Night in Hougwe
Night in Hougwe always brought a tangible sense of peace, as if even the air itself slowed for a moment to honor the falling darkness.
A soft wind brushed gently over the vast fields of wheat stretching beyond the village, creating a faint rustle that sounded like the whisper of a thousand voices.
From behind the tall grass, the chirping of crickets rose in unison, forming the steady rhythm of the night.
Now and then, from far away, the howl of a wolf cut through the silence, only to fade away into the depths of the dense forest rising at the edge of the horizon.
A peaceful night.
The kind of night that should have been enough to make anyone close their eyes and drift into dreams.
But that night, that calm felt like a thin mask. For Edward, everything felt different. Very different.
He still stood motionless beneath the great ancient tree that grew not far from the orphanage.
It had stood there long before he was born, its bark rough and gnarled like a map of a life filled with secrets.
For years, this place had been his silent witness—where he hid when sadness overwhelmed him, when anger threatened to spill over, or when confusion clouded his mind.
Here, he felt a little closer to something unseen.
His hands remained clenched tight at his sides, his nails almost digging into his palms.
The voice had faded. There was no shadow. No footprints were left in the damp earth.
No sign that anyone else had stood there just moments before.
Yet the words? They felt so real, repeating and echoing in the darkest corners of his mind, as if they had just been spoken right beside his ear.
"They hate you."
Edward squeezed his eyes shut, then shook his head hard as if trying to swat away a bothersome insect.
"This isn't real," he whispered, his voice almost swallowed by the wind. "It can't be real."
He tried to find reasons, tried to calm his logic. Perhaps he was just too tired, too overwhelmed.
Maybe the weight of his thoughts and the pressure building over the past few days had finally begun to play tricks on his mind. Perhaps it was only his own inner voice, distorted.
Perhaps.
But the more he tried to convince himself, the harder it became to believe. Because that voice had been too clear, too vivid, carrying a cold vibration that seeped deep into his bones.
It felt as though someone had truly stood behind him, watching, whispering a truth he had long tried to ignore.
"Edward!"
A familiar voice broke the silence, cutting through his dark reverie.
Startled, he quickly turned. Silvia stood on the orphanage porch, arms crossed over her chest, looking at him with an unreadable expression.
"Are you planning to sleep, or chat with that old tree until the sun comes up?" she asked lightly, though her eyes held a hint of worry.
Edward forced a faint smile, trying to mask the unease twisting inside him.
"Just thinking," he replied quietly.
"You look as though you're attending a funeral," Silvia said honestly.
"That's a rather strange way to put it," Edward answered with a small sigh.
Silvia descended the wooden steps one by one, her steps light, until she stopped right beside him. She turned to look closely at his face.
"Are you alright?"
Such a simple question. Too simple. Yet for Edward, it felt heavy to answer.
Should he tell her what he had just heard? Should he say he was starting to hear voices no one else could? How would Silvia react? Would she think he was losing his mind? Or… worse—what if that voice had indeed spoken a long-hidden truth?
For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. All he could hear was the rapid beating of his own heart.
Finally, Edward shook his head slowly.
"I'm just tired," he said simply, choosing the safest path.
Silvia studied him for a few seconds longer, as if she had eyes that could see past the walls he had built. She seemed to know something was being hidden, but she did not press him.
"In that case, you should rest. The night is growing late," she said gently.
Edward nodded in agreement. "Yes."
They walked side by side back toward the entrance of the orphanage. But with every step he took toward his room, one question kept circling endlessly in his mind, haunting every corner of his thoughts.
Am I starting to go mad?
Night had grown deep.
Everyone in the orphanage had fallen into their own sleep. The wooden corridor, usually filled with the sound of footsteps and children's laughter, was now completely quiet. Only the soft rustle of the wind could be heard now and then, slipping through the cracks in the loosely closed windows.
Silvia stood alone outside Edward's door, her gaze fixed upon the tightly shut panel. Just moments before, she had made sure the young man had finally drifted off—though even in sleep, his face remained etched with unease, and his breathing was not as steady as it usually was.
Silvia let out a long breath, trying to calm her own racing thoughts.
"At least you can rest tonight…" she murmured softly, almost whispering to herself.
But just as she turned to leave, a sharp pain suddenly shot from her left wrist, traveling all the way up to her elbow. Her body went rigid in an instant.
