The grand halls of House Donovan were now a battlefield drenched in blood and fire. The once-pristine marble floors were stained crimson, the scent of burning wood and flesh thick in the air. The cries of dying men echoed like a funeral dirge, drowning out all but the clash of steel and the roaring blue flames that consumed everything in their path.
At the center of it all stood Marquess Kallister Donovan, his imposing figure illuminated by the flickering light of his enchanted blade. His cold, ruthless gaze swept over the fallen mercenaries, his lips curling in disgust.
"Enough," Donovan growled, his voice carrying a weight of absolute authority. The moment the words left his lips, the battlefield stilled. Even the mercenaries who had been fighting to the death hesitated, their instincts warning them that the true monster had finally drawn his sword.
With a single step, Donovan's presence suffocated the air.
"You dare defile my home?" His voice was a thunderous growl, laced with fury. He raised his sword high, the steel igniting in a torrent of blue flames.
"Dance of Blue Fire."
A howling inferno erupted from his blade, slicing through the battlefield like a tidal wave of destruction. The sheer force of it ripped through the air, the blue flames scorching the walls and sending charred debris flying in all directions.
The mercenaries stumbled back in horror, some barely managing to escape the onslaught. Others were **not so lucky—**their bodies instantly consumed by the unnatural fire, leaving behind nothing but smoldering ash.
Yet amidst the chaos, one man did not waver.
Cahir, the Mercenary King, stood his ground, his massive warhammer clenched tightly in his grip. The intense heat of Donovan's magic seared his skin, sweat dripping down his brow, but he refused to take a step back. His eyes burned with something fiercer than fear—rage.
"You bastard," Cahir spat, breathing heavily. His men were dying around him. The battle was lost. And yet, he would not retreat. Not now. Not after everything.
"Cahir, stop this!" Donovan snapped, his tone shifting for the first time. "You are outmatched. Your men are dying for nothing!"
The Mercenary King's grip on his hammer tightened, his muscles trembling, not from fear—but from the overwhelming hatred boiling inside him.
"After taking everything from me," Cahir growled, his voice breaking, "you think I'll just walk away? That I'll accept my daughter is alive and well while I bury my men?" His eyes burned with grief.
Donovan's gaze flickered for a brief moment, unreadable. Then, he exhaled, as if annoyed. "She is the Queen now," he said, his voice colder than ever. "What do you think the King will do when he sees you marching against his wife? A mercenary, raising arms against a noble?"
Cahir's teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached.
"You think that stops me?" he hissed. "You think I give a damn about your politics? About your titles?" He raised his warhammer, preparing for a final charge.
Donovan sighed. "Fool."
With a single, fluid motion, Donovan's blade sliced through the air.
Sching!
A searing pain exploded in Cahir's shoulder.
For a moment, he felt nothing.
Then—the agony hit.
His left arm fell to the floor.
A spray of blood followed.
Cahir staggered, a strangled sound leaving his lips as his weapon clattered uselessly to the ground. He dropped to his knees, clutching the gushing wound where his arm had been.
"Boss!!"
"Protect the boss!"
His men rushed forward, forming a desperate shield around him. Their eyes were wild with panic.
Donovan wiped the blood from his blade, his expression completely void of emotion. This was mercy. The old Cahir would have understood that.
"This is your punishment," Donovan said coldly, stepping back. "Don't blame me for your own stupidity."
The battle was over.
Cahir, the Mercenary King, had fallen.
The battle had ended, but its echoes lingered in the bloodstained halls of the Donovan Manor.
Bodies littered the ground—mercenaries and soldiers alike. Smoke from shattered torches curled in the air, mixing with the heavy stench of blood. The grand estate, once a symbol of nobility and power, was now a battlefield soaked in death.
At the center of it all stood Marquis Kallister Donovan.
His once-pristine navy coat was now tattered, smeared with streaks of crimson. His grip on his flaming blue sword was ironclad, his chest heaving with exertion. The raw power of his Dance of Blue Fire still crackled faintly in the air, the embers licking at the ruined marble floor beneath his feet.
