A bloodied young man looked to the sky and frowned. It was dark, a disgusting shade of red, and he couldn't help but think it resembled blood. A long time ago, martial arts was considered an honorable practice. Now all it brought was murder — but he didn't mind that.
After wiping out all the smaller guilds, he set his eyes on much larger targets. Such as the Arrow Guild. Their entire mountain was made out of cretins, diseased mutts, men who didn't have the right to call themselves martial artists. They deserved to be put six feet under!
His tongue clicked and he stomped an arm into the ground. The corpses at his feet were long gone, their souls sent to hell, but he still wished to bring them pain. It was to be expected. After everything they did, this was only karma.
Disgusting vermin. It was a shame the heavens allowed them to exist in the first place.
"Silas."
The young man's — Silas' — frown deepened. Spinning around on his feet, his eyes landed on a familiar black-haired man. Micah, his eldest brother, was greyer than he remembered. When did his face get so wrinkled? Sure, Silas went on a long journey to gain power, but never expected him to age so much over the five years he was gone from home.
"Why are you here?" He spat, his red eyes sharpening. Strands of black hair tickled the sides of his face. "I told you to stay back at home with mother."
Silas only arrived back home twenty hours ago. He greeted his mother, put a flower at his father's grave, and told Micah that he would come back by tomorrow morning. So why?! Why was he here now?! It didn't make sense. Micah was a strong martial artist, someone Silas looked up to as a child, but he was a pacifist. He hated fighting as much as he hated weapons.
He never liked the sight of blood or mangled bodies. The sight around Silas' feet was enough to make his cheeks pale. His black eyes bored into him, somber.
"That's enough."
Silas' face turned hot. "Excuse me?"
Silas was used to the constant deadpan of his older brother, but this time, Micah looked a little different. Colder. As if he wasn't looking at his little brother, but just another ant on the ground. He didn't like the feeling. Something ugly twisted its way into his gut and he gritted his teeth.
Micah never looked at him like that. It didn't make sense. Silas was the strong and ruthless one, while Micah was the calm and gentleness that balanced them out. It was one of the reasons they never got along… but it was also the reason they always had each other's back. Now it didn't feel right.
"You need to stop," Micah boomed. "The Arrow Guild has sent a messenger. They have forfeited, there is no reason to fight."
Silas bared his teeth in a snarl. "No reason? They abducted our father because he accidentally spilled wine on their leader in a random tavern, skinned him alive, and then strung him up on their front gates—unless you have forgotten?! I have every reason!"
Tears burned behind his eyes. Silas was twelve years old when he heard the news of his father. Just two days before his birthday. His mother locked herself in her room for days, weeping when she thought none of her sons could hear. But Silas heard and Micah did too, but neither of them could do a thing.
But now — now Silas could do something! He didn't have to listen to his mother weep every night, he didn't have to sit back and watch while every other guild in the world stripped children of their mothers and fathers.
His father would have been proud. He knew he would. His father enjoyed martial arts, he enjoyed fighting for what was right, and Silas knew he was right. His welled-up tears rolled down his cheek and he angrily rubbed them away. Micah would understand, he always did.
Micah's brow furrowed at the sight of his younger brother crying. His hands curled into fists and he shook his head, hissing, "This is not right. I haven't forgotten about Father, but do you think Father would have wanted this? You have not just killed half of the Arrow Guild, but five other small guilds."
"They deserved it!" Silas cried out, his heart wrenching. It was nothing but harsh. "They have caused pain and suffering to hundreds of people, to women and children!"
"And you haven't?!"
The silence was deafeningly loud. The sky rumbled with swirling storm clouds, the blood moon brighter than it was before.
Silas stared at Micah with wide eyes. Maybe he heard him wrong, maybe it was just something he made up inside his head. He did have a bad knack of daydreaming. Ha! He was just daydreaming at the wrong time again! That was all.
But that wasn't the case. No matter how hard he wished it to go away, or for his brother to apologize for what he just said, nothing happened. Micah stared at him with a cold expression. His older brother, handsome and stern, looked cruel in the red lighting. Like a demon straight from hell.
He didn't know what to say in response. Silas hadn't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, he wasn't a monster. Sure, he killed multiple people, some of them wet themselves before he cracked their heads open, but it was karma. It was deserved.
Micah stared at Silas a moment longer before biting his bottom lip and shaking his head to himself. His fingers toyed at the sheath around his belt under the flap of his long sleeve, the pommel of the short sword glinting.
"Brother… what are you doing?" Silas gaped, his face growing pale.
Micah didn't use a sword. Micah hated swords.
But here he was, unsheathing his blade with mastered perfection. The cold steel was scratched with thin lines and smudged with years of use. Silas then remembered that he had been away from home for many years, five years to be exact, and that time changed everyone. Five years ago he was just a fifteen-year-old boy… now he was a twenty-year-old warrior.
Five years ago, Micah was a thirty-two-year-old pacifist — now he was a thirty-seven-year-old man who knew how to unsheathe a blade. Silas felt a spark of panic.