"Agh…"
She quickly clamped her hand around her wrist, trying to suppress the piercing ache. But the pain returned, stronger this time—far stronger than it had been yesterday, and even worse than the attack she had felt the week before.
Silvia hurried away from the corridor, moving quickly yet carefully so as not to make a sound. She made sure no one was watching before reaching the quiet backyard of the orphanage.
There, beneath the pale glow of the moon, she slowly removed the black glove she had never taken off since the incident at the Awakening Hall.
Slowly. Very slowly.
The glove slipped away from her skin. And in the dim moonlight, something terrible was revealed.
Dark red lines spread across the surface of her hand, like fine cracks splitting through parched earth. It looked as though the veins beneath her skin had transformed into strange, unfamiliar patterns. A faint light pulsed gently within those lines.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Silvia bit down hard on the inside of her lip, fighting with all her strength to hold back the pain that seeped deep into her bones.
"Not yet…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please… not now…"
The red cracks continued to creep slowly, inching a few more centimeters up her arm, before finally coming to a sudden halt.
Silvia squeezed her eyes shut. In the silence of the night, her mind drifted back to the day when everything had changed forever. The day the Awakening Hall had been reduced to rubble.
The day something vast and unexpected had emerged from within Edward. And the day she had done something no Guardian was ever supposed to do.
Seal it.
That was all she could clearly recall—or perhaps, it was all she was allowed to remember. For most of that day remained hazy, shrouded as if in thick mist, as if someone had deliberately wiped it from her memory.
Silvia opened her eyes slowly, her gaze falling once more to the red lines faintly pulsing across her skin. Fear suddenly welled up in her chest—not fear for herself, but fear of something far worse that might yet come to pass.
"If the seal begins to weaken…"
Her voice was barely audible, carried away by the night breeze. She glanced toward Edward's room on the upper floor.
Moonlight fell upon its window, making it appear distant and faint. For a moment, her expression shifted, filled with deep sorrow.
"What will become of you, Edward?"
The wind blew a little stronger, bringing with it a long, heavy silence. There was no answer. Of course there was none—for even Silvia herself did not know what lay ahead.
There was only one thing she knew for certain. Ever since that day of the Awakening, something had taken root inside her. Something that slowly but surely ate away at her own power.
Something that left her feeling weaker with each passing day. And if what Grandmaster Altheon had told her was true… then the price to be paid might only just be beginning.
Silvia carefully pulled her black glove back on, hiding the terrible red marks from view. Just as she always did. Just as she had done every day for the past few weeks.
No one could ever know—least of all Edward. For if he were to discover that he was the reason behind all of this, he would surely blame himself.
And Silvia would never let that happen. Not even if it meant carrying this heavy secret alone for the rest of her life.
Several hours later, the exhaustion that had been building up finally overcame Edward…
His room was dark. Only a pale shaft of moonlight slipped through the cracks in the poorly closed window, painting a silver line across the worn wooden floor. Faint shadows danced slowly on the walls, as if they held a life of their own.
Edward lay flat on his simple bed. His hands rested limply at his sides, his eyes fixed intently on the faded grey ceiling.
He did not move. Did not close his eyes. Did not try to find a more comfortable position. Even his breathing was steady yet held tight, as if he were waiting for something unseen.
Because for the first time since the events at the Awakening Hall… he was afraid to sleep.
Afraid to let his consciousness drift into the realm of dreams, where he knew he would once again be faced with those glowing red eyes shining bright in the darkness.
Eyes that looked at him as though they had known him for ages, as if waiting for him to rise.
Afraid to hear those strange voices again—voices cold, heavy, and for some reason feeling so close, as if they came from within himself. Voices that whispered things he struggled to believe.
And most terrifying of all: he was afraid of finding answers he was not yet ready to accept.
Answers about who he truly was, about the power sleeping within him, and about the past that had been hidden so carefully.
Time passed slowly. Hours felt like days. The old hourglass sitting in the corner of the room slowly ran out its last grains of sand, falling one by one with a sound barely audible.
Yet eventually, the exhaustion that had built up over days won out. The heavy weight of his thoughts, the constant tension, and the fear surrounding him slowly began to wear down his strength.