Before him, Cahir the Mercenary King knelt in agony.
Blood poured from the stump where his arm had been severed, pooling at his knees. His hammer lay discarded, a useless relic to the man who could no longer wield it.
He had lost.
Cahir looked up at the nobleman standing over him, his vision blurred by pain and shame.
Donovan had won—but he wasn't finishing him off.
Why?
The mercenary clenched his teeth. "Do it," he spat, his voice hoarse. "End this, Kallister. I won't beg for my life."
Donovan's sword trembled in his grasp. His cold eyes locked onto the man he once called a friend.
And for the first time since the battle began, his heart wavered.
He could still hear it—laughter echoing in the corridors of his memory. Two boys, one a noble and the other a street rat, sneaking away from their duties to play in the bustling streets of Donovan Territory.
A shared meal in a dimly lit tavern. A whispered promise beneath the stars.
"We'll change this world together, Kallister."
A young Cahir had once said those words, eyes burning with the same fire that had led him to become a king among mercenaries.
What happened to those boys?
What happened to their dreams?
Donovan exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.
(This is weakness. Mercy is weakness.)
And yet, as he looked at the broken man before him, the weight of his own hypocrisy crushed him.
He had already taken everything from Cahir.
His men. His pride. His arm.
Would taking his life truly mean victory?
Or would it just make him a coward who silenced a man rather than faced what they had become?
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Donovan dismissed his flames. The blue fire flickered out, leaving only the dim glow of the ruined chandeliers above them.
"Go," he said, his voice tight with restrained emotion. "I'll spare you for old times' sake. But don't mistake this for kindness, Cahir. From this moment forward, you and I are no longer friends. We are enemies."
Cahir's breath hitched.
For the first time, his defiance cracked.
He had spent years hating nobility. Years telling himself that men like Donovan were all the same—corrupt, arrogant, drunk on power.
But now, standing at the mercy of the man he once trusted, he wasn't sure if he had been wrong.
Cahir staggered to his feet, his men immediately rushing to his side. His vision swam, but he forced himself to hold Donovan's gaze.
"You'll regret this, Kallister," he growled. "From now on, we are enemies in every sense of the word."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his remaining men following him into the night.
From the rooftops above, Theodore watched.
The entire battle, the defeat, the mercy.
And it was hilarious.
His lips curled into a slow, amused smirk. "Look at him," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "Marquis Donovan thinks sparing him was an act of power, but it was nothing more than sentiment."
Belial stood beside him, arms crossed. "Perhaps. But sentiment has power, my lord. You of all people should know that."
Theodore hummed in thought but didn't deny it.
He turned his gaze to the retreating mercenaries. Cahir was still clutching his severed arm. The wound might have been sealed, but Theodore could see it—the invisible wound, the one that wouldn't heal.
The wound of failure.
And what made it even better?
Cahir didn't even know his daughter was already dead.
Theodore chuckled to himself. "Come, Belial. Let's go give him the bad news."
They followed them within their shadows,as if they were following their prey.
The battle was lost. The once-mighty Mercenary King, Cahir, now stood among the ruins of his pride, his men battered and broken. The streets were silent as they limped through the city, carrying their fallen comrades on their backs.
Blood dripped onto the cobblestone roads, marking a trail of defeat and sorrow.
The once-lively mercenaries, men who had roared with laughter in taverns and faced death with fearless grins, now walked in silence. Their eyes were hollow, their spirits crushed. The weight of their leader's failure hung over them like a funeral shroud.
When Cahir and his men arrived at the Steel Vanguard Guild, the large wooden doors were thrown open before them. Inside, Jennet, the sharp-eyed receptionist, was already waiting—her face pale, her hands trembling.
She had prepared for this. She had expected defeat.
The moment she saw Cahir's severed arm, she gasped, rushing forward. "Boss—what happened?! Are you—?"
