Alone in the carriage, the boy slumped into his seat, the weight of the day pressing heavily upon him. Closing his eyes, he hugged his trembling body, his arms wrapping around himself in a feeble attempt at comfort. His breath hitched, the adrenaline slowly leaving his system, replaced by a hollow ache deep in his chest. The sensation of taking a life—it wasn't what he expected. He wasn't unfamiliar with death; memories from his previous life flashed through his mind, but this was different. The scythe, the blood, the fear in their eyes—it was all too visceral.
For five long minutes, he sat in silence, his body quaking as if it sought to expel the horrors he had just endured. Gradually, his breathing steadied. He let his hands fall to his sides, his trembling subsiding into an eerie calm. He opened his eyes, leaning back against the cushioned seat. His gaze fell upon the swaying curtains that covered the carriage windows, their rhythmic motion oddly hypnotic.
Reaching out, he pushed the fabric aside, exposing the scene outside. Knights and maids were tending to the grim aftermath of the battle. Their figures moved methodically, collecting the lifeless bodies of their fallen comrades with reverence and piling the corpses of the enemy into a pyre for burning. The acrid smell of smoke and charred flesh seeped through the air, filling his nostrils. His stomach churned, and a wave of disgust rose within him.
He turned away, his face contorted in discomfort. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to suppress the nausea. "Breathe," he muttered, exhaling slowly. "You're better than this." He steadied himself, his mind beginning to focus once again.
Across from him, the ominous scythe lay on the opposite seat, its blackened form radiating an unsettling aura. Tendrils of dark energy seeped from the weapon, swirling faintly like a living entity. Its red gem glowed faintly, pulsating as though it had a heartbeat of its own. The boy stared at it for a moment, a frown creasing his brow.
"Well," he said aloud, his voice breaking the stillness, "let's see who's desperate enough to send those bugs to grab my attention." He cringed at his own words, the melodrama making him grimace. "Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself.
Still, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He leaned forward, reaching for the scythe. As his fingers brushed the cold, smooth surface, he felt a spark of energy jolt through his body. Gripping the handle, he tapped the red gem with deliberate intent.
The gem flared to life, emitting a radiant crimson light. Shadows coalesced in the air before him, swirling violently until two figures began to take shape. Slowly, the forms solidified into armored knights, their black and purple armor etched with sinister runes that pulsed with dark energy. Their visors hid their faces, but their aura was suffocatingly oppressive. The two knelt before him, their voices reverberating like a haunting echo.
"You summoned us, my lord," they said in unison, their tone devoid of emotion.
The boy's gaze narrowed as he studied the knights. "Why don't you tell me who your master is?" His voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge to it, like a blade honed for confrontation.
The knights tilted their heads in unison, their movements unsettlingly synchronized. "You, my lord," they answered together, their voices unwavering.
The boy's eyebrow twitched in irritation. "I mean, who was your master before me?" He sighed, shaking his head. "In simpler words, who gave you the orders to attack us?"
The knights exchanged a glance, their visors glowing faintly. Then, as one, they spoke: "Lord Valt."
The boy froze, the name triggering a flood of memories. Flashes of a red-haired boy with a perpetual smile played in his mind. That smile—it wasn't genuine. It was a mask, a façade that barely concealed the cunning and venomous nature beneath. Valt had always been an enigma, a viper hiding in plain sight.
"Valt," the boy murmured, his lips curling into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. A dry laugh escaped him, quiet at first but growing louder until it filled the confines of the carriage. "Gluttony. Of course, it had to be him."
The knights remained kneeling, unmoving, as the boy processed this revelation. Finally, he turned his attention back to them. "You've served your purpose," he said, his tone devoid of warmth. With a flick of his wrist, he commanded the knights back into the scythe. Their forms dissolved into black and purple wisps, spiraling toward the weapon until they were absorbed completely.
The scythe itself began to shimmer, its ominous aura fading as it disappeared in a burst of light. The boy leaned back in his seat, exhaling deeply. His thoughts churned as he pieced together the implications of Valt's involvement.
This wasn't just a random attack. It was calculated, deliberate. Valt wanted him dead, or at the very least, wanted to test him. The boy's fingers tapped against the armrest of the seat, his mind racing through the possibilities. Was this a prelude to something bigger? A warning? Or was it simply a game to Valt, a twisted form of amusement?
He let out a bitter chuckle. "If it's a game he wants, it's a game he'll get," he muttered to himself. But deep down, he knew this was more than just a game. Valt wasn't the type to act without reason.
The carriage jolted slightly as it began to move. Outside, the knights and maids had finished their grim task. The fallen knights' bodies had been wrapped with care, their remains to be transported back for proper rites. The villains' corpses, on the other hand, had been reduced to ashes, their sins purged in the flames.
As the scenery outside began to blur with motion, the boy rested his head against the window, his eyes half-closed. The weight of the day pressed down on him, but a spark of determination burned in his chest. He wasn't just a pawn in this game. He was a player, and he intended to play to win.
For now, he would rest. But soon, he would act. And when he did, Valt would learn the true cost of crossing him.