His eyelids grew heavier, as if pressed down by a great weight. His sharp gaze fixed on the ceiling began to blur, the lines of shadows on the walls fading and merging into one another.
And slowly, very slowly… his consciousness began to sink, pulled into an endless haze.
Edward opened his eyes.
The sky was red.
A deep, dark red. Like dried blood upon a wound that would never heal.
There was no sun to bring warmth. No moon to shine softly. No stars twinkling to show the way.
Only an endless expanse of red sky, heavy and suffocating, as if the very roof of this world was made of frozen flesh.
Edward stood still.
He blinked several times, making sure what he saw was not an illusion. He looked carefully around him.
The ground beneath his feet was cracked, split open in long fissures like a desert that had known no water or life for centuries.
The cracks stretched away into a thin, greyish-red mist in the distance, as if swallowing anything that dared to step too far.
A soft wind blew.
It swept over the barren earth, carrying the scent of metal—sharp, cold, and alien.
And something else.
Something faint, yet strong enough to turn his stomach.
The smell of blood.
"I'm dreaming…" Edward whispered softly.
But his voice sounded strange. Weak, muffled, as if swallowed whole by the heavy silence of this world.
No echo bounced back. This place seemed unwilling to let any sound linger in the air for long.
He began to walk.
His steps were slow and careful, as if afraid to break the fragile stillness.
Yet something troubled his mind.
He did not feel afraid.
Though he should have felt terror. This place was horrifying, strange, and defied every law of logic he knew. Yet for some reason…
Deep in his heart, he felt a strange sense of familiarity.
As if he had been here in a time long past.
Or perhaps… had seen it in a memory buried deep, before time began to blur and the meaning of everything slowly faded.
The further he walked, the stronger that feeling grew. As if this cracked earth recognized his footsteps.
As if this red sky had once witnessed something deeply connected to him. His heart did not race with fear; instead, it beat slowly and steadily—as if welcoming the arrival of someone long awaited.
In the distance, the mist slowly thinned. Something began to take shape: a tall, upright figure standing motionless in the middle of the cracked land.
It stood with its back to him, yet its shadow was clear even without a visible source of light.
The wind blew a little stronger, carrying an extremely faint whisper. This time it did not come from outside, but seemed to echo softly inside his head.
"You have finally found your way home…"
Edward paused for a moment. His hand curled into a loose fist, feeling his heart begin to beat a little faster.
He recognized that voice. The same voice that had appeared in his strange dreams all this time.
Yet instead of running away, his feet stepped more firmly toward the figure. The sense of unfamiliarity slowly turned into a vague longing, mixed with an insatiable curiosity.
For deep in his heart, he was beginning to understand one thing: this was not merely a dream.
This was the place where answers to all the questions that had haunted him for so long were hidden.
And the red sky above seemed to approve of his journey.
Then he reached a wide plain.
And Edward froze.
His breath caught instantly. His eyes went wide, unable to believe what stretched out before him.
It was as if the boundary of the world had just been opened, revealing a secret locked away for centuries.
Before him lay a sea of swords.
Thousands.
No.
Tens of thousands.
Perhaps even millions. The weapons stood half-buried in the cracked earth, stretching as far as the eye could see until they merged with the red mist on the horizon.
It was as if warriors from every age had come and driven their weapons into the ground as a sign of an eternal vow.
There were long, double-edged swords, their hilts carved with patterns long faded. There were shorter, slimmer blades suited for close combat.
Also spears with points grown dull, axes with handles made of hard wood, and small hidden daggers. Even ancient weapons of unknown design, unlike anything he had seen in history books.
Most were broken. Snapped at the blade or hilt. Many were covered in thick, reddish-brown rust, as if they had drunk blood for centuries.
Some appeared whole, but their surfaces were dull, having lost their original shine. All seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep, waiting for something—or someone—to wake them once more.
The wind blew gently, slipping between the hilts and blades. It made a low, long, repeating sound.
It was not merely the scrape of metal. It sounded like soft whispers, quiet sobs, or even a mournful song—as if the voices of thousands of forgotten spirits, each with their own untold story, were murmuring to one another in the silence.
Edward swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.
"What is this place…?" he murmured again, his voice even hoarser this time. Once more, his words seemed to be swallowed instantly by the vastness around him.
He walked slowly, passing row after row of ancient weapons. He moved carefully, as if afraid to disturb the heavy peace.
