Kubelion

Jarathia | City Outskirts | Eat And Smith | Present Time

Tyreese’s last word fades, the smell of grilled Darakia grounding the listeners.

Hanla leans forward, silver eyes sharp. “How do you know about these conversations, Tyreese?”

The blacksmith tears into his Patrieras sandwich, chewing slowly, unbothered.
“He told me himself. As did his son, Mersa.”

Hanla turns to Sunthia—and pauses. Her red eyes glow faintly, her lips are trembling.
“Sunthia. Your eyes…”

“Sorry.” She whispers, gaze lowered, melancholy enveloping her like a veil.

Hanla doesn’t press. “How long have the bandits controlled the mines?”

Tyreese wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice grows heavy.
“Five years. Only after a bloody, failed revolution.”

Hanla narrows her eyes. “Who was the leader?”

Tyreese looks away, shame etched across his rugged face. His silence is heavier than words.

Finally, he exhales. “It was Mersa.”

Hanla sits back, tension crackling in the air.
“I see… Please tell me more. I’m listening.”

Tyreese nods grimly—and resumes the tale.

Jarathia | Jarathia City | Docks | Ten Years Ago

The sea churns dark beneath a layer of smoke. Twenty warships fly the flag of Alpas—white, with three black dots circling a full moon. Their cannons line the docks, iron mouths ready to swallow Jarathia whole.

Nine, still young, stands at the pier, stiff. There is a storm raging in his sharp blue eyes. Beside him, Torvea walks up, green hair caught in the salty wind, a massive greatsword strapped to his back—the fabled Green Blade.

Torvea breaks the silence, voice heavy yet calm. “After this… you’ll leave, right?”

Nine nods, jaw clenched.

Torvea exhales. “Nine… sorry. But don’t give us up yet. Chisa and Jerome—they’re smart.”

Nine turns, glare icy. “Why say that now? They’re destabilizing everything. Ever since I returned, everything’s been getting worse!”

Torvea’s lips twitch with bitter regret. “Greed upon greed… But don’t hate them. If anyone failed, it’s me. They just… don’t know better.”

Nine’s voice drops low. “I understand.”

The air shudders. Cannon fire booms. A bombardment thunders toward the docks.

Torvea’s expression hardens. “Protect them. Protect the island—I’ll end them.”

Nine lifts his hands to the sky. His left eye bleeds crimson as crystal erupts from the pier, jagged spires twisting upward. The incoming cannonballs grind to a halt, ensnared in cages of crystal.

Torvea surges forward. A crystal platform forms beneath his boots, launching him skyward. His blade glows deep green, pulsing with destructive energy. He cleaves downward—an entire warship splits in half, consumed by a sweeping bolt of green light.

He lands on another deck, wide-eyed Alpas soldiers scrambling to react. One swing. Dozens fall into the sea, lifeless. Cannons thunder again, but Nine’s crystals intercept once more, freezing them in the air with sharp cracking sounds.

Ship by ship, Torvea moves like a storm given human shape. Each leap is deadly, each slash a massacre. Each cut leads to a broken ship. The sea runs dark with blood.

Finally, he lands back on the dock. His chest heaves, but his eyes burn steady.
“Thank you, Nine.”

Nine wipes the blood from his eye. His voice is flat, but beneath it lies worry. “The General of Alpas is here too. Will you fight him?”

Torvea nods without hesitation.

Nine steps forward. “Do you need help?”

Torvea shakes his head. “No. He’s strong. Too strong. It would be a waste to risk your life.”

His gaze lifts to the grey sky.

“Promise me, Nine. If I die… you’ll come back here. Watch over Jarathia in my stead.”

Nine’s voice sharpens like a blade. “How? You’re strong, Torvea. They can’t—”

“Promise it.” Torvea insists, cutting him off, his voice like steel.

Nine breathes in, then answers. “I promise. But first, I’ll recruit Chisa and Jerome too—and we’ll always save you.”

Torvea’s eyes soften, regret darkening them. “I’m sorry. They’re hunting all my supporters. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you.”

“It’s not your fault.” Nine replies, calm but heavy.

Torvea lets out a dry chuckle. “It’s nearly absurd, Nine. Talking to you feels like I’m speaking to an old monk trapped in a boy’s body. You should enjoy your childhood more.”

