"... Then he said, 'Don't worry, baby girl. We will have a lot of fun in the future."
Xayne said it with a little smirk, twisting the quote like he was retelling some sleazy bar story about a guy scoring big.
For a second, the moonlight hit his scarred cheek just right, and it almost looked like he was amused.
Then he finished the sentence.
"Though, it would have been remarkable charisma if the girl wasn't nine."
Silence.
The kind that makes the air taste bitter. Like old blood.
The silent figure next to him on the rooftop didn't say a word.
Just remained still.
Xayne waved a hand lazily. "Don't look at me like that. I wasn't done."
He stretched his back lazily, eyes scanning the broken skyline of the lower buildings not far off, like it might give him patience.
"So this bastard, right? He sets up a deal—an arranged marriage—with the little girl's family. The whole thing stinks like corpse rot. Dude's rich, influential, and charming enough to fool the clueless."
"But it wasn't about tradition, or culture, or even control. No... it was an investment. That's what he called it."
The figure said nothing, maintaining its dead silence as the wind howled through the night.
"He wanted the girl's mother at first, but when she told him to piss off? He decided to buy her daughter instead through the grandfather. A long-term acquisition by disgusting, low-tier, predatory garbage."
He paused again. Letting it settle for dramatic emphasis.
"I'm sure you'd want to know what happened next. After all, I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't important."
Xayne's voice was calm—almost too calm—as he continued.
"I couldn't just sit by and let that fly. So I made a few moves. Discreet things. Went to the wrong places. Talked to the wrong people. Took some time, but eventually, I lured that scum into the ruins of this place."
"Top floor of a half-collapsed building. Scenic view, real romantic shit. Sadly for that guy, the only romance that would happen was between my hands and his throat as I wrapped my hands around his neck and crushed the air out of him.
"He squirmed, of course. Got really desperate. Said all kinds of stupid things like he'd pay me a bunch of money or get me any woman that I want or that his family would scour the realms to kill me."
"Didn't matter though. I wasn't listening."
He shrugged, stretching his arms with a casual sigh. Looking at the silent figure beside him, who still remained dead still.
"Yeah, there's going to be fallout. Big people don't just disappear without setting off alarms. But it's fine. I'll make it look like suicide. Enough blood vessels in the eyes, right angle on the bruise. People believe what they want to believe."
The person next to him still said nothing.
Xayne tilted his head, grinning slightly. "What? You think I'm some kind of righteous vigilante now? Nah. That's not it. I only went after him because he stomped on lunch some time ago."
"It was a really good meal I made with my own hands and the bastard pumped into me and stomped on it after it fell. That shit wouldn't be forgiven."
"So you can see, it was only a benefit that he was a piece of trash as well so don't sit there and think I'm some goody two shoes. But does that really matter in the end?"
He stood slowly, rising from the ledge like a shadow peeling off the wall. The wind tugged at his coat, whipping its frayed hem behind him as he turned toward the figure beside him.
"After all… you're the one who wanted to invest in a nine-year-old."
The figure's head lolled forward, lifeless.
Xayne clicked his tongue in disgust and slammed his boot into the corpse's back, sending the body over the edge.
No scream as life had long left the body.
Just the dull, final silence of a the body vanishing into the night below.
"Hope the Demons in Hell get creative with you," Xayne muttered, spitting over the side.
Then his head throbbed—sharp, sudden, like something was trying to crawl out of his skull. He staggered a little, grimacing as he dug into the inner pocket of his weathered coat.
"Fuck, not now of all times..."
He then pulled out a syringe and quickly checked it.
Empty.
"Shit."
He stood there a moment, staring at it, cursing under his breath. He really needed this stuff now, or he wouldn't be able to sleep right with this headache.
But he had to accept he had none at the current moment. He'd have to get more tomorrow. Couldn't risk going out this late. Too many eyes.
And he had to be up early—for the Liberation Ceremony.
He rolled his eyes as he tucked the syringe away.
The last place he wanted to be was that ceremony. But if he didn't show, he'd be tracked down like a rabid stray.
"So much for peace and quiet," he muttered, walking toward the rusted door that led down from the roof.
He opened the door and stepped into the dim stairwell, leaving behind only the wind—and the slow, fading echo of a body hitting concrete far below.
The next day...
The sun beamed like a jewel in the sky—brilliant, golden, and unrelenting.
Colorful banners fluttered on long strings stretched between towers, shimmering in the wind like dancing ribbons. Music poured through every street and alley of Crowned Tooth—the capital of the Minor Realm of Bethest.
Brass instruments and magical chimes played in harmony, elevated by laughter, applause, and the excited chatter of thousands.
Vendors lined the cobbled roads, selling candied fruits that floated in orbs of sugar-glass, sparkling pastries that sang softly when bitten into, and fizzy drinks that changed color based on mood.
Children raced through crowds with face paints resembling mystic beasts. Bright-eyed parents clutched their shoulders, pointing up at the sky where magical doves flared into bursts of harmless firework feathers.
It was a day of celebration.
The Day of Liberation.
The plaza where the ceremony would be held was overflowing with people. Towering flowers crafted from woven crystal and enchanted silk decorated the square's edge, while arcane glyphs pulsed gently beneath the marble flooring, humming with ceremonial power.
Floating monitors orbited the sky, broadcasting the event to every realm-connected city, while local performers kept spirits high on hovering platforms that trailed confetti from their heels.
