'I always thought I was gonna die earlier than I was supposed to one day. Maybe by the hands of a monster, from the hands of an enemy, hell even as collateral damage from someone else's fight.
But I was definitely not expecting to die today, most especially not by the hands of my own guild members, the people I've served and worked for all my whole damn life.'
Damien, a thirty year old man with battle-worn skin and tired eyes, knelt on the ground, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Most of it was his, mingling with the blood of the E-rank monsters he had slain.
"Why?" he whispered, addressing the five figures standing before him as his gaze fell to the ground. His left arm had been completely severed at the shoulder, with a familiar ornate dagger embedded deep in his chest. The very same dagger he had saved for months and bought for his lover Freya.
She embedded it in his chest with a "Why would I marry a weak commoner like you" comment.
His gaze lifted, just enough to see her kissing Lark. The very same bastard who took his left arm.
'That damn bitch' he muttered.
He didn't know why they had decided to eliminate him. Why the hell were they doing this? He wasn't that strong to say he was a threat to them, neither was he from a noble family. He was just a weak commoner with little to no magical energy.
But here he was, with a dagger thrust in his chest by the person he loved, people he thought he could trust with his life.
So he needed to know why.
"Huh, what was that you said? Come on, repeat it. You know we are friends, right?" Lark said, his tone dripping with mockery. A creepy smirk etched on his handsome face, the same smirk that Damien had always secretly hated.
"Oh, spare me your counterfeit camaraderie. Why, you fucking bastards!" Damien yelled out spewing blood from his mouth. He was beginning to feel dizzy. He had lost way too much blood already, and he felt death's cold fingers creeping up his spine, ready to claim him.
"Come on Damien, you know why. Why else? It's because of that lousy, delusional dream of yours," Lark said as the other four began to laugh, their chuckles echoing through the clearing like hyenas circling wounded prey.
'Yes, my dream was to become the Sorcerer King' he thought bitterly. But he knew that it was a hopeless dream. How can someone with barely little to no Mana energy become the sorcerer king, a position held only by those blessed with overwhelming power.
"Lies. You know all too well that it was an impossible dream so why?" Damien asked, mustering the strength to look Lark straight in the eye, refusing to die with his gaze on the ground.
"Yes of course I know, everyone fucking knows." Lark said, looking down at him like he was nothing less than the dirt beneath his feet. His perfect features twisting into a sneer of disgust.
"But hearing you say it time without number, pisses me off every goddamn single time" His face darkened momentarily before that familiar devious smirk returned. He suddenly moved closer to him.
"But the main reason we're doing this is because... It Would Be Fun," he whispered, leaning down until Damien could smell the expensive wine on his breathe.
"I find killing weak little humans like you a lot more fun than killing monsters." He said, slowly licking his dagger, his smirk growing wider as an immense bloodlust oozed from his body, matched by the four silent figures standing behind him.
Damien's eyes widened in disbelief. He was being killed for an absurd reason as "fun." Him? Suddenly, he grinned his teeth in extreme anger, the muscles in his jaw clenching until they ached.
The thought of dying as someone's entertainment was enough to shatter his facade of humbleness, the mask he had carefully built to take in insults and maltreatment over years of servitude.
With the little strength he had left, he gripped the dagger in his chest with his only remaining right hand. The pain was blinding as he pulled it out, but rage dulled the agony as he slowly, unsteadily rose to his feet.
"You Bastards!" He shouted as he rushed forward to strike him. He might not have any Mana, but he had learned series of martial arts just to survive as more than just an ordinary human in this world of magic.
But yet, even with adrenaline flooding his veins, he wasn't fast enough. Internal energy was everything.
Lark stepped back slightly, his movements lazy and unhurried. "Haha, you see, fun!" He said, clearly enjoying the thrill of Damien's desperate struggle.
But it only angered Damien even more. And just before he could land an attack, four blades struck him from each sides in an instant. It was the blades of the other four guild members.
'Damn it!' His thoughts trailed off, knowing that he was going to die with Lark's devious smirk as his last memory, that smug face the final thing his fading eyes would see. The thought of it all burned hotter than the pain of his wounds as he lost consciousness and fell into the endless abyss of death.
