The night felt longer than usual. It was as if time itself had slowed, or perhaps it was only his own feelings that made each passing moment drag so heavily.
Edward still stood by the window of his room. The night breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of dry earth and jasmine from the garden far below—but he barely noticed.
All his attention was fixed on the small object resting in his palm.
The sword-shaped pendant lay there, cold as ice.
It seemed to draw away the last traces of warmth from his skin.
It was perfectly still, not moving in the slightest.
It was as if the silvery light and deep voice that had appeared just minutes before had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination—something conjured by a mind exhausted after a day filled with strange events at the Hall of Awakening.
But Edward knew it had not been a dream.
He could still recall it clearly, the faint vibration that had traveled from the metal all the way to his bones.
That ancient voice, speaking as if it had traveled across thousands of years.
Calm.
Commanding.
And yet, somehow…
filled with such profound sorrow.
Not the kind of sorrow that cries out in pain, but a deep, enduring grief that had long been buried.
It was like the sorrow of someone who had lost far too much—too many loved ones, too much time that could never be reclaimed.
"Who are you?"
Edward asked once more, his voice barely more than a whisper, carried away by the night wind.
"If you truly can hear me… answer. At least give me some small clue."
There was no reply.
Silence once again filled the small room. Only the faint chirping of crickets from the bushes outside drifted in, like an old, worn lullaby.
Edward let out a long, slow breath. He turned his hand over, gazing down at the pendant once more in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside.
That was when something caught his eye.
On the surface of the aged, tarnished metal,
a faint carving appeared.
So faint it was nearly invisible unless one looked very closely.
It took the shape of a sword, broken cleanly in the middle—as if it had once been strong and whole, only to be shattered by something immensely powerful.
Edward narrowed his eyes, trying to make sure his vision was not playing tricks on him.
"What is this…?"
He brushed the surface gently with the tip of his finger.
And instantly, the carving vanished.
It faded away as if it had never been there at all, leaving only plain, cold, dull metal behind.
Edward swallowed hard. A bitter taste rose in his throat. That same uneasy feeling returned the exact sensation he had felt earlier that day when he had seen the red-and-blue symbol pulsing on the walls of the Hall of Awakening.
It was the feeling that something was moving behind the scenes of his life.
Something slowly awakening from a long, long slumber. And it was not just the figure with red eyes that haunted his dreams.
"Perhaps I am just tired."
He tried to reassure himself, grasping for a logical explanation to keep his fear from growing any stronger.
But even he could not bring himself to believe those words.
For deep within his heart, in the quietest, most untouched corner of his soul,
he knew.
Something was changing.
And the center of that change, whether he wanted it or not, was himself.
He slowly closed his hand around the pendant, clutching it tightly in his grasp. Outside, the night continued to pass, but for Edward, his life had just stepped into an endless, twisting labyrinth.
A Few Days Later
That morning, the sky above Hougwe stretched clear and unblemished. Wispy white clouds drifted slowly across the vast, bright blue, like tufts of cotton carried gently by the breeze.
Sunlight filtered down softly, casting a warmth that should have brought peace to anyone who felt it. Yet Edward's mood was far from as bright as the weather outside.
The wooden carriage they rode in moved slowly along the now-dry dirt road, its wheels turning with a faint, creaking sound.
Gradually but steadily, they entered the village where Edward had grown up and spent most of his life.
Silvia sat beside him, her eyes glancing toward him from time to time as if studying the changes in his expression.
Behind the carriage, several figures in gray robes could be seen—the royal mages assigned to escort them, though their presence felt less like protection and more like a barrier keeping him apart.
The journey home, which had always once filled Edward's heart with eager excitement, now felt strangely unfamiliar.
There was no warm sense of longing, only an odd, heavy feeling settling in his chest. It felt uncomfortable, even slightly tense, as though he were traveling toward a place that no longer truly belonged to him.
"Are you nervous?" Silvia asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft yet clear enough to be heard over the creaking wheels.
Edward glanced at her briefly, then offered a faint smile—one that never quite reached his eyes.
"A little."
"A little?" Silvia repeated, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Very well. I'm very nervous," Edward admitted at last, letting out a quiet breath.
Silvia gave a small, light laugh, as if trying to ease the stiff atmosphere around them.
"There's no need to dwell on it too much. They're just surprised to see you back."
"That's easy for you to say," Edward murmured softly.
