Edgar was afraid.
Not the fear that lurks in the shadows before a battle, nor the fear that hides behind the arrogance of a leader.
No.
It was a fear that choked him. It pierced every corner of his mind, stripping away all rational thought until it was empty.
His body did not respond. Nor did his pride.
He knew only one thing: his end was near.
Cold sweat trickled down his back. His fingers trembled, unable to clench into fists. The stillness of the scene chilled his bones, a silence too heavy, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
And then, he spoke.
—I... beg your pardon...
His voice was barely a broken whisper, an echo of what was once his authority.
Silence.
Time seemed to stand still.
—I didn't hear well... What did you say?
The young man's words were soft, but they had the firmness of an unappealable sentence.
Edgar's chest tightened. He wanted to repeat his plea, but his mouth trembled, unable to coordinate meaningful words.
—I... beg your forgiveness... please... please.
Hernán and Roxan froze, unable to process what they were seeing.
It was not possible.
Just moments ago, Edgar had been overbearing, confident of his superiority, incapable of showing respect.
And now, that same man was begging for his life.
The young man moved calmly, catching Edgar's neck in his hand. It was a simple, effortless movement, as if lifting him into the air required no more than a gesture.
Edgar's feet lifted off the ground.
Vertigo added to the horror.
His hands tried to grasp at anything, but there was nothing.
Only emptiness.
Only the cold stare of his executioner.
—You are too cowardly to die at my hands.
The young man's voice was low, almost intimate.
But every word weighed on Edgar like a stone in his chest.
—Remember this: if you ever disrespect the sect again, I'll cut you to pieces next time.
There was no shouting.
There was no resistance.
Just absolute terror.
Edgar felt his body give way.
His mind was disconnected from the present. He no longer thought of his mission, his status, his pride.
He was no longer the King's representative.
He was no longer a warrior.
He was just a child.
Trembling, crying, silently begging for someone to save him.
The silence was thick, suffocating.
Until a voice broke through the stillness.
—Was that guy so weak? He even made himself in his trousers... what a stench.
Roxan wrinkled her nose with a mocking expression, but her eyes didn't leave the young man's side.
He was not only strong.
He was her saviour.
In her heart, he was already a hero.
Her breathing quickened. Her face took on a reddish tinge as she lost herself in thought.
The young man let go of Edgar with contempt, throwing him away. The body rolled along the ground, trailing dust and leaves, until it crashed violently into a clump of trees at the entrance.
Silence.
Edgar trembled. He struggled to his feet, but did not look back.
He dared not.
He had to warn the King.
But most importantly... I had to warn him not to come.
If the kingdom disturbed the Creation sect... it would be the end of him.
He didn't know why this thought stuck so strongly in his mind, but he understood it.
That power. That terror.
He had never felt it for anyone before.
He had been on the brink of death many times in battle. I had never feared.
But this time...
This time, he had known absolute fear.
And he vowed never to return.
Hernan stepped forward with difficulty, his body still stiff with tension.
But before she could speak, Roxan ran up to the young man.
—You're so powerful! How cool! Will you teach me how to bring people to their knees? Or throw them up in the air? Although... kneeling is enough. I can just imagine walking...
He didn't finish his sentence.
Her brother covered her mouth and dragged her back a few feet.
How could she have such a naive sister?
Not only was he not afraid of the young man, he was praising him.
And worse... he was asking to be taught!
Just thinking about it made his head ache.
But then, the young man's voice cut him like a dagger.
—I'm sorry. You are not fit to learn this technique.
He smiled slightly.
—But I could teach you some that work for you. First, you'll have to build up your power. Although... with your intelligence, I think it will take a long time.
After this, the young man announced himself:
—My name is Luis -he said with a steady smile on his face- -Can you take me to the current leader of the sect?
His words woke Hernán, who only nodded. He didn't know why, but something inside him told him it was better to take him and not try to stop him. After the power he had shown and his confident attitude, it was clear that he would not take "no" for an answer.
—Follow me, I will take you to the leader.
As they walked towards the heart of the sect, Hernán glanced at Luis. He didn't have the air of a lost stranger, but the look of someone who knew this place better than the inhabitants themselves. Was it possible that this young man had a history with the sect?
They approached the ancient palace. Its structure was weak, the walls cracked and the air permeated with damp and oblivion. Worst of all, it seemed on the verge of collapse, as if one more breath could make it disappear.
Arriving at the entrance, Hernan turned to Roxan.
—Roxan, tell the master that a visitor wants to talk to him.
She looked at him with annoyance and crossed her arms.
—Why me? You go. —She looked away indifferently—. Whenever I come in, Dad talks to me for an hour... No, thank you.
Hernan's face almost fell with this answer. He was the Elder of the Sect, his sister just a member, but she didn't listen to him or respect him. And the worst thing: he was doing it in front of a stranger.
Luis watched the scene in silence. He didn't seem surprised or interested in the sibling dispute. Instead, his eyes roamed the ruins of the palace, as if he were trying to recover something that no longer existed.
Hernan stood up, determined not to be overruled.
—Roxan, that's an order. Go now.
His voice sounded firm, full of authority, as if he would not accept a refusal.
—Oh, my ears hurt..."— he complained, holding his hands to his head as he stuck his tongue out at her—I'll go alone so I won't listen to you any more, but you owe me one.
When he finished, he hopped through the door, singing a song nonchalantly.
Silence settled between Hernan and Luis. The latter continued to observe the palace, but now his expression seemed more closed, restrained. Hernan felt a strange discomfort. That sadness, that regret... he had seen that look before. But where?
Minutes later, Roxan returned with her carefree step.
—I'm back! Didn't you miss me?—-he exclaimed, jumping up and down gaily—The old man said to come in alone and wait here.
Louis, hearing this, nodded and crossed the castle entrance without turning around.
Inside the castle, the humidity was even heavier. The air smelled of wet stone and something metallic, as if the past still floated in that place. Luis walked forward calmly, his footsteps echoing on the worn stone floor.
Arriving in the great hall, he saw an old man lying on the floor, wearing the robes of the sect and a long black beard. He seemed lost in thought, staring at the cracked ceiling.
—Welcome to the Creation Sect. My name is Reimond. To what do I owe your visit? Forgive my manner of greeting you, but today I finished creating strengthening pills for the king and I have yet to recover. Hahahaha...
Luis looked at him in more detail: scruffy, almost bald, dirty. He didn't look like the leader of a cult. But he couldn't get angry. He knew this was his fault. If he hadn't blindly trusted the wrong people....
He didn't answer. He dodged the old man on the ground and walked towards the stairs leading to the throne in the centre. They were in disrepair, almost destroyed.
The sound of his footsteps on the worn steps echoed in the huge hall.
Louis paused before the throne, gazed at it for a moment and uttered a single word.
—«Repair».
At his words, the stairs and the throne glowed brightly. The golden light enveloped the structure and, a few seconds later, everything was restored.
The steps were black, and in the centre stood an imposing red throne, with skulls engraved on the back. Behind it, a large painting showed a warrior in the midst of battle, holding a head in each hand.
Louis reached the throne and dropped into it. He slid his fingers over the surface, as if the touch could bring back memories of a lost era.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. His fingers continued to run over the throne, with a mixture of nostalgia and regret.
—Tell me —he murmured in a deep voice—"how did my sect end up in this state?