Evening sunlight stretched long across the ruins.

  Beyond the collapsed walls, the aftertaste of mana still drifted through the air.

  Five adventurers crossed the area cautiously.

  At the front, a swordswoman raised a hand, stopping them all.

  “···There’s a presence. It’s alive—no doubt.”

  At once, the party tensed and drew their weapons.

  From the direction of the southern ruined plaza came the faint scrape of metal.

  “There.”

  “Something’s moving.”

  One of them climbed onto a broken rooftop and took out a mana-seeing stone.

  Inside the orb, steeped in blue mana, the shape came into view.

  White full-body armor.

  A silhouette standing motionless at the center of the plaza.

  “···What is that. A knight?”

  “No. It feels different. If it’s a monster, this’ll be a pain.”

  Then—

  On the far side of the ruins, another presence stirred in the shadows.

  Figures in black robes stepped out.

  Their eyes were empty, and in their hands they carried scrolls and spell orbs.

  “Damn—cultists.”

  “Black Sun… so the rumors were true. They really are active around here.”

  The cult spread out as if to encircle Orta,

  and the adventurers sharpened their gazes.

  “That armor… don’t tell me it’s the ‘murder armor’ people talk about.”

  “Probably. We have to put it down for good.”

  Before the words were even finished,

  a magic circle rose on the cult’s side.

  Both sides moved at the same time—hands going to weapons.

  The first strike came from the cult.

  Mana detonated hard enough to fling back their robes,

  and red lightning poured toward the adventurers’ formation.

  “Scatter!”

  At the swordswoman’s shout,

  the party broke apart instantly.

  A shockwave burst where the magic circle landed.

  Dust exploded, and fragments of rubble kicked up in every direction.

  Two warriors drove forward in a rush,

  while the archer in the rear loosed enchanted arrows one after another.

  “Light interference—dispel the scrying block!”

  The vision-distortion barrier the cult had raised trembled.

  Light tore apart, and the structure inside was exposed.

  The swordswoman didn’t miss the opening.

  She swung—cleanly cutting down one priest.

  Blood sprayed.

  And the cultists shouted in unison.

  “Protect Orta!”

  “Activate the magi-array!”

  In an instant, layered defensive circles bloomed around Orta.

  But the adventurers didn’t retreat.

  “Whatever’s inside that armor…

  it’s definitely dangerous.”

  One of them drew a dagger,

  loaded it with magic, and threw.

  *BOOM!*

  A section of the barrier ripped apart,

  and the white armor standing within was revealed.

  But the white armor didn’t move.

  It stared into empty space,

  not taking a single step.

  “Left! Watch the left!”

  “Move!”

  In the ongoing exchange, the adventurers began to take injuries, too.

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  The swordsman lost his right arm.

  The mage was caught in flame, his entire body scorched.

  “···Damn it.”

  The remaining two clenched their teeth

  and charged toward the cult’s core priest.

  Steel, spells, and arrows overlapped—

  a brutal close-quarters brawl.

  As time passed, the cult’s numbers also

  fell one by one.

  The stench of blood. The vibration of mana.

  Across the rubble-strewn ruins,

  a cold, heavy silence descended.

  And then—

  Only a single presence remained standing there.

  At that moment, the control magitech device fixed to the back of Orta’s neck

  began to react on its own.

  A mechanical hum.

  Crimson mana trembled faintly,

  and the control sigils started to glow, slowly.

  Soon, into Orta’s consciousness,

  a command flowed in.

  Eliminate life signs.

  Recover mana.

  Clear the battlefield.

  Orta’s head tilted slightly.

  The artificial voice produced by the device

  repeated inside his skull.

  He tried to resist—

  but it was too late.

  The armor vibrated low as it drew up mana.

  Blue light flickered from the sigils along his back, and he··· moved.

  The first target was a cult priest collapsed nearby.

  He couldn’t move—already crippled by his wounds.

  The fatal problem was that

  the identification magitech used to mark allies had been destroyed.

  Shattered in the chaos of battle.

