_____MI'KAEL SERAPHANE_____

I stood there, the weight of my uncle’s death still pressing down on me, as I carefully set down the offering at the base of the old tree. 

It was the same one where we used to sit together, sharing meals and stories, before everything had fallen apart. The same tree where my uncle had taught me so much—where he had always been a symbol of strength and guidance. 

Now, it felt like a hollow memory. 

I closed my eyes and whispered the prayers he had taught me, the ones meant to guide the soul to peace, though it was hard to believe there could ever be peace for him—or for me. 

As I stood there, hands clasped in silent reverence, I tried to push away the image of his lifeless body in my arms. 

I couldn't erase it, no matter how hard I tried. 

The guilt, the anger, the helplessness—they all clung to me, just as his blood had stained my hands. 

This was my fault. All of it. But I couldn’t afford to crumble now. 

Not again. 

Not after everything.

Once the prayers were finished, I slowly stood, taking one last look at the grave before turning back toward the cabin. The world was still too quiet. 

The future stretched before me, uncertain, but one thing was clear. 

I would make them pay. I walked inside the cabin, my bloodied clothes a reflection of what had happened. The sight of the tattered cabin, now reduced to a hollow space filled with the ghosts of those five years, made my chest tighten. 

 A bittersweet smile crept up on my face as I looked around, memories flooding my mind. Despite everything—the endless training, the relentless pursuit of vengeance—I couldn’t shake the care I had felt from my uncle.

He saved me, took care of me when no one else could. He nursed me back to health when I was broken and battered from that fall. 

Suddenly, my attention was drawn to it. Father’s Blaster—sleek, compact, and matte black. It bore the smooth contours of a vintage sidearm but had been clearly modified for modern use. Its body was reinforced with poly-alloy plating, unmarred by decoration, its surface matte and silent. The elongated barrel hinted at custom enhancements—likely for precision firing, yet compact enough for rapid draw. 

My hand hovered near the grip, fingers brushing against the cold alloy. It wasn’t ornate. It wasn’t flashy. But—it was designed to end things cleanly, without hesitation. 

It laid there on the table to my left, shining in the dim light, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the cabin’s walls and illuminating its polished surface. 

Beside it, neatly arranged, was a set of dark attire. And alongside it… a letter. 

A letter from him to me. 

A final message. 

Maybe he had known. That they would come one day. Maybe that was why he had never spoken of it. Why he had never told me the truth. 

"Dear Mi'kael, I know times are hard for you right now. The only thing in your mind is but the taste of vengeance. I understand your pain. Your loss. But that doesn’t mean you must make them pay. Look around you—the world is cruel but beautiful. You lost many things that day, but gained many more.”

 I know, Uncle. But I am not worthy of them. Not with what I feel deep inside. The lingering desire to hurt those who hurt you and Mother. 

“I was a great warrior who fought for the sake of the Seraphane Clan. For the sake of my father. To protect the little you and Azrael, as well as your mother. But when I found out that the reason I fought wasn’t for our sakes but for the twisted desires of the Heads to gain power, I left.” 

I took a deep breath as I swallowed, my throat dry from the heavy words relayed by the letter. 

“Maybe I should’ve taken all of you with me. Maybe then, you wouldn’t have had to go through all this pain. It was all my fault.” 

It never was, dear Uncle. I’m sure if it was possible, my mother would’ve taken that decision. 

But fate always has other plans. 

“I’m sorry, my son, for not being able to protect you. For not being able to fulfill the promise I made to your mother. I only hope that you don’t lose yourself in the process, Mi'kael.”

You did protect me, Uncle. And for that, I will always be thankful. 

“You defeated me fair and square. For that, I give you back your Blaster. Polished once more. These clothes are meant for you. We warriors wear them when preparing for our own battles. And because of that, they don’t have the Clan’s Sigil. The path you are about to take is a dark one. I only pray that you survive. Farewell, my son. Regards, Your Uncle"

I stood there in the dim light of the cabin, the letter still clutched in my hand. My heart was heavy, the weight of my uncle’s final words pressing down on me. 

I knew what I had to do. 

This was my path, my burden to carry. I set the letter down gently and turned my attention to the table beside me. But what awaited me wasn’t a ceremonial robe or a clean goodbye.

 It was armor. Clean, precise—silent. A matte black tactical shirt lay atop the pile, its long sleeves folded cleanly up to the forearms. The fabric was tight-knit but breathable, made for movement. 

Over it, arranged like ritual offerings, were the pieces that formed my uncle’s final gift—a vest reinforced by a compact breastplate, accompanied by a single shoulder pad fitted for the right side. 

The entire set was sleek, no wasted weight, no ceremonial flash. Just purpose. 

I slipped the shirt on first, the fabric clinging like a second skin. The plates followed, clicking into place over my chest and shoulder with a quiet finality. The black armor was cold, and for a moment I wondered if I would ever feel warmth again. 

My fingers hovered over the gloves. Plain and Dark. I adjusted them properly as I tugged at the cuffs.

Below that, I fastened the combat pants—sleek, durable, ready for war. 

No ceremonial folds.

Just function. 

The boots followed: no laces, molded to move, each step cushioned and silent. 

On the left thigh, a tight holster waited. I checked the strap’s tension, testing the draw. 

Perfect. 

My blaster would sit there now—the one my father once carried. The weight felt right. 

And finally, the shoulder brace. Slightly heavier, asymmetrical. My left side. I paused as I locked it into place, a low vibration traveling up through the metal and into my skin. 

This wasn’t armor you wore to represent something. It was armor you wore when you were no longer sure you represented anything at all. And yet… it fit. 

I reached for my blaster, the weapon that symbolised everything I had lost. 

I gripped it tightly, the cold handle sending a shiver through my body. 

