Prologue – Seeds of Hatred #2

The soldier’s eyes locked onto Asher’s, narrowing as a flicker of surprise betrayed him. It was as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the audacity of a mere slave daring to meet his gaze.
The moment dissolved as quickly as it came. His lips curled into a sneer.
“Well, well. Look at this. You’ve got some nerve.”
He spun on his heel, shouting to his comrades.
“Bring me a whip! Let’s show this brat how we greet his kind.”
Laughter echoed from outside.
“Again, Deck? Try not to ruin this one too fast. The general doesn’t like damaged goods.”
“Relax,” Deck sneered, his yellowed teeth flashing in a grin. “I know how to make them last. He’ll be begging for mercy soon enough.”
With that, he took a step forward.
The midday sun beat down mercilessly. Deck’s greasy skin glistened like oil, the stink of sweat and leather clinging to him in a suffocating cloud. His shadow stretched long and jagged across the iron bars.
Deck leaned in closer, and pressed the tip of his sword against the chains, each shrill note clawing at Asher’s ears.
The other soldiers merely chuckled, unfazed by the shrieking noise.
As Deck worked to sever the chains, he tossed a casual remark over his shoulder.
“Damn, every damn slave here’s the same—boring as hell. Hey, when are we gonna catch something worth our time? That last village was a joke. Nothing but trash.”
One of the soldiers chimed in with a laugh, “Don’t be so picky, Deck. That black-haired girl from last time wasn’t bad. A real screamer, though.”
Deck snorted.
“Tch. Looks don’t mean shit. If they don’t fight back, what’s the point? No fun in breaking something that’s already shattered.”
He turned back to Asher, his grotesque grin stretching wider.
“Well,” he drawled, dragging out the word with a wicked slowness, like a predator savoring its kill.
“This time we’ve got a brat. A boy, sure—but he’s got some fire in him.” His eyes gleamed with cruel anticipation.
With a sudden, violent jerk, Deck yanked the chain in his hands.
Asher lurched forward, his knees crashing onto the cold, jagged floor, biting into his skin.
“Hah! Hahaha!”
Deck’s laugh rang out as he crouched down, seizing Asher’s chin in a brutal grip, forcing his face upward. His fingers dug in with savage force, a slow, burning pain creeping up Asher’s jaw.
“Come on now, don’t look away.” Deck hissed, “Let me get a good look at that pretty face.”
He studied Asher’s features with a critical eye, then smirked.
“Tch. You’ve got the looks. Put some meat on those bones, and maybe you’d be worth something.”
Scattered chuckles rippled through the soldiers, but Asher said nothing. His gaze dropped, shadowed by his lashes, betraying nothing.
—Yet his gaze sharpened, flicking over Deck’s body with swift precision.
His eyes flicked over Deck’s arms, tracing the tautness of his muscles. Then his stance, the subtle shift in his weight. And finally, the soft pulse of his exposed throat.
No armor. Just a thin scrap of fabric covering bare skin. He could even see the faint bob of Deck’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
“What’s wrong? Getting cold feet?”
Deck’s laughter rumbled through the air as he tightened his grip. He tilted Asher’s chin up forcefully:
“If you wanna cry, go ahead. Come on, say it—’Please, master.'”
But Deck hadn’t noticed— the subtle tension of the boy’s muscles, the way his knuckles went white from the force of his grip.
In Asher’s right hand, hidden within the ragged folds of his clothes, something sharp glinted.
It was the jagged tip of a hunting knife.
During the raid on his village, the blade had been crushed beneath the boots of the soldiers. Its fragments scattered across the dirt, but in the chaos of his escape, Asher snatched one of the shards and hid it in his palm.
Even as he lay unconscious, his fingers clung to it, bloodied and raw, but he didn’t let go—not once.
With a sharp tug, Deck yanked him out of the cage. The severed chains clattered against iron bars, their metallic screech cutting through the air. Asher staggered, knees buckling for a moment as his body pitched forward—but he bit down hard on his lip, forcing himself upright despite the tremor in his legs.
Deck’s smirk widened as he watched Asher struggle to steady himself. With a swift motion, he grabbed Asher by the collar and hauled him closer, their faces mere inches apart. The putrid stench of sweat coiled around Asher’s throat like a suffocating noose.
Deck turned away with a wicked grin, barking, “Bring the whip, now!”
Even with their faces inches apart, Asher’s eyes never wavered.
His peripheral vision tracked the steady bob of Deck’s Adam’s apple, the faint tremor of his exposed skin, and the pulsing blue vein beneath – every detail was seared into Asher’s mind.
Diameter of the artery: 0.12 digits. Epidermal thickness: 0.03 palm…
The calculations ran on instinct.
His pupils constricted, narrowing to a razor’s edge.
The world crystallized into harsh clarity—the tang of blood, the grating rasp of chains, the drifting specks of dust suspended in thin slants of light. Every detail sharpened his senses, honing them to a lethal edge.
His toes grazed the cold floor, shifting imperceptibly. His knee subtly adjusted. The fibers of his muscles tensed, aligning in perfect synchrony.
His entire being honed in on Deck’s pulse point.
His body inched forward, just a fraction.
His thoughts distilled into one singular, unyielding purpose—to end the life of the man before him.