Every step was accompanied by the crunch of dry earth, yet the sound vanished quickly, swallowed by the whispering wind.
The further he went, the deeper the feeling growing in his chest. It was not fear, but something far heavier.
There was a deep sadness, filling his chest until it felt tight. As if he had just heard news of losing someone he loved dearly.
There was a hollow sense of loss, opening up inside him, as if a part of himself had been missing and he had only just realized it.
And there was a faint longing, yet so strong it brought a sting to his eyes. Longing for something he could not name. Longing for a time he had never lived. Longing for a place he had never visited.
Yet he did not know what he was longing for. He did not know who might have been lost. He could not understand why this alien place could stir his emotions so deeply.
Without thinking, his hand reached out and touched the hilt of a sword covered in the thickest rust.
The moment his skin made contact with the cold metal, a faint stream of energy seemed to flow into his body. For a split second, there was a flash of light, the clash of steel, shouts, and a heavy silence.
But the vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only a cold sensation creeping up his arm.
Edward took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He looked ahead, where in the middle of this endless sea of weapons, one spot stood out.
There, in the distance, stood a sword untouched by rust. Its blade glowed with a faint silvery light, contrasting sharply with the red darkness all around.
And beside that sword, the tall figure he had seen from afar was now clearer. It still stood with its back turned, yet it felt closer, more real, as if waiting.
The wind blew again, its whisper this time a little clearer, seeming to form a single broken word:
"…Home…"
Then the world changed.
Just like that.
Without warning.
In the blink of an eye.
The sea of swords vanished.
Replaced by a city.
And Edward knew at once that it was far larger than Lingbert.
Far grander.
Tall towers rose toward the sky, their peaks seeming to pierce the clouds. Massive walls of black stone surrounded the entire area, strong and magnificent as if built to stand for a thousand years. Wide, smooth roads cut through the city center, leading to a great square that must once have gathered thousands of people.
But all that beauty had turned to ruin.
Strange black fire—not the usual orange or red—still licked the remains of buildings, consuming wood and stone in an unnatural way.
Thick grey smoke filled the air, carrying a sharp, metallic stench. The sky, once of unknown color, was now covered in a heavy layer of ash, leaving the light dim and gloomy.
The fortifications at the city gates had collapsed; the great iron doors were torn from their hinges and lay tilted on the ground. Bodies littered the streets, frozen in their final moments of struggle.
Broken swords and bent spears jutted from the armor-clad bodies of soldiers bearing emblems Edward did not recognize. Blood flowed like small streams, slowly soaking into the earth, turning it a dark brown.
Edward covered his nose and mouth. His stomach twisted violently. He felt sick, ready to retch.
This was no mere nightmare.
It was too detailed. Too real. He could feel the lingering heat of the fire, smell the thick scent of death, hear the wind that now sounded like a long, mournful wail.
And most terrifying of all…
He felt as though he had seen this place before.
Though it was impossible. He had never left the region of Lingbert in his life. He had never read a description of such a city in any village library book.
"I have never been here…" he whispered softly, his voice trembling.
But the longer he looked upon the ruined city, the stronger that sense of familiarity became. Like a memory buried deep—one that was not his own, yet felt so close.
He recognized the curve of the tallest tower, the shape of the square in the distance, even the arch of a bridge now broken in half.
Amidst his confusion, his eyes fixed upon one spot. At the end of the main road, before the ruins of what must once have been a magnificent palace…
Then he saw someone.
Standing tall amid the vast expanse of ruins.
Still.
Not moving even an inch, as if rooted to the cracked earth beneath his feet. His form was shrouded in deep, unyielding shadow that refused to fade even under the dim light filtering through the ash-choked sky.
His face was completely hidden, veiled by mist and darkness that seemed deliberately woven—almost as if the world itself refused to reveal his true appearance.
Yet within that darkness, two points of light burned bright.
Two eyes the color of blood-red embers, glowing softly yet carrying a chill that seeped straight into the marrow of one's bones.
Edward recognized them instantly.
The same eyes.
The eyes that always appeared at the edge of his dreams, in the depths of the night, in the moments when he felt most alone.
The eyes that had haunted him for so long, waking him with a racing heart and cold sweat drenching his body.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
No one spoke. No sound could be heard except the faint whisper of wind brushing over the scattered rubble.