"Why?"
Edward looked out through the carriage's small window, watching as the rows of wooden houses slowly came into clearer view in the distance.
"Because everyone likes you. They know you as a kind healer. They've never looked at you as something to be feared."
Silvia frowned and playfully swatted his arm.
"That's not true."
"It is true."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"Enough," she said with a faint smile.
Edward finally laughed—a light, brief sound that let him forget the weight on his chest for just a moment.
It was the first time he had laughed since the events at the Hall of Awakening several days before.
But his laughter did not last long.
As the carriage entered the village center, the atmosphere outside shifted instantly.
Usually…
When Edward returned to this village, the scene was always the same. Passersby would wave warmly. Children playing in the streets would run over, calling his name with cheerful voices.
Shopkeepers along the road would greet him with broad smiles, and everyone would speak to him in a friendly tone, as if he were an inseparable part of this place.
But today was different.
Very different.
A middle-aged man standing by the roadside, chatting with his neighbor, suddenly fell silent. The words he had been about to speak died in his throat.
He lowered his head, then turned away as if suddenly preoccupied with something important.
Two women washing clothes in a small stream immediately bowed their heads, their hands moving faster, yet neither dared to glance toward the passing carriage.
A merchant arranging goods outside his shop quickly hurried inside, pulling the wooden door shut with a heavy thud.
Thud.
The sound echoed sharply in Edward's ears, striking his heart like a quiet blow.
Edward fell silent. He tried to convince himself it was just a coincidence. Perhaps they were busy. Or perhaps they did not recognize who was inside the carriage.
But only a short distance later, the same thing happened again.
And again.
And again.
A young boy running along the road stopped abruptly, then was quickly pulled inside a house by his mother.
An elderly man sitting on a wooden bench immediately turned his face away. A woodcarver working at his workbench bowed his head deeply, not daring to look up.
No one said a word. No one shouted, no one insulted him, no one ordered him to leave.
Yet that was exactly what made the atmosphere feel so heavy. Their silence, the way they turned their faces away, their hurried movements to put distance between themselves and him—all of it spoke far louder than any words ever could.
"Strange," Edward murmured so softly it was almost inaudible.
Silvia heard him. She looked around, noticing how every pair of eyes that briefly caught sight of them quickly turned away, and how the air in the village seemed to grow colder and stiffer.
But she did not reply. For she saw it too. And honestly, she did not know what to say to comfort him.
She could only sit quietly, feeling the unease spreading through her own body as she realized that the villagers' view of Edward had changed—and perhaps would never be the same again.
They walked toward the village market.
Step by step along the now dusty dirt road. Yet Edward felt as though he were walking not on solid ground, but across something thin and fragile, ready to give way at any moment.
The stares followed them every inch of the way.
From behind the cracks of slightly open wooden windows. From behind doors left ajar just enough for someone to peek through.
From gaps in the crowds of people walking, trading, or simply standing and talking. Eyes moved, tracking every motion of his body.
Looks of fear—as if he were a wild beast that might spring at any second.
Looks of suspicion—as if every movement he made hid some dark intent.
These were looks he had never received before. Once, their gazes had held familiarity, kindness, or simple calm. Now everything had changed.
Then the whispers began.
Soft—only audible if one listened closely. Yet clear enough to reach Edward's ears, which had grown unusually sharp.
"That's him…"
Edward straightened his shoulders slightly, staring straight ahead. Pretending not to hear. Pretending the evening breeze carried nothing but the rustle of leaves.
"The boy who brought down the Hall of Awakening."
His heart beat a little faster. He could feel his blood rushing more swiftly at his temples.
"I heard a great monster burst forth from within him. That's why the sacred place was destroyed."
"That's just a rumor. It might not even be true."
"But the Hall really was reduced to rubble. Hundreds were injured. That's not something to be taken lightly."
"They say several of the great mages nearly lost their lives trying to hold back his power."
"I've heard he carries an ancient curse—one passed down through generations, now awakened once more."
Edward kept walking.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
He forced his legs to keep moving. Pretending not to hear every word spoken. Pretending not to care, as if their words could not touch him in the least.
But deep inside, each phrase felt like a small stone thrown again and again against his chest.
It did not cause physical pain, but slowly they piled up, pressing down, making his chest feel tighter and heavier with every passing moment.
And what hurt most of all…
Not one person dared say any of it directly to his face.