Cahir raised his one remaining hand to silence her. His voice was hollow. "It was my punishment, Jennet," he murmured, his eyes downcast. "Because of my rage, my recklessness, I led them to their deaths. My men. My brothers."
His words weighed heavy on the mercenaries. Some clenched their fists. Others turned away, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Cahir was not just their leader—he was their family.
Jennet swallowed her grief, pushing forward. "We need to stop the bleeding. Sir, please—let me call a healer."
For a moment, Cahir wanted to refuse. He deserved this pain. He deserved to suffer.
But he knew he couldn't show weakness now.
He gave a slow, reluctant nod.
Jennet immediately signaled the two healers—a pair of young men in white robes, their presence unmistakable.
Clerics of the Holy Church.
One of them, a red-haired youth no older than twenty, stepped forward, his emerald-green eyes filled with quiet determination. He knelt beside Cahir, his hands glowing with a soft golden light.
"Sacred Needle."
With a whisper of divine words, shimmering threads of holy mana emerged, weaving through the exposed wound. Slowly, with painstaking precision, they stitched flesh to flesh, reattaching the severed limb.
A blinding light filled the hall.
Theodore's eyes widened as he watched from the shadows.
("Impossible…")
He had seen magic that could destroy, magic that could bend the laws of nature—but never magic that could undo death itself.
The cleric staggered, drained from the spell, but smiled despite the exhaustion.
"It's done," he said softly. "You should be able to move it again soon."
Cahir flexed his fingers, his breath shaking. For the first time that night, his eyes held a flicker of hope.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The young cleric smiled. "It's nothing. This is what we were taught to do in the Holy Temple. We exist to heal, not harm."
His words lingered in Theodore's mind.
This boy had the power to save.
In his past life, Theodore had never seen kindness like this. If people like this existed—if humanity was capable of such selflessness—then why did hatred, war, and betrayal still exist?
Why was the world so cruel?
For the first time in a long time, Theodore had no answer.
Jennet, the guild's receptionist, was tending to the wounded near the entrance. She moved swiftly, directing the mercenaries to the healers while trying to mask the unease in her heart.
Her keen eyes caught something unusual.
Two figures, clad in black cloaks, slipped in through the entrance. Their movements were unnatural—too smooth, too calculated.
She stiffened.
They didn't belong here.
Her fingers instinctively reached for the dagger strapped beneath her counter.
The taller one had an eerie aura, his crimson eyes gleaming like a predator in the dim light.
And the shorter one—
Jennet's breath caught.
His presence was overwhelming, despite his small stature. His eyes were a deep, burning red, his black hair slightly tousled as if the wind itself feared touching him.
Her instincts screamed.
This wasn't a boy.
This was something else.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak.
"U-Um, excuse me," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "We're closed for the night. If you need a mission request, you'll have to return tomorrow."
She tried to maintain composure, but her pulse hammered in her ears.
Before she could react further—
A clawed hand wrapped around her throat.
Jennet's eyes widened in horror as she felt her body lift from the ground.
Her legs dangled, her hands clawing desperately at the inhuman grip.
Belial's face remained impassive. "Do not waste my lord's time with useless chatter," he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly.
Jennet gasped, choking.
"Ugh—w-wait!" she rasped, her vision blurring.
The moment cahir eyes landed on Jennet, his fury erupted.
"WAIT!" he roared. "Don't snap her neck, damn it! Did the Marquis send you?"
The entire guild froze.
Mercenaries instinctively gripped their weapons, ready to charge, but the sight of Belial's inhuman strength holding Jennet so effortlessly sent a chill through them.
His sharp gaze flickered to the boy standing beside Belial.
There was something familiar about him, but his features were obscured by the flickering light.
Cahir's brow furrowed.
"Did the Marquis send you?" he demanded.
The boy's smirk widened slightly.
"No," Theodore answered, his voice carrying an eerie calm.
The Mercenary King felt a strange shiver run down his spine.
"Then why the hell are you here?"
Theodore took a step forward, his gaze locking onto Cahir's with unnerving intensity.