They simply stood, gazing at one another—the distance between them feeling both close and infinitely vast.
The wind carried fine grains of ash swirling through the empty space between them, like a thin yet unbreakable barrier.
Then the figure spoke. His voice was low, heavy, and seemed to echo from all directions at once.
"You have come sooner than I expected."
Edward instinctively took a step back. His legs felt heavy, yet his instincts urged him to retreat.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse and trembling slightly, though he struggled to remain steady.
The figure let out a quiet laugh.
It was not a laugh of mockery, nor one of joy. It sounded like the laugh of someone who had waited far too long—waited until exhaustion had blended with a faint, weary relief.
"That is the wrong question," he said once the laughter faded.
Edward frowned, confused yet wary. "What?"
The figure began to walk toward him.
Slowly. Very slowly.
One step.
Two steps.
And with every footfall, a faint tremor rippled outward. New cracks snaked across the ground, spreading far and wide, as if this dream world itself bowed and trembled in his presence.
"The right question is…"
He raised his right hand slowly. Fingers cloaked in darkness pointed directly at Edward's chest, as if piercing through cloth and skin to reach his rapidly beating heart.
"…who are you?"
Edward fell silent. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his swirling thoughts.
"I am Edward," he answered firmly, though a faint doubt stirred within him.
The figure laughed again. This time louder, longer, the sound echoing off the crumbling walls and filling the entire burning city.
"Hahaha…"
"That is merely a name. A label given to you by others."
His laughter slowly died away, swallowed by the wind. Then he looked at Edward once more, and this time his gaze felt sharper, more piercing—as if it could read every secret hidden in the deepest corners of the young man's heart.
"I ask you—who are you truly?"
Edward could not answer.
He opened his mouth, yet not a single word came out. His tongue felt heavy, and for the first time, he truly understood just how much weight that question carried.
A few weeks ago, it might have sounded foolish. He would have answered easily: I am Edward, an orphan from Hougwe, a boy who grew up like any other village child.
But now…
After the destruction at the Awakening Hall.
After strange voices began to echo in his mind.
After protective symbols were placed facing his path.
After everyone began to look at him with eyes full of fear and suspicion.
He was no longer certain of his own answer.
Yet the visions kept coming.
Like memories that did not belong to him.
Or perhaps… memories that had been deliberately buried deep, now forced to resurface.
It was not merely seeing—he could feel it. The coldness of the stone steps beneath the woman's feet, the violent tremor as the sky split open, the sharp stench of blood and smoke filling the air as the kingdom fell.
All of it flowed through his veins, as if he had lived through those events thousands of years before.
Then slowly, it faded like mist blown away by the wind, leaving only silent darkness behind.
And when his vision cleared once more, he stood exactly where he had been—facing the figure whose red eyes burned bright, never blinking.
All around them, the atmosphere had shifted completely. What had once been a vague, empty space now resembled an endless corridor stretching through time.
Its walls glowed with a faint silvery light, and from far away came a low, rumbling sound—like the steady heartbeat of the world itself.
The red-eyed figure did not move. His voice spoke again, not from his lips, but resonating directly within Edward's mind—deep, heavy, and filled with hidden meaning.
"You saw it, did you not?"
Edward tightened his grip on the fabric of his trousers. His heart raced, not only from fear, but from the strange, conflicting feelings of familiarity and foreignness churning within his chest.
"What was that?" he asked quietly, yet firmly. "Why did I see it? It is not my past. I have never been there, never seen those places."
The figure slowly raised one hand. In his palm, a faint red light swirled gently like living specks of dust.
"Who says memories must always belong to oneself?" his voice echoed again. "There are memories passed down through generations.
Secrets bound to blood, to a name, to a destiny written long before you were born. What you have just seen… is but a small fragment of the truth that has been hidden from your eyes all this time."
Edward shook his head slowly, trying to deny it. Yet deep inside, he knew there was truth to the words.
Since childhood, he had always had strange dreams—voices he could not understand, the feeling of knowing places he had never visited. He had always dismissed them as childish imagination. But now?
"Why show this to me?" he asked again. "What does it have to do with me?"
The red eyes glowed a little brighter. The corridor behind the figure seemed to stretch further, leading into deeper darkness.
