The morning sky over Hougwe stretched wide and clear, as if washed clean by the night's dew. The newly risen sun spilled across the land, casting a golden glow that brushed the tips of the leaves.
In the distance, birds soared freely above fields of wheat slowly turning golden, as if singing a wordless song of joy.
A soft summer breeze drifted through, carrying the scent of dry earth and wildflowers, then swirled gently along the village's dusty lanes, brushing against the walls of old homes and weathered wooden fences.
Everything seemed as it always had. There was no sound of disturbance, no sign of unrest. Peaceful—so peaceful that anyone who looked upon it would feel their heart settle, as if time moved slowly and nothing bad had ever happened, or ever would. As if nothing had changed at all in all these years.
But Edward knew, deep in the quietest part of his heart, that the truth was far different. He could feel it—in that same breeze, in that same sunlight, even in that same stillness. Something was different—something invisible to the eye, yet so tangible it seemed to pierce his very soul.
For ever since that day of the Awakening…
Nothing had truly been the same. Not the sky, not the fields, not the village. But rather, the way he saw the world, the way he felt every passing moment, and what he now knew of the truth that had long been hidden. Something had been awakened—and once one's eyes are opened, they can never fully close again.
Edward walked slowly along the village's main road. Each step felt light yet weighed down, as if even the ground beneath his feet held some unseen distance.
In his hand hung a simple woven basket filled with bread, still carrying a faint warmth—freshly bought to share with the children at the orphanage.
Once, a journey like this had always felt easy and pleasant. He knew nearly every soul in Hougwe, and everyone knew him in return. He had grown up here.
He could still clearly recall his childhood, when he would run joyfully along these very streets—helping merchants carry their wares, delivering letters from one house to another, and even the mischievous memory of stealing ripe apples from Old Man Joren's orchard, getting caught time and again, and having his ear pulled as punishment.
But now… everything felt different.
As he passed by, the warm, familiar gazes of the villagers shifted into something else. Conversations that had been lively and soft fell suddenly silent.
The laughter that once filled the air vanished, replaced by a stillness that felt sharp and piercing. Some people pretended to be busy arranging goods or looking away.
Others bowed their heads low, as if afraid to meet his eyes. And there were those who turned away without hesitation, walking off as if fleeing some unseen danger.
Edward tried to steady his heart, pretending not to notice all the stares and coldness. He told himself he could keep walking as he always had.
But with every step he took, it grew harder and harder to keep up the act. That invisible wall between them seemed to grow thicker and more real.
Suddenly, a young boy playing with a ball at the side of the road kicked it too hard. It rolled slowly and came to rest right near Edward's feet.
Without thinking, he reacted instinctively. He bent down, picked up the ball carefully, then looked up and offered a small, gentle smile.
"Here's your ball," he said softly, holding it out.
But the boy only stared back, his eyes wide and filled with a pure yet startling fear. Without a word, he turned and ran as fast as he could, shouting, "Mother!"
A moment later, a woman hurried over and quickly pulled the boy behind her, as if shielding him from harm. "Thank you…" she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. Yet there was no warmth in her tone—only a trembling fear she tried hard to hide.
Edward nodded faintly and held the ball a little closer. As soon as it was taken from his hand, he continued on his way, saying nothing more.
Only now, the basket of bread in his hand, which had felt so light before, seemed to grow heavier and heavier—as if it carried a burden far greater than what lay inside.
On the other side of the village, far from the bustle of the main road, stood the Hall of Awakening, wrapped in deep silence. Much of the old building had been repaired, yet the scars of the event that had once shaken it would never truly fade.
Fine cracks still marked the surface of its supporting pillars. Dark stains from old mana explosions lingered on the walls, like silent witnesses that could not be deceived. And in nearly every corner, protective symbols now glowed faintly, as if trying to hold back any danger that might return.
