The moon was a pale, watchful eye in a star-flecked sky. Its cold light made the vast field of snow glow, painting a scene of perfect silence. That silence was broken by the crunch of heavy boots and the gruff sounds of men struggling.
Two soldiers dragged a body through the snow. The first was a mountain of a man, a greatsword strapped to his back. The second, an archer, struggled with his end of the burden—a young man, barely more than a 18. A dark trail of blood stained the pristine white behind them.
"Gods damn this," the archer spat, his breath pluming in the frigid air. "Why are we playing gravedigger? Just leave him for the wolves."
The swordsman didn't bother to look back, his voice a low grumble. "You talk too much."
"Don't give me that. Let's just get this over with. I need a drink that burns." The archer shifted his grip, his face pale. "This place... it feels wrong."
"We're here."
A yawning black mouth of a cave opened before them, exhaling a wave of air so foul it made the archer gag—the metallic tang of old blood and the sweet rot of decay. Without ceremony, they swung the body between them and hurled it into the darkness. It landed with a soft, final thud atop other shapeless, frozen forms.
"Done," the swordsman grunted, turning away. The archer needed no persuasion, both men eager to leave the cursed place behind.
Ryan awoke to pain.
It was a deep, bone-shattering agony that was his entire world. He was lying on something soft yet rigid, a mattress of frozen flesh. The air was thick with the stench of death, and moonlight speared through the cave entrance, illuminating a nightmare: a tomb of ice and corpses.
Where… am I?
Memory returned in a bloody flood. The black dragon, Emperoro. The screams of his village. The sight of his father being cut down, shoving Ryan behind him with his final breath. Then, the soldiers. The capture. The weeks of torture, the sound of his own bones breaking, their laughter. And now, this. A final insult—to be discarded like garbage.
So, this is how it ends. Despair threatened to swallow him whole. No. I don't accept this.
With a scream of pure will, he pushed himself up. Fire lanced through his legs, and he collapsed back into the grisly pile, fresh blood seeping from his wounds. His cry of defiance echoed in the tomb, a raw, broken sound.
As if in answer, a new light bloomed.
It was golden and warm, banishing the shadows and the stench. In its center stood a woman of impossible beauty, with vast, shimmering wings and a crown of light. Her voice was a balm, washing over him. "I am the Angel of Death. Your suffering in this world is over, Ryan, son of Hercules. Your soul is worthy of peace. Take this flower. Come with me to Paradise."
The pain vanished. The broken bones felt whole. A profound sense of relief beckoned him, and his hand twitched, reaching for the luminous flower she offered.
"Ryan."
The voice was a dry rasp, like stone grinding on stone. It did not soothe; it commanded.
Ryan turned his head. A figure stood shrouded in shadows that seemed to drink the light, a crown of black fire flickering above his brow.
"You…" Ryan whispered, recognition dawning through his haze. "The old man from the jail. You were dead."
A slow, knowing smile spread across the old man's face. "Do you truly wish to know why I am not? It is irrelevant. The only question that matters is the one you are about to answer."
The leady of paradise,recoiled, her light dimming against the man's oppressive aura. "You cannot be here! This is a sacred transit. You have no right to interfere!"
The old man ignored her, his burning eyes fixed on Ryan.
"Ryan, listen to me," the angel pleaded, her voice trembling. "Paradise awaits. You will see your mother, your father. You will know an eternity of peace. This… creature… offers only damnation. Do not throw away your grace for his lies."
Ryan looked at her, his heart aching. "My mother… if I see her, how can I tell her I'm sorry? I was too weak to protect her."
"She has already forgiven you. It was her fate."
"And my father?" Ryan's voice grew stronger, edged with a bitterness the angel's light could not cleanse. "He died because of my weakness. He saved me. How can I stand before him and say I did nothing? That I simply… moved on?"
"It was his fate to die a hero," the angel insisted. "Do not tarnish his sacrifice. If you make a pact with this devil, you will break the laws of creation itself. You will forge your own path straight to Hell."
"Fate?"
The word erupted from Ryan's lips, not as a question, but a curse. All the pain, the loss, the injustice of his short life crystallized into a single, burning point of rage.
"I reject this fate!" he roared, the sound echoing with a power that was not his own. "I do not believe in your peace! I will make my own fate! I will break your rules, and I will write my destiny in the blood of those who wronged me!"
The angel stared in horror. "You are mad. You choose Hell over Heaven?"
Ryan turned from her light, his eyes meeting the dark fire of the old man's. "What is your offer?"
"Power," the old man said, the word simple and absolute. "The power to shatter the chains of fate. The power to claim the vengeance that is your right."