They spoke as if Edward were not even there. As if he were not a human being with ears, a heart, and feelings.
As if he were no longer the boy who had grown up in the village orphanage, who had played with their children, who had helped carry their goods, who had once laughed alongside them.
To them now, Edward was no longer a person. He was merely a problem. A threat to be kept at a distance, spoken of only in hushed tones, and avoided at all costs.
Silvia walked beside him. She could feel the tension radiating from Edward's body. She clutched the edge of her own robe, trying to hold back the anger slowly rising within her.
Yet she knew there was no use in scolding them now. Trust once lost could not be restored with harsh words alone.
They continued past the rows of market stalls. And still the whispers followed—like a dark shadow that could never be shaken off.
Near the village square.
The ground, covered in short, well-kept grass, had long been the heart of the children's laughter and games.
That day, a group of children were happily playing catch, their bright voices cutting through the quiet of the surrounding streets.
Edward recognized them.
Their faces were familiar to him. Years ago, when he still lived at the orphanage, he had often played alongside them—running, laughing, sharing food, and even arguing over the rules of their games. To Edward, they were part of the simplest, happiest memories of his childhood.
He smiled—a genuine, unburdened smile, just like the ones he had worn all those years ago.
And he waved.
"Hi there!"
The children turned as one, their bright eyes locking onto him.
For a moment, no one moved. It was as if time had paused. Their expressions shifted—from the delight of seeing someone they knew, slowly to hesitation, and then to a faint, unmistakable fear.
Then one of them took a step back.
The others followed, one by one, without a single word. They huddled close together, as if trying to put a safe distance between themselves and him.
Edward's smile slowly faded. The corners of his mouth fell, and the faint warmth that had briefly filled his chest was instantly swept away by the wind.
"Why?" he asked softly, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.
The smallest boy among them—who once used to call out "Brother Edward" in a loud, cheerful voice—now kept his head bowed low. He twisted the hem of his shirt between his fingers, looking uneasy.
"I'm sorry, Brother Edward…" he mumbled.
Edward forced a thin smile, trying to appear calm even as his heart felt as though it were being squeezed tight.
"It's all right. What's wrong? Why did you all step back?"
The boy hesitated. He glanced sideways at his friends, as if seeking permission, then looked down again. His voice was so quiet it was almost carried away by the breeze.
"Father said… I'm not allowed to go near you. He says… you bring danger."
The world fell silent in an instant.
The sound of the wind, the chirping of birds in the trees, even the beating of his own heart—all seemed to vanish. Only a heavy stillness hung over the square.
Edward did not know what to say. His tongue felt heavy and stiff, as if it had become stuck in his mouth.
For the boy had not spoken in anger. There was no hatred in his tone, no harsh words or accusations.
He was merely repeating what his parents had taught him, what he had overheard from the conversations of adults. He was only doing what he had been told was right.
And that was exactly what made it hurt the most.
This was no quarrel. It was not a misunderstanding that could be cleared up with a few words.
It was fear that had been planted deep, without ever giving him the chance to tell his side of the truth.
"Oh."
That was all Edward could manage. His voice was flat and empty, even though inside, his heart felt as though it were being torn apart.
"Oh."
The children slowly backed away, then turned and hurried off. They did not run, but their steps were quick and anxious, as if afraid to linger any longer.
They left the square.
They left the ball lying forgotten in the grass.
They left Edward standing alone in the middle of it all.
Silvia, standing beside him, bit her lower lip hard, fighting back the ache that rose in her own chest. She could see it clearly in Edward's eyes—a wound had just been opened.
It was a wound that did not bleed, one invisible to the ordinary eye, yet far deeper and more painful than any cut could ever be.
It was the wound of being cast out. The pain of being made to feel like a stranger in the place that was supposed to be home.
When the orphanage building finally came clearly into view in the distance, beyond the rows of trees and the weathered wooden fence, Edward let out a long breath. The air felt a little fresher here, as if carrying the warmth of old memories.
At least… home would still be the same.
At least… here, nothing would have changed.
So he told himself, clinging to the small shred of hope that remained in his heart. And thankfully, he was not entirely wrong.
As they drew near, the wooden door—always left wide open to welcome anyone—was pushed open from inside.
"BROTHER EDWARD!!"
A loud, cheerful voice instantly cut through the quiet. A small figure came running as fast as her legs could carry her, without the slightest hesitation.
Thud!
