Matthew's heart pounded in his chest. The name Black Tower sent a strange chill through him, and his mouth went dry. He had heard whispers in the village, hushed voices speaking of a shadowy group that was always far away but always dangerous. He knew they were no ordinary bandits or criminals. No, these people were worse—they were Arts Users, the kind of people who didn't just fight—they destroyed everything they touched.
But what really stood out in his mind was the name of their leader: The Dark Crow. Matthew didn't know much about him, except that he was the strongest Arts User in the world. The thought of someone being so powerful that they were the strongest sent a cold shiver through Matthew. He could barely understand what that level of strength even meant, but it felt wrong—like something that shouldn't exist.
The stories told that when the Black Tower attacked a village, there was no escape. No one was left alive. They didn't just kill—they took the bodies. Matthew had tried not to think too hard about that part. His mind was too young to picture what they might want with all those corpses. The idea made his stomach twist, but he couldn't help thinking about it as the shadows moved outside.
His mother, standing protectively in front of him, was all he could focus on now. He could feel the tension in the air, the way everything seemed to freeze. But there was a bigger part of him that couldn't shake the thought: Could they be here for him? Could this be the moment when everything he had dreamed of—becoming someone like the Red Sage, someone with power—came crashing down? Could it be that power had found him first, but not in the way he wanted?
The Black Tower. They were here. And something deep inside told him that this wasn't just a raid. This wasn't just an attack on some village.
This was the beginning of something much darker.
Matthew's breath hitched as his mother's hand subtly reached for the weapon hidden beneath her clothes. He didn't need to ask why. The answer was in the air around them.
The Black Tower was here.
...
Ron's fists clenched at his sides, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His gaze never left the chaos unfolding outside the window. The village he had come to call home for the past eight years was being torn apart.
Figures cloaked in black danced through the flames, their hands crackling with power as fire erupted from their fingers, consuming everything in its path. Lightning arced through the air, striking the ground with precision, while tornadoes of water spun violently, sweeping away buildings, people, everything. Spears of air shot through the night, impaling anyone caught in their wake.
The scenes playing out before him were nothing short of a nightmare. Neighbors he had spent years living alongside, men and women, children, even the elderly—none were spared. He saw an old man he had shared a drink with just last week fall to the ground, his body struck by a bolt of lightning. A mother screamed as her child was carried away by the water, the little one disappearing into the vortex, helpless.
The Black Tower…
His stomach twisted as he recognized the unmistakable mark of Arts Users—their movement, the way they wielded their power. He had seen it before, even in his time as the chief of guards for a low-tier noble. He knew their deadly efficiency. Knew that when the Black Tower set its sights on a place, it was doomed.
But it wasn't just that they were destroying everything in their path. What really stung, what really twisted Ron's gut, was the lack of resistance. There should have been guards. The village had a small but capable force—men who could at least slow down the attackers, force them to fight for every inch. But there was nothing. No soldiers in sight.
Ron's pulse quickened. He had been a protector before, had seen to the safety of many during his time with the noble house. He had always known that his strength, his skills, could offer protection to the people of the village. He wasn't naïve—he knew he was strong enough to take on more than the average villager, and he had often stepped in to guard, to defend when things got tough. He had trained with soldiers, led men before. But that didn't matter now. What mattered was that none of the guards were there to fight back.
Where were they?
He glanced quickly around the village, scanning for any sign of resistance. But the streets remained eerily silent, empty of the men who should've been defending this place.
Had they already been taken down?
The thought gnawed at him, but it didn't sit right. There were enough guards to put up a fight, enough to make the Black Tower bleed. If they were anywhere, they should be at least trying to push back.
Had they been bribed? Bought off? He remembered the whispers he had overheard during his time as chief of guards—the rumors about how the Black Tower had its fingers in every corner of the kingdom, how they could manipulate even the most trusted men. But this? Selling out the very people they were supposed to protect? It made his blood boil.
