Vescrutia: Legacy

At the sun's first light, he left them all behind. It was a... heart-rending choice to make. Having so suddenly been immersed in the very thing he had yearned for was like finding an oasis after traversing a desert alone and battered. The weeks he spent amongst the other Venkage were more than a physical rejuvenation; it was a mental rekindling, a spiritual healing he didn't know he needed. All he had ever known was blood and bone, steel and wrath, servitude and isolation. But there, amongst the starlit skies, shoulder to shoulder with his people, dancing, their laughter filling the space where only void and longing once existed. Filled him with the courage to do what he needed...to fulfill another promise he made. Not just to himself.

But to the...entity that was now a part of him.

And that covenant, that promise among his vow against the one who stripped everything away from him, forged that raft he needed to traverse the turbulent seas of vengeance once more. But this time it did not exist as blind fury, but a focus storm, a measure maelstrom that became a brewing ambition. However, before he left the Venakage islands for good to pursue this charge, he needed to say goodbye to one last ghost of his past.

That's what had brought him here, back to the hellish Isles.

Even now, the beckoning called to him, enticing him into the eye once more, as it had done all those years ago. There, he found the Abyssal staff...where he found the part of Grixas that lived within him now. However, his soot-covered spirit resisted the temptation. His purpose was set, so he affirmed that nothing could nor would forfend it any longer.

He looked like a blur of black trailing the coattails of the spiraling winds of the storm, like a scattering of the skies, as he trapezed through the aisles. These thorny hills and jagged stones, each one a reminder of how he used to scour these lands as a child.

The journey was fierce, every element of the billowing storm fought viciously against him, but he wouldn't yield, as if driven by something more profound than mere desire.

It felt like a purpose.

It was the impetus of the soul as if he could not achieve his larger goal in mind without finally laying to rest this solemn chapter of his life... without making peace with the past.

The...creature within him, Red, had been unnervingly on edge, as if being back in the place where it had been imprisoned was like a dagger being held to its throat. Yet Shabuto had been adamant about this journey. In the end, it was relevant that despite its discomfort being here, if it served the aim of Shabuto becoming strong enough to see their ambitions through, it would not stand in his way.

"Just a bit further....we...we are almost there"

The vivid memories of laughter and warmth among the Venkage faded behind him like echoes of a dream, bittersweet yet necessary. He cherished the days beneath the starlit skies, surrounded by the very kinship he had longed for, but on this day, he had chosen a different path—one infused with a fire that would not be quenched until he settled the debts of his past.

As he traversed the jagged stones and thorny hills of the Isles, he felt the pull of history clinging to him, each breeze ruffling his cloak, whispering tales of grief and anger. His purpose felt profound, almost sacred. The storms raged, and he was relentless, a willowy shadow darting through the tempest, leaving nothing but a memory of darkness in his wake.

Cyrus had once been a father figure to him, molding his talents with the grace of a master artisan. But that same man had betrayed him, an unfortunate product of necessity and greed—the greatest gift twisted into a weapon against his very own. Shabuto had yet to reconcile the fact that someone who had trained him to wield power had ultimately sold him into the clutches of a dark guild, dragging him into the depths of despair where loss was both the companion and the enemy.

With each step toward the hut where his childhood memories of freedom and imprisonment lay intertwined, Shabuto felt the entity within him stir restlessly. Red, born of shadows and fury, was now an integral part of his soul—a constant reminder of the strength he had acquired and the vengeance he sought. The duality of their existence hummed within him; he was neither wholly the man who had lived under Cyrus’s watch, nor merely the creature that raged beneath the surface. He embodied the conflict between love and betrayal, hope and despair.

The wooden structure loomed ahead, a silhouette against the angry sky, and as he climbed the steps to the door, he paused. Memories swirled like leaves caught in a gale, heart-wrenching vignettes of laughter shared, lessons learned, and ultimately, the betrayal that carved his fate. The wind howled, a symphony of shrieks that clawed at the tattered fabric of his cloak. Shabuto pressed a hand against the rough-hewn wall of the shack, steadying himself. The wood was cold, slick with rain, and familiar. Too familiar.

