“Mune. Does the name ring any bells?”
The boy’s eyes widened, his fury momentarily stilled by shock. “Mune…” he whispered, the name tumbling from his lips with the weight of a thousand memories. His gaze locked onto me, his expression raw, desperate. “How… how do you know that name?”
I couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at my lips. “Guess.”
At that, he began to shake, his body trembling as my words sank in, tearing through the foundation of lies the Whisperer had built around him. He turned, looking back at the Whisperer with a mixture of horror and hope, his voice breaking. “Mune… and the others… Is it… is it true?”
The Whisperer flinched, his face twisting in frustration as he realized his web of deceit was unraveling faster than he could salvage it. “Don’t listen to him!” he snapped, his voice rising in desperation. “This is all part of his plan! He’s just trying to confuse you, to weaken you before he strikes! Think, Riken! Remember what I’ve done for you, for your sister—”
But Riken wasn’t listening. The name had shattered whatever remnants of trust he’d held for his master, leaving only doubt and fury in its wake. His eyes searched the Whisperer’s face, seeking some form of denial, some hint that this was all just another illusion. But what he found was the unmistakable shadow of guilt.
“Is that….Is that really true?”
*********
–Mugen.
From Riken’s perspective, Mugen had been more than just another face in the village—she had been a spark of light in his otherwise harsh, unforgiving world. Beautiful in a quiet, resilient way, Mugen had a warmth that seemed to defy the bitterness of their shared captivity. freewebnovel.cσ๓
Her eyes, a gentle amber flecked with gold, always carried a spark of defiance, a reminder that even in the darkest places, some embers refused to die.
They had grown close in secret moments stolen between training and chores, sharing quiet conversations and fleeting glances that made the grueling days feel almost bearable.
Mugen was patient, soft-spoken, yet fierce in her own way. She would tell him stories of their people—of wild forests and moonlit dances, of freedom and open skies.
She had a way of speaking that made him believe in something more, something beyond the iron grip of their master and the walls that confined them.
To Riken, Mugen was more than a friend—she was his hope. Even when the marks were carved into their skin, binding them to the Whisperer’s will, she had kept that fire alive, whispering promises of escape and freedom.
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She’d tell him to stay strong, to remember the strength of their ancestors, the pride of the beastkin. And for Riken, she became his anchor, the one thing that made the endless training, the pain, and the obedience bearable.
That was why, even as their village fell, as their kin were shackled and subdued, Riken hadn’t succumbed to despair. He had clung to Mugen’s whispered promises, to her fierce resilience, and to the belief that, by enduring, he and his sister were fighting for something greater—for their people, for the hope of freedom Mugen had instilled in him.
But there was something else, a secret he had held close, a memory that no one else knew.
In rare, quiet moments, when they were alone, she had allowed him to call her “Mune.” She’d smile, a hint of softness breaking through the weariness in her eyes, and it was like a small, private world they shared—one untouched by the brutality around them. She had told him that no one else called her that, that it was something just for the two of them, a reminder that, even in this place, there was a part of her that remained free.
It was a secret only he knew. Not her sister, not any other villager—just him.
And now, in this bloody, twisted room, he had heard that name spoken by a stranger.
Lucavion, most likely was his name, as he had heard the girl shouting just now. Though, he also knew who he was, as he watched this man’s matches in the tournament.
It was indeed a weird name, sounded weird….most likely written weirdly.
But, it wasn’t important.
What was important right now was how he had said it with a casual certainty, as though it were natural, but Riken knew better. That name meant something only to him and Mugen, something sacred and untouchable.
He stared at Lucavion, a flicker of belief breaking through the turmoil in his heart. This man had spoken her name, had known Mune, his Mugen. A memory flashed through his mind—her smile, her whispered promises, her quiet strength. How could this stranger know about her unless… unless there was truth in his words?
Doubt began to give way to hope, a fragile, trembling hope he hadn’t dared to feel in so long.
A flicker of hope kindled in Riken’s chest, like a long-forgotten ember reigniting after years of cold darkness. Lucavion’s voice had cut through the chaos and shattered the doubts that had haunted him for so long.