But it made sense. If the Black Tower had so much sway, if they had infiltrated the village guard, they might have arranged for them to be nowhere to be found.
His eyes narrowed as he turned back to the window. The fires raged outside, casting an eerie glow over the village. His heart hammered in his chest. His mind screamed for him to act, to fight, to do something, anything to save his family, his neighbors, to stop this madness.
But as his instincts screamed for him to rush into the streets and confront the attackers head-on, another part of him knew it was futile. He had no chance against the Black Tower, not on his own. And yet, he couldn't just watch as the village was erased from existence. He couldn't stand by as everything he had built here—his life, his home—was turned to ash.
I have to try.
Ron's heart hammered in his chest as he watched the destruction outside. His instincts screamed at him to act—to fight, to protect. But deep down, he knew it was futile. He had trained to fight, once led a group of guards, but even with all his strength and skill, against so many Arts Users, he couldn't do much. The village was being swallowed by a force he had no hope of defeating.
His thoughts shifted to Jena and Matthew. His family. They were still here, still safe, but for how much longer? The fires outside were spreading, and the sound of screaming echoed in the night. The Black Tower had come for them, and Ronia Village—his home for the last eight years—was doomed.
He glanced at Jena, who stood protectively in front of Matthew, her stance as solid and determined as ever. Her past as an adventurer was clear in her readiness. She wasn't panicking, but the flicker of worry in her eyes mirrored his own.
"We need to go," Ron muttered, his voice tight.
Jena nodded, her expression set. She'd seen enough of the world's horrors to know when they were outmatched. "Where?"
"The stables." Ron's eyes scanned the horizon once more. "We need horses. We can't stay here. We'll head for the hills, the forest. Anywhere far from here."
Matthew, oblivious to the true weight of the situation, looked up at him with wide eyes. "But... what about the village? Aren't we going to help them?"
Ron's chest tightened. He knelt in front of his son, meeting his gaze. "There's nothing we can do for them, Matthew. The Black Tower's here. They'll kill everyone. We're getting out while we can."
Matthew's face fell, but he didn't argue. He was smart, he understood enough to know that this wasn't the kind of fight they could win. Ron stood and placed a hand on Jena's shoulder.
"We leave now," he said, his voice firm, almost desperate. He knew they didn't have much time. Every second wasted could be the difference between life and death.
He moved toward the door, heart pounding. He could still feel the pull to fight, to do something. But the reality was clear. Even if he ran into the streets now, with every ounce of strength he had, he wouldn't make a difference. He had fought battles before—ones that were hard, where he stood his ground and did his duty. But this… this wasn't a battle. This was an annihilation. The Black Tower was too powerful.
As he crossed the threshold of the door, the full weight of what was happening pressed down on him. Ronia Village, his new home, would be no more. All the friends, the families, the people he had come to care for—gone. And all he could do was run and protect the only people that still mattered: Jena and Matthew.
"Let's go," he said, voice gruff with the weight of what was ahead.
The family moved quickly, silently. The sounds of destruction still echoed from all around them, but there was no turning back now. Ron knew he was doing what he had to, but the bitter taste of helplessness lingered in his throat. The village was already lost. He could only hope that whatever was left of the world beyond would offer his family a chance at survival.
Ron moved ahead, his boots heavy on the ground, his heart still pounding in his chest. Jena followed closely behind, one hand firmly holding Matthew's, the other reaching for the small dagger at her side. Matthew's heart was racing, thudding so loudly in his ears that he felt like it might burst.
He had never seen so much death. So much blood. The images flashed in his mind—the flames, the screaming, the bodies falling—and his stomach churned. He didn't understand why it was happening. Why had these people come to kill everyone? His tiny hands trembled, and he squeezed Jena's hand tighter, trying to hold on to something familiar in the chaos.
