The Fallen One

LUCIUS

"C–come here… kiddo…"

His voice reached me from beyond the thicket—low, broken, trembling like a thread about to snap. Just hearing it made my chest tighten. There was pain in that voice. Not just pain. Finality.

I peeked out from behind the tree Lady Sia had told me to stay hidden against. My heart lurched. Something inside me twisted, because I could feel it—really feel it—in that voice… something was beyond wrong.

I hesitated for a second.

Lady Sia's order echoed in my mind like a warning bell: "Stay here. No matter what."
But my feet moved anyway, and so did I, in agreement, despite something in me, not wanting to witness what I was about to...

One slow step at first, then another. My hands brushed past branches and rough bark, weaving through the foliage like I was stepping out of a dream and into a nightmare I couldn't unsee.

The forest went too quiet for a while, as lightning had ceased exploding through the skies...

No birds. No rough breeze. Only the distant, thunderous shocks that pulsed through the trees—reminders that the Ghost Bear and Lady Sia were still locked in a clash somewhere deeper in the woods, a few hundred meters away from our position. But all of that faded behind the growing sound of my own footsteps and the pounding in my ears.

And then I saw him.

Mr. Ragnar.

He was lying there, not like a man who had fallen, but like something had dropped him from the heavens. The earth itself had cradled his impact. A crater of broken grass and torn soil spread around him, soaking up everything he no longer had the strength to hold inside.

His sword—his massive, shimmering bluish sword—was thrown aside, a few meters behind him, right next to the tree I had thought about hiding behind. It lay there like a relic. Now-forgotten. Silent, and no longer the weapon that symbolised safety and protectiveness it once did in the hands of a man that now lay before me...

The grass beneath him had lost its colour. The lush green was drowned in crimson and not splattered—soaked. Like someone had painted the earth in blood. The patch beneath his body wasn't just stained; it was a pool, still growing, still warm.

He was breathing.

Barely.

Each inhale came out as a sound, not a breath. A grunt. A whisper. The kind of noise that didn't feel alive, only desperate, painfully so, as if death itself had delayed its arrival to let this man suffer more during his final moments. And his chest… his chest wasn't rising anymore. It just lay still. Like the breath had decided there was no point in trying again.

Then I saw them.

Four.

Four massive, hollowed-out holes in his chest—clean, surgical, like something monstrous had pierced straight through him with unrelenting precision. Not ragged wounds. No. These were too… exact. Like something had meant every inch of damage. The flesh around them was gone, torn away. Bones—ribs, maybe more—shattered, missing. Organs? I didn't know where they'd gone. Maybe nowhere. Maybe they'd just… stopped existing.

Blood poured from those holes. Not dripped. Poured. So much of it.

It spilled out from his mouth, too. From his nose. From the corners of his eyes, where I couldn't even tell anymore if it was blood or just some twisted version of tears.

My legs trembled. My heart kicked wildly inside me, like it wanted to escape. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't look.

But I didn't look away.

No matter how much my body screamed at me to turn around—to run, to hide, to pretend this wasn't real—my eyes refused to move. They stayed locked on him.

In the aftermath of a warrior who fought, and lost.

On a man who wasn't supposed to fall. Not him. Not Ragnar.

There was something about seeing him like that—reduced like that—that clawed at something deep in me. My mind kept trying to make sense of it, trying to understand how someone so massive and powerful could end up like this. But there were no answers.

Only silence. And the slow, horrific realisation that this was the other side of the battle.

The side no one told stories about.

Not the shining rise of a victor, standing above their enemy.

But the silence that follows when the ground decides you are the one it will claim.

And in that silence, something inside me broke a little. Or maybe… changed.

Because as I stood there, helpless and shaking, a thought wrapped its cold hands around my chest and whispered:

'One day… this could be you...' That thought, that damned, invasive thought..

"…Am I really looking that bad?"
Ragnar's voice broke the silence, not cracked or coughing, not wheezing through blood, but calm. Steady. Like he'd chosen that one line to carry all the weight he had left.

I had no answer. None that felt right, anyway.

So I just nodded. Once. Small. Honest.

Ragnar stared at me for a moment—his gaze sharp despite everything, like he was looking through me, searching for something unspoken. But he didn't reply right away. Instead, he turned his eyes downward and tried to lift his right arm.

