Maxwell snapped upright, veteran reflex kicking in. He drew his sword in a single, practiced motion, eyes hard as flint. "How did you get out of your shackles?!" he barked, voice booming down the cell.
The old man only snorted, mocking. "Magic trick," he said with a bitter little smile.
The nerve in Maxwell's forehead throbbed; he hated being made a fool. "Mere insects..." he snarled, raising his blade toward them. "I'll cut you down myself."
"Bind them, men!" he ordered the other guards, voice razor-sharp.
For a beat there was movement then... nothing.
"Bind them, I said!" Maxwell shouted again, panic in his command as he scanned for action. He watched as Muliad, George, and the old man slowly rose and stepped forward, surrounding him.
He spun, looking back over his shoulder then his face drained of color. The scene he faced made him go completely pale.
Someone was standing over the fallen guards.
The clang of metal boots on stone echoed softly in the cell block as Maxwell's eyes adjusted. Every one of his men was on the ground some groaning, others deathly still. The air reeked of iron and Essence discharge. A few bodies had deep, clean piercings through the back, armor split open like paper.
And the figure standing above them wore a guard's armor, the sword in his hand dripping red.
The imposter was smiling.
A slow, deadly smile that didn't belong in the face of a mere prisoner. It wasn't just Maxwell who froze every other conscious man in the corridor took a step back. The sound of breathing filled the silence.
Then the armored figure spoke.
"It's been a while, Maxwell."
The voice was calm. Cold. Ominous enough that even the torches seemed to flicker lower. The deliberate tone made the hair on everyone's neck rise.
"Who are you!?" Maxwell barked, lifting his sword, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. The armored man tilted his head slightly, then reached up and pulled off his helmet. Black hair spilled out.
Maxwell's face twisted from confusion to disbelief, then fear. His mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.
It wasn't Gremlo. It was the boy.
"You-..." he started, his voice shaking. "You're that black-haired brat…"
Harian didn't answer. His grin lingered sharp, almost nostalgic. Because for him, this wasn't just another guard.
Maxwell Thorne.
The first man he ever killed in his past life. The one who had taken the other children from his orphanage and sold them into slavery. The one who laughed as they were dragged away. and now, here he was again. In this lifetime.
Alive.
Maxwell shouted, stepping forward, his voice cracking with fear and rage. "And where is Gremlo?!"
Harian's smile didn't fade. If anything, it widened. "Why don't you look back?" he said softly.
Maxwell blinked, confused but turned.
At first, he didn't understand. The ragged cloth covering the shape in the corner was slowly darkening… the dull gray turning to a deep, bright crimson.
Something wet dripped onto the floor.
His stomach turned as realization crept in. He rushed forward, yanking the cloth away and froze. Gremlo's face stared back at him. Eyes wide open, neck twisted grotesquely sideways. The expression locked in place forever a silent, wordless scream.
Maxwell staggered back, his sword trembling in his grip.
"Y-you cu-..!" Maxwell's voice cracked, his words stumbling out between disbelief and fury. His hand trembled around his sword's hilt, veins bulging in his neck. "You insolent fool! You killed a high-class guard! A man of noble blood!"
He bared his teeth, the sound more animal than human. "How dare you! Do you think you can get away with this?!"
The rage in his voice was sharp, but the fear underneath was sharper. Because Maxwell knew this boy.
Of course he did.
Years ago, he'd led a raid on an orphanage under orders or so he claimed but he'd gone far beyond his orders. He'd sold the children. Every last one. The weak were left behind; the rest were shipped off like cargo, and the coin had lined his pockets.
And one boy had escaped.
A black-haired boy with sharp eyes who'd seen everything.
He'd found him years later, half-starved, trying to steal bread from a merchant caravan. He could've killed him then but Maxwell was cruel and twisted in his own way not merciful. He'd thrown the boy into Thax Prison instead, branded a thief and a criminal, waiting to rot until his execution. Today he came over to see just that to check if the boy had opened his mouth or if he was dead yet.
He'd thought that would be the end of it.
But now.. Here he was.
The same boy. Standing tall. Grinning like the devil. A bloodstained sword in his hand.
Gremlo's corpse lay behind him. The other guards were motionless, some dead, some barely breathing. All because of this one boy.
There was no mistaking it anymore.
Maxwell's fury faltered for just a moment his words trembling on the edge of terror. Maxwell's sword shook in his hand, but his voice came out sharp filled with venom and the desperate authority of a man trying to regain control.
"Who are you, boy?!" he shouted.
But they both knew that was a lie.
He knew exactly who Harian was. The name, the face, the memory all of it burned in his mind. That filthy orphan who escaped his raid. The child who saw what he did, who could expose him if anyone ever believed a word of it.
"You," Maxwell hissed, his voice trembling with rage and shame. "That day... I should've cut you down when I had the chance. I didn't know I was sparing a wolf in sheep's clothing!"
Harian didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Instead, he lifted his sword slowly, raising it infront of his face the blade in the middle and the movement deliberate controlled. Then, he took a stance.
A stance that made everyone freeze.
It wasn't anything anyone in that cell block recognized. His legs were positioned oddly, his arms loose yet balanced, his grip fluid like water awkward to the untrained eye, but impossibly stable.
Graceful. Deadly.
The air itself seemed to bend around him.
Muliad, watching from behind the bars, felt his throat tighten. His eyes darted over Harian's form, searching for a single opening, one flaw in the boy's posture. But there wasn't one. Not a single gap to exploit.
His hand twitched unconsciously, the instincts of an old warrior reacting to the sight of something terrifying.
"This…" he muttered under his breath, sweat dripping down his temple, "…this isn't normal."
He'd fought countless enemies mercenaries, mages, monsters but he had never seen this before.
That presence. That composure. That terrifying, predatory calm.
When he first saw Harian, he was a beaten, skeletal kid barely breathing, eyes hollow, soul broken. Now, standing before a seasoned knight with a sword in hand, he looked like something else entirely.
Maxwell instincts immediately kicked in. His experience in combat showed and he knew this boy was not to be underestimated. So he activated his essence. And called forth the song sword art. This time more gracious and deadly than Gremlo's. After all unlike Gremlo, Maxwell was stationed at the borders were conflicts and survival were hand in hand.
He would not repeat his mistakes again.
He would cut this boy down where he stood.