“This is it,” he whispered, resolve coursing through him. He pushed the door open, the hinges creaking in protest, revealing a space filled with shadows and echoes of the past.

Inside, everything remained unchanged. The fire pit in the center, the worn mats scattered about, the gentle light—once full of warmth—now felt suffocatingly cold to him. He stepped inside and felt the familiar chill seep into his bones; memories rushed over him like the tide, relentless and unforgiving.

He walked to the far corner, where a wooden statue once stood, a relic of his childhood. It had been a gift from Cyrus, a symbol of protection. But now, its absence felt like a gaping wound in the heart of the room. He knelt and searched the floor, lifting aside the debris and dust, urgency fueling his movements. There had to be something here, something left behind.

A voice, not of the wind but within it, slithered through his mind. It was a cold, ancient thing, sharp-edged and grating.

"Back in the cage? This air… it is thick with the memory of my prison. It constricts. Suffocates. Are you certain your sentiment is worth my torment?"

Shabuto flinched but did not falter. "Your prison was my home, Grixas. For a time."
The wind funneled through the cracks in the walls, making the small space feel as wild and violent as the storm outside.

Home, Grixas scoffed. The thought echoed with the sound of grinding stone. A curious word for a place where you were forged into a tool. He kept you here like a dog, fed you, trained you, and then sold you to the highest bidder. This is not a home; it is a scar. Why are we picking at it?

"Because even scars need to be cleaned before they can truly heal," Shabuto murmured, his eyes scanning the desolate room. His gaze fell upon the loose hearthstone he and Cyrus used to hide trinkets under. "He was... complicated."

Complicated? He was a traitor. He stole you from your people, from the starlit skies you spoke of, and shackled you to this rock. Complication is a word mortals use to excuse weakness and betrayal. There is only the act and its consequence.

Shabuto knelt, his fingers trembling slightly as he pried at the edge of the stone. It came loose with a puff of dust and dry earth. "He also taught me to fight. To survive. He taught me how to read the winds, how to draw power from the storm. Without him, I would never have found you."

A gilded chain is still a chain, boy. Do not mistake the architect of your cage for your savior. Hurry. Find your ghost and let us be done with this wretched place. Our purpose lies across the sea, not buried in the dirt of this hovel.

Beneath the stone lay a small, oilskin-wrapped bundle. Shabuto’s breath caught. He lifted it out, his soot-stained fingers unwrapping the package with a reverence that seemed to irritate the entity within him. Inside was a single, folded piece of parchment, the ink slightly faded but still legible.

"Vengeance," Shabuto said softly, his voice barely a whisper against the storm's roar. "You see it all as a straight line, consume, grow, consume, grow.... But my path was never straight. It was a tangled knot." He unfolded the letter. "And Cyrus... Cyrus was the one who first tied it."

Read it, then, Grixas commanded, its impatience a palpable pressure behind Shabuto's eyes. Read the final words of the man who sold your soul, and let us see if they are worth the journey back to Hell.

Shabuto’s eyes traced the sharp, familiar script. He read in silence, the howling of the wind the only sound for a long moment. His face remained a mask of stone, but a single tear traced a clean path through the grime on his cheek, a final, saltwater tribute to a love that had died.

Well? Grixas pressed. What grand justification did he offer? What lies did he spin to soothe his own conscience?

Shabuto let out a slow, heavy breath, a sound of profound finality. He didn't crumble. He didn't rage. He simply stood, the focus in his eyes hardening from a brewing storm into a glacial calm.

To Shabuto

Show

If you are reading this, then you have returned. You have returned to the place where your new life began, and where my greatest pride and deepest shame are buried together. I do not know what vengeance burns in your heart, but I know I put it there. For that, and for everything, I can only offer the truth. It is a hollow payment for all that was taken from you.