Alice leaped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around Edward's waist, pressing her head firmly against his chest.
Edward nearly stumbled backward, taken by surprise, yet his hands instinctively rose to return the embrace.
"Hey, careful there!" he laughed softly, steadying himself.
"You're home! You're finally home!" Alice lifted her face, her eyes shining even as they began to glisten with tears.
"Yes, yes. I'm home," Edward replied gently, smoothing her slightly messy hair.
Before he could say anything more, Alice began to sob quietly. Her tears dampened the front of his tunic, yet a wide smile remained on her face.
And somehow, amid all the cold stares and whispered words he had endured throughout the day, Edward felt the weight on his chest slowly lift just a little.
A warmth crept in, soothing the wounded parts of his heart.
Moments later, two other young men appeared in the doorway. Thomas and Alex stood there with their arms crossed, putting on an air of maturity—though faint smiles could not be hidden on their lips.
"You look terrible," Thomas said flatly, yet his eyes held a clear look of longing.
"Even worse than usual," Alex added quickly, nodding in agreement as if stating a well-known fact.
Edward laughed openly—a genuine, unburdened laugh, the first he had felt all day. "You two really haven't changed a bit."
"Neither have you," Thomas replied. "Still the same as ever, even though everyone says you bring trouble."
"Thank goodness for that," Edward murmured softly, but loud enough for them to hear.
From the direction of the kitchen, Serly emerged holding a large wooden spoon, the hem of her apron dusted lightly with flour.
She looked at them with a stern expression, yet her eyes held clear relief at seeing Edward return safely.
"If you're done with your reunion and trading insults, please help carry the supplies from town! Don't just stand there doing nothing!" she called out.
"So bossy," Alex grumbled with a smile.
"Because you two are such a nuisance," Serly shot back quickly, though her tone was warm.
The atmosphere in the orphanage yard felt warm. Familiar. Normal. Exactly as he remembered it from years ago.
There were no suspicious glances, no one stepping back, no whispers that cut like knives.
Yet after a while, once they were inside and began talking, Edward noticed something that slowly made his heart feel heavy once more.
They still cared for him deeply—of that there was no doubt. Alice's embrace, Thomas and Alex's teasing, Serly's concern—all of it was genuine, without any pretense.
But something else had changed: they watched him more closely than before. They were overly cautious. Not out of fear of him, but out of fear for what might happen to him.
Whenever Edward fell silent for too long, staring blankly out the window, they would exchange quick glances, then ask softly if he was feeling all right.
Whenever he unconsciously touched his temple and complained of a slight headache, their faces would immediately fill with worry. Serly would rush to get warm water, Thomas would suggest he lie down and rest, and Alex would look at him with deep concern in his eyes.
Whenever Edward gazed into the distance, lost in his own thoughts, they would share quiet looks and speak in hushed tones so as not to disturb him.
They were not afraid of him—that much was clear. They did not see him as a threat or a monster.
They were simply afraid. Afraid that something terrible might happen again.
Afraid he might be hurt. Afraid they might lose Edward—the only family they had.
Night fell.
Slowly, the inside of the orphanage grew quiet. After making sure all the children were fast asleep, Edward stepped outside and sat down on the old wooden bench on the porch, followed by Silvia, who took a seat beside him.
The night breeze blew gently, carrying the scent of damp earth and jasmine growing in the corner of the yard.
Above them stretched a vast sky, filled with thousands of stars twinkling brightly, as if striving to light up the darkness.
Yet inside Edward's heart, his mind was anything but calm. Questions swirled endlessly, finding no answers.
After a long silence, he finally spoke aloud—voicing the question that had lingered in his heart for so long, one that often crept into his thoughts even in his sleep.
"Silvia."
"Hmm?" Silvia turned to look at him, studying his weary yet deeply troubled expression.
"Am I a monster?"
In that instant, Silvia froze.
The gentle night wind seemed to stop moving for a moment. Even the chirping of crickets in the distance grew faint, as if they too were holding their breath.
Silvia looked steadily at Edward's face, into his eyes that seemed so fragile and confused. She gazed at him for a long time, as if trying to understand exactly what lay behind those words.
Only after a while did she reply, her voice calm yet firm:
"What do you think?"
Edward lowered his head. His gaze fell upon his own hands—hands that looked ordinary enough, yet felt strangely foreign to him.
"I don't know," he answered quietly.
