Chapter 2

I stepped out of the ashes of the village I once called home, eyes hollow as they stared into the darkened horizon. No more anger. No more pain. Only the silence of a sentence not yet served. The cold wind screamed like voices from the land of the dead, dragging with it the scent of blood, of burnt flesh, of betrayal turned to rot.

I no longer knew how long I had walked. With every step, a memory was ripped from my mind like flesh torn from bone. Memories of my mother, my father, our humble but warm meals — all scorched in the flames of hatred. I could not cry. There were no more tears to shed. Only a soul cursed by darkness to guide my way.

When the rotting forest gave way to desolate plains, I saw it. A towering kingdom, its citadel standing firm in the death throes of the world. Its walls were not built from stone, but from white bones and the wailing souls forced to bind them. The great gates stood not closed, but wide open — as if awaiting the return of the last forsaken.

And I entered.

Inside was a decaying world wearing the mask of glory. Palaces gilded in gold, roads paved with gems, guards in shining silver armor — none could hide the stench beneath. In damp dungeons below, I heard the cries. Not of enemies, but of innocents. Gaunt figures with hollowed eyes, starved, tortured, crushed by broken faith.

I saw a child strung upside down, bones snapped, punished for the crime of being born to an unblessed. A man flayed alive for praying to the wrong god. A woman burned for birthing a son who had not received light from the sacred orb.

Why my heart still beat, I did not know. If this was life, then death was a luxury.

I killed the first guard without hesitation. Not for striking someone, but for existing within the system that forced submission or death. I tore open the gate to the dungeons. Fearful eyes stared at me as if I were a monster. And yes, I was. But I had not come to devour them.

I came to ask one question.

Who did this?

In the crowd, someone trembling pointed to the top of the citadel. There stood the palace of "the chosen" — those born with blessings, the Celestials, draped in divine radiance and privilege.

I said no more.

The darkness in me spread. The dead I once commanded rose again from beneath the stronghold, carrying with them the moans and trumpets of mourning. I gave no order. They knew. They remembered. For this was the prison of all forgotten memories.

I shattered the walls with a glance. With every step, the earth cracked, blood bubbling from the stones as though the kingdom itself wished to die. Nobles — robed in holy cloth — fled their castle like rats from burning burrows. They prayed. They screamed the names of gods. But nothing happened.

No gods came. No angels appeared. Only me.

Ercolash. The cursed. The one who died and returned. The one who swore that justice would not descend from heaven, but rise from the hell I forged.

I did not kill them. I let them witness. One by one, the imprisoned were freed, stepping over the corpses of their captors. To each, I asked:

What do you want?

Some wished for freedom. Some for vengeance. Some only to die in peace.

I gave them what they asked for. Nothing more, nothing less.

Until he appeared.

A man, neither tall nor clad in shining robes. He carried no weapon, wore no silver armor. But he glowed. Not with divine light — but something twisted.

He smiled. Eyes gleaming with the knowledge of all my steps.

"Ercolash. At last, we meet. I am the keeper of this kingdom’s fate. You may call me Miren."

I said nothing. But the darkness within me roared. This one was different. He did not fear. He did not flinch.

He stepped forward. With each stride, the ground itself recoiled, as if afraid to touch him. The wind bent to his path. And all things — all possibilities — seemed to distort.

"I bear the Divine Blessing of Heaven's Fortune," he said, "and the skill Lucky Fate. Do you know what that means?"

I was silent.

He laughed.

"It means that no matter how strong you are, how fast, how wise — I can still defeat you. For fate walks with me."

I did not laugh.

I did not rage.

I merely felt… intrigued.

Because for among all the gifts bestowed by the gods, the most despicable of all... is luck.

Miren tilted his head back, laughing like a man drunk on certainty. The air around him shimmered with the warmth of providence, reality bending with a whisper to accommodate his every whim. He took a single step forward, and a stone that should have snapped his ankle crumbled beneath his boot before contact. A blade of wind meant to cut his cheek turned instead, slicing the sky behind him.

"Fascinating," he said. "Even now, the threads of fate coil around me. Can you feel it, Ercolash? Every breath you take draws you closer to defeat."

Ercolash did not answer. He lunged, a silent specter of rage, his cursed blade aimed straight for Miren’s heart. The blow should have landed, cleaving through bone and divine arrogance. Instead, a sudden gust—too coincidental, too perfect—pushed Miren aside. The strike missed by an inch.

Miren raised an eyebrow.

"So close," he whispered. "So wonderfully close."

Then he struck.

It was not power that guided his hand, nor skill. It was luck. A jagged rock dislodged beneath Ercolash’s heel at the perfect moment, unbalancing him as Miren’s fist connected with his jaw. Ercolash flew back, his spine cracking against the bones of the fortress wall. Pain exploded through his senses, but he was already rising, blood spilling from his lips.

He could not die. The Blessing of Undeath coursed through him like a river of ash. His heart may stop, his bones may shatter, but death would not claim him.

Miren watched as Ercolash stood again, the smile on his lips stretching wider.

"This is it," he said. "The legend I’ve been waiting for. The cursed one. The immortal. Do you know what the world will say, Ercolash, when I stand above your broken body? That I conquered death itself. That I tamed the beast of night."

His eyes gleamed. "They will write my name in the heavens."

Ercolash charged again, this time weaving through the gusts, slicing through probability with sheer, blinding fury. Their blades met. Sparks flew. Miren dodged strikes he should not have seen, parried thrusts he should not have read. Each time, the world tilted in his favor. A broken tile tripped Ercolash’s momentum. A ray of sunlight blinded him for a fraction of a second. A scream from a freed prisoner drew his attention—and Miren’s blade pierced his side.

But Ercolash did not fall.