Jena's own breath was shallow, her eyes darting to the shadows around them, every movement seeming to hold a threat. She had been an adventurer, yes, and she'd fought against monsters, bandits, and beasts before, but this… This was something different. She had faced one or five monsters at most, but this was no simple skirmish. No, this was a whole troupe of strong people. Even the weakest one here would give her trouble in a fight. And there were so many.
How many? Twenty? Thirty? At least, she thought. The thought made her stomach tighten in fear. Her muscles tensed, and for a moment, her instincts told her to run, to leave everything behind—but she couldn't. Not with Matthew here. Not with Ron here. She would fight if she had to, but she was terrified.
Ron held his white long sword tightly, his eyes scanning the darkness ahead, each footfall deliberate and silent. The night air was thick with tension, the crackling of fire and distant screams echoing in his ears. He led the family forward, moving with purpose, but every step was heavy, the weight of their impending doom pressing down on him.
Suddenly, a gust of wind cut through the air, and before Ron could react, the shriek of a blade slicing through the air rang out. His instincts flared, and in an instant, he threw himself forward, knocking Jena and Matthew to the ground just as the air slash tore through the space where they had been standing.
The force of the attack was immense—the wall of the house behind them exploded into a shower of wood and stone, debris scattering in every direction. The shockwave sent a violent tremor through the ground, but Ron's focus never wavered. He rolled into a crouch, landing softly and springing to his feet in one fluid motion. His sword was already raised, pointing directly at the cloaked figure that had appeared from the shadows.
Matthew's breath caught in his throat, his small body trembling with fear. He could barely comprehend the carnage unfolding before him—he'd never seen anything like it. His world, until now, had been one of stories and dreams. Now, it was splintering into something too real, too terrifying.
Jena, heart hammering, clutched her dagger, her muscles taut with uncertainty.
There was no escaping this.
They were trapped.
Ron took a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He could feel the cold air biting at his skin, the thudding of his heart reverberating in his chest. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the edge gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He didn't move, not even a fraction, keeping his gaze fixed on the cloaked figure in front of him. The silence between them hung heavy, tense, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
He could feel Jena's presence behind him, the quiet tension in her own movements, but he didn't dare break his focus. This was it. The figure in front of him wasn't just any enemy. This was an Arts User, one of the Black Tower. The kind of enemy that didn't relent, that didn't hesitate. And neither could he.
With a quiet but urgent voice, he spoke to Jena, his words almost lost in the chaos around them. "Jena, take Matthew with you and run. I'll take care of him."
His eyes never wavered from the cloaked figure as he spoke. He couldn't afford to look away. This wasn't just a fight for survival—it was the last chance he had to protect his family.
Jena's breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. She wanted to argue, to tell him to come with them, to run together. But there was no time. She could see the resolve in Ron's eyes, the same determination that had once made him the chief of guards. He was prepared to sacrifice himself to buy them time.
Matthew trembled beside her, his wide eyes locked on his father, his young mind unable to fully grasp the gravity of the moment. But he could feel the danger in the air, the looming threat that pressed down on them like a suffocating weight. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears.
Jena's grip on her dagger tightened, but her fingers felt cold, numb. What could she do? Against one of them—just one of them—she could barely stand a chance. And now Ron was facing... how many of them? Twenty? Thirty? It didn't matter. They were outmatched, outnumbered.
She took a step back, instinct pushing her to move, to protect Matthew. "Come on, Matthew," she whispered, voice shaking but firm. She pulled him toward her, guiding him toward the alley. "We have to go."
But Matthew hesitated, his eyes still fixed on his father, the fear paralyzing him. "Dad...?"
Ron's voice was low, steady, but there was an urgency to it now. "Go, Jena. Go now!"
The sound of the cloaked figure's footsteps broke the silence, a deliberate, measured pace that echoed through the night. The figure's head tilted slightly, as if studying Ron, the faint rustling of the cloak whispering like the wind.