Inside its quiet study, Grandmaster Altheon sat gazing at a letter in his hand. It had arrived only moments before, carried swiftly by a magic messenger bird. Its words were brief—far too brief for one accustomed to reading long, detailed reports—yet those few lines were enough to change the entire look on his face.
Your report has reached them. They have begun to move.
Altheon closed his eyes. For a long time. A very long time. As if holding back some heavy weight deep within his chest—something too great to be put into words. Slowly, he opened his eyes and set the letter down upon the old wooden desk, as if placing something far heavier than mere paper.
Silvia, who had been standing near the bookshelf, watched his every move closely. "Is something wrong?" she asked softly.
Altheon did not answer immediately. He walked slowly toward the large window, looking out over the village stretching in the distance—until his gaze finally settled on one place: the orphanage where Edward lived.
"The report has reached the capital," he said at last, his voice heavy and flat.
Silvia froze in place, her breath catching for a moment. "They know?"
"Yes."
"Who has read it?"
"That is what worries me most."
Silvia frowned, not fully understanding. "Grandmaster, should the kingdom not come to help? Is this not what we hoped for?"
Altheon gave a quiet laugh. But it was not a laugh of relief. It was the laugh of one who had lived far too long, who had seen too many of the world's secrets, and knew all too well that things rarely go according to one's wishes.
"Silvia," he called gently, yet with great weight. "When someone possesses a power that others do not understand…"
He paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully.
"And when that power draws the attention of the kingdom…"
His gaze grew distant, looking far beyond the village, beyond the limits of time itself.
"Such stories rarely end well."
Silvia fell silent, unable to reply. For the first time in her life, she saw something rarely revealed: a genuine, unmasked worry, clearly visible in Grandmaster Altheon's eyes.
Far from Hougwe. Far from this tiny village that barely appeared on any map, where life moved simply and time seemed to pass slowly. There stood the capital of the Kingdom of Huinjou—the beating heart of the realm, glowing with light and power. It was the greatest city in all the land, where everything seemed larger, brighter, and far grander than anything the villagers of Hougwe could ever imagine.
Crystal spires pierced high into the sky, reflecting the sunlight so they shone with a soft radiance visible for miles around. Broad, smooth white stone roads stretched out in every direction, cutting through the city like rivers that never ran dry. Along faintly glowing mana rails, carriages glided silently, carrying people from one end of the city to the other without a sound. Thousands of mages walked among the colorful bustle of the markets, the winding halls of ancient libraries holding countless secrets, and the grounds of academies where knowledge was passed down through generations.
Yet at the very center of it all, where all roads met, stood the Huinjou Palace. Truly magnificent, it was so vast it spanned nearly the size of an entire city district. Its walls were built of gleaming white marble, paired with gracefully shining gilded roofs. Its tall towers rose proudly, clearly visible from tens of kilometers away—like a silent reminder of the power that lay within. It was here that all decisions shaping the fate of the kingdom were made.
And that morning, in one of the palace's most hidden chambers, behind heavy, heavily guarded doors, a secret meeting was taking place.
The Royal Council Chamber. A vast, circular room that felt wide and still, as if it could hold all the secrets accumulated over centuries. Its walls were not plain; they were lined with the ancient emblems of the kingdom, standing beside rows of glowing runes that held unseen protective power.
Right in the center stood a round table carved from clear crystal, reflecting the light of the magical lamps above to cast slow, shifting shadows. Seated around it were the people who held the fate of thousands of lives across Huinjou. There was the Commander of the Military, with his sharp gaze and years of experience; the Head Mage of the Kingdom, whose face was calm yet held deep wisdom; the Minister of the Interior, who knew every detail of the realm's affairs; and the Keeper of Secret Archives, who knew all that history had deliberately buried.
And upon a seat slightly higher than the rest, in the place of greatest honor, sat the King.
In the room, not a sound could be heard. No casual chatter, no laughter—not even the quiet sound of breathing. All eyes were fixed upon one thing, for what lay before them was no ordinary document to be discussed as part of daily business.