Long before you knew my name, I knew yours. I knew your mother, Dia, and your father, Xanos. We were friends, once, in a life that feels like a dream to me now. We shared wine under the same starlit skies you loved, and I listened as they spoke of their child, a miracle boy whose very bones could weep magic. They spoke with love, with wonder. I listened with a poison of ambition already curdling in my soul. I saw not a child, but a gift. A power unlike any other.

The desire for that power became a flaw in the steel of my character, a weakness that shattered everything. I am the one who took you from them. I stole you from your cradle, from the warmth of a life you have likely forgotten. I told myself it was for your own good, that I could protect you, shape your gift in a way they never could. It was a lie I told myself to justify the theft of a child from my own friends.

Your parents were relentless. Dia’s fire and Xanos’s cunning were a force of nature. They searched for years, their grief fueling a hunt that spanned the isles. They never gave up. And they came close, Shabuto. So close. They began to unravel the web of lies I had spun, their whispers getting nearer and nearer to this very hut. I was a cornered animal, and I did the unforgivable to save myself. I used my connections, the very ones I used to track and sell other Venkage, and I sold your parents. I sold Dia and Xanos to a powerful, reclusive family on the continent of Aeon, a place from which no one returns. I silenced them by condemning them to a gilded cage, ensuring they would never find you, and you would never know them.

I tell you this not for forgiveness, but for understanding. The boy I stole became the son I raised. Over the years, the lines blurred. Your questions, your laughter, the way you mastered every lesson I taught you… You filled a void in me I never knew existed. You were my greatest work, my legacy. I swore I would never sell you, as I had the others. You were different. You were mine.

But fate is a cruel master, and power is a magnet for vultures. When you found the Abyssal Staff, you did not just awaken the entity within it; you sent a shockwave through the shadows of the world. A call to those who crave such things. The Nightmare Wolves, the guild you now know so well, heard that call. They knew of the staff, and they knew I had the one person who could wield it.

They reached out. They did not make a request, Shabuto. They made a demand. The power and influence they hold… I could not refuse. To defy them would have meant death for us both, a quick and meaningless end on this lonely rock. I chose to save my own life, and in doing so, I broke my final promise to you. I handed you over, my son, my greatest creation, to become their weapon. It was the coward's choice. A betrayal born of necessity and greed, the same forces that led me to your cradle all those years ago.

No apology can mend this. The man who taught you to be strong was, in the end, the weakest of all. I do not know what you have become, bound to the fury of Grixas, but I know I am its architect.

The path ahead is yours to walk. I only hope that somewhere within the storm, you find the peace that I stole from you, and could never find for myself.

Cyrus

Shabuto folded the letter with meticulous care, his movements slow and deliberate. The tear that had traced a path down his cheek had dried, leaving a pale track in the grime. The wind outside still howled, but inside him, a new, terrible silence had fallen.

So, Red's voice was a low rumble, the anger in it now laced with something akin to pity. Seems he was more of a stone-cold bastard than we first thought.

Shabuto slipped the letter into an inner pocket of his cloak, pressing it flat against his chest. He stood, his gaze sweeping over the desolate hut one last time. The cold no longer felt suffocating. It was simply… empty.

"He was complicated," Shabuto said, his voice no longer a murmur but a statement, hard as flint.

And what now? Red asked. Does this truth quench the fire of your vengeance? Our Pact?

Shabuto said nothing, not immediately. He wasn't sure what to say; his body was consumed with emotion, feelings that words couldn't do any justice to describe. A screaming vortex of grief, fury, and a hollow loneliness so vast it threatened to swallow the storm itself.

So he did not speak.

He moved.

And the winds moved with him.