Ron's sword shifted in his hands, ready for whatever came next. Every muscle in his body screamed for action. He could hear the whisper of air, the slight shift in the atmosphere that told him the attack was coming. He braced himself, but just before he could react, a blur of motion exploded from the cloaked figure—a sharp, slicing arc of wind.
He moved.
With a swift leap, Ron soared into the air, narrowly avoiding the deadly slash. It passed through the air where he had been standing, cutting into the wooden walls of the house, splintering the thick beams with unnatural ease. The force of the blow sent dust and debris flying, obscuring the view for a moment, but Ron landed smoothly, his sword held out in front of him, his eyes locked on his opponent.
Jena pushed Matthew down behind the corner of the house, her breath ragged, her mind racing. "Stay down, Matthew. Stay hidden."
Her hand went to her dagger again, but for a fleeting moment, doubt washed over her. What was she supposed to do? There was no way she could fight this. She could run—yes, she could run—but Ron...
"Jena," Ron's voice was a sharp command, breaking through her thoughts. "Go. Now."
She didn't want to leave him. She couldn't leave him.
But the snap of a branch underfoot in the distance reminded her of the reality they faced. Jena pulled Matthew up, pushing him toward the dark alley, toward the stables where the horses waited. She could feel her legs shake, but she ran, her heart torn in two as she glanced back at Ron, at the figure in front of him.
The figure raised its hand, dark energy swirling around its fingers.
Ron braced himself, watching the figure with cold determination, his grip tight around the hilt of his sword. This was his fight, and he would not let it be the last.
Jena turned back one last time as she reached the alley, her heart a chaotic storm of emotions. The weight of the decision was too much, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.
"Ron... I love you."
For a fleeting moment, time seemed to still. Ron's gaze softened, and his lips curled into a slight smile, the kind that always made her feel safe, grounded—like everything in the world was okay as long as they had each other.
"I love you too," he replied, his voice steady despite the storm raging around them. His words carried more weight than any battle cry, and for a brief moment, Jena felt something warm in her chest. Confidence.
With that smile, he had reminded her of everything they had fought for, everything they were. No matter what came next, he would face it with the same unyielding strength that had always defined him. He would protect them.
But as she turned away from him and pulled Matthew down the alley, her heart felt as though it were being ripped from her chest. Each step she took felt heavier than the last. The sound of the wind—the distant crash of destruction—echoed in her ears. The streets of Ronia Village were burning, the very place that had become their home.
And now, it was slipping away from her.
Her mind screamed at her to run faster, to keep moving, but her body was paralyzed by the thoughts of Ron standing there, alone. She wanted to shout for him to run too, to join them, but she knew it was too late for that. There was no turning back now. The reality of the situation slammed into her, raw and terrifying.
This might be the last time she ever saw him alive.
She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She couldn't afford to think like that—not while Matthew needed her. Her son—her precious, brave boy—was still shaking beside her, his face pale with fear.
"Come on, Matthew," she urged, her voice rough, but as comforting as she could make it. She took his hand, holding it tightly as they moved through the darkened village streets, avoiding the chaos, moving toward the stables. She had to get him out of here.
But even as she urged him on, her thoughts were consumed by Ron. His face, the way he had smiled at her, even in the face of certain death. How long would that smile last? Would he hold on long enough for them to escape?
She had always known Ron was strong, but this... this was different. These were no wild beasts or bandits. These were Arts Users. And no matter how much Ron had trained, how much he had fought for them, he couldn't take on a force like this alone.
But she would not let herself break down. She couldn't. Not now. Not while Matthew still needed her.
Jena's heart cracked with each step, but she didn't let it show. She couldn't let Matthew see her fear. Not when his world was crumbling around him, not when she had promised to protect him.
She focused on the sound of her footsteps, the path ahead. There was a way out. There had to be. She had to keep moving forward, keep running for Ron, for Matthew, for everything they had built together.
And so, she ran, even though it felt like the world was falling apart behind her. Even though part of her heart stayed with Ron, still fighting, still holding on, even in the face of darkness.
—End of Chapter.