In the center of the crystal table lay a neatly folded report. In its upper corner was stamped a bright red seal—one rarely used, reserved only for matters deemed of the highest importance and greatest danger. Clearly written upon it were the words:
HIGHEST PRIORITY
The atmosphere grew heavier still. Everyone present understood well that what was written within was not merely news from a small village, but something that could change the course of the kingdom's history.
The Commander of the Military clicked his tongue, his voice thick with disdain.
"Just a village boy. What could he possibly do to cause us such trouble?"
The Minister of the Interior nodded in agreement, his face serious as he considered the burdens of governance.
"I agree. It is true that the destruction of the Hall of Awakening is not a matter to be taken lightly. But right now, we face a real threat—a growing rebellion in the eastern territories that has nearly cut off our trade routes and endangered the lives of our people. This matter does not deserve to be placed as our highest priority."
Several other council members nodded in agreement, exchanging looks of shared opinion. But the atmosphere shifted instantly as the Keeper of Secret Archives slowly turned to the final page of the document. With careful movements, he laid an illustration upon the crystal table.
There it was, clearly drawn: the symbol of an eye, bright red blending with deep blue, as if holding both fire and an unfathomable depth.
In that moment, the entire room fell into utter silence. No one breathed, no one dared to move even slightly. Even the air itself seemed to grow heavier, as if its weight had multiplied many times over, seeping into the very bones of those present.
The Commander of the Military, who had been so certain and dismissive only moments before, slowly furrowed his brow. His stern face paled, his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon the symbol. His voice, once loud and commanding, grew rough and low.
"Where… where did you obtain this symbol?"
The Keeper of Secret Archives met his gaze steadily, though a faint tremor lingered in his eyes.
"It was included in full within the report sent from the ruins of the Hall of Awakening."
"Impossible," murmured the Head Mage, his hands gripping the table so tightly they began to sweat. "That symbol has been lost—buried in history for thousands of years."
"That is exactly what we thought at first when we saw it," replied the Keeper quietly but firmly. "Until we compared it against the oldest volumes in the archives—texts most dare not even touch."
The King finally took the document. His fingers, marked with fine lines of age, touched the paper carefully, as if handling something that might erupt at any moment. He read every line with calmness—too calm—as if he were reading a weather report rather than news that could shake all of civilization.
He read of the Hall of Awakening, reduced to rubble and dust. Of the being known as the Vessel. Of the signs marking the rise of something called the Manifestation of the Destroyer. Of the unfamiliar name clearly written: Edward Briar. And finally, of the red-and-blue eye symbol, neatly drawn upon the final page.
The King's expression barely changed. Still firm, still composed, as if nothing could ever shake his resolve. But those who had stood beside him for decades, who knew every subtle shift in his features, could tell something was very different.
His gaze changed. Just for a moment. So brief it might have been missed by anyone not paying close attention. Yet there, hidden beneath his firm exterior, was a faint tremor. A trace of fear. A fear that rarely ever appeared—not even when war raged, not even when plague swept the land, not even when his own life had once been at stake.
The Head Mage watched this change carefully. His voice low and cautious, he broke the silence: "Your Majesty?"
The King closed the report slowly. The sound of folding paper seemed loud in the quiet room. He looked at each person present in turn, then spoke in a flat yet heavy tone: "Continue."
That was all. A single, simple word—yet it weighed upon the hearts of all who heard it. But one unspoken truth hung in the air, clear to everyone in the room: the King recognized that symbol.
The Keeper of Secret Archives then opened an old wooden box. Its surface was dark and etched with the marks of time, sealed tightly with three faintly glowing royal runes. When he touched it with the ancient passphrase known only to those who inherited his post, the seals faded slowly, revealing secrets buried for thousands of years.
Inside lay an ancient document. Its pages were thin and fragile, nearly ruined by age and dampness. Much of its writing had faded, lost to time. Several pages were torn and missing, as if deliberately removed and destroyed so that no eyes might ever read them.