No, no, no! This wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to go like this, to be like this!
Silas took a step back and grabbed his spear. "Brother…"
"You are not my brother," Micah declared and his black eyes hardened. "My brother is fair and warm. He is not you."
His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. His knuckles bled white as he gripped the hilt of his sword before spinning it around, barely missing the blade that swung for his neck. Metal clashed and his ears rang.
"Wait, no! I don't want to fight—"
Micah didn't listen. He swung his blade again, making Silas's arms tingle with the vibrations. His feet narrowly avoided tripping over the bodies around them. His brother was stronger and taller than he was, but he was faster. But what could speed do against relentless brute strength?
Silas hissed when the tip of his sword grazed his cheek. "Micah! Listen to me!"
Micah lunged forward and swung his blade down with all his might. The force of it was enough to make his arms collapse. Silas choked when a fist slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He stumbled backward. In hindsight, if Silas had given it his all, he would have been able to stab his brother right then in there.
But he didn't. He couldn't. What little brother wanted to kill their older brother? None!
Micah had no qualms about it though. Silas opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his weapon plunged itself into his stomach. He heard the crack of his bones and the squelch of his skin, his blood, as his body hunched over. Micah slammed his shoulder into his nose and knocked his head back.
CRACK! His nose was broken as well.
Pain flooded his senses. Crying out, Silas dropped his sword and gripped Micah, his fingers digging into his bicep. He gritted his teeth. Red, all he saw was red; the sky, the ground, his older brother's blade. Micah mumbled a curse as he yanked out the sword from Silas' abdomen with a sickening squelch and pop.
Silas watched as his organs hit the earth. He knew from the experience of killing others that sometimes even slow deaths could be gorey, and right now, he was experiencing one. His eyes swiveled back up as he continued to cling to Micah.
Dying. He was really dying.
Shit! He didn't want to die!
"Brother," Silas choked as he clawed at the fabric of his clothes. Tears sprang forward and he choked. "Brother, Micah, please. Please."
But the damage was already done. It wasn't like there was magic in this world, it wasn't like he could be healed after he was wounded like this. He watched as Micah's face contorted into pain, his arm wrenching out of his little brother's grasp. He took a step back so he couldn't reach for him.
"No," he deadpanned.
No? Why no?
Silas felt like a boy again. Suddenly, all he wanted was his mother. To feel her hands cradle his face and pepper sweet kisses to his cheeks whenever he cried, to soothe away his pain. He wanted his father to smack him on the back and tell him to get back up. But he couldn't. His legs refused to work.
Even if Silas had a goal of wiping out the Arrow Guild, he never thought about dying. He never gave the thought a chance.
But now that he was dying, he was terrified. And he didn't want to die alone. Silas could feel his body getting colder, more numb, and heavier. The pain started to ebb away as his face crashed against the dirt and he clawed at the grass. Couldn't Micah at least hug him? Even if he killed him, could he have some pity?
Weren't they brothers?
Something fiery burned in his heart. No, this wasn't fair. This wasn't fair at all. His brother had to been tricked or lied to because there was no way his kind brother would have killed him! Micah didn't know violence or blood, he was gentle and kind. Five years wouldn't have changed someone so unbelievably kind that much.
The sorrow Silas felt melted. The blaze of betrayal took its place, hissing out his mouth in the form of bloody gurgles. Metal flooded his mouth.
Micah crouched beside him. Two familiar black boots made out of sheepskin and leather, tainted with his blood and blades of grass. It was his father's old boots. A tender finger swiped a strand of black hair from Silas' face, two dark eyes peering into his red ones.
"…Goodnight Silas."
And before he could glare back, before he could pray for his mother to hold him, Silas saw his life go dark. And his brother's harsh face was the last thing he saw.
Who knew how long he was dead for? Seconds, minutes, days, weeks, maybe months — Silas hadn't a clue. All he knew was that his feelings of rage and emptiness didn't subside. It grew and grew and grew. He couldn't forgive his brother, he wanted his power and strength back, and all he wanted was to kill the assholes who deserved it.
And somehow, that wish was granted. In the darkness of his mind, a golden box popped up. It was simple and bright. Silas winced and closed his eyes, but when he reopened them, he realized it was still there.
It read:
[ RANKER #103 YOU HAVE BEEN OFFICIALLY CHOSEN AND INVITED TO HAVEN. ]
Another golden box appeared out of the blue. His confusion shifted. This had to be the heavens speaking to him… but he didn't know what the hell the Haven was. Even with his extreme powers and strength in his world, he didn't know much about the afterlife or the religions people liked to follow.
It wasn't like he thought about dying so why would he think about what would happen to him after he died? He regretted not looking into it more before he perished. Maybe then he'd know what to do. And where he was at. He knew he didn't have a body anymore, it was just him in the void.
Somehow this was worse than hell.
The second box didn't help him regulate his emotions either. His panic only increased and the feeling of doom filled his stomach.
[ LOADING HAVEN NOW . . . ]