Nine nods once, the weight of his earlier promise settling into his bones.

Jarathia | Jarathia Forest | Village Runeners

Mist coils through the blackened treeline, the smell of scorched earth heavy in the air. Empty cabins lean on one another like broken teeth—an abandoned village waiting to collapse.

At the edge of the forest stands an old man, brown eyes weary but steady. Torvea approaches, the green blade strapped across his back glowing faintly.

“So he evacuated the city?” says Torvea.

The old man lowers his head. “Mayor… what are you doing here?”

Torvea lets out a short laugh, though his eyes are sharp. “Protecting my island. Tell me—where are the inhabitants?”

The old man’s voice trembles with contained anger. “The nobles forced us out. We refused. So they drove us into the mines.”

Torvea halts, jaw tight, then exhales. “Believe me or not, but I didn’t know. That they worked with the Alpas Empire…”

The old man studies him. “Then what will you do?”

Torvea’s hand curls into a fist. “Get us more time. Until someone like Raven can rise again. I’ve already planted the seeds. We just need to endure it, old man. Please.”

The old man straightens, chest trembling as he pats it firmly. “Torvea, the forest folk and the outskirts… we stand with you.”

Torvea’s face softens. “Thank you. And… my son, Mersa. Take good care of him.”

The old man bows low. “My brother raised you well, Torvea.”

Torvea pauses. Then, slowly, he reaches up and peels the contact lens from his eyes. Crimson gleam burns in the socket—his true gaze, his red eyes.

“Old man… this confrontation, keep it quiet. Speak of it only when you feel safe.” His tone grows low, final. “And… I wish you the best, Avort.”

The old man—Avort—trembles, guilt etched deep into his face. “Torvea… I’m so sorry. I can’t—”

But Torvea is already walking off. His silhouette fades into the desolate streets of the Village Runeners.

Empty cabins. Shattered fences. Silence.

But at the center, a hulking figure awaits. Blue hair wild, cobalt axe gleaming at his side. He sits with his legs spread wide, hands interlocked, posture casual—but eyes have been watching the approaching mayor like a hawk.

Torvea stops. His voice cuts through the still air.
“You expecting reinforcements?”

The man tilts his head, mocking. “Ohh…? So the mayor himself walks into the lion’s den.”

Torvea doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, ten five-edged medals clatter onto the dirt at their feet.

The man stiffens. “What—how did you…?” His eyes darken.

Still, Torvea doesn’t answer. From his coat shines a green brooch, etched with a bold letter A.

The man rises at last, his cobalt axe sliding into his grip.

Torvea’s voice is steady, iron. “General of Alpas… Kubelion.”

Kubelion bares his teeth. “You even know my name.”

Torvea draws the Green Blade, emerald light dancing along its edge. He levels it at the general. “I won’t waste words. Jarathia stays independent! Leave now, and I’ll let you keep your life.”

Kubelion’s grey eyes ignite, glowing with cold power. His aura thickens, suffocating the air.
“Your life force is fading. You’ve already burned most away. This fight isn’t worth it.”

His gaze drifts to the scattered medals, then hardens. “…You didn’t kill them, did you? The men wearing these.”

Torvea doesn’t blink. “You attacked us. At that point, killing becomes fair game.”

Kubelion grips his axe, veins bulging across his arms. Wind gathers around him.
“I wish you’d let them live. But now—”

He lifts the cobalt weapon high, power crackling. “—I have a reason to end your life even faster.”

Torvea digs his boots into the dirt, Green Blade humming with emerald energy. Green flames gather around him.

“Come on, Kubelion. Dance with me. If you win, this island is yours. I won’t be here to protect it anymore.” His grin stretches, wolfish. “But if you die—Jarathia gains time. Enough time for a new Raven. Enough time for someone who understands what independence is worth! Enough time to get stronger and stronger, until even a mere civilian from Jarathia will be able to kill you!”

Kubelion’s winds whip across the battlefield, bending trees and tearing shingles from rooftops. His gaze sharpens. “You trust in that possibility?”

“I’ll be honest,” Torvea answers, raising his glowing sword, “I do trust in someone. I know this island and its stones… they’re important. Any foreign force that invades here will spark a world war. And someone will come—someone smart enough, strong enough, ruthless enough—to understand that.” His grin widens, feverish. “The world doesn’t even realize the weight of what’s here. That’s how blind they still are.”

