Paths Of Life

Cyron could feel someone tapping on his body. The rough hand made him think of his father's hand—warm, but that was before the incident.

"Lord Cyron, it's morning."

The voice, however, was so deep that it sent shivers all over his body. His eyes opened unconsciously. Instead of sunlight streaming through the window to warm his face, an old man stood there with a satisfied expression.

"Amazing to see you wake up on the first try again."

"Yes, you'll get used to this."

"I apologize for the disturbance, but the head of the family has sent a message. He wants you to go on an urgent mission and instructed me to consult you on whether you'll accept or not."

Jackson could see a mirror behind the old man's shoulder. Inside the mirror, there was a man with long, dark black hair and a light beard on his pale face. He looked slightly shocked when he saw himself.

"Lord Cyron?"

He turned toward the source of the voice to find the old man looking at him strangely.

"Ah, yes, I'll do it," Cyron replied quickly, regaining his composure.

"Very well, I'll inform the head and bring you your usual breakfast," the old man replied as he turned slowly and left the room with a slight bow.

Cyron stood in place, staring at the mirror. Though he had seen this body many times before, he couldn't help but admire it every time.

A tall frame, defined muscles, and a ruggedly handsome face with sharp features—such a body was hard to come by, even in his previous modern world.

Last night, Cyron had decided to leave his past behind, embrace his new life, and set a clear goal for himself. Though the goal had yet to take shape, he knew it wouldn't take long.

Moments later, the old servant re-entered the room, walking with calm and confident steps. In his left hand, he carried an exquisite plate of food, and in his right, a finely folded cloth napkin and a carefully sealed letter.

"Your usual breakfast is here: hot milk with honey, bread, roasted lamb, and a fruit salad," the old man said with a smile as he placed the plate on the table. He folded the napkin neatly and placed the letter on top of it.

Cyron threw a piece of roasted lamb into his mouth and picked up the letter. Breaking the red wax seal stamped with the Remil family crest, he unfolded it quickly.

Mission:

An unclean race has invaded a hunting zone near the city of Krol in the western region. Eliminate the intruders and protect the city...

"Is this a joke?" Cyron's face turned slightly angry as he raised his hand in the air, intending to strike the table. But he stopped, noticing the servant watching him with a curious expression.

"Is everything alright?"

"Is this the entire mission?" Cyron asked calmly.

"I don't know the details, but yes, this is the full mission. The head also told me to inform you that you may choose any squad you wish to accompany you," the old man replied with a slight smile.

Cyron took a deep breath and asked, "What forces are currently available?"

"Currently, we have the Guardians, the Hands of Shadow, and the Watchmen," the servant responded quickly.

Cyron smiled upon hearing the available forces. The Remil family divided their military into six types, three of which were now available. The Guardians were the second strongest unit in the family, second only to the clan leader's elite forces.

Of course, only those in high-ranking positions knew this classification.

"Inform the Guardians to prepare; we leave in half an hour." Given the choice, Cyron naturally opted for the strongest.

The old man bowed and left quietly, but Cyron didn't notice the peculiar glint in the servant's eyes as he glanced back at him.

Sairon calmly finished his breakfast, though his mind occasionally drifted back to yesterday's events. He couldn't move past them—or rather, he couldn't move past anything that had happened to him since he was dragged into this cursed world.

After a moment, he walked toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room. Unlike other knights, who had mansions and personal servants, Sairon chose to stay in this small place, as it was his father's birthplace.

Opening the wardrobe, he revealed a full black armor adorned with intricate engravings. He lifted the armor and walked toward the mirror.

Slowly, he undressed, his movements deliberate. Anyone observing would say he had an impressive physique. Yet his focus wasn't on his appearance but on his left hand.

On the back of his hand, the number "10" was marked in black. At first, he thought it might have been from his original time, but no amount of recalling revealed anything in his memory tied to this symbol. More strangely, he couldn't remember much about Sairon's life—neither his actions over the past seven months nor the time before. He couldn't even recall how he gained the power of a knight. Everything was a blur.

He had tried countless times to rid himself of the mark, but to no avail. Overthinking it would do more harm than good, so he decided to leave the matter aside for now and hide his hand under a glove, as he had done before.

Piece by piece, Sairon began donning his armor. It was a slow process, as if he was mentally preparing for the battle as much as he was physically. The sound of metal clicking into place sent a ripple of unease through his heart. This would be his first real battle. Back on Earth, he'd had a few scuffles with thugs, but this time, his life was on the line.

He knew full well that refusing the mission was not an option. Mirageon would never let him rest any longer.