"That is exactly the problem," Silvia murmured softly.
"I don't know what truly dwells within me—whether it is power, or something dark. I don't understand why, just as I began to awaken my magic, the Hall of Awakening was reduced to rubble. I don't know why people look at me as if I am a walking disaster."
He paused for a moment, then continued, his voice trembling slightly:
"I don't know what I should believe."
Silvia fell silent. She looked up at the stars for a moment, then turned back to face him.
"I don't know either," she said honestly.
Edward let out a short, bitter, hollow laugh. "That is certainly a reassuring answer."
"I am being serious, Edward," Silvia replied earnestly, her gaze never leaving his. "It is true that I do not know exactly what happened inside the Hall. I do not know the source of the power within you. I cannot answer all your questions with absolute certainty."
She paused, then continued with greater resolve:
"But I do know one thing."
"What is it?" Edward asked softly.
"I do not care what dwells inside you," Silvia said firmly.
Edward fell silent, taken aback by her words.
"I do not care whether it is called a curse, or an ancient power, or a monster awakened from a long slumber—or even something whose name we have never heard in all our lives," Silvia went on.
Slowly, she raised her hand and pointed directly at Edward's chest, right over the place where his heart beat.
"What I care about…" her voice grew softer yet carried deep meaning, "…is who makes the choices. Who holds control over this self."
Edward slowly lifted his head and looked into Silvia's eyes.
"Is it Edward?" he asked quietly, as if speaking the question to himself.
Silvia gave a faint, sincere, and soothing smile.
"Or is it something else?" she replied gently.
Silence settled over them once more. Yet this time, it did not feel heavy, cold, or frightening as it had before.
Instead, it felt wrapped in warmth, as if a small ray of light had entered the dark corners of Edward's heart.
The night breeze resumed its soft flow, brushing strands of their hair. The stars continued to shine brightly in the sky.
And for the first time in a long while, Edward felt something beginning to grow within him—something that felt like strength, and peace.
The next day
The sky had just begun to glow with a faint golden light along the eastern horizon. The morning air was still cool, carrying the scent of fresh earth and dew clinging to the leaves in the orphanage yard.
Edward walked along the narrow path toward the village center, carrying a woven basket ready to be filled.
He needed to buy supplies for the orphanage: flour for baking bread, fresh vegetables for lunch and dinner, and some simple medicines for the children, who occasionally came down with fevers or stomach aches.
The moment he stepped into Uncle Rian's general store, the atmosphere inside shifted instantly.
The middle-aged man's movements immediately grew stiff. The warm smile that usually greeted every customer now looked forced, as if it had been painted onto his face.
"G-good morning," he stammered.
"Good morning, Uncle," Edward replied quietly.
The man nodded quickly, his eyes fixed on the floor for a moment before he turned to gather the items Edward had asked for.
His hands trembled slightly as he weighed the flour and sorted through the vegetables.
Edward watched him in silence. And the longer he observed, the clearer one thing became: the man was afraid.
Not the kind of fear born from anger, but a deep, unsettling dread—the fear of someone standing before something they did not understand and believed to be dangerous.
Once everything was placed in the basket and the payment was made, Uncle Rian bowed his head deeply. He still clutched the coins he had just received tightly in his palm.
"Forgive me," he murmured softly.
Edward blinked, confused. "For what?"
The man gripped the money even tighter until his knuckles turned white. His shoulders trembled slightly.
"I just…" His voice shook, catching in his throat. He lifted his face for just a moment, his eyes glistening—yet there was no malice in them, only a sad, desperate sincerity. "I just don't want my family to get hurt."
The words were simple. There were no insults, no harsh words, no tone of hostility. Yet they struck Edward right in the chest, piercing slowly but deeply.
He knew. He could feel with absolute certainty that this man truly believed with all his heart: Edward was a threat.
Something dangerous, something that could bring disaster at any moment. And what hurt most of all—there was no hatred in his voice. Only pure fear.
Fear born of ignorance, of rumors spreading from mouth to mouth, of what had happened at the Hall of Awakening days before.
Edward fell silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. He felt no anger. How could he be angry at someone who only wanted to protect his wife and children?
"I understand," he replied simply. His voice was calm, even as a hollow feeling settled in his heart.
He picked up his basket and stepped outside. Behind him, Uncle Rian remained standing rigid behind the counter, his breathing heavy.
