A sack of fertilizer bounced against Tristan's hip as he stepped out of the merchant's shop, the morning sun casting golden streaks over the cobblestone street. He smiled brightly, waving and greeting familiar faces as he passed.
"Good morning, Mr. Gregory!" he called out to the antlered mayor standing nearby.
The towering man, with his earth-toned beard and kind eyes, gave a small nod. "Good morning to you too, Tristan."
Tristan turned to head home, but Gregory's voice called him back. His tone had shifted—lower, graver.
"Hold a moment."
Tristan paused, watching the mayor's expression darken.
"There've been… reports. Bandits, raiding towns nearby. Your family's farm is far out. Just—be cautious. Keep your eyes open, son."
Tristan swallowed, nerves stirring beneath his smile. "I will. Thanks for the warning."
He hadn't taken more than a few steps before a familiar voice lit up the street like a bell.
"Tristan!" Aiz's voice rang out, sweet and energetic. She jogged up beside him, her golden eyes shining with joy, blonde hair bouncing with each step.
"Heading home already?" she asked with a pout.
"Y-yeah," Tristan stammered, heart thudding. "M-my mom said Dad needs help today."
Gods, why did she always make him so nervous? And why did she have to be so effortlessly beautiful?
"Aww. The festival starts in five minutes. Can't you stay just a little longer?" she pleaded, flashing that infamous pout.
He hesitated. "I—I can't. B-but I promise we'll hang out tomorrow."
Her pout lingered. "Promise?"
"Promise," he replied with a soft chuckle.
She skipped away, humming. Tristan smiled, his chest warm with affection.
But a few minutes later, screams shattered the calm.
Tristan froze. His mind raced—the festival? No… something's wrong.
His pace quickened. The closer he got to the farm, the worse the knot in his stomach grew.
Then he saw his father—waiting on the porch. Relieved, Tristan raised a hand to wave.
But his father didn't wave back.
He ran toward him, panic written all over his face.
Something slammed into the back of Tristan's head. White-hot pain. The world spun. He hit the dirt hard.
His vision blurred, catching only glimpses—his father grabbing a pitchfork, shouting, clashing with a shadowy figure—then darkness.
When he woke, the world was silent. Too silent.
His head throbbed, but that pain vanished when his eyes landed on the body before him.
"Dad…?" Tristan whispered.
His father didn't respond.
He crawled forward, choking on sobs as he clung to the still, bloodied form.
"Please… no… not you…"
But there was no time to mourn.
His mother. His sister. The house.
He bolted inside.
And then—pure horror.
His little sister lay motionless, her tiny body torn by stab wounds. The floor beneath her soaked with blood.
Tristan's breath caught. He stumbled up the stairs, hands trembling.
There—his mother. Her throat was slit. Her clothes—ripped. Her expression frozen in terror.
Tristan collapsed, screaming.
Hopelessness devoured him.
Then—the sound of hooves.
Outside. He staggered to the porch, wiping tears from his eyes.
Ten men. All bandits.
And with them—a knight. His armor gleamed, marked with the symbol of Ares.
"Well, look at this," one of the bandits sneered. "Missed one."
"Think Lady Benevolence would pay for him?" another laughed. "Three thousand valis?"
Even the knight chuckled.
Tristan's fists clenched.
"Y-you'd best turn back! Or—or you'll suffer the same fate!"
The knight raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"I'm level two, brat. What can you possibly do?"
He drew his sword.
"Weapon Channeling: Fire."
The blade ignited. He charged.
Tristan froze. Time slowed.
This is it. This is where I die.
He shut his eyes.
But death never came.
He opened them—just in time to see the knight's head hit the ground.
The body toppled.
A cold hand rested on his shoulder.
He spun around—eyes wide with terror.
Standing there… was a thing. Its skin, a mottled grey. Wounds riddled its flesh. Its face—covered in a bone mask, carved into a grotesque, eternal grin.
"AGHHH!" Tristan screamed, scrambling back.
The creature said nothing.
Then—vanished, dissolving into smoke.
All that remained was a pendant. Black. Cold. The mask carved into its surface.
Tristan stared, heart pounding. Slowly, he picked it up.
Smoke curled from the edges. He slipped it into his pocket.
Then he found a shovel.
And gave his family peace.
Night fell. The stars watched silently.
Tristan knelt before three graves.
"I'm sorry…"
His voice was hoarse.
Then—hooves again.
He ran. Back to town.
But the town…
Gone. Destroyed. Shops ransacked. Blood on every wall.
He ran to the blacksmith's.
Bodies.
No Aiz.
"Please, gods…"
Then—a carriage.
He followed the sound.
It bore the Loki insignia.
"What…?"
Aiz jumped into the carriage—alive—alongside Goddess Loki, an elf, and a pallum.
It rolled away before he could even shout.
He chased it—desperately.
Too slow.
Too late.
He dropped to his knees.
"Aiz…"
Then, everything went black.