"I came," Theodore said softly, "to offer you something… something you cannot refuse."
Cahir scoffed, crossing his arms despite the ache in his severed and reattached limb.
"And what, exactly, could a child like you possibly offer me?"
Theodore's smirk widened.
"Your daughter."
The room fell into absolute silence.
Jennet's gasp caught in her throat, her pain momentarily forgotten.
The mercenaries stiffened, their fingers tightening around their weapons.
Cahir's face twisted in rage.
"YOU DARE—" he bellowed, his voice like thunder.
But Theodore did not flinch.
The young prince simply raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture.
"Save your outrage," Theodore said smoothly, his voice void of emotion. "You'll want to hear what I have to say."
Cahir's breath hitched.
Something felt wrong.
His mind screamed at him to deny it, but his heart begged him to listen.
Theodore stepped closer, his cold breath brushing against Cahir's ear.
"What if I told you… your daughter is not dead, but merely in a coma?"
The words slammed into Cahir like a hammer.
His pupils shrunk.
His body froze.
His heart stopped.
"You…" Cahir whispered, his throat dry. "You're lying."
Theodore pulled back, watching the flickers of hope, rage, and disbelief fight for dominance on the broken mercenary's face.
"I don't lie," Theodore said. "I calculate."
A long, tense silence followed.
Cahir exhaled shakily, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"… Follow me," he muttered.
His voice was hoarse.
Theodore smiled.
Cahir led them upstairs, each step heavy with tension. The second floor of the guild was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the loud and drunken chaos below.
From above, mercenaries glared down, watching Belial like hawks.
Belial, unfazed, walked forward with Jennet still gasping in his grip. With a smirk, he tossed her aside like a ragdoll. She stumbled, barely catching herself on the railing.
"You bastard!" one of the mercenaries growled.
"Is that how you treat women?" another spat.
Belial ignored them.
As they stepped into Cahir's office, the Mercenary King turned abruptly, his eyes burning.
"If what you said is true," he began, his voice dangerously low, "then I'll—"
But before he could finish, his instincts screamed.
He wasn't alone.
Cahir's reflexes kicked in. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled his men.
Two assassins emerged from the shadows.
Their daggers **flashed in the dim candlelight—**aimed straight for Theodore's throat.
Before they could even blink—
Belial moved.
A blur of black, a whisper of death—
The room filled with a sickening series of wet crunches.
The assassins barely had time to react before Belial's claws tore through them like paper.
Blood splattered across the wooden walls.
The two assassins, now nothing more than mutilated corpses, collapsed in grotesque heaps on the floor.
Silence.
Cahir's heart pounded.
He hadn't even seen Belial move.
Before he could react, he felt a force slam into his skull.
THUD!
His face hit the desk. A blinding pain shot through his head as his vision spun.
"AAH—!" Cahir gasped, struggling, but Belial's strength was inhuman.
A sharp clink.
His dagger, the one he had instinctively reached for, was kicked aside.
He was completely at their mercy.
"Enough."
Theodore's voice was cold, but eerily calm.
The young prince gripped Cahir by the hair, forcing the bloodied mercenary to look directly into his glowing red eyes.
"Now," Theodore whispered, "don't I look familiar to you?"
Cahir stilled.
His breath hitched.
A memory surfaced.
A child with red eyes. A noble's son. A prince.
Cahir's body went rigid. His voice, hoarse and trembling, barely escaped his lips.
"Prince Theodore…"
His hands shook as realization crashed over him like a tidal wave.
"You're supposed to be dead."
Theodore released him, stepping back with a smirk.
Cahir's mind raced. The prince—alive? After everything?
How?
It didn't matter.
All that mattered was that he was standing here.
And he knew.
Cahir gritted his teeth, his pride warring with his guilt.
Theodore watched him struggle, enjoying the torment.
Finally, the Mercenary King clenched his fists.
"I had no choice," he growled, his voice raw with anger and shame.
"The Queen would have killed me if I refused. You don't understand, boy."
His voice grew bitter.
