Prologue – Seeds of Hatred #4

But Asher paid no heed to their voices. His gaze remained fixed on every strike from Argos, analyzing his movements, the arc of each swing, his rhythm.

Patience. 

He had to wait for his opponent’s flaw.

Asher had never killed anyone other than Deck. But he had plenty of experience hunting prey. Even mighty beasts like lions and bison had their limits. If the hunt turned into a battle of endurance, fatigue would always set in.  

That moment will come. Just hold on.

Argos’ sword still tore through the air in wild, powerful arcs, but as the battle wore on – slowly, subtly, his breathing grew heavier.

The once-fluid strikes began to lag, the blade’s path just a fraction slower than before.

And Asher didn’t miss a thing.

“Already at your limit?”

After another narrow dodge, Asher spoke, his voice laced with provocation. “If you drop to your knees and beg, I might give you a swift end.”

That was the final spark.

Argos’ fury exploded. His face flushed red, veins bulging across his forehead. His grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles turned white, the hilt creaking under the strain.

His eyes burned with raw, unrestrained rage.

“You little bastard—”

With a roar, he brought his sword crashing down. The air split apart with a deafening boom. The sheer force of the blow shook the ground, sending tremors rippling through the battlefield.

In that instant—the laughter of the soldiers vanished. Not a single voice remained.

Every man stood frozen, breath caught in their throats.

An overwhelming, chilling aura of bloodlust had engulfed the battlefield.

“I’LL CRUSH YOU!”

This was a beast, abandoning reason, lashing out in blind fury.

But the moment the blade struck—the boy was no longer there.

Whoosh!

The cold steel blade sliced through the air just past his ear, stirring up a sharp gust of wind.

No one could track his movement.

Not even a blur remained—like a phantom, silent and weightless—he had already slipped into Agros’ blind spot.

His smaller frame allowed him to move swiftly within the confined space of the duel. But this wasn’t luck—it was a trap.

From the very beginning, he had understood—even if his opponent became fatigued and exposed a flaw, his childlike stature meant his hands couldn’t reach the giant’s throat. What’s more, the shards in his hands weren’t sharp enough, and his strength was far from enough to penetrate the armor. 

Then there was only one option left.

The only vital point he could strike.

The throat.

To strike that target, he had to overcome the obstacle of their height difference.

Every move up until now—the taunts, the provocations—had all been calculated, laid out as stepping stones for this single moment. He had lured Argos into abandoning reason. Forced him to swing with reckless abandon.

A beast consumed by rage would eventually destroy itself.

Blinded by fury, attacking without thought, his massive body had moved too much—lost its balance—

And finally—

He fell.

Lowering himself to the same height as his prey.

Now!

Asher swiftly drew the shard and, without hesitation, drove it into the exposed throat of Argos.

Schlck—!

Blood spurted like a fountain, splashing across Asher’s face. But there was no hesitation in his eyes as he forced the blade down, sinking it deep through until it pierced clean through the other side of Agros’s throat.

Guhh…

A wet, gurgling sound bubbled up from Argos’s mouth. Blood foamed at his lips. His expression twisted—from savage rage to stunned disbelief. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came. His voice was gone.

His massive body stiffened—just for a moment—then, like a great tree felled by an unseen force—Thud!

The earth trembled beneath him. Dust swirled into the air. 

The soldier twitched one last time—then fell completely still. His lifeless eyes stared up at Asher.

Even in death, they remained frozen in shock and fear, as if unable to comprehend the fate that had befallen him.

The entire arena stood in stunned silence. Even Marcellus narrowed his eyes slightly.

Shock rippled outward like a wave. Someone gasped. Another let out a strangled, soundless cry.

Within moments, the arena erupted into chaos—murmurs, exclamations, disbelief, fear. A maelstrom of emotions churned through the crowd.

No one could fully grasp what had just happened before their eyes.

Argos, who had stood just moments ago in imposing, unshakable grandeur, now lay sprawled on the ground, motionless, blood pooling around him.

His blade was merciless. Nothing about the boy resembled an ordinary child.

“Impossible…!”

“An eight-year-old child…? He defeated Argos…?”

“This… this can’t be!” a soldier stammered, his voice trembling, his face as pale as a sheet. 

And he wasn’t the only one.

The others stood frozen in place, their expressions twisted in a mix of shock and dread, as though trapped in a waking nightmare.

Why?

Why could a brat so young—Kill with such ruthless precision? With no hesitation at all?

They couldn’t comprehend. Even men hardened by war, men who had witnessed death countless times, could not comprehend what they had just seen. Everything they thought they knew—about battles, about strength—was crumbling beneath their feet.

Asher’s eyes, however, remained cold—void of all emotion.

A man had just died before him. No—he had killed him with his own hands. And yet, his expression did not waver. There was no satisfaction, no guilt.

It was as if none of it mattered.

As if battle itself was nothing more than a task to be completed.

The silence was deafening. All eyes were on him.

Fear. Shock. Incomprehension.

The murmurs of the imperial soldiers rippled through the air, growing louder, feeding into one another—yet the boy paid them no mind.

Instead, his emerald eyes lifted—fixed themselves onto one man—Marcellus.

“Your promise?”

For a brief moment, Marcellus faltered. Something had grazed his heart—something unclear, something he himself couldn’t define. But as a general, there was no room for hesitation. He swiftly gave the order.

A soldier stepped forward, unlocking the heavy chains around Asher’s ankles.

Clank!

The heavy chains fell to the ground with a sharp, crisp sound.

“Congratulations. From today onward, you are no longer a slave,” Marcellus announced in a clear voice. 

“Rest easy. No one will carve a brand into your flesh. No one will brand you. There will be no trace left of what you once were.”

Then, he locked his gaze directly onto the boy’s emerald eyes, “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Asher Sinclaire.” 

The boy replied, his face devoid of emotion.

Marcellus’s lips curled, just slightly. “I see—then you are the last Sinclaire.”

In the Aeterian Empire, as well as across the continent, commoners who were not of noble birth typically bore the name of their tribe. The dead, stripped of their identities, were erased. Slaves who survived had no surname to speak of.

Asher alone was the exception.

“Do you have anything you enjoy?” Marcellus asked again.

“I never had any—” 

A faint flicker passed through the boy’s emerald eyes.

For a fleeting moment, a glint of something else—something cold, something bottomless—surfaced. 

Like the gaze of a demon crawling out of an abyss.

“But from now on…I like to kill.”