Kubelion spits. “Trusting a blank card. You expect fate to drop a savior in your lap. Pathetic. Raven’s defense lasted a century and a half, but she’s gone. And now the strongest thing this island has—” his axe rises, winds shrieking “—is a dying old man!”

The gale rips forward. Kubelion blurs, vanishing and reappearing behind Torvea, cobalt axe flashing straight for the heart. Steel sinks deep into flesh—

—but Torvea doesn’t fall.

His hand clamps around Kubelion’s wrist, grip like iron. The Green Blade lifts, slow, deliberate, inevitable. The edge hums once, then carves downward.

Kubelion’s scream cuts through the storm as his arm falls, blood spraying onto the dirt.

He stumbles back, one-armed, teeth clenched, veins bulging with pain. “My… my arm—!”

Torvea pulls the axe from his own chest, still bleeding, and tosses it to join the severed limb at Kubelion’s feet. Then his knees hit the dirt, green fire dancing around his shoulders.

Kubelion’s face twists. “Was it worth it? You’re dead now.”

He closes his eyes for a heartbeat—then the sound of rushing feet jolts him awake. He turns just in time to block a wild slash with his broken axe haft. Sparks scatter, his arm shaking under the pressure.

Torvea stands before him, wound torn wide, blood soaking his suit. But still alive. Still grinning.

“How…?” Kubelion’s voice cracks. “That wound… no human should be able to move with that. What… are you?”

Torvea points to his bright crimson eyes. “It’s not magic. I can’t use it.”

Kubelion staggers back, trying to piece it together. His gaze flicks from his half-cut axe to the Green Blade, clean and still hungering for more.

“You… it’s your ability. Not wind, not fire. Something else.” His voice trembles. “You’re… consuming your own life?”

Torvea’s laughter grows raw, manic, echoing through the dead village. “Knowledge, Kubelion. Knowledge is the key. People ignore it, believe lies, live in ignorance. But I—” he lifts the Green Blade higher, green flames surging “—I accept it. Even if it burns me alive!”

Behind him, the blackwood houses ignite, green fire crawling like veins across the walls.

Kubelion’s winds howl in fury. “Then you’ll burn this island with you!”

Torvea steps forward, each word heavy as iron.
“No. I’m buying it the time it needs.”

Kubelion steadies his breath, winds swirling tighter, sharper. The storm bends around his axe, the steel glowing light blue, humming with violence. With a roar, he charges, a living tempest.

Torvea raises his blade to meet him—green fire coiling like serpents—but Kubelion veers off at the last second. The cobalt axe slams into Torvea’s shoulder, the force booming through the air.

Metal grinds, flesh burns. Kubelion grits his teeth as heat scorches his palm, but he pushes harder—keeps pushing. Until, with a final crack, Torvea’s arm is severed.

The axe clatters to the dirt, glowing molten red. Kubelion stumbles back, chest heaving, winds lashing around him.

But Torvea only stares at the limb.

Slowly, with grotesque calm, he bends down, takes his severed arm and presses it against the stump—
—searing it back into place with emerald flames.

No cry. No flinch. Only the hiss of flesh binding to flesh.

The hand flexes again. Alive. Obedient.

Kubelion’s eyes widen. “What—”

Panic seizes him. His own burned hand won’t hold now. His storms thrash wildly, tearing blackwood houses apart, birthing a tornado that howls through the sky.

With the last of his fury, he throws everything into one charge. The tornado rages with him, a wall of death surging toward Torvea.

Torvea lifts his greatsword. Flames roar around him, green fire shaping into curling horns above his head. His eyes blaze scarlet, one bursting from the sheer pressure, blood running down his face.

“I am Torvea!” His voice is thunder, his teeth clenched against the weight of his own power.
“THE GREEN DEMON OF JARATHIA!”

The tornado descends. Torvea swings.

One slash.

Silence.

The storm splits in two, cleaved apart. The village itself tears apart in the middle. Blackwood burns, the world painted in green flames.

Kubelion’s body collapses.

Torvea staggers, coughing up blood. “My time… is over now.”

He walks away from the ruins, smoke curling around his frame like a shroud. His voice is hoarse, but firm.
“But this will scare them. This will buy us time.”