"And her father … the marquis and I were once brothers-in-arms. But today? I see him as nothing but a traitor."
His fists trembled.
"The Queen used me. And I let her."
His voice cracked, for the first time in years.
"My daughter is gone because of my weakness."
A long silence stretched between them.
Cahir looked up at Theodore, his eyes dark with hatred—not for the prince, but for himself.
"… So if you're here to kill me," he whispered, "do it. I won't run from it."
Theodore's smirk didn't fade.
But deep inside, he was smiling for a different reason.
Cahir was exactly where he wanted him.
Theodore exhaled softly, letting his shoulders tremble ever so slightly, his crimson eyes glistening under the dim light of the office. He lowered his head, clenching his fists, forcing a quiver into his voice.
"I guess… I've already done my part in making you miserable," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Cahir's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Theodore hesitated deliberately, like someone carrying an unbearable burden. Then, with a slow, mournful glance, he met Cahir's eyes. The perfect bait.
"Don't you find it strange?" Theodore continued, his voice laced with carefully measured sorrow. "The Queen ordering your daughter's death… and me appearing before you like this?"
Cahir stiffened, his mind catching onto the first thread of doubt. "I don't understand."
Theodore sighed, casting his gaze downward, allowing a few seconds of silence to stretch uncomfortably between them. Then, just when Cahir was about to speak again, he whispered:
"I spared her."
Cahir's breath hitched. His fingers twitched.
"… What?"
Theodore let out a shaky breath, as if speaking pained him. He lifted his gaze, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "She was the only nanny I had. She was like a mother to me. While everyone else saw me as nothing more than a cursed boy… she fed me. She looked after me."
Theodore clenched his teeth, shaking his head as if struggling to keep his emotions in check.
"I tried to save her. I tried to convince her to leave the Queen's side. But she was loyal to the end."
His voice broke just slightly. Just enough.
Cahir's expression wavered. "You… you cared about her that much?"
"Yes," Theodore whispered, his body trembling. "She was the only one who never tried to poison me. The only one who didn't treat me like a monster."
Cahir's eyes softened, guilt creeping into his features.
Theodore bit his lip, taking a deep breath before forcing himself to continue. "She sacrificed everything for me… now, it's my turn to make her happy."
The room fell silent.
Then—
A large, rough hand landed on Theodore's shoulder.
Cahir's grip was firm, his voice heavy with regret. "I never knew… I never knew she was so important to you."
Theodore let out a shaky chuckle, wiping away invisible tears. "She was. But it's okay. I still have a chance to save her. If you help me."
Cahir straightened, resolve hardening. "I was a fool to trust the Marquis. That bastard used me. Used all of us. But not anymore." His gaze burned with determination. "What about working together to take them down?"
Theodore paused.
He knew the exact moment when a person fell into his web.
This was it.
The final push.
The final move before checkmate.
"… Would you really do that for me?" Theodore murmured, his voice vulnerable. "Even though they all call me cursed?"
"Boy," Cahir said firmly, "titles mean nothing to me anymore. If it means avenging my men and saving my daughter, then I'll do whatever it takes."
Theodore lowered his head again, forcing his body to shake slightly. Then, as if reluctantly revealing a secret, he whispered:
"My butler… he used to work for the Holy Temple."
Cahir's eyes widened. "What?"
"But he wanted a family," Theodore lied effortlessly. "So he left. But he still knows how to heal injuries. Even coma patients."
The hope in Cahir's eyes was almost too easy.
"Then—then he can save her?"
Theodore smiled softly, as if grateful. "Yes. If you truly want to save her, then swear loyalty to me."
Cahir didn't even hesitate.
He dropped to one knee, his voice steady.
"I swear upon my name and my blade," he vowed. "If you cure my daughter, I will follow you to the ends of the earth."
Theodore nearly laughed.
But instead, he reached out, placing a gentle hand on Cahir's bowed head.
"Then it's a deal," he said warmly.
His mind, however, whispered the truth.
(Checkmate. You're mine now, fool.)