"Because you are the key," he replied simply. "The world you saw fall… is beginning to rise again. The rift that split the sky… is starting to open once more.
And only a soul that carries the remnant of those memories can decide: whether history will repeat itself, or whether a different ending will be written."
Suddenly, the wind howled, carrying the whispers of a thousand voices. Before Edward's eyes, the faint figure of the woman in white appeared again—clearer than before, though her face remained veiled in mist. She seemed to look directly at him, as if calling his name in silence.
"Follow me," the red-eyed figure commanded. "Your time is short. And remember: whatever you choose from this moment onward will determine the fate of far more than just yourself."
The figure turned and stepped into the corridor, which grew darker yet still glowed with faint light.
Edward stood silent for a moment. He knew that if he followed, there would be no turning back to the life he had known.
But the overwhelming curiosity, and the quiet voice within his heart that whispered this is yours, urged his feet forward.
He stepped ahead, following the path where forgotten past and uncertain future were destined to meet.
There was no answer.
Only silence.
A silence so heavy it pressed against Edward's chest, making it hard to breathe. All around, the wind stopped blowing.
The red sky above no longer throbbed faintly, but hung still like the vast, quiet roof of a tomb.
The red-eyed figure still watched him. His gaze was no longer merely a look—it felt as though it pierced through skin and bone, reaching deep into the very core of his being, reading everything that had remained hidden even from Edward himself.
"Why do you say nothing?" Edward pressed, his voice trembling slightly though he tried to sound firm. "Tell me what you mean. What was erased? Who erased it? And what does any of this have to do with me?"
The figure slowly tilted his head. The red glow in his eyes dimmed a little, shifting into a deep, sorrowful fire that still held the rage of thousands of years.
"They did not merely erase words carved in stone or writings kept in books," his voice finally came, softer this time, yet every word felt etched into Edward's mind. "They erased memory. Rewrote history. Turned heroes into villains, and truth into lies. They planted falsehoods from one generation to the next, until humanity came to believe it was the only reality."
Edward frowned. He recalled the visions he had just seen—the woman in white, the great sword, the fallen kingdom, the headless statue. It all felt strange, yet there was a faint pull in his heart, as if he had once known the very air of those places.
"And you say I am part of it?" he asked again.
The figure took one step closer. The air around them grew colder, yet strangely, it was not a biting chill—it felt like a wind carrying an ancient message, long waiting to be heard.
"Your blood does not lie," he said. "The memories you have seen are not those of a stranger. They are traces flowing through your veins. Buried deep so they would never be found, so no one would dare uncover them again. But the seed never truly dies. It waits. For the right time, and the right person, to awaken it once more."
Edward's heart beat rapidly. He thought of all the strange things he had experienced since childhood—dreams that felt far too real, the sense of recognizing places he had never been, the faint whispers he could never quite understand.
He had always dismissed them as childish fancy. Now, everything began to make sense.
"So… I am not ordinary?" he whispered, more to himself than to the other.
"We all have origins," the figure replied calmly.
"Some are revealed, many are hidden. And you… you are the last remaining key. If the truth stays buried, then the dark history of the past will repeat itself. The rift in the sky is slowly opening once more. The power that once destroyed everything is beginning to rise."
He paused for a moment, then added with greater weight:
"Those who erased the truth are preparing now. They will not allow anyone to dismantle what they have built over centuries. From this moment, Edward… you are no longer safe."
Silence settled over them once more. But this time, Edward felt something shift within himself. Fear remained, yet it mingled with a burning curiosity, and a quiet resolve slowly taking root.
He looked straight into the red eyes, and this time his voice did not tremble.
"Very well," he said. "If this is how it is… show me. Show me the rest. I want to know who I truly am, and what I must do."
The figure was silent for a moment, then gave a small nod. Behind him, the thick darkness slowly formed a path, glowing with a faint golden light that seemed to beckon.
The Last Heir
Suddenly, the sky cracked.
A deafening sound shook the very ground.
CRAAAAKK!
Edward looked up.
A rift of blinding white light tore across the red sky—exactly like the visions that had haunted his dreams for the past three years.
Always the same: the sky turning crimson, the air growing heavy, and the arrival of the being that sent a chill down his spine.