The dance started slow, an exploration of the space he had once called home. His bare feet slid through the mud and sand, his body swaying and extending, as he captured the rhythm of the wind howling through the cracks of the weathered hut. Each movement was a tribute to his past, to laughter shared beneath starlit skies where innocence had reigned. He remembered Cyrus teaching him the constellations, their fingers tracing the same patterns in the heavens. As he stepped forward, the fire pit inside the hut flickered to life, embers stirred by the sheer energy of his motion, each footfall resonating with the inherited vibrations of the storm.

He spun, a blur of shadow and resolve against the dim, furious light, as thunder rumbled like a tribal drum, urging him on. Each rotation was fierce and deliberate, embodying both his grief for the man he thought he knew and his growing fury at the boy he had been. The rain lashed against the wooden walls of the hut and slapped against the ground outside, a brutal symphony that played in tandem with the frantic cadence of his heartbeat. Shabuto let each motion transform into a conversation with Red—a dance that was both an expression of sorrow and a chilling call to arms.

He pivoted, arms raised toward the tempest above, inviting the swirling winds to join him, to become part of him. As he moved with an intensity that felt primal, jagged shards of lightning illuminated the skies, cracking the world open for a split second. The shadows around him thickened like dark water. He drew upon the raw, chaotic energy swirling in the storm, channeling it through his feet, up his spine, and into his very core. Each surge of power electrified him, igniting memories of warmth and friendship that once wrapped him in safety, now irrevocably twisted by betrayal.

He leaped high into the air, his body arching like the branches of an ancient tree defying a hurricane. In that moment, the storm responded. A violent gust of wind spiraled around him, lifting him momentarily above the sodden earth, as if even the elements wished to celebrate his defiance against the suffocating weight of despair. The rain became his partner, rhythmic and heavy, the relentless pounding a heartbeat that matched his own.

With every leap, he felt the shackles of his past start to break. The pull of Cyrus’s design, the phantom touch of Red's voice—they were becoming whispers beneath the rush of his own unleashed emotions. He was not merely the tool that Cyrus had created; he was a force in his own right, a tide of anger and purpose that sought not only vengeance but reclamation of a self he was only now discovering.

He landed deftly, his feet striking the ground with such force that the floor of the hut resonated behind him, a low thrum echoing off the walls as if the building itself was mourning—as if the shadows that lingered were unwilling yet grateful witnesses to his awakening. The fire behind him crackled, flaring up brightly in response, sending out tendrils of desperate warmth against the profound cold of betrayal that had turned this place into a chamber of bitter memories.

As he transitioned into a series of fluid, powerful motions, his heart expanded and contracted, a dance entwining grief and hope. Each movement carved away the jagged edges of his hurt, where emotions twisted like barbed wire around his soul. With an audience of shadows and the roaring applause of a storm unleashed, he imbued the space with a flicker of the joy that had once thrived here, now reforged into something harder, something sharper.

The winds howled louder, the tempest outside echoing his inner turmoil, but within that chaos, he found a terrifying clarity. Shabuto's dance transformed into a fierce declaration, a silent, binding promise to himself that he would not only survive but reshape his fate. The storm was a reflection of his resolve; no longer a bane but an ally, encouraging him to unleash the fury he gathered with every motion.

In that moment of turmoil, Shabuto found peace in the paradox; he was both a man who had been forged in shadows and a warrior filled with the light of retribution. With the final crescendo of his dance—arms raised high, back arched, eyes blazing at the malevolent sky—the energy within him ignited like the lightning that split the heavens. A final, deafening strike of thunder boomed, reverberating not just in the air but in the very depths of his being.

And with it came a loud, monstrous wail from the pits of Shabuto's soul.
It was a sound of absolute anguish, of a spirit breaking and reforming all at once. As the cry tore from his throat, his back erupted. There was a sickening crack of bone and a spasm of muscle as his anguish manifested, tearing through his skin and tunic in a spray of blood and rain. Two massive, feathered wings, black as a raven's and slick with storm, unfurled from his shoulder blades, catching the wind and steadying him. They crackled with swirling red and black energy, the demonic power of Red ebbing from them.

