought with a mental shrug and continued toward the source of the melody.
The tune faltered here and there, but against the backdrop of such devastating ruin, it possessed a solemn, almost sacred quality—though somewhat chilling when he considered what manner of madman would sit playing stringed music amidst such catastrophe.
No—
How had such a person even survived in the first place?
Bairan’s brows furrowed deeply as he pondered this, now closer to the source of the beautiful melody than ever before.
He finally rounded a corner into a narrow street shrouded in darkness. Beyond the natural gloom of nightfall, an invisible pall of dread hung over the city, emanating from the sorry state of the crumbling buildings and fractured ground. Wooden benches had splintered from the force of the shockwaves, charred remnants of structures still smoldered, and from the depths of the fissures, a subtle molten glow cast eerie shadows across the ruins.
Bairan cared for none of this, however. His attention locked entirely on the figure seated in the center of the street, utterly indifferent to the devastation surrounding him, playing a delicate tune with a flushed expression on his face.
Bairan arched a single brow.
‘Is he… drunk?’
In that moment, the man paused, his fingers stilling on the strings. The music died, allowing a terrifying silence to slap against the devastated landscape.
“Oh! There’s a living soul!”
The stranger remarked, his voice carrying an unsettling lightness.
Slowly, the man rose from his seated position on the ground, making a half-hearted attempt to dust off his tattered clothes.
Bairan studied the apparent drunkard with a keen, calculating gaze that missed nothing.
The stranger suddenly proclaimed, his voice echoing through the desolate street.
“The ends have descended! Ul has forsaken us!”
He paused abruptly, studying Bairan with newfound interest. Then, with deliberate slowness, he tilted up the bucket hat he wore, revealing a bloody crimson glow that pulsed subtly from beneath its brim.
In that moment, such profound dread washed over Bairan that he involuntarily stepped backward before catching himself.
The man tilted his head, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
“You look like him. But you’re not him.”
Bairan felt the question form in his mind—who?—when a terrifying presence suddenly registered in the world. Every instinct screamed for him to glance back toward the Estate, yet he dared not tear his gaze from the enigmatic stranger before him.
The presence was enormous—overwhelmingly powerful—most likely an Essence Manifestation like Paragon Raizel had displayed.
He froze in place, paralyzed by indecision.
The stranger, however, merely smiled, leisurely dropping the wooden guitar and rod of string he’d been holding.
He dusted his palms together with theatrical deliberateness, as if ridding himself of more than just debris.
Then his voice came with a peculiar lilt.
“The clash of two paragons. Hm! Hm! A story worth singing about!”
The Sword King’s hand drifted instinctively to the Dark Mortal blade at his hip.
The stranger’s eyes tracked the movement with unhurried precision.
He wagged a finger admonishingly.
“No, no, no, don’t do that. The city has already suffered enough.”
His voice softened to something almost philosophical.
“Blinded to the values of reality and existence, those two have let loose the strings that make them monsters. Many have perished because of their stupidity, and yet they probably claim to be anchors of humanity.”
A sardonic chuckle escaped him.
“We do live in a funny world.Truly it’s end has arrived.”
He met Bairan’s gaze directly now, something ancient lurking behind his eyes.
“Let us not be like them. Okay, friend?”
Bairan regarded him with undisguised wariness.
“I am not your friend.”
The stranger shrugged with theatrical nonchalance.
“Yes, you are not. But you seem to have one or two things to do with my brother, which makes you”—he paused meaningfully—”a friend nonetheless.”
He offered a slight bow and turned away, lifting his hat in farewell as he bid Bairan goodbye.
“Till we meet again.”
For the fleeting moment his hat was raised, a shock of white, snowy hair—short, wavy strands—danced softly in the night breeze.
The whiteness possessed a luminous purity unlike any Bairan had ever witnessed. Even his own white hair paled in comparison, lacking that pearlescent quality. The only person he could recall with such distinctive coloring was…
‘…Master?’
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