The Knight of the Dying Sun stepped forward.
A gray, cloudy sky welcomed him.
A light breeze brushed against his face as rolling plains unfolded before him.
He walked.
He could fly at incomprehensible speeds—but he just walked.
After a while, he reached a settlement.
A tavern.
He entered, sat down, and drank the alcohol he had asked for.
His body could not get drunk.
Nevertheless—he wanted to try it for the first time in his life.
An old man sat beside him, a concerned look in his eyes.
"Where did you come from?"
The young man wore only the girl's jacket and torn beast-hide pants.
Dried blood painted his skin like war paint.
In a dead tone, he answered:
"Somewhere that should not exist…"
The old man's eyes widened, but he did not pry.
The young man, who now looked like an old war veteran, left without paying.
He had no money.
The barman tried to chase after him—
But soon saw it was useless.
He made his way to the Capital.
He arrived by boat.
A small rig he had stolen from a port.
And there—
Looming over the city—
A massive globe of flesh.
The Flesh Moon.
He launched himself—
Using the paddle he had steered the boat with.
The closer he got—
The louder the voices became.
But it did not affect him.
He tore through the soft flesh of the globe.
Using the paddle as a sword, he sliced it into pieces too small to regenerate.
And in his eyes—nothing changed.
The desperate knights who had tried to stop the monstrosity looked at him.
Grateful.
And—if just a little—
Afraid.
The Flesh Moon—once a powerful entity—
Something that had absorbed the essence of dead gods—
Was erased so easily.
The remnants of its flesh were eventually washed down into the ocean,
Where it reformed.
It had lost much of its power.
It tried to regain it by absorbing oceanic life—
But it came at a cost.
Everything it absorbed reflected in its hivemind—
And so, its intelligence began to fracture.
The Knight of the Dying Sun was invited by the leading party of the Capital—
A banquet held in honor of his exploits.
He arrived, not a care in his mind, dressed in his trusty jacket—the one he protected more than his life—and a new pair of pants, gifted to him by the knights he had saved.
The nobles were not fond of him.
One of them—a fool.
Tried to intimidate him.
Thinking his strength was some overblown tale.
"You must be the hero who saved the city, right?"
The Knight said nothing.
"...Not the most talkative, huh? And what's with this demeanor? Do you even know where you are?"
Still—silence.
The noble laughed, but it was thin. Forced. He glanced at the other nobles, expecting approval. Instead, they shifted uncomfortably.
A flicker of unease passed through his face. But he doubled down.
"So scared you can't even talk?"
The noble sneered—then took a knife, bringing it to the knight's throat.
"Look, you're embarrassing everyone here. This place is not for low-lives like you."
A voice from behind interrupted—
"But this banquet is in honor of him…"
The noble lashed out.
"I don't give a damn about that! Look at him! Do you really think he took down that monster?! Letting him come here is a disgrace to us—nobles!"
The Knight of the Dying Sun looked at him—
Empty eyes.
Like this was not something even worth thinking about.
The noble, seeing his lack of reaction, felt his confidence falter. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.
So—he acted.
His grip on the knife tightened—and he lunged.
A grave mistake.
The Knight's hand shot out—lightning-fast—and caught the noble's wrist before the blade could touch him.
The noble barely had time to process it—before a horrible, tearing pain filled his mind.
He screamed.
His arm was gone. Brutally ripped out.
The nobles gasped. Some turned away. One woman vomited into her silk gloves.
The noble staggered back, staring at the bloody stump where his limb had been. He collapsed to the floor, clutching the wound, his breath ragged.
Then, the knight's hand gripped the noble's skull.
The banquet hall went silent.
The noble pleaded. Screamed. Cursed.
"STOP! What do you think you're doing?! If you kill me, you'll get the whole city after you!"
The knight's grip tightened.
His fingers pressed into the man's skull—not in anger. Not in hatred. Not even in satisfaction.
Just absolute, detached finality.
The noble struggled.
Kicked.
Clawed at the arm holding him.
The Knight did not react.
The noble's screams grew desperate—then wet—then gurgled—and then—
A loud crack echoed through the opulent halls.
The lifeless body collapsed to the floor.
The Knight of the Dying Sun turned—
And walked out.
The crowd stood frozen.
Their eyes filled with terror.
No one dared to move.
In the city, some guards tried to stop him—to no avail.
Some nobles took his side, but in the end, he was banished from the Capital.
Not that it mattered.
He was a force so great—nothing could tie him down.
Yet—with all this power, he felt hollow.
A gaping hole had formed in his heart,
And he could do nothing
But look at the world through indifferent eyes.
He roamed the land, eradicating threats that could be considered cataclysmic with mere wooden sticks and hunks of metal that could barely be called swords.
Eventually, he made his way to his hometown.
What remained was a barren wasteland.
Houses wiped away—the skeletons of the townspeople littered the ground.
As he walked, his foot bumped against something protruding from the dirt.
He looked down. A wooden sword. His wooden sword.
A trinket from a time he was innocent—a time when he was full of hope.
The moss-covered relic was somehow well-preserved.
He picked it up.
Looked at it with sorrowful eyes.
Then, he fastened it to his belt.
A different look burned in his eyes, something that would make him almost seem alive…