From the rift, chains of glowing light descended. Dozens. Hundreds. Shining brightly as if forged from condensed starlight, they shot swiftly toward the red-eyed figure, who stood completely still.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound of magical metal ringing out echoed all around. The chains coiled around his form—binding his arms, legs, shoulders, and neck. Yet he did not struggle. He merely let out a low sound of frustration.
"Tch."
His face remained hidden in shadow, but Edward could feel the waves of emotion radiating from him—a mix of anger, weariness, and something else, as if he had carried a heavy burden for thousands of years.
"They still watch you," the figure murmured, his voice deep and resonant, as if rising from the very depths of the earth. Then he let out a soft laugh—a sound that made the hair on Edward's neck stand on end. "Interesting. Very interesting."
The chains began to pull him slowly upward, back toward the rift in the sky. The movement was slow, yet impossible to resist. The white light grew brighter, blinding to the eyes.
Edward took a step forward, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and overwhelming curiosity.
"Wait! I still understand nothing!"
The figure turned his head slightly. His red eyes burned brighter, cutting through the darkness as if looking directly into Edward's soul.
"You will understand," he replied simply.
"No! Who are you really? What does all this mean?!" Edward shouted, no longer caring how dangerous the being before him might be.
For a moment, it seemed as though the figure wanted to stop and answer. But the light from the rift grew stronger, swallowing his form little by little. Before he vanished completely, a strong wind blew, carrying one final sentence that rang clear in Edward's ears.
"We shall meet again."
Edward clenched his fists tightly. "Wait! Your name! Tell me your name!"
Then the voice returned, fainter now, yet sharper and more chilling than before.
"The last heir."
HAAH!
Edward jolted awake, gasping for breath. He sat bolt upright in his bed, cold sweat soaking his entire body and seeping through his nightshirt. His heart beat so rapidly it felt painful against his chest.
Golden morning sunlight streamed through the cracks in the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Yet the chill from the dream still clung to him, feeling far too real to be mere imagination.
"The last heir…" he whispered hoarsely.
What did it mean? The heir to what? To whom? For as long as he could remember, he had been nothing but an orphan living on the edge of town, doing odd jobs to get by. No title, no inheritance, and certainly no great secret.
Edward bowed his head, trying to steady himself. And in that moment, his body froze.
On the palm of his left hand, a faint red symbol had appeared. Its curved lines formed an intricate pattern—exactly like the one he had seen a year ago in the sealed chamber at the Hall of Awakening, the place he had been taken to without explanation.
The symbol pulsed softly. Once. Twice. Three times. As if it had a life of its own. Then slowly its color faded, until it vanished without a trace, as if it had never been there at all.
Edward stared at his empty palm, his expression blank. A sense of unease—equal parts fear and curiosity—filled his chest.
Because for the first time in his life… something from his dream had crossed over into the real world.
With his mind still swirling as if lost in thick fog, Edward made his way down to the main floor of the orphanage.
He hoped the rich scent of porridge and toasted bread, along with the usual noise of children talking over one another, laughing, or fighting over spoons, would help ease the weight in his heart.
This morning felt different ever since he had woken from that strange dream—vague yet leaving a lingering fear deep in his bones.
But the moment his feet touched the last step, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The main hall was silent.
Far too silent.
Even the ticking of the wall clock in the corner sounded unnaturally loud, as if pounding in his ears. All the children sat closely together on the long benches, heads slightly bowed, none daring to make a sound.
Even Thomas—the ten-year-old boy who could never stop talking, asking questions, or making jokes—now simply stared at the floor, his face pale.
Standing in the center of the room was an elderly man dressed in pure white robes, usually a picture of calm and warmth.
But today, Grandmaster Altheon looked different. His face, normally lined with gentle smiles, was now set in a stern expression.
His usually kind eyes held an unspoken, heavy burden. He was far more serious than he had been even when delivering bad news a year before.
Beside him stood Silvia, the woman who had cared for them all these years. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her lips pressed firmly together, and her gaze held a fear she tried hard to hide.
Altheon slowly turned as Edward's shadow fell across the floor. Their eyes met.
For several long moments that felt like hours, no one spoke. Only the silence hung thick enough to make it hard to breathe.
Then the Grandmaster let out a long sigh, as if carrying the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders.
"Edward."
His aged voice sounded heavy, rough, and soft yet filled with gravity.
"We need to talk."