“Kria’vyne—”
“500 years,” the slippery voice said. “You have 500 years to take that soul’s willpower for yourself, Your Majesty. If you cannot do that within 500 years, the Alliance will take the soul from you. The soul is a perfect war potential, and we cannot let it go to waste for any longer.”
The slippery voice left, laughing.
That day, the woman did something she never did before.
She asked for help.
“Call the Seven Sovereigns of Emotions. With their help, it should not take long to break this man’s will.”
She sounded ashamed of herself for turning to other people for help.
But she would rather ask for help than let go of the man – of the treasure withholding seemingly infinite willpower.
With that much willpower, she believed she could become the existence she had sought to be for her whole life.
“With this man’s willpower, and my own Willpower element, I refuse to believe I cannot ascend into a Heavenbreaker. Then, I would not need to trouble myself with a territorial war like this and with the Alliance, and I will be able to finally step into the bigger stage.”
Seven figures with figures that defied logic came to meet the man.
The Sovereign of Rage wore no skin—only flame.
His body burned with red and orange fury, and his muscles seemed to be made from pure molten wrath.
The Sovereign of Sorrow was a floating wraith in veils of endless gray.
His eyes shed starlight tears that never touched the ground. Wherever he moved, the air grew heavier, colder.
The Sovereign of Joy was grotesquely twisted into a smile too wide, with hundreds of jeweled teeth and hands that clapped endlessly, producing no sound.
His robe was a carnival of colors, and painful to the eyes.
The Sovereign of Fear was cloaked in shadows. His face was masked, and his body constantly shifted shapes.
Tentacles, claws, limbs of unknown origin emerged and vanished in a pulse of dread.
Just standing near him caused the room’s light to dim.
The Sovereign of Desire shimmered with allure.
His skin was of flowing gold, and eyes of violet flame. His body was impossible to define, shifting gender and shape like a hallucination.
Even the chains on the Nameless Death strained slightly toward the Sovereign of Desire.
The Sovereign of Disgust walked hunched, draped in rot and slime.
And the last, the Sovereign of Serenity, was still.
Utterly still.
She was a tall, robed figure in pale blue, eyes closed.
She radiated calm so absolute it was terrifying. A single step from her silenced the squabbling emotions of the others.
The seven Sovereigns of Emotions bowed in unison.
Their voices rose together, layered and distinct, but bound by unity.
“What is your will, Your Majesty?”
The woman stood tall before them. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, betraying her inner turmoil.
“We need to break his will,” she said. “This man—who calls himself Nameless Death—refuses to yield. I’ve seen souls crack for far less. He has no name, no identity, yet his will resists even me.”
She looked at them without blinking.
“If you succeed, I will grant each of you one wish. Whatever you desire, if it is within my reach, it will be granted.”
The Sovereigns exchanged no words, but something shifted between them, and a silent agreement was formed.
They moved.
Chains, unseen by normal eyes, wrapped around Nameless Death.
Symbols etched with primal emotion lit up along their lengths. A dark mist bled out from the Sovereigns as they began their work.
The nightmare started immediately.
…
The Nameless Death woke up in a cottage.
The world outside the window glowed with soft light.
His hands were calloused but clean. A woman smiled at him from the kitchen, eyes full of warmth.
A boy ran into his arms, laughing.
The Nameless Death looked around, and recalled this was his life.
“What happened, papa?”
“Nothing. I just had a nightmare.”
The Nameless Death smiled, and ruffled his son’s hair.
His wife hummed a melodious tone, as she set the table, and they had a peaceful breakfast.
Then the screams began.
Fire erupted from outside. Shadows swept through the village. Swords flashed. His wife shouted his name. His son cried out.
He fought. He failed. He died.
And then—
He opened his eyes.
Same cottage. Same smile. Same child.
But this time, he remembered.
He froze. The boy tugged on his arm.
‘Not again.’
He took his family, and ran this time, trying to escape the bandits who broke into his village last time.
But his family still died.
Burned. Cut down. Crushed.
He died again.
And woke up.
Same place.
Same scent of warm bread. Same laughter outside.
The cycle repeated.
Every time, he died. Every time, he remembered.
He tried warning the village. Tried hiding. Tried fighting harder. Nothing worked.
No matter what he did, he couldn’t save them. He couldn’t stop the fire. He couldn’t change the outcome.
He screamed.
He went numb.
Then screamed again.
…
In the real world, the Nameless Death trembled.
His breath was shallow.
The chains tightened, glowing faintly with shifting colors—anger, sorrow, joy, despair.
The Sovereign of Sorrow tilted his head, watching the man’s twitching fingers.
“It seems he will break soon,” he said quietly.
The Sovereign of Rage grunted. “Focus on the present, not on the future.”
“That we will,” said the Sovereign of Fear. “And when the future becomes the present, and we have broken his will, we can finally ask for a reward.”
The woman stood still. Her gaze was locked on the Nameless Death and the Sovereigns of Emotion.
She stared at them quietly.
Her goal was close, she could feel it.
If his will cracked, if she could absorb it, she would rise beyond this war. Beyond the politics. Beyond the limitations of her realm.
With that much willpower, she would no longer need to beg, kneel, or fight for territory. She could transcend it all, and become a Heavenbreaker.
But the longer she watched, the less sure she became.
Because even after the hundredth cycle, even trapped in endless grief, the man hadn’t begged for it to stop.
He hadn’t said her name.
And he hadn’t broken.