He opened the final page that remained intact, and read aloud in a quiet yet heavy voice: "If the Eye of Balance should appear once again…"
The sentence stopped. Cut off abruptly. The rest of the writing was gone—there were ragged tears and smudged burn marks, as if someone had frantically destroyed what came next. No one knew what had once been written there.
The Minister of the Interior swore softly, his tone a mix of disappointment and frustration. "Is that all?"
"It is," replied the Keeper, bowing his head.
"Who destroyed it?"
"We do not know. The last records state that the document was already in this condition three hundred years ago, when it was moved to the deepest storage chamber."
Silence once again settled over the room. Sometimes, a mystery left unanswered is far more unsettling, far more frightening, than a complete explanation that the mind can understand. Everyone present knew one thing: there was something the ancestors had feared so greatly that they had allowed this part of history to remain broken forever. Yet now, the symbol had returned—and the buried secrets were slowly beginning to surface, even without their full words.
The silence that had filled the room began to shift, and debate could no longer be avoided.
The Commander of the Military stood tall, his expression firm and resolute. He looked across the entire chamber with an unyielding gaze.
"We cannot afford to take even the smallest risk," he said in a heavy voice. "If what is written here is true—if this boy truly is the vessel, the Vessel…"
He pointed toward the report lying in the center of the table, as if indicating something dangerous.
"…then we must act decisively. We must stop him before it is too late—before that power grows and becomes a threat we can no longer control."
Several other council members nodded in agreement. In the world of politics and power, nipping danger in the bud was often seen as the safest course of action.
But the Head Mage of the Kingdom shook his head slowly. His weathered face radiated wisdom that had stood the test of time.
"That would be an extremely foolish move," he said calmly yet firmly.
The Commander turned, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "Foolish?"
"Yes," replied the Head Mage without hesitation. He looked at each person present in turn, as if ensuring every word was fully understood. "If this symbol truly matches exactly what is recorded in our oldest archives—texts most of us dare not even speak of—then this boy may possess a value far greater, far more precious, than all the wealth, armies, and territories of this kingdom combined."
At these words, the chamber erupted into noise once more. Questions and objections arose from all sides.
"So you are saying we should turn him into a weapon for the kingdom?" asked one council member suspiciously.
"That is not what I said," the Head Mage corrected quickly.
"Then what do you mean?" pressed another.
"I am simply saying," he replied softly but firmly, "that we do not yet truly understand what it is we are facing. We do not know if he will bring destruction—or if he may be the only hope we have left."
The debate continued for some time. Voices grew louder, arguments clashed, and opinions split into two equally determined sides. The atmosphere grew increasingly heated, until the air itself felt heavy and stifling.
But in the midst of the commotion, a single voice rang out—low, yet carrying enough weight to cut through all the noise.
"Enough."
Just one word. Yet its effect was immediate.
Every mouth fell silent. All eyes turned toward one place. Stillness settled over the room once more—deeper and heavier than before.
The King stood slowly. His movements were calm, yet they carried such authority that the silence in the room seemed to deepen. His gaze swept across every face around the table, as if weighing their hearts and thoughts one by one.
"We do not have enough information," he said in a clear, steady tone. "We do not know if this boy is truly a threat to be feared. Nor do we know if he may instead be the answer that has long been hidden from us."
He walked slowly toward the large window at the side of the chamber, gazing out at the vast sky above the capital—beyond the crystal spires, beyond the grand rooftops that stood as symbols of the realm's power. A moment later, he turned and spoke:
"Send observers."
The Commander frowned, his expression clearly showing his displeasure. "Not soldiers?"
"No."
"Nor executioners?"
"No."
"Then why only observers?" he pressed again, still unable to fully understand the decision.
The King turned fully to face him, and his once-calm gaze grew sharp, piercing straight to the heart.
"Because only a fool would so easily destroy something they do not yet understand."