  Now the Black Sun’s priest—its leader—was no longer recognized as “friendly” to Orta.

  And so,

  Orta judged him an obstruction.

  He lifted his arm without hesitation.

  A single flash pierced the priest through.

  “···O-Orta··· stop!”

  A blood-smeared face reached out—

  but the scream only circled the air,

  never arriving anywhere that mattered.

  Next—

  the adventurers.

  The wounded archer managed to catch his breath and lift his head.

  “You… what the hell are you…!”

  There was no answer.

  Orta’s fingertips pointed at him.

  Mana surged, and in an instant the archer’s chest split open.

  The plaza turned redder.

  Orta erased every moving target, one by one.

  Cultist and adventurer alike.

  Enemy and ally alike.

  The broken control device

  could no longer distinguish friend from foe.

  Now he was

  a machine of slaughter, guided only by orders.

  “···I want to stop.”

  A small, trembling child’s voice

  leaking from inside the helm.

  But there was no one left

  to understand it.

  The battlefield

  soon fell silent.

  Mana residue remained.

  Streets stained with blood.

  And there, only Orta stood.

  He lowered his gaze—quietly, slowly—

  to his own arm.

  A gauntlet soaked in blood.

  Flesh hardened and stuck.

  His breath shook.

  ◇

  In the burning ash,

  he began to walk out of the ruins, step by step.

  No one remained.

  Broken weapons.

  The traces of shattered magic circles.

  Dark-red stains smeared across the road.

  Orta looked down at the ruined magitech device.

  The restraint at the back of his neck was cracked on one side,

  and the control sigils blinked irregularly.

  He raised a hand

  and looked at his armor.

  A white glove with blood dried into it.

  Blackened veins, hardened and stuck.

  Quietly.

  Slowly, he moved.

  *Clunk.*

  The helm hit the ground first.

  Then the shoulder plates, the arms, the breastplate, the leg guards—

  heavy metal pieces came off one after another,

  peeling away with harsh clanks.

  As if he were stripping himself down.

  And what was revealed beneath—

  was a body too small, too fragile to belong here.

  Unfocused gray eyes.

  Hair that flashed silver when it caught the light.

  On dried lips,

  something that couldn’t be spoken sat in silence.

  And around his neck,

  a control device was still embedded.

  On pale skin,

  blue-etched remnants of commands.

  It had stopped working—

  but it still proved this wasn’t freedom.

  Orta walked on, quietly, through the ruins.

  He didn’t know where he was going.

  He didn’t know why he was walking.

  Days passed.

  Abandoned villages.

  Collapsed fields.

  Land where only death remained.

  He wandered.

  And then, one day,

  beneath a small ridge,

  he reached a quiet village.

  The houses were empty,

  only doors swinging in the wind.

  That was when—

  On the hill,

  a girl sitting on a rock

  was watching him.

  Short brown hair fluttering lightly in the breeze.

  With a calm expression,

  she rose—slowly.

  “Huh?”

  She tilted her head, then hugged her bag close and stood carefully.

  When sunlight touched her hair,

  the brown bob glittered like gold.

  Before he could even approach,

  the girl waved first.

  “Hi! What village are you from?”

  Orta didn’t answer.

  He only looked at her in silence.

  It was strange.

  Until now, everyone who saw him

  ran,

  screamed,

  or collapsed.

  But this girl—

  didn’t run.

  When she came closer, she smiled and said,

  “I’m Luar. Do you have a name?”

  A brief silence.

  Then Orta slowly nodded.

  “···Orta.”

  As if she’d heard something amazing,

  the girl nodded hard.

  “Orta? That name… it’s cool!”

  For the first time,

  a question formed inside him.

  Why…

  can this child smile even while looking at me?

  From that day on,

  they spent time together.

  Only three short days—

  but for Orta, everything was unfamiliar, and strange.

  —

  First day.

  Luar took Orta by the hand

  and led him to a nearby river.

  She showed him the scene of small animals playing by clear water and said,

  “That’s a water rabbit. It’s skittish, but it’s cute.”

  The girl laughed,

  and for the first time, Orta learned the idea of a life you *watch*.

