Departure

Xilian did not leave. He sat quietly on the steps outside the Armory.

All alone.

The thoughts that had always screamed inside Xilian's head vanished. In their place was a pure blankness.

He had no thoughts at all. He felt hollow, as though he had become an empty shell without a soul, existing only as a statue did.

Even many years later, Xilian could not remember how he had endured that afternoon of despair.

He only remembered sitting there for a long time. Night fell, Grey Fog billowed out of nowhere, and the Ouroboros Mark sent waves of searing pain through him. Only then did he emerge from his utter numbness.

Countless hideous figures emerged from the Grey Fog. They surrounded Xilian, growling with bloodlust.

Xilian remained seated, staring blankly ahead. Despair had crushed him so thoroughly that he had lost the will to live.

The demons sensed the air of death around Xilian and stopped testing him. They lunged with low roars, but just as their claws were about to tear him apart, a cold flash cut through the dark.

Xilian sprang up and swung the Boiling Sword he had held against his chest. The blade carved a vast semicircle, sending blood spraying in its wake.

There was no furious roar, no hateful curse.

Only the dull sound of steel sinking into flesh, striking again and again like death counting down.

The moment Xilian swung his first stroke, he fell utterly silent. He seemed cut off from the madness around him, as cold and hard as ice, as heavy and rough as iron. He stood unmoved amid the tide of demons.

Like a silent reaper, he wielded his blade and pushed every sword technique Nuen had taught him to its limit.

The demons swarmed him like moths to a flame, only to fall beneath his sword and become heaps of mangled flesh.

Severed limbs flew through the air. Chunks of flesh scattered, and entrails spilled across the ground like the contents of torn sacks. Foul blood gathered into a River and flowed unchecked.

Corpses piled up beneath Xilian's feet until they formed a gruesome hill. The mound of dead raised him above the carnage like a throne.

The slaughter continued through the night. Only when the first pale light touched the horizon did Xilian stop killing and stare blankly toward the rising sun.

Warm sunlight fell upon the mountain of corpses. They caught fire like dry kindling, and within the roaring flames, an even bleaker Ashen Mountain took shape.

Xilian stood quietly before the Ashen Mountain, then slowly sank to his knees.

Even a born killer had a heart of flesh and blood, not one made of stone.

At last, Xilian could no longer contain his pain. Everything he had held inside burst out like a flood breaking through a dam.

He sobbed uncontrollably.

After an unknown length of time, Xilian staggered toward the Armory, whose door had long been shut.

Silence filled the room. A fresh medicinal scent lingered in the air.

The survivors lay quietly on the floor, eyes closed and faces peaceful, lost in a dream from which they would never wake.

Their bodies still bore traces of suffering, but their calm expressions almost made it possible to forget what they had endured.

Xilian looked at each of them, then gently pushed open another door.

Beyond it, Ava was still curled up in her blanket, with Tim seated beside her.

Faint smiles rested on both their faces. It seemed that even at the end, they had been talking about something amusing.

Xilian embraced their cold bodies.

Xilian spent the entire next day at work.

He carried their bodies to the hillside outside White Cliff Town. Shovelful by shovelful, he dug graves and buried them one by one.

Before dark, Xilian returned to the Armory and opened the long-sealed Iron Chest.

It held Nuen's most precious possession. The Soflova Brothers had always wondered what was inside. Now Xilian alone saw it.

Xilian carefully took out its contents: a torn, bloodstained flag.

The flag had been through countless battles, mended whenever it tore only to be torn again. It bore an emblem Xilian found vaguely familiar.

At that thought, Xilian picked up the Boiling Sword.

The Boiling Sword... Xilian did not know why this blade bore that name.

Perhaps, like Nuen, it had a mysterious past. But with Nuen dead, Xilian did not know whether he would ever learn the truth.

At the center of the hilt was the emblem of a burning sunflower. Xilian knew it well: the crest of the Sunflower Clan.

On the other side of the hilt was an upright triangle. On closer inspection, it matched the emblem on the flag exactly.

