Sinus was early. The smell of roasted spices welcomed him even before he stepped fully into the kitchen. Honurad Decimus stood at the stove, an apron tied sloppily over his weathered shirt, stirring a bubbling pot with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before.
"Sinus, you are early for food," Honurad smiled without turning. The smile didn't need to be seen; it could be heard in his voice.
Sinus hopped up and sat on the counter like he owned the place—which he did by routine. "Grampa," he started, looking ahead with a faraway gaze, "what was his name? The one who didn't let you reach greatness."
The knife paused on the chopping board. The onions lay half-cut, their pungent scent mixing with something heavier in the air.
"Why do you ask?" Honurad asked, not with suspicion, but curiosity tempered with age.
"I wanna get revenge. Since he stopped you," Sinus said, voice casual. As if revenge were just another one of those after-dinner walks they used to take.
"Oh, then I cannot tell you his name." Honurad chuckled like someone who already knew where this was going.
"Why?" Sinus tilted his head. "Grampa… is it because I would lose?"
"It's not that, Sinus." Honurad turned now, eyes twinkling, yet shadowed by memory. "I know after a couple decades, you'd beat him. But still, I would like you to live a life not trying to avenge me."
"No, like… if I come across him, I can give him a good beating, right?" Sinus pressed, tone lighter than the weight of his words.
Honurad smiled deeper. "Sinus, he isn't a bad person. He was just influenced wrongly. He saw something that was evil as something that was free and good, according to him. If possible, I'd like you not to follow his path. Not that I would force you to do what I want."
There was no reply to that. Just the clink of metal on the pot rim as Honurad stirred again. Then:
"Sinus, can you pass me the salt?"
Without a word, Sinus grabbed the salt and handed it over. It was a small movement. Barely even counted as effort. But Honurad caught it with the gravity it deserved.
"You see, Sinus… had you not handed me the salt, I would've had to put some effort into that, right?"
Sinus furrowed his brows. "No? It's just salt. And just near me."
Honurad chuckled. "A truly slothful person wouldn't even try to get the salt."
"A truly slothful person wouldn't get up to cook either," Sinus fired back.
Honurad laughed, a warm, rumbling sound that filled the kitchen more than any spice ever could. "You are right. But I wanted to tell you something, Sinus. You handing me the salt eased some worry. The worry of having to move, even if just a little."
He turned again, his face half-lit by the orange glow.
"What I'm saying is… currently, I am you," Honurad said.
"No, you aren't." Sinus shot back immediately.
But Honurad only smiled like he'd already expected that. "Yes, I am. I can cook and grab the salt with just a tiny bit of effort. Same goes for you, Sinus. You're good at fighting. And with a tiny bit of effort, you can win. You are strong. But just a little help can help you save one last bit of energy—to do one last thing."
"Grampa, but I use my revolver each time. So how would I need that help? I don't need to put effort like Gars. I don't need to think about Clarion like Wanora. I don't need to stress myself like Heide. I don't need to overthink like Monday. A single bullet can end things."
"A single bullet can end things… but only if you don't miss."
"Well then, I won't miss," Sinus said.
Despite the use of guns in this world, they weren't as common as you'd think. The cost of a single bullet could bankrupt a middle class family. Sinus had found one in a garbage heap of a rich man—its was bent, its trigger half-broken—and rebuilt it from scratch. Not just repaired. Reimagined.
"Oh my dear boy, Sinus…" Honurad whispered under his breath, "One day you will see how hard it is… to put a tiny bit of effort."
In Taskhand, everyone knew who stood where.
Wanora, with her fire. The first fire. She could burn the entire continent if she went all out. But it would kill her, and so barricades were made—to stop her from ever doing so.
Gars. Raw strength incarnate. He could stand toe-to-toe with the Emperor's guards. Break their stances. Crack their armor. And still have breath left to mock them.
Heide, the tactician. The fight was his paintbrush, and his will the color. He could shape terrain.
And yet—despite all of that—if the entirety of Taskhand were to get in a fight, Sinus would win.
Because Sinus held all three qualities
Sinus was the strongest
Even in Menyurl, people whispered his name more than any other.
Sinus had never lost. Not once.
---
I came out of the castle, shoving breath after breath back into my lungs. The nobles were boarding the ships one by one. No time to talk. No time to look back.
I turned and rushed inside again.
The hallways were dead quiet, dust hanging in the air like breath held too long. I ran, feet slamming the floor as if I could outrun the collapsing ceiling above me.
I knew what I needed. The flag. The artifact.
Destroying it would cut the power tethering the ships—give them the push to escape. If I didn't, this whole rescue would mean nothing.
Up ahead. I saw it.
I climbed the stairs, ignoring the cracking sounds around me. The whole castle was falling, and the artifact still pulsed with energy. A modified horse-tier. No symbol, just blank white cloth on an overcharged pole.
I grabbed it and smashed it down.
Stomped it. Again. And again.
It didn't feel like enough, so I picked up a piece of broken stone and slammed it against the flag.
That's it.
I smiled.
Then the floor vanished.
The ground beneath me cracked and gave way—no warning. Just a drop.
Time slowed.
I was falling. The whole castle was falling. Debris twisted in the air like we were caught in the eye of a storm.
And then I saw him.
Sinus.