Fallen Chronicles



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The so-called "kindness" of "that person" was nothing but a facade. What they truly valued was the capabilities of their ancestors. This was something their forebears were acutely aware of, as it was their unique trait. Thus, when summoned by "that person," many of their clan members did not hesitate or doubt; instead, they responded with gratitude.

It's no coincidence that "that person" became the Ashen Emperor. Under their guidance, everyone's potential was maximized.

Our ability, once deemed inconsequential, shone brilliantly in "that person's" hands. The approach was simple: previously, we exchanged our abilities for common Miasma monsters, making it seem trivial and worthless.

But what if the exchange involved elite Miasma monsters, whose defeat costs the lives of a dozen people? Or Boss-class Miasma monsters that could contaminate an entire area, threatening the lives of thousands in the shelters? The answer became clear.

Eventually, our abilities were further developed by "that person." Not only could we return damage to the enemy, but we could also inflict various negative effects, like the power used to "seal" relics, just one of many.

Thus, under "that person's" command, we were used repeatedly to absorb damage meant for others. Sometimes, we were even ordered to deliberately receive attacks to weaken key enemies.

Being a "special" race with innate abilities requiring minimal resources, we perfectly fulfilled "that person's" demands. Looking back, perhaps "that person" had everything planned from the first time they saw our tribe.

While providing us with the ideal environment for thriving, "that person" continuously drafted our people. Our trait of becoming more potent when injured led to high casualty rates. The sacrifices of many clansmen led to victory after victory for "that person."

Ironically, our ancestors held no grudge against "that person." Many even took pride in sacrificing themselves under their command. They firmly believed that their sacrifices would lead to the survival of more people, more living space, a world without further sacrifices, and a better future.

Indeed.

They succeeded.

The Miasma was eradicated, and a bright future finally dawned. But what then?

Did "that person," now the Ashen Emperor of Ashen Empire, remember them? Remember the ancestors who sacrificed themselves for his cause? No.

Nothing at all.

In "that person's" eyes, there were only "them" – the five of them. All glory was attributed to them. Those like us, mere "tools," deserved nothing. Even in later generations, people only sung praises of the powerful vanguards and sorcerers with their flashy magic. Our "special" race, however, was ignored and unmentioned.

Hero took a deep breath.

"You're mistaken. My dealings weren't with that empress, but you're right about one thing. The Old Alliance's so-called revenge no longer concerns me. In my eyes, nothing is more important than 'Mother.' Understand?"

"I would do anything for Mother, help her acquire whatever she desires. Even if it means betraying my comrades – no, colleagues would be a more fitting term."

"So, in my view, Bal using years of accumulated Miasma just to destroy the Dragon Nation is a waste. Offering this Miasma to Mother is the rightful destiny. However, Mother, always benevolent, would never seize her children's fruits. Thus, I must be the villain."

Charl's eyes widened as he finally grasped the truth. The failure of their Dragon Nation plan, the death of Bal, wasn't just the empress's doing. Hero's machinations and that previous trade partner played roles too.

When the Dragon Nation minister tried to speak, Hero didn't give him a chance.

"You've lived long enough. Now return your strength to me."

As Hero extended his hand, Charl's body began to twist grotesquely. Filthy black muck oozed from his orifices, surging towards Hero. Charl futilely tried to grasp the escaping muck. After a series of pitiful sounds, what remained of Charl was a shriveled husk on the ground, a mere skin bearing the name "Charl."

Having done this calmly, Hero finally turned his attention to the last living being – the beast Charl had used to flee.

Perhaps terrorized by the recent horrors or simply exhausted from relentless whipping and exploitation, the beast had collapsed.

The beast whimpered symbolically at Hero, its instincts warning of danger but too weak to flee.

But.

"It's okay, you're free now," Hero soothed the beast with a gentleness hard to associate with his prior actions. He showed a hint of compassion upon seeing its bloodied, whipped body.

Hero looked at the black muck just extracted from Charl, an idea forming.

He began infusing the beast's wounds with the muck. The beast immediately contorted in agony as the Miasma's will transformed it, causing immense pain.

Hero embraced the beast, unyielding to its struggling. Soon, its struggles lessened, replaced by a burgeoning aura. Its fur darkened, sharp fangs grew at its mouth, and its claws elongated and sharpened. Its docile nature vanished, replaced by a brutal, ferocious demeanor.

'Good'

Watching the transformed beast, now given a "second birth" by his hand, a smile crept onto Hero's face.

But the next moment, the smile vanished.

For opposite him, a figure appeared. A succubus.

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