The emblem was formed from overlapping figures of kneeling humans.

At the bottom, one figure was clearly visible. He knelt on one knee with the other leg raised and bent, his body leaning slightly forward, his hands hanging naturally or perhaps bracing something.

Above him, more kneeling figures were layered one over another.

They were similar in size and outline, but not arranged in neat rows. They intersected and overlapped. Some were partly hidden by the figures above them, leaving only fragments of their outlines visible; others appeared whole through the gaps.

They looked like a group united by a common goal, each pressed close to the next until together they formed a stable triangle.

Xilian did not know what the emblem meant or where the flag had come from. But it had belonged to Nuen, and it was connected to the Boiling Sword.

So he carefully folded the flag and put it in his pack.

Xilian searched the Armory once more. Ammunition, daggers, Soul Marrow... He took everything he could use.

Afterward, Xilian returned to the two-story house. He did not open Tim and Mick's rooms. Instead, he locked their doors, sealing the memories inside forever.

Once in his own room, Xilian quickly put it in order, placing his books and papers neatly on the shelves.

Xilian took out a notebook and opened it to a page bearing two rough sketches.

The first depicted a Black Crow with its wings spread. Xilian had drawn it from Nuen's description when he told him about the Clans' past.

The Doom Omen Clan, the Sunflower Clan's mortal enemy, had returned when it should have been destroyed.

Xilian understood Nuen's final wish for him. Rather than simply urging him to live the life he wanted, Nuen had been telling him he did not have to inherit the Clan's hatred.

But how could Xilian bear knowing their enemies still lived?

The second sketch came from Tania's severed arm: a pitch-black claw made of tangled lines.

Xilian was not the only survivor of Lightless Night. The woman named Tania had vanished into the Grey Fog under the influence of the so-called Evil Sin Power.

These beings known as Abominations seemed to be caught up in some conflict... Xilian cared nothing for their grudges. He only wanted to kill every one of them who had taken part in the tragedy at White Cliff Town.

As Xilian wrote and sketched in his notebook, he spoke in a low, hoarse voice.

"Did you flee back to Her City, Tania?"

He turned the page, and a drawing of an Ouroboros came into view.

The Ouroboros Mark.

The tattoo was closely tied to Xilian's origins, and it had granted him a powerful Blessing to aid him.

At first, Xilian had both cherished and feared the mark. He had suspected it was the reason he had "crossed over."

But now...

Xilian no longer cared where the power came from or what purpose lay behind it.

"Whoever you are... I hope we work well together."

Xilian picked up a black-and-white group photograph and tucked it into the notebook.

After checking the motorcycle, Xilian went into the living room.

The old liveliness was gone. Only coldness and gloom remained.

A plate of leftover Syrup Pancakes sat on the dining table.

As always, Xilian sat in his usual place. This time, though, Tim and Mick were not beside him, and Ava was not there to chat with him about amusing little things.

Xilian cut into the hardened pancakes and congealed syrup, stuffing large pieces into his mouth.

The cloying sweetness did nothing to wash away the bitterness in his throat.

He ate slowly and swallowed even more slowly, as though his throat were full of nails.

He had thought the tears he shed that morning would be his last. But now his eyes grew wet again.

"They're so good..."

Xilian regretted not having let Tim and Mick taste them in time.

One piece after another... until Xilian ate the last one.

Looking at the empty plate, Xilian realized he would never eat Ava's breakfast again.

He sat there in a daze for a long time. Then, all at once, he rose and strode to the motorcycle. He mounted it and took one last look at White Cliff Town, where he had lived for years.

"Don't worry, everyone."

Xilian spoke without looking back.

"Someone will pay for the blood spilled here."

The motorcycle roared to life and carried Xilian out of White Cliff Town, leaving the night that pursued him far behind.

The wind whipped past him as he sped away, and Xilian roared into it.

In the year 434 of the City-State Calendar, Xilian left White Cliff Town, where he had lived for nearly ten years, and set out for Confluence City Hel.

His hatred was like a rusted nail driven into the veins of time, leaving his memories to fester.