He opened his eyes, but all he could see was a never ending darkness that stretched out, covering him whole.
"Tsk, what an utterly pathetic death that was," a deep masculine voice suddenly echoed in the darkness. The voice was ancient and powerful, dripping with mockery and amusement that awfully reminded him of Lark, but with an edge that spoke of something far more dangerous.
"Who the fuck are you?" He asked frowning. He looked around frantically but couldn't see anything, not even a little flicker of light.
Just then, a gigantic red eyes opened in the darkness, sending shivers down his spine.
"A little weakling like you doesn't deserve to know my name" the monstrous voice spoke out.
Damien frowned, defiant even in death. Then suddenly, the gigantic eyes widened as if surprised—no, more like shocked, the red glow intensifying.
"Oi... that mark on your chest, how did you get it?" It asked, unmistakable curiosity piqued in its tone.
Damien gazed down at where his chest should be. He couldn't see anything in the absolute darkness, but he was sure that this being, or whatever the hell it was, was talking about the black, large cross tattoo that had been on his chest since childbirth.
"Huh, how the hell am I supposed to know. It's been there since my birth" he said frowning.
"Haha... hahahahaha! Things just got a lot more interesting!" The voice boomed, a mix of excitement and disbelief echoing endlessly through the void.
"You don't even know that you've been cursed with the Black Raven Cross seal, the most powerful sealing spell in existence." The voice exclaimed.
'Cursed? Me cursed? How? When?' Damien's mind raced frantically. He couldn't understand any of it. Was this just another cruel joke played on him?
"Oi.... You want revenge right?. You want to kill those bastards who have taken everything away from you right!?' the voice asked, taunting him.
'Revenge?' he repeated in his mind. There was nothing he would love more than to see that devious smirk of Lark twisted into something of despair, even if he had to make a deal with the Devil himself.
"Yes, I want, no, I need revenge" he said, gritting his teeth in anger.
"Very well then, I'll help you get your revenge. In return....." The voice echoed as a gigantic clawed hand stretched out reaching to cover him whole.
"In return what!?" Damien yelled out, desperate yet wary. Deals with mysterious entities never came without steep prices.
"Kiekikikiki" the voice screeched in excitement. Something deep within Damien didn't like that kind of laugh. But before he could say anything else....
"Ahhhhh!" Damien suddenly jolted upright from bed. He blinked against the pale light streaming in through a familiar window. His head pounded, and as he turned, taking in his surroundings, a cold sense of confusion washed over him.
'what the, this is the orphanage where I lived. It's not destroyed' his thoughts raced off in confusion. He didn't understand what was going on. He was supposed to be dead, but here he was. Then suddenly, a loud knock rang through his door, followed by a voice he hadn't heard for years now.
"Damien, are you not finished yet?. You're going to be late!"
"Huh, Sister Luna!... she's, alive?" He said, tears nearly rolled off his eyes. But something felt off with his sentence just now.
'Wait... this voice...' He paused, startled by the sound of his own words. It wasn't right. The pitch, the timbre—it was off.
"This isn't my voice," he whispered, his brows knitting together in confusion.
His eyes darted to a nearby familiar window. He lurched forward, trying to stand, but the moment his feet hit the floor, his legs gave way beneath him, and he crashed to the ground with a thud.
"What the hell!" he gasped, struggling to lift himself. His legs felt foreign, uncoordinated. 'These… these aren't my legs!'
With great effort, Damien managed to pull himself upright, using the edge of his bed for support. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the window, desperate to see his reflection.
The moment he caught sight of his reflection, his breath hitched. Staring back at him was a boy—a young, quite, maybe, a little handsome boy. His face and smooth skin a stark contrast to his body mere moments ago that has be ridiculed by scars.
'Huh, this is just how I look when I took the magic knight entrance exam' he exclaimed.
"Damien are you still in there" the Sister's voice echoed again, knocking more insistently at the door, concern edging into her tone.
'Just, what the actual fuck is going on'