It shook.

Even that tiny movement looked like it stole something from him. I stepped forward instinctively, close enough now that only one step separated us—but he stopped me with a slight gesture. Weak, but firm.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He glanced back up at me and offered the faintest hint of a smile—half-pained, half-determined. Like he was trying to keep up the act. As if he could hide all this behind a grin. Then, with a slow breath, he pushed himself upright.

He lifted himself. All by himself.

I didn't know what it proved. Maybe nothing. But it mattered to him. Maybe that was enough.

"…I know you're small," he muttered, his voice almost teasing. "And probably weak… But can you manage to fetch that sword of mine for me, please?"

He tried to laugh. But instead, he coughed—a sharp, violent jolt of blood that spilled down his chin. Behind him, the wounds in his chest gaped wider. I could see through him. Like his body had become a frame around emptiness.

I nodded. This time, faster.

Then I ran.

Crimson Ultima—the name echoed in my mind as I sprinted the thirty or so meters to where his weapon lay half-buried in churned-up earth. Even from here, it looked like it didn't belong in this world. A blade made not to cut flesh, but fate.

I reached it.

Tried to lift it.

Failed.

It was too big. Too heavy. Too much.

But I didn't stop.

If I couldn't lift it, I'd drag it. I shifted the hilt's angle, pushed it forward. When that didn't work, I flipped the blade's direction again, pulled with all I had. Slowly, painfully, the weapon moved—inch by inch.

Behind me, Ragnar had crawled to a nearby tree. A fresh trail of blood marked every spot he touched.

I don't know when he moved.

Or how.

But he was watching me now, face pale, jaw clenched, eyes dim but not empty. Just… tired.

Then the earth trembled again, harder this time. An explosion shook the very air, louder and deeper than any before. The shockwave hit me from behind, pushed me and the sword forward, and knocked dust into my lungs and grit into my eyes.

But I didn't stop.

If anything, it helped.

"…No offence, but, sir…" I began as I finally pulled the hilt close to him, "…how are you still alive?"

And I wasn't being dramatic.

I wasn't being dramatic.

With how much blood he'd lost, the gaping holes, the sheer ruin of his body—he should've died twice over. Maybe three times. And yet… There he was. Sitting upright, spine straight, like a man waiting for a bus instead of death. And then there was that strange, flickering orb nestled inside him—something foreign and bright and pulsing faintly.

He opened his mouth to reply.

But before he could speak, I gently placed the hilt of his blade into his palm.

His fingers closed around it, slow but sure. His eyes fluttered open, just enough to see. Then closed again.

…That was it?

That's what he wanted?
To die with his sword in hand?

Was that all he came here to do?

"…No fucking clue," he murmured after a long silence. "This… it does seem like a cruel joke, yeah?"

I couldn't argue.
It did.
Like Death itself was taunting him.
Or maybe just... watching, amused, as he clung to a few more minutes he shouldn't have.

Then his voice softened—not weak, not fading. Just… calm. Like a thought shared at the edge of a dream.

"Don't worry…" he said. "Death comes for everybody. Even the mighty gods… They aren't spared from the inevitable end."

He paused, then added, with surprising certainty:

"But before I die—and I will, in a short while—let me just ask you this…"

His eyes opened again, focused now, clear, burning with something I hadn't seen until now.

"…Who are you, really? What's your purpose?"

"Who am I? And my purpose?"
I blinked hard, unsure if I'd heard him right. Really? That's what he wanted to know—now? When he was barely clinging to life, more blood than man, about to vanish into memory?

Another explosion rumbled through the forest, distant but thunderous, shaking the ground beneath us. The scream that followed it—deep, guttural, unnatural—sent a sharp chill crawling down my spine. Lady Sia…

But even with that fear rising in my chest, my thoughts were stuck, circling the strange question Ragnar had asked me.

"Come on now," he murmured. "Answer me. I'm a dead man anyway… this might very well be my last ever conversation with another senti— I mean, human…"

His eyes drifted toward the battle in the distance, but he didn't lose focus. Not really.

And I… I didn't know how to respond.

Who am I?

Even I don't know.