  Not something to catch or erase—

  just a living thing that exists.

  Second day.

  They lay in the grass in the middle of a field

  and looked up at the sky together.

  Luar said,

  “Clouds are always moving, right?

  They say they’re like people’s hearts.

  Light, flowing··· and sometimes they cry.”

  Orta didn’t speak,

  but he carved the words into himself.

  So this is what it means

  to look at the sky—quiet and at ease.

  Third day.

  On a hill near the ruins,

  they found a single small flower.

  Luar gently picked it

  and tucked it into Orta’s hair.

  At Orta’s flustered look,

  she said brightly,

  “Orta, we’re friends!”

  That sentence—

  after she’d given him a name—

  was the second warm thing he’d ever received.

  He didn’t know.

  How precious that time was.

  And how short that peace would be.

  ◇

  Three days later, in the afternoon.

  Under a cloudy sky,

  from beyond the forest,

  a strange presence arrived.

  Orta was sitting with Luar by a pond

  when he quietly turned his head.

  The wind changed direction.

  Beyond the marsh,

  figures in black robes

  were approaching with expressionless faces.

  The sigils at the back of Orta’s neck reacted.

  As Orta slowly rose,

  footsteps came closer behind him.

  Luar turned her head.

  “Uh… who are they?

  Do you know them?”

  A voice that knew nothing.

  But Orta’s eyes

  shook slightly.

  He muttered low.

  “···Run.”

  But Luar only tilted her head.

  Orta tried to move—

  but it was too late.

  The sigils at the back of his neck flared hard.

  The restraint activated,

  and a forced command slammed into his brain.

  Blue mana spilled from Orta’s fingertips.

  He tried to resist.

  But his body didn’t stop.

  The system controlling him

  was already executing the order.

  Luar asked softly, as if something felt wrong.

  “···Orta?”

  The girl

  was someone who should have been away from him.

  But instead,

  she stepped closer and stood in front of him.

  Smiling, she said,

  “What’s wrong? Orta… it’s nothing, right?”

  For a moment,

  it felt like time had stopped.

  But the command didn’t.

  Orta’s hand

  rose—very slowly.

  The air wavered,

  and an invisible force

  reached toward her.

  With no wind at all,

  the hem of her skirt fluttered lightly.

  As if the most careful touch in the world

  were lifting her up.

  But it wasn’t warmth.

  *Snap.*

  A sound of something breaking.

  Luar’s body trembled lightly in midair,

  then slowly··· limply,

  settled to the ground.

  Orta stared blankly

  at the blood on his hand.

  Then, the memories of those three days

  flashed past.

  The first time he’d heard his name.

  The first greeting.

  The times they laughed together.

  The sky they’d looked at side by side.

  And her words.

  “Orta, we’re friends!”

  “···It was my first time.

  Someone calling my name

  warmly.”

  From somewhere deep in his chest,

  something he’d never felt before

  lifted its head.

  He didn’t know what to call it.

  But one thing—

  he knew it was pain.

  Silence fell.

  Remnants, instructions—

  none of it meant anything right now.

  Orta stood there,

  not moving.

  A faint trace of mana

  still clung to his fingertips,

  and in front of him,

  Luar lay—already gone.

  An order he might have avoided.

  A reaction he might have stopped.

  But he didn’t.

  “···I…”

  A feeling for the first time.

  A moment for the first time.

  The warm time

  was scattering quietly.

  The instant he heard his name.

  The hand that put a flower in his hair.

  The smile that said it was okay.

  All of it—

  collapsed by his own hand.

  “···It was my first time.”

  Those words weren’t a sigh

  aimed at anyone.

  Just toward himself—

  as if he were asking.

  “Why…

  do I have to be like this···”

  On top of ruins and death,

  Orta stood.

  Made into a tool of destruction—

  for the first time,

  he denied that existence.

  It wasn’t rebellion.

  It was awareness.

  At some point,

  he was no longer feeling “someone else’s will,”

  but his own emotions.

  “···I don’t want to do this again. Never.”