At the center of the celebration stood a circular stage, gilded with goldleaf and set beneath an arch engraved with the Eight Divine Symbols. Flanking it on all sides were the seats of nobles, dignitaries, clan leaders, and high-tier personalities—all watching with formal smiles, gleaming jewels, and eyes sharp like blades.
Then, a booming, hearty voice rose above all else.
"AHHH—What a BEAUTIFUL day to be alive!"
The crowd erupted in cheers as the mayor of Crowned Tooth, Mayor Donvar, waddled forward onto the central stage. A massive man with a belly that preceded him by at least a second and a moustache that could house a small family of birds, he waved with both hands like he was greeting old friends.
"Look at all of you! The lifeblood of this great city! Your smiles, your pride, your presence—it's enough to make even the gods themselves weep with joy!"
Laughter. Applause. Even a few sparkles of celebratory magic crackled above.
"We're joined today by the distinguished leaders of our neighboring realms, noble delegates of the Empire's royal families, and, of course, the ever-glorious High Solicitor of the Orion Academy. We thank you all for your presence today!"
More applause. The crowd pulsed with energy.
Then the mayor's voice dropped slightly, becoming reverent.
"But we are not here today for politics or prestige. We are gathered here—every year, across the realms of Mythiax—for one of our most sacred traditions."
"The Liberation Ceremony."
Gasps of awe and excitement filled the square. Some parents clutched their children closer. Others wiped proud tears from their eyes.
"Today, as ordained by the Great Treaty of Renewal and blessed by the Eight Gods, our youth—aged sixteen and full of potential—stand on the threshold of their true path. This ceremony is not just ritual. It is the key to awakening their truth. Their talents. Their place in the grand weave of society!"
"Whether they go on to become warriors, scholars, artisans—or, if the gods are generous—Unchained... today marks their first step."
Murmurs rippled through the audience at the mention of the Unchained. Everyone hoped. Everyone dreamed.
The mayor tilted his face skyward, his eyes squinting into the brilliant sun.
"May the Eight Divine Pillars smile upon us. May they grant revelation, strength, and unity as we open the gates to new destinies!"
A chorus of chants echoed from the priests and officiants gathered on the side of the platform.
"And now…" Mayor Donvar's voice thundered once more, "bring forth the Liberation Tome!"
From the side of the stage, eight burly men emerged. Each one clad in armor etched with ceremonial glyphs, they carried a massive, rectangular object draped in red silk. Their boots thudded with purpose as they climbed the stage and carefully set the object on a raised dais at its center.
The crowd hushed in awe.
The mayor stepped forward, gripped the silk, and dramatically pulled it away.
Underneath was an ancient-looking stone tome, taller than a man's chest, covered in elaborate carvings that swirled and looped in incomprehensible patterns. The glyphs shifted faintly when one looked too long—like the book was breathing.
Donvar stood before it solemnly. He turned his gaze to the VIP balconies above and gave a slight nod. From one seat, an elderly woman in deep red robes lifted a hand and made a small circle over her chest.
The sign of approval.
The mayor bowed, then murmured a short prayer in the old tongue. The priests joined in, voices low and resonant.
Suddenly, the tome moved. The stone pages began to flip rapidly—fluttering with a deep grinding hum—until it stopped directly in the center.
Then it began to glow.
A shaft of rainbow-colored light erupted from the tome's center, shooting into the sky like a signal flare. As it rose, the glyphs on the arch above the stage ignited in sequence. In the far distance—on mountain peaks, in desert cities, on floating citadels—the same light rose from other tomes, forming a brilliant constellation of beacons across Mythiax.
Then—silence.
The stone dissolved into shimmering dust.
In its place stood a massive, real tome, leather-bound and pulsing with gentle magical energy. Only the mayor could see what was written within.
He turned to the people.
"Let the Liberation... begin! We shall proceed in alphabetical order!"
A tall attendant with a sapphire-trimmed cloak stepped to the side and picked up a crystal-laced microphone. His voice echoed throughout the city.
"First candidate—Alaric!"
The crowd cheered. Somewhere near the front, a boy with golden curls stumbled forward, wide-eyed and nervous, his family crying tears of joy.
The ceremony had begun.
Meanwhile,
Far from the center of celebration—near the western edge of the grand plaza, nearly swallowed by the shadows of a tall columned gate—Xayne sat alone on the cold stone bench, hunched forward, elbows on knees, eyes dim.
Same coat. Same boots. Same dead weight in his chest.
He stuck out like rust on a diamond. People gave him space—but not the good kind. Their gazes drifted over him like passing storms—fear, disgust, hate. Always one of the three. No in-betweens.
Children were pulled away. Some whispered behind their hands. A few adults outright glared before quickly looking away.
Xayne didn't care. Not about their looks, their judgments, their ceremony. He was only here because if he wasn't, they'd drag him here in chains.
He pressed a hand to his forehead. The migraine had gotten worse. Throbbing like a heartbeat in the middle of his skull.
Should've bought more syringes the day before, he thought, grimacing.Shit timing. Shitty weather. Shitty everything.
He wasn't interested in what the Liberation would give him. Even if he awakened some mythical Nexus Spark to become Unchained—nothing would change for him. In fact, if that happened he'd be bought, shackled, and enslaved.
The only reason they didn't do that to him now was because he was useless.
He spat at the ground.
"Liberated, my ass."
And of course… he had to wait. His name started with an X, which meant he'd be one of the last.
He leaned back against the bench, eyes half-lidded, watching the celebrations with the dull exhaustion of someone who'd seen too much and felt too little.
Just get this over with.
And then, the first Liberation was complete.