I just woke up here. In this damned place they call the Beast Rims. No memories, no understanding of the world, not even a clue about what this whole "mana" thing was that everyone else seemed to breathe like air. The only thing I do know—the only thing—is my name. Lucius. Somehow, that just… came to me. When Sister June asked, it flew off my lips before I even understood why.

Purpose?

I'm a kid. Probably. I don't even know how old I am—but I'm definitely not old enough to have something like a purpose. I mean, yeah, I want to become someone strong, someone who can use magic, probably someone who can protect the ones I will eventually care about… but a true purpose?

How could I possibly know that yet?

So I just spoke. All of it. Broken pieces. Scattered thoughts. Long pauses in between. There was even a moment where I thought Ragnar might've died listening to my rambling. But he didn't.

He was still alive. Barely. But alive.

He nodded once. Then again, slower. A few low hums of breath left him—painful and raspy, but real. He was listening. That meant something, I think.

In the end, I think he got it. That I didn't have some grand reason for being here. I didn't even have a plan for making it through tonight.

"…You're concerned about Lady Sia, aren't you?" he asked suddenly.

I nodded. Too quickly, maybe. Too many times. But yes.

I was concerned. Terrified, actually.

She saved me earlier. And now she was fighting a monster so horrifying I couldn't even bring myself to imagine it fully.

"…That's good," he said, almost like he was smiling with his voice. "Means you're not some ungrateful brat…"

He paused.

Then looked straight at me—really looked.

"The way you talk… the way you carry yourself… and the way you care about strangers, people you just met? That's a sign. A clear indication…"

I leaned in slightly, pulled in by the weight of his words.

"…A clear indication of a good person."

He lifted one trembling arm and placed his hand gently on my head. There was weight in it—not just physical, but something deeper. Reassurance. Farewell.

"You're young. But you've already got the principles. The questions. The instincts. You're too mature for your age… and that's a good thing. That confusion you feel? That's a gift. Keep it. Learn from it. Let it shape you."

I didn't know what to say.

So I didn't.

I just nodded. Quietly. And stared at the dirt between my knees.

"…Now tell me," Ragnar said suddenly, voice sharper now, more grounded. "What would you have done—if you were in my place?"

Before I could answer, the ground trembled again. Another explosion. Louder. Closer. And in it, some awful sound. A scream? A roar? I didn't know. I hadn't seen the Ghost Bear up close. Not yet.

I looked at him.

Then spoke from the one place inside me that still felt certain.

"…I would do whatever it takes to rejoin that battle," I said. "To help Lady Sia."

That was it. The truth. I didn't care about reasons or logic or odds.

I just didn't want her to die.

Ragnar nodded—slowly, this time. His eyes softened. Then, using Crimson Ultima like a crutch, he began to rise. The sword groaned under the weight, not because it was weak, but because the man wielding it was.

He stood.

And looked down at me.

"Stand up, little one," he commanded.

I did.

"I shouldn't be having this conversation with a child. You shouldn't have seen what you saw tonight. And most of all… I shouldn't be asking you what I'm about to ask."

He took a breath. It sounded like it cost him everything.

"I don't know who you are. Your nature. Your origins. Or your intent. But something in me… everything in me… wants to trust you. To believe in you. So that's why—"

He held out his hand.

I placed mine in his without hesitation.

He took my finger, scratched the tip with his own, and drew blood.

It stung—but not badly.

Just enough.

Then, with reverence, he brought Crimson Ultima forward and wiped that single droplet across the gleaming surface of its massive blade.

I didn't understand.

Not really.

But I didn't stop him.

"…With this," he whispered, "the Blood-Pact between you and my weapon is complete."

His voice trembled now. Tired. But sincere.

"Once I die—which I will, in minutes—you will inherit this weapon."

Then he looked into my eyes. Not through me. Into me.

"Tell me, Lucius… for what purpose will you use our weapon?"

I didn't have the kind of answer people like him might expect. Not some heroic speech. Not vengeance or glory.

Just the truth.

"…I'll use your—our weapon… to become a good man," I whispered. "Just like you think I can be."

His hand closed over mine one last time.

And for the first time since I met him, I saw peace—real, quiet peace, in those tired, fading eyes.