Moments after finishing his preparations, a light knock came at the door.

"Sir Sairon, the wardens are ready in the courtyard."

He looked at the door for a moment before replying, "I'll be down shortly."

Sairon left the room and walked slowly through the grand hallways of the mansion. Every step felt as though it measured the distance between him and the confrontation awaiting him.

In the courtyard, the wardens stood in neat formation.

Clad in black armor, they stood firm, their sharp eyes visible beneath their half-covered faces.

The wardens numbered 23 in total—a handpicked elite from the family. Even for two knights, taking them all down would be an arduous task. None of them were young or inexperienced.

Sairon approached the leader of the wardens, a particularly imposing figure—a tall and broad-shouldered man with calm, piercing eyes.

Sairon quickly recognized him as one of the candidates for knighthood.

"Is everyone ready?" Sairon asked in a calm but firm voice, careful not to appear overly stern.

"Yes, we're ready to depart at any moment," replied the leader, Barbon, with composed confidence.

Sairon nodded and looked toward the horizon. The sun had risen slightly into the sky.

"Barbon, I'm counting on you."

Barbon nodded silently.

Sairon walked through the wardens, who parted to make way for him. Barbon followed quietly, and the wardens trailed behind in unison.

The group descended from the elevated mansion. Below lay a training area surrounded by a stone wall about 700 meters long, beyond which stood the central city of Karbel, encased in a vast wall with a diameter of over a mile and a half.

As they passed through the soldiers' training grounds, countless gazes fixed on them. Everyone who crossed their path bowed, though it was less for the wardens and more for Knight Sairon.

Sairon felt like a hero from one of those fantastical tales.

(Author's Note: If only he knew what awaited him, poor soul.)

Though internally, Sairon felt a twinge of embarrassment, he didn't let it show. His pale face was obscured by his helmet, but he nodded politely to a few onlookers nonetheless.

Near a 10-meter-tall gate stood several horses, each loaded with supplies for the three-day journey ahead—a faster mode of travel than a carriage.

Sairon mounted a black horse with fiery red eyes and a black helmet strapped to its head.

Click. Click. Click.

The gates opened slowly, and the group, led by Sairon, began their journey. The city stretched before them, with buildings of various sizes made entirely of stone.

As the warden group approached the city's outer gates, the grandeur of the surrounding structures became evident. People lined the streets, their eyes filled with awe and admiration. Women exchanged whispers, their hair dancing in the wind, while children darted among the adults, waving excitedly.

"Look! Look! It's a real knight!" echoed among the crowd, a mixture of pride and reverence in their voices.

From atop his horse, Sairon realized he was the center of attention.

As they passed, he sensed the energy in the air—hope and anxiety intertwined, blending like the colors of a vivid painting. Every whisper and glance cried out for safety and reassurance.

The group continued its march until they reached the second gate. Unlike the first, this wall was even taller—about 15 meters—with tall watchtowers spaced along its length.

The gate creaked open slowly, its sound merging with the rapid pounding of Sairon's heart.

For the first time since arriving in this world, he stepped beyond the city walls. His eyes gleamed with anticipation as his breath caught in his chest.

Before him stretched a rolling plain, vibrant with lush green grass. Sunlight danced across the landscape, and in the distance, a range of mist-shrouded mountains stood sentinel.

The horse moved briskly forward, and the cool breeze caressed Sairon's face. The fresh, crisp air seemed to lift the weight from his heart.

He hadn't imagined that this cursed world could hold such beauty outside its confines.

Without realizing it, Sairon removed his black helmet. He felt the air glide across his pale skin, as though it were restoring a vitality long lost.

Raising his head slowly toward the sky, he closed his eyes for a moment and felt as though the universe itself was embracing him. This feeling—one he thought he'd lost—was the sense of belonging to something greater than the city walls.

The wind played with his dark hair as he stretched his arms out slowly, as though waiting for an embrace long overdue.

A small smile crept onto his face, filled with passion and hope. It was the kind of smile that comes only once in a lifetime when one feels the taste of true freedom.

The wardens cast him curious glances, but Sairon paid them no mind. He had long stopped caring about people's opinions, even back on Earth.

After all, what's the difference between prison and life if you can't enjoy it?

The group continued their peaceful journey. Although large birds, the likes of which Sairon had never seen before, appeared occasionally, the wardens paid them no attention.

One such bird, called a "Spinner," was large, covered in coarse feathers, and had a beak resembling a pelican's with a long tail split into two ends.

For once, Sairon's memory proved to be quite useful.

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