Twenty years ago.
The flas roared, glaringly red.
Bulida City on the Blood Cleansing Day was engulfed in a sea of fire.
The celebratory atmosphere of the National Day festival had long been replaced by fury and revolt.
On streets once bustling with activity, only cries, screams, and wails could be heard.
Mobs surged like waves toward aristocratic estates, wielding knives, clubs, and weapons, with hatred burning in their eyes.
Most of the major buildings in the city were attacked; thick smoke blanketed the sky, tongues of fla licked at ancient wooden beams. Occasionally, panicked nobles escaped by carriage, only to be intercepted by the enraged crowd wielding heavy weapons. Won adorned with gold and jewels were dragged from the carriages; their jewelry and accessories snatched away. Soon, they lay lifeless on the ground, faces stained in blood.
The current Twelve War Gods were plunged into discord; those who were supposed to receive the blessings of the God of War and Sword today joined the battlefield, fighting against each other—so defending the Royal Family, so aiding civilians, others helping aristocrats suppress the rebellion.
In the skies above the city's defense barriers, the flashes of imperial machinery and the Magic Energy Particle Cannon crossed paths. The cries of the Imperial Army were unending, and civilians inevitably beca collateral damage. Though the city's defense barriers tried to shield them, the overload rendered them ineffective.
Whenever a noble estate was unlucky enough to be breached, flas erupted, and crimson rooftops collapsed with a thunderous roar.
The entire Bulida City descended into a frenzy of self-destruction.
The grand heart of the Cerryti Empire turned into a desolate wasteland within just one day. The prosperity of the past was nothing more than a fleeting dream, leaving only blood and fire in this purgatory.
No one could give an answer to why the resistance was endless, or when it had begun to haunt them.
Not far from City Hall, in a mansion befitting the family's status and power.
Deep red tapestries hung on the walls, their intricate embroidery showcasing the family's and the Cerryti Empire's history and glory.
"..."
At nine years old, he propped himself up with his elbow, crawling out from a gap in the bedroom floor.
The urine-soaked pants clung uncomfortably to his skin, but it was tolerable.
More painful were his stiff, aching joints, and the effort required to avoid making noise on the floorboards.
Luckily, those n had searched everywhere but failed to find him; yet being overly cautious wouldn't hurt.
He recalled the knowledge he had learned as a child: every living creature feels hunger without food. Strangely, despite nearly an entire day without eating, he felt no hunger.
Perhaps it was so sort of self-preservation chanism to prevent vomiting at the scent of his roasted family mbers.
Though it was late November, his throat felt as dry as if he had been yelling under the scorching sumr sun, and his head throbbed painfully while a constant ringing invaded his ears.
He assessed the room's condition, crawling along the floor. He removed his aristocratic outer garnts, doing his best to appear ssy and dirty so his dust-covered scruffy appearance resembled that of a commoner—or, rather, a refugee.
He cautiously avoided any noise within his ho, striving to sneak unnoticed into the backyard and escape from the mansion that was now nearly emptied.
Regardless of where he went, the mansion that had brought him happiness and security since birth had been thoroughly transford beyond recognition.
Everything even slightly valuable had been plundered.
Even the flower vases and the flowers inside hadn't been spared.
The cages had been opened too, leaving only broken canary feathers and a bloody severed wing.
Finding a shattered vase, he shoved his head into its base like a desperate dog, gulping down the murky water to soothe his parched throat, uncaring of its cleanliness.
He finally felt alive again.
Without even wiping his mouth, he scanned the room.
The cupboards were smashed and thoroughly raided; even the maids' dresses had been dragged out, scattered across the floor, marred with footprints.
Perhaps they were too filthy for anyone to bother taking.
He braced himself on the crumbling floorboards, slowly rising from his prone position, listening for movent outside.
From the corner of his eye, the hallway was chaotic—a ss of mud, blood stains, and sticky residue.
"..."
Determining it was safe, he cautiously took his first steps.
But as he approached the outside, his foot landed on sothing soft.
Lowering his gaze, curiosity gripped him, compelling him to pick it up despite the danger of the unnecessary action.
It was his sister's ribbon.
He recognized it.
It was the hair accessory his sister used most frequently.
Though it wasn't particularly ornate, she loved it dearly because it had been a birthday gift from him.
As he grasped the ribbon, its acrid odor made his hands tremble.
After a brief struggle, he threw the ribbon away as if shocked, then looked forward once more.
Peeking cautiously through a crack in the hallway window, he checked the backyard to ensure those n had temporarily left the area. He held his breath, deftly climbing over a window more than a ter high.
The sky was a filthy red.
It was impossible to tell whether it was morning or dusk.
Shadows stretched long; he used the training his family knight had given him to press himself against the wall and conceal his shadow.
Even as a five or six-year-old, he was considered exceptionally talented—he had beaten the knight training him within a short span of ti.
If not for that talent, he likely wouldn't have had the chance to conceal himself and seize an opportunity to escape today.
He moved slowly along the wall, glancing toward the neighboring courtyard.
Just as he expected.
The neighboring mansion was also engulfed in fire and veiled in black smoke.
He instinctively dared not lift his head.
Because lifting his head would an seeing the twisted forms atop his family mansion—
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