The continent of Thundros Spirelands—a land of eternal storms.

Lightning clawed across obsidian peaks, thunder rolled through ravines carved by centuries of rage, and the scent of scorched air clung to every living thing.

In the heart of this tempest stood the small outpost village of Thodero, its stone walls trembling beneath a sky that refused to sleep.

Smoke coiled upward from a recent battle, the ground cracked and steaming.

Ten Crimson Veinwalkers—elite warriors clad in scarlet-threaded armor—stood in formation, blades drawn, eyes locked on the figure before them.

"You bastard! Who are you?!" one of them shouted, voice ragged with fear.

The intruder didn't answer immediately.

He stood in the open storm, the wind tugging at his coat, the rain painting his face in streaks of shadow and flame.

Pink, wolf-cut hair fell over eyes that glowed orange, red, and black, swirling together like

molten stars in a dying sun.

His grin was sharp but lifeless, a mockery of joy.

Every breath he took seemed to pull the heat from the air.

When he finally spoke, his voice slid through the rain like a blade through silk.

"I am Lucere."

One of the Crimson Veinwalkers stepped forward, raising his spear.

"Lucere who?!"

Lucere tilted his head. "The name doesn't matter. What matters…" he raised his hand, black energy coiling from his palm like living ink, "…is what comes next."

The ground fractured.

The air collapsed inward

and then exploded.

"VOID ART: DARK MATTER!!"

A sphere of pure black gravity erupted from his hand, sucking light, sound, and life into itself. The Veinwalkers screamed, their crimson Shinrei unraveling like ribbons in a storm.

"AARRGHH!!!"

In a blink, the ten warriors were gone swallowed whole, their bodies erased from the world as if they had never been born.

When the silence returned, only dust and fractured stone remained.

Lucere exhaled, brushing rain from his cheek with a casual flick. The orb in his hand dimmed, shrinking until it became nothing but a faint pulse of shadow dancing at his fingertips.

He looked down at the battlefield with detached amusement.

"Now…" he murmured, voice low, intoxicatingly calm, "…shall we find the other fragment?"

The wind hissed around him, carrying whispers of distant fear.

He smiled coldly, cruelly.

A smile that promised the world would bleed again.

Lucere turned toward the horizon, where the storm split the clouds apart like a scar across the sky.

His coat flared behind him as he walked, each step echoing with quiet power.

"Soon," he said, his tone shifting into reverence, his eyes softening with something dangerously close to affection, "I will revive the old era…"

He stopped, raising a single hand as black light swirled around his wrist.

"…and bring back my most beloved master."

His voice broke into a grin too sharp, too human, too mad.

"Master Yuna."

Lightning struck behind him, splitting a mountain in two.

The echo of his laughter rolled across Thundros Spirelands,

and far away, beneath calmer skies

Khael's heart shivered, though he did not yet know why.

…

Meanwhile, The Painted Devil

The night in another village outskirts was a fever dream of screams and laughter.

The rain painted the ground in blood, and somewhere between the lightning strikes and the echoing madness, a man danced.

Painted like a clown his cheeks smeared unevenly with red and blue, streaks dripping down his chin like melting wax. His lips twisted into a grin too wide to be human, and his eyes gods, his eyes gleamed with pure delirium.

He tilted his head, blade resting lazily on his shoulder.

"Eeeestacy!!!!" he screamed, his voice shrill and joyous, like a song sung to corpses.

Bodies lay everywhere Crimson Veinwalkers torn apart mid-motion, their armor shattered, their blood running down the stone road like red ink.

They had been on a mission escorting a sealed scroll, one said to contain the location of another Fragment.

But fate or madness had sent them straight into the path of this nightmare.

The clown-masked man twirled once, laughing as he stepped over a dying soldier who reached out a trembling hand.

"P–please… don't kill me…"

The clown froze mid-step, then slowly crouched down, his painted grin hovering inches from the man's face.

His voice dropped to a whisper, light and teasing.

"Hmmm… don't kill you?"

He tapped his chin, pretending to think.

Then his gaze drifted toward the remaining survivors three Crimson Veinwalkers and two Elite Guards, shaking but standing their ground.

The clown stood again, spreading his arms as if welcoming them to a stage.

"Hoh… I have an idea."

The air around him shimmered faintly, Shinrei energy flaring like ribbons of chaos.

"Let's play a game, shall we?"

Lightning flashed—

and his painted smile grew wider.

"Five of you… one of me. If any of you can make me bleed…"

He licked the blade's edge slowly, his eyes wide with delight.

"…I'll let you all live."

The wind howled, the rain thickened

and in the next instant, the night filled with screams again.

Blood splattered across the clown's face, mingling with the paint until color and gore were indistinguishable.

He spun in the downpour, laughing like a child at a festival.

"More! More!! Dance for me! Die for me!!"

The last Veinwalker tried to run.

A single card a razor-edged, spinning talisman—sliced through the air and embedded itself in the back of his neck.

The clown stopped dancing, tilting his head at the carnage around him.

"Awww…" he sighed, disappointed.

"Game over already?"

He looked toward the ruined scroll case lying in the mud.

His smile returned slow, sinister.

"Well then…" he whispered, picking it up and holding it close to his mask.

"…another Fragment awaits."

The storm swallowed his laughter as he vanished into the shadows.

….

Meanwhile — The Night at Corzedar Manor

The moon hung low over the place, its silver glow washing the rooftops in quiet light.

The streets were empty only the whisper of the wind moved through the lamps and leaves.

Khael stood before the gates of Corzedar Manor, his home, yet now it felt like a stranger's estate.

The tall iron bars loomed before him, vines coiling through their age-worn gaps. The manor beyond was vast and silent, the windows dark, like eyes that had forgotten warmth.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness.

"Three years…" he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.

"Three years of training, of fighting, of running from ghosts… and now I'm back."

The scent of rain lingered in the air. His boots pressed into the old path, gravel crunching beneath his step. Every sound echoed, familiar yet distant like a memory replaying itself wrong.

He looked up at the house, his family's crest faintly glimmering in the moonlight: a dragon coiled around a broken sword.

For a long moment, Khael just stood there, staring. The air was thick, the silence heavier than armor.

Then, drawing in a breath, he clenched his fists and said, voice firm now

"Time to go."

The gates groaned as they opened, dust scattering in the wind.

Moonlight spilled across the path leading to the door.

As he stepped forward, the manor seemed to exhale, its shadows stretching like old memories waking.

And somewhere, deep inside, a light flickered on.

To be continued…

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