Outside the shop, the morning breeze brushed against Edward's face. He looked down the village street, which was beginning to fill with people.
Neighbors greeted one another with smiles—until their eyes fell upon him. Then the smiles faded, steps quickened, or gazes were quickly turned away.
It was as though he carried a dark shadow that dimmed the brightness of the morning.
He walked slowly back toward the orphanage. Inside his mind, the question from the night before began to turn again.
If everyone saw him this way… could they be right? Was there truly something wrong, something dark, hidden deep within him?
But as the outline of the orphanage building came into view in the distance, he remembered Silvia's words from the night before: What I care about is not what lies inside you, but who holds the control.
Edward let out a long, steady breath. He held the basket close to his side and continued walking with more determination.
They might be afraid. They might believe everything they had heard. But one thing he knew for certain: he never wanted to hurt anyone.
And as long as he had a choice, as long as he was the one in control, he would keep trying to prove it—that not everything people did not understand was a monster.
On the way back
Edward slowed his steps when his eyes caught something neatly carved into the wooden wall of a house.
It was a protection symbol—a small magic circle, carefully etched. For generations, the villagers had used such marks to ward off dark creatures said to lurk deep within the dense forest or hidden in the mountain crevices.
At first, he paid it little mind. He was used to seeing similar signs in various corners of the village.
But after walking a few more steps, his mind slowly began to piece together a fact he had missed. He stopped and turned back to look.
The symbol faced the road.
Directly along the path he took every single day.
It did not face the forest at the northern edge of the village.
It did not face the mist-shrouded mountain slopes.
Instead, it faced the very path where he stood.
It faced him.
Edward came to a complete halt. His breath caught in his throat. For the first time, the truth was no longer vague, no longer just whispers in his ears—it struck him fully, sharp and heavy, like a bucket of cold water poured over his entire body.
They see me as a threat.
This was not just a rumor that would blow over and fade away.
Not an empty suspicion without proof.
Not a prejudice that might change with time.
They truly believed it.
He could feel his heartbeat slow, then race rapidly. His grip tightened around the handle of his basket.
The ordinary atmosphere of the village around him now felt different. It was as if every shuttered window, every quickly averted glance, every hurried step—all spoke the same message: Stay away from us. You are dangerous.
Edward stared at the magic circle for a moment longer. There was no burning anger in his chest. Only a hollow feeling spreading slowly through him, cold and quiet.
He knew the mark was not born of hatred alone. Behind it lay fear—fear of something they did not understand, something unfamiliar, something they believed could bring disaster.
Yet even so, it still hurt. It hurt to realize that the place he considered home, the people he had tried to help, had placed him on the wrong side.
On the side that must be kept at a distance, driven away, and guarded against.
He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly through his lips. Then he began walking again, his steps heavier now.
Deep inside, a quiet resolve began to take root: if they saw him as a shadow, then he would keep striving to be light—even if that light was only visible to a few.
And in the distance, the outline of the orphanage building came into view—a place where at least a few pairs of eyes still looked at him not as a threat, but simply as Edward: someone trying to find his place in the world.
The evening breeze drifted gently, carrying the scent of dry earth and the lingering fragrance of wildflowers growing along the edge of the forest.
From atop the village watchtower—built from weathered timber and rough-hewn stone—one could see nearly every corner of the settlement: from the neat rows of stilt houses to the narrow path that cut through the fields toward the mountain slopes.
It was there that Altheon stood. Tall and imposing, he wore a long robe of deep gray, faded by years of wind and sun.
His white hair fell to his shoulders, stirred by the breeze, yet his gaze remained sharp and unwavering, as if it could pierce through distance and see what lay hidden behind walls—or within the hearts of men.
He was the Grandmaster Mage, the guardian of balance in these lands, the one the villagers had trusted for decades to protect them from all supernatural threats.
Beside him stood a young mage, his pupil. His face still held the innocence of youth, brimming with curiosity yet shadowed by unease.
He gripped his staff tightly, his eyes fixed on the events unfolding far below.
"Grandmaster," he called softly, his voice nearly lost in the rustle of the wind.
"Hmm?" Altheon did not turn. His eyes remained fixed on a single spot along the village road.
"Is this not going too far?" the young man asked again, hesitantly. "Ordering every household to place protection symbols specifically facing the main path… It makes it seem as though the greatest danger comes from that direction, rather than from the forest we have always guarded against."