He extended a hand, around which shadows coiled like serpents.
Without a moment's hesitation, Ryan reached out and took it.
The cave exploded. Darkness devoured the golden light, the wind howled as if the world itself were screaming, and the very ice of the cave shattered. The angel's form was extinguished, her final cry lost in the vortex.
When Ryan could see again, he was no longer in the cave. He stood in a vast, dark hall, lit only by torches that burned with black fire. The old man sat upon a throne of obsidian.
"The pleasantries are over," the old man said, his voice now the only sound in the immense silence.
Ryan stared, the last echoes of his mortal pain a distant memory, replaced by a humming, unfamiliar energy in his veins. "What are you talking about? 'Soul Hunter'? What is that?"
The old man rose from his throne. "Yes, I suppose the name is a little theatrical. I was always bad at naming things. You can call this power whatever you like when it is yours." He extended his hands. In his right palm rested a stone that glowed with the fierce, bloody light of a dying star. In his left, a stone pulsed with a deep, verdant green, like a forest at midnight.
"Ryan," the old man's voice echoed. "One of these will be your foundation. Your weapon."
Ryan's eyes darted between the two stones. "You don't want to tell me which one is stronger?"
"That is not for me to decide," the old man replied, his voice calm and implacable. "The choice is yours. You define your own strength."
Ryan fell silent, his mind racing. This was it. The decision that would shape his path to vengeance. Red is the color of blood and war. It promises raw power. But green... green is the color of life, of peace. It was my father's favorite color. It was the color of the fields near my village... A flicker of the boy he once was yearned for that lost peace.
"My favorite color is green," Ryan whispered, more to himself than to the old man. "I think... green is good."
His hand, trembling slightly, reached out and closed around the green stone. It was cool to the touch.
"Good," the old man said, a strange, unreadable light in his eyes. "Now, break it."Ryan clenched his fist. The stone shattered with a sound like cracking ice. Immediately, a vaporous green shadow erupted from the fragments, snaking through the air before forcing its way into Ryan's mouth and nose. He gasped, his body seizing as an alien cold flooded his veins. He fell to his knees, convulsing, as the ethereal energy writhed inside him, binding itself to his very soul. His breathing came in weak, ragged pants.
"What... what was that?" he choked out, clutching his chest.
"The power you chose," the old man explained calmly. "Everything comes with a price, Ryan. The price of this power is pain. The green stone you took grants you the power of an 'Ethereal Feeder'."
Ryan's head snapped up, his face a mask of horror and betrayal. "An Ethereal Feeder? Those pathetic parasites that feed on the dying? The weak souls of the sick and the old? What kind of worthless power is this?" Rage, hot and bitter, surged within him. "I am a fool! Old man! What was the red stone?"
"It would have granted you the immediate power of a 'Legendary Soul User'," the old man said, his voice devoid of mockery, simply stating a fact.
"God damn it!" Ryan roared, slamming his fist against the cold floor. The darkness in the hall seemed to swallow his shout. "What the hell is this? This is the worst decision I have ever made!"
"Ryan, do not despair so quickly," the old man chided. "This power has its own path. Think of the Ethereal Feeder not as its weakest form, but as its seed. It starts by consuming fading souls. But the more it consumes, the stronger it becomes. There is no limit. The red stone had a fixed power. The green stone... has potential."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a compelling whisper. "Your power is to devour the souls of your enemies. And when you do, you will consume more than their life force. You will taste their memories, inherit their talents, and absorb their strength into your own. Your life was meant to end in that cave. Now, to sustain it, you must feed on the lives of others. It is the only thing that will keep you alive."
The old man gestured to Ryan's trembling form. "But I have only given you the potential of an Ethereal Feeder. To wield it, you must first face this power and be accepted by it. You must conquer it. If you fail, your soul will be the first it consumes. But if you win... you will not remain a mere Feeder. You will become something far greater. You will become a true 'Soul Eater'."
Ryan pushed himself to his feet, his body still humming with the strange, cold energy. The last traces of doubt burned away in the furnace of his resolve. "I have nothing left to lose. The only thing that remains for me is revenge."
A grim smile finally touched the old man's lips. He pointed a long, skeletal finger towards a massive, rune-carved door that Ryan had not noticed before. It now stood open, revealing only an abyssal blackness.
"Then begin, Ryan. Walk through the door. Your trial awaits. It will not test your strength, but your spirit. It will show you the dreams and memories of the life you lost. You must face them, and you must overcome them. Go, and try your best."
Without a backward glance, Ryan stepped into the darkness. The door sealed behind him with a final, thunderous boom, and his first test began.