The dance was over. The storm raged on, but now, it felt less like a cage and more like a kingdom. He stood, wings spread wide against the tempest, a monster born of heartbreak, a god forged in the storm. And on the horizon, he saw not an ending, but a new, terrible beginning.

The storm was a symphony of destruction, and Shabuto was its conductor. Rain lashed down in silver sheets, and lightning tore the bruised purple sky, but he felt none of it. He was the eye of his own hurricane, a point of lethal calm amidst the chaos. The power thrumming through him was a song he was only just learning the words to, a raw, primal energy that threatened to consume him. Yet, the dance—the fluid, stomping, spinning art of his tribe—gave it form. It was a vessel for the demon's blood.

As Shabuto’s wings spread, titanic and feathered in shades of midnight and dried blood, the Demon Red was pleased. The boy, fueled by a lifetime of grief and a fresh infusion of terrible truth, had finally managed to manifest his power. The intricate movements, a legacy of a people he barely knew, were the perfect channel to muster the chaotic energy of Red's essence flowing through Shabuto's veins. Remarkable. It was the only thought Red had as he waited, a smoldering ember of consciousness within the raging storm, for Shabuto to respond to his earlier inquiry.

"And what now?" Red's voice rumbled, less a sound and more a vibration in the soul. "Does this truth quench the fire of your vengeance? Our Pact?"

The words replayed in Shabuto’s mind. Quench? He drifted on the gale, his form brimming with a might that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. His mouth curled, not in a smile, but in a baring of teeth against the wind. A verbal response formed, sharp and absolute.

"No," he said, the word cutting through the gale with the finality of a headsman’s axe. "It wasn't an omission... more like a consecration."

His quest now held a new light. It was a sprawling map of debts, each destination marked in blood. The knowledge that his parents hadn't forsaken him, but were betrayed by the man they trusted, Cyrus, was a double-edged sword. One edge brought a sliver of solace, a balm to the oldest wound in his heart. The other edge, however, was honed with a fresh, incandescent rage that dwarfed all he had felt before. To know they were victims, not perpetrators, made their memory sacred. His vengeance was no longer just for himself; it was a holy rite.

There was a guild to dismantle, the Nightmare Wolves, who had profited from his family's ruin. There was this demonic power to master, to bend to his will before it broke him. And across the sea, on a continent named Aeon, there were ghosts to find—the echoes of his parents' final days, the whole story of their betrayal. The storm within him had not been quelled. It had been given more fuel, and now it burned brighter and hotter than ever before. It was time... time to leave the point of contemplation and memory behind.

Now was the time to act.

For retribution.

"I will return to Muu and find my former guildmates," Shabuto declared, his voice rising to match the storm's crescendo. "Re-establish ourselves as Demon Hunters... I won't let the Nightmare Wolves get away with this..."

As he spoke, the image of his other burdens flashed in his mind: the enigmatic Sophia, and Red's other half, the cold and calculating Blue. They were all pieces on this board, obstacles in his path to power and justice.

"I won't let any of them have their way," he snarled. "Not once I become strong... powerful."

His hand tightened into a fist, and in the blackened skies above, a bolt of crimson lightning crackled in response, a visual echo of the demon blood coursing through him. His vow tore from his throat, a promise to the storm, to the demon within, and the ghosts of his parents.

"We are going to rip the heads of these bastards one by one until there is nothing of them left!"

The air thickened, the wind seeming to knead together with wisps of demonic energy. A black and crimson gale of feathers erupted from Shabuto, encompassing him in a swirling vortex. He was no longer a boy standing in a storm; he was the storm itself, given form and purpose.

Through the cataclysm, Red's voice came one last time, tinged with a dark, predatory excitement.

"Let's go then... things seem like they're about to get interesting!"

The feather flux imploded, then shot away from the simple wooden hut, a meteor of vengeance streaking into the turbulent night. Behind the small shelter, the final vestige of his former life, of the abandoned boy, was left to the mercy of the wind and the rain, its purpose served, its memory already fading.