He roared.

Shadows coiled around him, a surge of necrotic energy burning from within. The wound closed. The blood retreated back into his veins. Miren stepped back, eyes narrowing.

"You really don’t die, do you?"

Ercolash’s voice was ragged, but steady.

"No."

Miren grinned. "Then let’s dance longer. Let the world bear witness."

They clashed again. Steel rang against steel. The courtyard cracked beneath their fury. Lightning split the sky above them, yet never struck the lucky one. Every time Ercolash pressed the attack, fate intervened. A raven's cry startled him. A breeze slowed his blade. Miren moved with impossible grace, as if the universe whispered the future into his ears.

Ercolash began to understand.

This was not a battle of strength.

It was a battle against inevitability.

The gods, cruel and silent, had gifted Miren a loophole. A cheat. No matter how hard Ercolash fought, no matter how perfectly he read his enemy—Miren would always be one step ahead, not because he was better, but because fate itself bent for him.

Ercolash collapsed to one knee. Blood drenched his cloak. His sword trembled in his grip. Yet as Miren raised his blade for the final strike, Ercolash looked up—and smiled.

"You may kill me," he said. "But I will rise. And rise. And rise again."

Miren hesitated.

That smile… it wasn’t of defiance. It was of understanding.

"You cannot win this," Miren said, half-believing his own words.

Ercolash chuckled, low and ragged.

"Perhaps. But every time I rise, your luck frays. Every strike you land, every victory fate hands you—it drains something. Doesn’t it?"

Miren’s hand trembled.

For the first time.

The blade didn’t fall.

Ercolash stood once more, the wind now still, the sky watching.

"I am not fighting to win," he whispered.

"Then what are you fighting for?" Miren asked.

Ercolash’s eyes burned.

"To make you doubt."

And in that doubt, the first thread of luck snapped.

The battle was far from over.

But something—something irreversible—had begun to shift.

Miren took a step back, his eyes still holding that faint, amused smile, as if he were savoring a delightful little game.

"What a pity," he whispered. "You are strong—but fate does not stand with you."

"You cannot win," he said, his voice gentle, as though explaining an undeniable truth.

Ercolash said nothing. His shoulders trembled—not from fear, but from the rage boiling inside him. His fingers clenched the hilt of his blade so tightly that blood seeped from his palm, dripping onto the bone-white ground.

"You mock me," he growled, voice low and ragged.

Miren tilted his head, his expression unchanging. "I do not mock. I merely speak what is written. Fate bends for me. It shields me. And for you… it waits."

The wind stirred. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath.

Ercolash lunged again, fury in every motion. His sword howled through the air, aimed to split destiny itself. But it was too reckless—too clouded by wounded pride. Miren didn’t dodge. He didn’t parry. The world did it for him.

A crack in the ground tripped Ercolash. A glint of sun blinded his eye. A scream from a distant prisoner pulled his focus for a fraction of a second. And in that moment, Miren’s hand found Ercolash’s ribs.

Blow after blow rained down. Precision born not from skill, but from providence. Fist met flesh, foot met bone, and Ercolash staggered beneath the onslaught. Not because Miren was better—but because the world would not let him lose.

"You’re not fighting me," Miren murmured, "You’re fighting everything."

And yet, Ercolash rose again. Torn, bleeding, eyes burning with defiance. He roared—not just in pain, but in something deeper. A howl against the sky itself.

But Miren’s smile faded. Just slightly.

Because in that scream… was understanding.

Ercolash wasn’t chasing victory anymore. He was chasing a crack in fate.

For a fleeting moment, Miren hesitated.

And that moment was enough.

Ercolash's blade found his shoulder, tearing through divine silk and skin. Blood—real, crimson, fallible—splattered across the stones.

Miren's eyes widened. "Impossible—"

But Ercolash had stopped.

The blade hovered near Miren's throat.

Breathing heavily, Ercolash muttered, "I should kill you."

Miren didn’t flinch. "Then why don’t you?"

Because something inside Ercolash stirred. A memory, a voice, a flicker of humanity that had not yet been buried by the curse. He wanted to prove himself not just as a monster—but as one who could choose.

His hand trembled.

And then—
The whisper came.

A voice older than time. Darker than night. Cold as the silence between heartbeats.

"He is fate’s puppet. You are mine."

Ercolash’s eyes glazed over for a heartbeat.

Then his blade moved.

Not of his own will.

Steel sank into Miren’s chest.

His breath caught. Confusion flickered across his face. "You… hesitated..."

"I didn’t..." Ercolash choked out.

But it was too late.

Miren collapsed to his knees, blood seeping from his wound like threads unraveling the tapestry of destiny itself. The glow around him faded. The sky no longer bent. The ground no longer flinched.

Ercolash stepped back, gasping.

The voice returned.

"Well done, my vessel. Now… take what he was."

A surge of unholy energy coursed through Ercolash. The air shuddered. Light twisted. And from Miren’s broken body, a golden wisp rose—divine, delicate, and trembling.

It was his Blessing.

Heaven’s Luck.

[Unique Skill: “Fortune’s Favor” has been acquired.]
[Blessing: “Heaven’s Luck” has been transferred.]

Ercolash screamed as it entered him. His body rejected it—then consumed it. Twisting it. Bending it.

Turning it into something else.

Something fouler.

Where once it had shimmered like sunlight, now it pulsed like infected gold. The skill Lucky Fate was no longer divine.

It was Cursed Fortune.

And it belonged to him.

Ercolash stood amidst the silence, chest heaving, eyes lost.

Not in triumph.

But in horror.

He hadn’t wanted this.

But the voice laughed.

"One by one… you will become everything you hate."

The wind howled again.

And far above, in the broken heavens, a single thread of fate snapped.