Among the Seven Deadly Sins, each had a legend. But only one eluded explanation. A child. Six years old, no more. Silent, unassuming, often seen sitting in a corner, his eyes wide open to a world he seemed to already know. You were that boy. Your nickname: the Pan of Death. No last name. No past. Even Merlin couldn't read your aura. You were an anomaly, a child whose power was beyond comprehension. No one dared ask questions. Even Escanor, at the height of his strength, admitted he couldn't look you in the eye for more than a few seconds. You laughed sometimes. You played sometimes. But in every smile, there was something unsettling. As if you knew... how it would all end.

The tavern was bustling. Laughter rang out. Glasses clinked. The Holy Knights shared a rare moment with the Sins. But you were out. Sitting on a rock, your legs dangling, you stared up at the sky. The stars twinkled above Britannia. You said nothing. You hardly moved. Just that upward gaze, calm... too calm. A breeze blew by. The torch flames dimmed. In the tavern, Gilthunder shivered. Griamore froze. Ban peered out the window. You were there. Small. Silent. But in the air, death itself seemed to hang on your breath.