To Fracture a Heart ; Minsung

his canvas of bloodshed

Amidst the frost-kissed peaks of Earth 6, a weathered sanctuary stands. A testament to the endurance of nature. The Silvan Glade. 

It is said to have been built as an illusion—arboreal construction and timeworn appearance from the outside, but a tall-walled home scattered with fake diamonds and drunken idiots from within. To put it simply: a lying, wooden-looking cabin. 

But there was just one problem. Every single person of high position, of every single town, wanted this lying, wooden-looking cabin. 

It was a territorial issue. 

An issue that caused the majority of problems on this earth, despite the people being so... cocky. 

One that one man in particular planned to solve. 

But not in the way you'd expect. 

From Lee Minho's perspective, peaceful tactics, in this epoch of 2143, were completely out of the question. So, he'd simply declare it as his. Using violence. 

It all planned out very nicely, actually. No one knew his real name; no one had connected the dots just yet. The only thing they had on him was his voice, and that ridiculous nickname of 'Zexade VII.' He called bullshit. Arguably, he was entitled to. But, that was because no one, regrettably, possessed the intellectual acuity to unravel such intricacies. 

And now, he's striding towards the Silvan Glade, armed and draped in a midnight blue fur coat. The fabric billows at his feet. 

His hair is newly silver, and his face is crisp with new scars; among them, a recent addition stood out—a razor-thin gash, drawn with precision across his lips. Horizontally. It makes him come across as incredibly more ferocious. And he heavily approves. 

Behind him, a new, motley crew trail in his wake—though they would never want to be known as such. Individuals whose skills and inclinations rendered them both indispensable and volatile. 

Esme Loughty, a relentless force of raw strength, was the embodiment of controlled chaos. Yang Byungho, a master of deceit and clandestine operations, created interwoven snares in the shadows. Trista Caddel, with her sharp intellect and deceptive charm, navigated the realms of manipulation with several blades. And Marcus Maddox, a seasoned infiltrator, possessed an uncanny ability to vanish into the night. 

They're twats, the lot of them—but Minho has to keep them with him, by his side, in his ruthless pursuit of power. Not a soul would dare join alliances now, and that was down to his... way of work. 

"Stand poised for invasion. And remember, beat the ones that resist. I want crying, you hear me? Tears." Minho blurts out an order, a callous and crooked smile lurking on his lips. 

"Can't you just do it yourself?" Byungho doesn't seem too impressed at this. Beating people was never much for him—he preferred a little more blood. 

Minho brandishes his blade and polishes it with a cloth that's tucked into his sleeve. "Don't push your luck. Unless you crave the same fate as those in that building. You know what to do." He gestures with his knife at the Silvan Glade, its mossy windows and splinter-covered walls creeping up the scale of visibility now. 

It was insane. No one in their right mind would just show up at a place they were planning to claim successfully. It was practically a death wish. Yet, Minho would easily direct it right back. 

As Minho's mind churns with new ideas, an intriguing thought crosses him. "I believe these people deserve to know when they'll die, no? At the very least?" 

Trista's voice rises in the air. "I just don't see why we don't blow this shit up..." she complains, taking position and testing the sharpness of her weapon on a strand of maroon hair. It's a clean cut.