Setting it into my holster, I turned towards the cracked mirror in front of me. 

Instead of seeing myself, all I saw was the dull void behind my eyes. I was no longer the naive child I thought I was. I could see it, the immense rage and hatred boiling within me, waiting to be unleashed. 

As I stepped away from the mirror, the weight of my decision settled into my bones. I was no longer the same. My uncle had hoped that I would find a different path, but I couldn’t. 

Not now. Not after everything. 

I turned my attention once more to the table beside me, catching my eye was a worn out scabbard and a blade that spoke a history of its own. 

My Uncle’s blade. I held it in my hands and stared at it as I slowly unsheathed it. It had scratches yet it was sharp. It went through wars I could never have imagined, and spilled more blood than I could ever see. 

I stepped outside into a world changed. 

Thunder cracked. 

The sky churned black with anger, wind howling like the ghosts of the past. 

My uncle's grave sat beneath the rain, a simple stone above rich, damp earth. 

And beside it—I laid down his sword. 

His weapon had fought for peace.

Mine would not. 

“You were the only one who cared,” I whispered. “And I failed you.” 

The wind carried no reply. Then came the sound: slow, mocking applause. A cloaked figure emerged from the trees, his voice slicing through the rain. “To think… the mighty Ravyn Seraphane. Dead. Broken. Forgotten.” 

My blood turned to ice. I didn’t need to see his face. 

I already knew. 

Seraphane Scum.

My fists clenched. 

The storm roared behind me. He peeled back his hood. “You didn’t really think you’d get peace, did you? This is your fate. Your legacy.” 

Silhouettes moved behind him. 

Reinforcements. Assassins. Trained killers. Outnumbered. Cornered. 

But it didn’t matter. 

The air pulsed with raw fury. 

The crest on my palm ached beneath my glove as I raised my hand and brought it down in a slicing arc. Energy pulsated around my hand, crimson and unyielding. 

Manifested from nothingness, created by the rage that boiled deep within my heart. 

“You’ll regret ever speaking his name.” 

He grinned. “Come then, Young Master. Show me what your grief is worth.” 

[Boost]

The world slowed. The storm sharpened. My heartbeat surged like a war drum. 

My stance was instinct—my uncle’s defense, my father’s aggression. 

I was done grieving. 

The storm intensified, mirroring the fury in my chest and the crack of thunder above me felt like the final warning. 

But I wasn’t afraid. 

They rushed forward.

The first assailant swung his sword at me with a ferocious roar, but I was already in motion. 

I darted forward, stepping inside his reach, my blade cutting across his side in one clean strike. 

Blood sprayed through the air as he staggered back, but I didn’t stop. 

Another one came at me from the left, but I pivoted, my elbow slamming into his jaw, knocking his head back as I moved with brutal force. 

The third tried to flank me from behind, but I felt him coming. 

I spun, my foot smashing into his chest, sending him flying into the trunk of a tree with a sickening thud. 

I kept moving, relentless, cutting through their ranks one after the other. 

Each strike, each blow, was a release of everything I’d buried—the grief, the anger, the loss. 

Their blood stained the earth as they continued their relentless futile assault against me. 

My blade sang a song of violence, each swing burning with all the pain I had locked away. 

I wasn’t fighting for honor. I wasn’t fighting for peace. I was fighting because I was broken. 

Their numbers didn’t matter. 

I cut them down. 

My movements became one with the storm, blood splashing against rain-slicked earth. 

The forest floor drank deep. 

This wasn’t a battle. It was a purge.

Each strike punished the world for taking him from me. 

For taking everything from me. 

There was no thought—only instinct. 

 Only vengeance. Bodies piled up around me. The screams of my enemies, once filled with defiance, now sounded like whimpers of fear. 

I didn’t hear them anymore. I didn’t care. Their movements slowed, their resolve faltering. But I wasn’t stopping. 

Not yet. 

Not until every last one of them was nothing but a stain on the forest floor. 

I could feel the world around me fading—nothing but the swing of my blade, the sharp hiss of my strikes cutting through the air, the wet thud of flesh meeting steel. 

My vision blurred, adrenaline surging through my veins as I drowned in the violence, letting the rage control me.

Then I saw him. The man who mocked my uncle, now crawling, bleeding, pathetic. His grin had vanished. He tried to escape. I raised the blade above him, my arm trembling with rage. But before I struck—

CRACK.

Thunder split the sky—violent, deafening, absolute.

My arm froze mid-air.

I stared at my blade.

Not at the man beneath it.

Not at his blood pooling into the soil.

At my hands.

Crimson—soaked into my fingers, clinging to the grooves of my palm, washing away under the rain only to return again. No matter how hard the storm fell, it wouldn’t disappear.

My breath hitched.

Again.

My chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like something inside me had cracked open. My fingers began to tremble—not from exhaustion, not from fear.

From revulsion.

“No…” I whispered, barely louder than the rain.

I had done everything right.

I hadn’t hesitated.

I hadn’t faltered.

I hadn’t looked away.

I killed them.

So why—

My knees slammed into the mud.

The blade slipped from my grip with a wet clang as bile surged up my throat. I doubled over, retching violently, rain hammering against my back as if trying to drive me into the earth.

Why does it still make me sick?

My hands shook harder now, fingers clawing into the soil like I could bury the feeling along with the bodies.

Weak.

That word burned hotter than any wound.

This was what it meant to be Seraphane—to spill blood without flinching, to stand unshaken in its aftermath.

So why was my body betraying me?

My vision blurred, the forest warping at the edges as memory forced itself forward—uninvited, unstoppable.

Rain became something else.

The storm faded.

And the world collapsed inward—

—back to the first time I learned what it meant to kill.