The words hung in the air—heavy and undeniable. The room fell into profound silence once more. The decision had been made, and no one dared to object further.
Yet not everyone who might have reason to know—or perhaps should not have known—was officially present in that meeting.
Hidden behind one of the thick stone walls, in a passage known only to a handful of people, someone stood perfectly still. He blended so seamlessly into the shadows that he seemed to become part of them. A man dressed in black robes, his hood pulled low to hide most of his face, leaving only a sliver of light falling upon the corner of his mouth and his eyes.
His breathing was steady and soft, almost entirely silent. Not a single guard patrolling the outer corridors was aware of his presence. Even the air around him seemed reluctant to move, afraid to disturb the stillness he had created.
He listened closely to every word spoken within.
When the name Edward Briar was mentioned, the corner of his hidden lips lifted slightly—a faint smile, difficult to interpret. It was neither kind nor angry, but rather one that suggested he had heard something he had long been waiting for.
Then, as the report was opened and the intricate red-and-blue symbol was revealed, his eyes narrowed sharply. There was a strange glint in them—not fear, but recognition. As if he knew that mark better than anyone seated in the room beyond.
And when the King's voice declared that observers would be sent—not soldiers, not assassins…
The man stepped slowly backward.
He needed to hear no more. All he required had been learned. Without making the slightest sound, without touching a single object, he turned and vanished into the palace's secret passageways. He moved silently and lightly, exactly like a shadow that fades as soon as the light shifts.
The meeting inside might have ended, and its secrets might have been locked away tightly. But in this world, there are always eyes watching, ears listening, and plans beginning to move—long before anyone else even realizes it.
That very same night, the man found himself in a secret chamber deep beneath the capital city. It was a place entirely cut off from the bustle and grandeur above. There were no windows to let in the night air, no royal emblems carved into the walls, no signs that might reveal who owned this place. Only the dim, flickering glow of ancient candles and rows of neatly lined bookshelves holding secrets locked away for centuries.
Right in the center of the room lay an extremely old map of the world. Its paper was thin and faded, yet its lines remained clearly drawn. This was not the kind of map taught in schools or used by merchants and explorers of the present day. It was different, for it showed lands that had long been lost to history—places thought to exist only in legends.
Slowly, with deliberate movements, he picked up a small knife with a hilt carved from bone and ancient metal. Without hesitation, he drove its tip into one tiny marked spot: Hougwe.
"So at last I have found you," he murmured softly, his voice echoing gently in the quiet room.
He then reached for a thick book lying nearby. Its cover was worn with age, its pages yellowed and brittle, some parts damaged and difficult to read. But when he opened it to the very last page, he found it was still intact and well-preserved.
There were three illustrations there. The first was the same red-and-blue eye symbol that had appeared in the report. The second depicted an ancient sword—sturdy in appearance, yet marked with a long crack running down its blade. The third was the silhouette of a person, though the face had been deliberately erased, as if no one was ever meant to know what they looked like.
Beneath the three images, a single short sentence was written, yet it carried great weight:
The Last Heir
The man in black robes stared at those words for a long time, as if trying to see past the meaning of each letter. Slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile—not one of peace or kindness, but the smile of someone who had waited for an age and finally saw the sign they had been waiting for begin to appear.
"One thousand years…" he whispered again, his voice nearly swallowed by the faint draft in the chamber. "And at last, the trail has reappeared."
At that moment, the candle flames around him flickered gently, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls.
Far away, in a very different place—the small village of Hougwe—Edward lay fast asleep. He had no idea that his name had now become a matter of great importance in the highest chambers of the kingdom. He did not realize that the realm's rulers had turned their eyes and attention toward him. Most of all, he did not know that someone from an organization hidden in darkness had already begun to move, making their way toward him.
To Edward, tomorrow would be just another ordinary day, same as always.
But to the far wider world, beyond the borders of his small village…
A long, mysterious new chapter had only just begun.
To be continued