—It’s close.

—He’s moments from death.

A dark thrill surged within his chest.
There was no anger. No sadness.
Not anymore.
Only the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, intensifying his senses, sharpening his focus. The trivial noise of emotions evaporated, leaving behind only the relentless drum of murderous intent pounding in his ears.
The weakness in his limbs, the lingering dizziness clouding his thoughts—insignificant.
All of it faded into oblivion, leaving behind only one thing.
A cold, untainted thirst for blood.
Even if this was the first life he would take.

—Go to hell.

The moment Deck threw his head back in laughter—
Asher moved.
Like a flash of lightning cleaving through the darkness.
Like a demon unleashed.
His body shot forward, swift and lethal, the jagged shard of metal in his grip glinting coldly in the dim light. In a single, unerring thrust, the blade pierced straight into Deck’s throat.
A dull thud echoed through the air.
Deck’s body slammed against the ground under the force of Asher’s tackle. He let out a guttural grunt, his hands flailing instinctively to push Asher off—but Asher drove his weight down without hesitation, pinning him firmly. His fingers dug into Deck’s collar like iron clamps, anchoring himself securely.
With cold, unwavering precision, he twisted the shard—
Tilting it downward.
His eyes, devoid of emotion, gleamed with a chilling, unnatural light.
Then, he slammed his full weight onto the blade.
“Ghh—!”
A gurgling, strangled sound erupted from Deck’s throat—a pitiful, agonized death rattle.
His vocal cords were heavily severed, rendering speech impossible.
His eyes rolled back, revealing only the whites, his body convulsing as he choked on his own blood. Frothy crimson bubbled from his lips, his fingers weakly clawing at Asher’s forearm, leaving shallow, frantic scratches.
But it was far too late.
The jagged shard had punctured his trachea completely. Blood gushed from the wound in torrents, soaking his clothes within moments.
And yet—Asher did not stop.
His gaze, cold and motionless as a frozen lake, remained locked on the scene before him.
Teeth clenched, he gripped the shard with both hands, driving it even deeper.
Not a single tremor shuddered through his fingers.
A series of broken, gurgling noises spilled from Deck’s gaping mouth, but they no longer resembled words.
Blood surged from his throat in violent spurts, spraying outward like a ruptured pipe. The warm droplets splattered across Asher’s cheek and arms, the thick, metallic stench flooding his nostrils.
Deck’s body gave one last, violent convulsion—then fell eerily still.
The light drained from his vacant eyes, leaving them locked on nothing but the emptiness.
At that moment, Asher exhaled.
It was not from exhaustion.
Not from relief.
But from something far deeper—a release.
—You got what you deserved.
Deck remained motionless, his lifeless gaze frozen in eternal shock, staring vacantly toward the heavens.
Gasping for air, Asher wrenched the blood-slicked shard free, gripping it tighter until the jagged edge dug into his palm. His heartbeat hammered against his skull like a war drum, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he struggled to steady himself.
His gaze darted around, searching for an escape route.
The imperial soldiers remained frozen in place, still reeling from the shock of the sudden execution. Not one moved or spoke. Their hesitation dragged on, their disbelief rendering them momentarily paralyzed.
Asher didn’t miss the weakness in their formation—westward, a gap.
Without a second thought, he lunged for it.
But the moment he leaped, something cold and unyielding coiled around his neck—a chainmail grip, rough and merciless. The freezing metal seared into his skin, choking the breath from his throat.
Then came the weight.