Altheon remained silent for a time. He watched the lone figure walking far below—Edward.
He saw how the young man's steps had faltered, how he had turned his head toward one of the houses, and how his shoulders had slowly slumped as if bearing a weight he had only just fully understood.
The air atop the tower grew colder still.
Then the Grandmaster spoke, his voice low and heavy, carrying a depth of meaning that was hard to put into words.
"Faster than I expected," he murmured.
The young mage frowned, more confused than ever. "What do you mean? What is happening faster?"
Altheon finally shifted his gaze, looking up at the sky as it began to turn shades of amber and violet with the approaching night.
He let out a long breath—one that held weariness not of the body, but of a mind that had witnessed far too much over a long lifetime.
"Human fear," he replied softly, yet the words hung heavy in the air.
His expression grew somber, holding a deep, quiet sorrow.
"It is always more dangerous than any monster lurking in the darkness of the woods or the crevices of the mountains."
He turned his head slightly toward his pupil, his eyes reflecting the bitter wisdom that could never be taught from spellbooks alone.
"Monsters have a form. Their strength can be measured. Their desires are clear. But human fear? It has no shape. It grows from whispers, from assumptions, from all that is not understood. It can turn neighbors into enemies, kindness into suspicion, and solitude into a threat. And once that fear takes root, it drives people to do things far more cruel than any wild beast ever could."
Altheon looked down once more at Edward, who continued on his way, though his steps seemed slower and heavier than before.
"They placed those symbols not because they know he is evil. They placed them because they are afraid of what they do not know. And unfortunately, this kind of fear cannot be warded off by any magic circle."
Night fell once more.
The sky above the village was dark, dotted with stars that seemed to shine dimly, as if reluctant to cast light upon what unfolded below.
Beneath an ancient tree whose roots spread far and wide like the outstretched hands of a giant embracing the earth, Edward sat leaning against its rough trunk.
This was the very same tree—a silent witness from his earliest childhood. Here he had run when happy, hidden when sad, and sat lost in thought countless times as he tried to make sense of the world around him.
His slender, slightly trembling fingers closed tightly around the sword-shaped pendant hanging at his neck.
The metal felt cold to the touch, yet somehow still held a faint, lingering warmth, as if it kept a secret that had remained hidden for many years.
"Who am I, truly?" he murmured softly, his words nearly swallowed by the darkness.
There was no answer—only the usual rustle of the night wind.
But then, without warning…
The wind stopped instantly, as if held back by some invisible force. The leaves above his head froze, not moving even slightly.
The chirping of crickets that usually filled the air fell abruptly silent. The entire world seemed to hold its breath, sinking into a stillness that felt heavy and suffocating.
Utterly silent.
Then, a voice sounded from behind him. It was not the sound of the wind, nor of any creature of the night. It was cold and deep, echoing in his ears—and strangely familiar, as though he had heard it long ago, buried in some forgotten corner of his memory.
"They hate you."
Edward sprang to his feet, his movements quick and tense. He spun around sharply, his eyes scanning the darkness behind the tree trunk and through the undergrowth.
There was no one there—only faint shadows shifting in the dim moonlight.
"Who's there?!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of anger and fear.
The voice gave a short laugh—a flat, emotionless sound that seemed to pierce straight to his very bones.
"Look into their eyes," it whispered again, this time sounding closer.
Edward clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. His heart raced, beating faster than ever before.
"Fear…" the voice continued, as if reading the thoughts in his mind.
"Hatred…" it drew nearer, as if whispering directly beside his right ear.
"Betrayal…"
"BE SILENT!" Edward cried out at the top of his lungs.
His shout echoed across the clearing. Birds roosting in the branches above took flight in a flurry of wings, breaking the silence that had fallen.
Yet the disturbing voice did not stop. If anything, it sounded more amused, more curious.
"How interesting…" it murmured.
Edward squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to force the voice from his mind, trying to convince himself it was nothing more than an illusion.
But his efforts were in vain. This voice did not come from outside.
For the final words resonated directly inside his head—not in his ears, but piercing straight into the deepest reaches of his thoughts.
"How much longer can you hold on, Edward Briar?"
And for the first time in his life, Edward felt true, unshakable fear. He was not afraid of the monsters said to lurk in the forest.
He was not afraid of the cold stares of the villagers. He was afraid… of something slowly growing within himself. Something that was beginning to awaken—and that he was slowly starting to recognize.