Mune.
The nickname that only he knew, the name she had let him call her in the secrecy of their quiet moments together. It had been something small, something private, yet here was this stranger, speaking it as if he had seen her, known her.
But then, as quickly as it came, that hope twisted into something dark and jagged.
If Lucavion knew her name if he had met Mune… how could that have happened? She had been held captive like him, branded with the same marks, bound to the same chains. If he knew her, if he had somehow encountered her, then it could only mean…
Riken’s breath hitched, his chest tightening. His mind raced, trying to push the thought away, to fight against the implication that began creeping in.
She was sold. She was sold, like every other slave, like he would be one day if he failed.
The hope in his chest began to turn cold, hardening into something that felt like despair. If Mune had been sold, if she was no longer under the same master, then what had he been fighting for? Every grueling hour of training, every drop of blood, every bruise, every sleepless night had been for her. He had told himself that he was protecting her, that he was enduring this hell so that she would be safe.
But now… now it seemed like none of it had mattered. She wasn’t there, not waiting in some hidden corner of their master’s stronghold. She had been taken, sold, lost to the void of this world where people like them were nothing more than commodities to be traded.
Why?
The question echoed through him, a bitter mantra. Why had he fought? Why had he obeyed, sacrificed, endured, only to find that it had all been an illusion? His whole existence, the silent promises he had whispered to her when no one else could hear, the endless days and nights filled with pain and hope—it had all been a lie.
His gaze fell, his shoulders slumping as the weight of realization crushed him. The room around him faded, the bodies, the blood, the faces of those watching him… none of it mattered anymore. Everything he’d held onto was slipping through his fingers, leaving nothing but emptiness.
For the first time, he felt the stirrings of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years: helplessness.
‘No.’
But that helplessness was something that they couldn’t sustain.
Those feelings…..
They were not something that he could easily think of.
A dark, simmering heat began to rise from within him, stirring in the depths of his chest. It started as a faint burn, a flicker of warmth that ignited as his helplessness twisted into something sharper, hotter.
Anger. Pure, unfiltered anger.
He clenched his fists, feeling his nails bite into his palms, drawing blood. The warmth spread, searing through him, consuming the hollow ache left by the realization of Mune’s fate. The illusion he’d clung to for so long was gone, shattered into pieces, leaving him with only this raw, pulsing fury.
He could feel it building, a primal rage he had forced himself to suppress, time and time again, for the sake of his people, for the sake of safety, for Mune. He had swallowed his anger, choked on it, buried it deep to become the obedient tool his master demanded. But now, it clawed its way to the surface, roaring to life with the force of a storm.
‘It was you….’
His gaze lifted, locking onto the Shrouded Whisperer, who stood there with that same smirk, that cold, detached gaze as if he were untouchable.
But now, Riken saw him not as a master but as a coward hiding behind chains and lies.
The world around him sharpened, every detail vivid—the stench of blood, the flickering shadows, the tension in the air.
This man,
he thought, his body trembling,
was the one who had twisted everything he loved into chains, who had taken Mune and sold her, who had crushed every dream he ever had and left him with nothing but pain.
The fury swelled, overwhelming, uncontainable, each heartbeat driving it deeper into his bones. His vision narrowed, honing in on the Whisperer as if he were the only person in the room. All Riken could feel was the rage flooding him, consuming every fiber of his being, as if the very core of his soul was calling out for vengeance.
A low growl rose from his throat, his muscles tensing as his body began to change, responding to the primal anger surging within him.
He felt his claws extend, his body instinctively drawing on his mana, amplifying his strength, preparing for the strike. This wasn’t a calculated decision; it was instinct, pure and unrestrained, demanding retribution for every moment of agony he had endured.
He took a step forward, his eyes blazing with hatred. He would make this man pay, make him suffer as he had suffered, feel every ounce of the pain he had inflicted. The Whisperer had stolen everything from him, and now he would take it back with the only weapon he had left—his wrath.