A vise of iron-clad arms clamped around him, crushing down with the force of a rampaging beast. His limbs locked in place, his body wrenched downward—then slammed against the stone floor. Pain jolted through his frame, rattling his bones like a struck bell.
His vision buckled, a flash of white searing through the edges of his sight.
He tried to move—his fingers twitched around the shard—but the crushing force pressing him down made it impossible to lift even a single inch.
A second soldier struck from behind, his arm snapping around Asher’s throat like a steel trap. The grip was merciless—an iron vise closing, crushing his windpipe. His chest convulsed. His lungs screamed for air. Pressure coiled around him, a noose tightening, strangling, crushing.
His vision flickered on the verge of blacking out, but Asher clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hold on, refusing to slip into unconsciousness.
Then, like a dam bursting, the rest of the imperial soldiers surged forward.
Boots thundered against stone, the chamber trembling with the force of their charge. One soldier jerked a whip high—then cracked it down, a streak of black lightning slicing through the air.
Asher wrenched his body aside at the last second—just enough to evade the worst of it. But the sharp tip still found flesh, ripping across his back in a fiery arc.
“Hhng—!”
Pain slashed through his back like a white-hot brand, and blood sprayed into the air in vivid arcs.
“Stop struggling!”
A harsh voice rang out.
A soldier seized his arm, fingers digging in with brutal force. Pain lanced through his limb, twisting from elbow to shoulder, as if his bones were being pried apart. His muscles spasmed from the agony—
—but he refused to make a sound.
But no matter how he fought, his chances of breaking free bled away with every passing second.
Summoning the last of his strength, Asher thrashed violently. His legs lashed out in a desperate attempt to break free, but the imperial soldiers surrounding him were no mere guards. They were hardened warriors, trained to subdue without hesitation.
The grip around his throat only tightened, strangling the last shreds of breath from his lungs.
Deck’s death had been swift—a perfect ambush, made fatal by a single misstep.
For the briefest instant, the imperial soldiers had faltered. But hesitation was a fleeting thing. Within moments, their ranks reformed, locking together like the steel plates of an impenetrable fortress.
This was no mere battlefield maneuver; it was a doctrine carved into the Empire’s history, sharpened by generations of war. Once their formation was set, no force—not even the fiercest warrior—could break through.
This was why the Empire’s army had never known defeat.
A heartbeat later, Asher’s body was slammed onto the ground.
Mud and blood oozed into his clothes, clinging to his skin with an icy grip. But his gaze burned through the grime—fierce, wild, unbroken.
Like a beast backed into a corner.
“What is going on here?”
The moment that voice rang out, the soldiers froze, their movements arrested as if seized by an invisible force. A ripple of shock and fear swept through the ranks as every soldier instinctively turned toward the speaker.
Standing before them was General Marcellus Voren.
His piercing gaze seemed to freeze even the scent of blood lingering in the air.
With nothing but his presence, he seized control of the battlefield itself.
As he strode forward, the soldiers parted before him without thinking—pure reflex.
No one spoke. No— no one could.
A crushing pressure weighed down on all who dared to meet his gaze.
The tip of a soldier’s blade still hovered at Asher’s throat—yet even its wielder dared not move.
Asher lay sprawled in the dirt, bloodied and beaten, but his eyes burned with defiance as they locked onto Voren’s.