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BANG!
The sound of the Premiere's seal slamming onto the parchment echoed through the grand chamber, a declaration that would alter the course of history. The crimson wax bled into the paper, marking the decree that bound me—Modred Vayne—to the Deicida. Squad Five. The spearhead of mankind's rebellion.
The Premiere, Magnus Liam, loomed over me from his throne-like desk, his massive frame casting a shadow across the dimly lit hall. His battle-scarred face, a relic from the Great War, bore a grim authority that made lesser men tremble. But I wasn't like them.
"Modred Vayne," his voice was a growl wrapped in steel, "I accept your admission. Serve the Deicida well. Serve mankind well."
I didn't kneel. I didn't bow. I simply stood there, fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. "I pledge my loyalty to the Deicida," I said, my voice devoid of hesitation, "and to the annihilation of the Pantheon. Their tyranny ends by my hand."
The words weren't just an oath; they were a curse. A promise soaked in the blood of my past. The Premiere watched me with an unreadable expression before a smirk tugged at his lips. Despite his legendary stature, he carried himself with an unsettling ease, leaning back into his chair, the tension in the air warping around him.
"Don't drown yourself in hate, kid," he said, exhaling. "There's more to life than revenge. You're still young. Enjoy Astria—its taverns are filled with more than just war stories."
I met his gaze, my crimson eyes cold, void of amusement. "Peace is an illusion. They all smile because they don't know what true suffering is. I do."
A silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw pity in his eyes. It disgusted me.
"You're a stubborn bastard," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Just... be careful. And for the love of the gods—" he spat the word like venom, "keep your identity buried. If they find out who you really are, you're dead before you even start."
I scoffed. "I'm not desperate to die. Yet."
Without another word, I turned on my heel, stepping out of the chamber. As the heavy doors groaned shut behind me, I could hear the whispers creeping in like rats.
"The black-haired one... the Vayne boy."
"He's too young to survive Squad Five."
"His eyes... like pools of blood."
Fools. They didn't understand what it meant to be me.
Walking through the cobblestone streets of Astria, I felt the weight of their gazes—merchants, soldiers, children. All of them blissfully ignorant. The banners of freedom waved above them, symbols of a rebellion they believed was won. But they were wrong. War never ends. It only mutates.
I found myself at the threshold of a small tavern, the wooden sign creaking in the evening wind. An old man, the owner, Carl, watched me with weary eyes.
"You look like you could use a drink," he said, his voice gruff but kind.
"I don't drink."
Carl chuckled. "Suit yourself, boy. But a warm bed is better than cold streets."
Reluctantly, I followed him inside. The tavern smelled of stale ale and burning wood, and it buzzed with life—laughter, drunken boasts, and whispered rumors of Deicida victories. None of it mattered.
As I settled into my corner, a girl approached cautiously. She was young, dressed in a plain green gown that hugged her slender figure, golden hair tied back in a simple ponytail. Her emerald eyes darted to mine before she quickly looked away, fidgeting nervously.
"S-Sir... I mean... um... are you really with the Deicida?"
I stared at her, silent. She bit her lip, gathering courage.
"Aisha," she introduced herself, bowing slightly. "My father owns this place... I just wanted to—"
"I'm not here to talk," I cut her off coldly, my gaze piercing. "I'm here to rest."
Her face flushed with embarrassment, but she nodded, retreating quickly. I watched her go, noting the tremor in her hands. She was weak. Like the rest of them. And weakness had no place in this world.
I climbed the stairs to my room, the door creaking as I pushed it open. Tossing my sword onto the bedside table, I sank onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. My mind replayed the screams, the fire, the blood that coated my hands long before I ever held a weapon.
"This city is too soft," I murmured. "They'll never survive what's coming."
A long sigh escaped my lips as exhaustion clawed at my bones. My dreams were plagued with shadows—visions of gods laughing, their celestial hands crushing everything I held dear.
I would see them fall.
No matter the cost.
Tomorrow, Squad Five awaits. And I'll carve my name into history—with blood.