A dim, flickering glow greets him as he slowly blinks awake. Tiny, comforting lights—soft as drifting embers—hover in the air before melting away upon his skin. Each one leaves behind a fleeting warmth, like a whisper against his body before vanishing entirely.
Obinai exhales, a heavy, exhausted sigh. His muscles ache, his head pounds, and when he tries to shift, a sharp pain stabs through his side. Instinctively, his hand flies to the spot, fingers pressing against the lingering soreness. He groans. Figures.
His mind is still foggy, but fragments of the dream—or rather, the nightmare—linger. Beelzebub's voice still echoes, seared into his thoughts.
He's seen my memories.
That bastard.
Obinai shuts his eyes for a brief second, willing away the nausea curling in his stomach.
The things he said…
The things he claimed to have done…
His fingers dig into his ribs, nails pressing against fabric.
And then, his father's voice bleeds into his thoughts.
The Reverend Soulless.
He exhales sharply. Scoffs. "Tch."
"Sounds kinda cool, if I'm being honest," he mutters under his breath.
The amusement dies as fast as it comes. His brows furrow.
It does sound cool.
And yet… it also sounds wrong.
A whisper of something dark. Something Vale had warned him about...
The Soulless. Those who had drowned in their own essence, who had lost control, who had been swallowed by it—becoming nothing more than mindless, corrupt husks. Creatures who moved in the night. Who terrorized the living. Who left misery in their wake.
A cold shudder rolls down his spine.
His father couldn't have meant it like that… could he?
Too much to think about. Too much he doesn't know.
The experiments. The war. The truth about the Wall. The guys who locked humans away. The ones who severed their connection to essence.
He clenches his jaw.
What were they hiding?
What were they so afraid of?
The questions burn inside him, but the answers aren't here. They never were...
He needs to go forward.
That's the only way.
His grip tightens around his side before he releases it with a slow breath.
One step at a time.
Obinai turns over, pushing himself upright. His legs shake beneath him. His vision tilts.
His body betrays him.
He crashes to his knees, a harsh grunt escaping through clenched teeth. He forces himself to breathe through it, blinking past the dizziness.
Not yet.
He plants his hands on the floor, fingers pressing against the grain of the wooden boards, digging into them. He grits his teeth, bracing himself—forcing his body to obey.
With effort, he rises again. This time, he stays standing. His breaths come heavy, his pulse thundering against his skull.
Weak.
Still weak.
His fists clench. No.
This is temporary.
His limbs may be exhausted, his body drained, but he has endured worse. So much worse.
One step at a time.
Obinai stumbles forward, his legs stiff. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand across his face before reaching for the ladder. The wood is cool against his fingertips. He grips the rungs tightly, feeling the slight give beneath his weight as he begins his descent.
Step by step.
His fingers throb, his arms burning as he forces his body to comply. He lets out a slow breath, keeping his focus on the rungs beneath him, ignoring the way his shoulders protest.
"I was supposed to have a good night's rest, damn it..."
A quiet huff escapes him—half a chuckle, half a sigh. Of course, that was too much to ask for.
The ladder creaks slightly as he descends further, the faint scent of aged wood mixing with the subtle dampness in the air...
Then, his gaze lands on the table.
He freezes.
The scent hits him first.
Warm. Rich. Comforting.
He turns slowly, and there it is.
A meal—meticulously prepared.
A large, roasted chicken sits at the center, its golden-brown skin crisp and glistening, resting atop a bed of fresh, vibrant greens. Surrounding it are steamed vegetables—carrots, broccoli, peas—glazed lightly with honey and herbs.
A loaf of freshly baked bread lies nearby, its crust deep brown, perfectly crisp. Beside it, a small dish of butter, smooth and creamy.
It's a feast.
A farewell.
His hands curl into unsteady fists. Vale.
He swallows past the lump in his throat and finally steps closer.
Next to the meal, folded neatly, are travel clothes.
A dark olive tunic, its fabric a blend of durable cotton and finely woven wool, reinforced with faintly metallic threading that catches the light in a subdued sheen. The shoulders bear subtle, overlapping leather inlays.
A pair of charcoal-brown leather trousers, reinforced at the knees with layered padding and flexible brass rivets that gleam under the dim light. Thin, almost imperceptible seams run along the sides, hinting at hidden pockets.
And then—the cloak.
Heavier than he expects. The deep moss-green fabric is thick yet fluid, draping like flowing water, its hem embroidered with an intricate pattern of interlocking sigils—delicate, but undeniably mechanical in their symmetry. Copper-threaded filigree runs along the trim, woven so finely that it nearly vanishes unless the light strikes at the right angle. The inside is lined with soft, insulated material, ensuring warmth without unnecessary bulk.
A silver clasp, shaped like a crescent moon entwined with delicate gears, holds it in place. The metal polished to a near-mirror finish. It's a symbol of something—a guild, a lost era, a forgotten craft? Obinai doesn't know, but it feels significant in a way he can't quite explain...
At the foot of the table, a pair of well-crafted leather boots rests beside the cloak. The soles are reinforced with a layer of shock-absorbing material, while thin, segmented brass plating is worked into the heels and toe caps. Straps and buckles run up the sides, adjustable for fit.
Obinai stares at the ensemble...
"This… looks a bit different from what I'm used to," he mutters, running a hand over the cloak's embroidered trim. The fabric is smooth under his fingertips...
Then, after a beat—a smirk.
"But damn, does it look cool."
He exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head.
"I might stand out in this, though…"
A laugh, softer this time.
And finally—on top of everything else—
A note.
Neatly folded. An envelope resting atop it.
His fingers hover over the letter. He hesitates. Just for a second.
Then, he exhales.
He picks it up.
His hands tremble slightly as he unfolds it.
And there it is.
Vale's handwriting.
He begins...
Dear Obinai,
By the time you read this, I will already be gone. I apologize for leaving this way, but understand—this is not abandonment. It is necessity.
You have outgrown this place.
Inside the pocket of your travel clothes, you will find a small crystal. Once you have finished your meal and gathered your belongings, hold it tightly and speak the word: Return.
When you do, you will be transported a few miles outside the Kingdom of Amrosia. There, the next step of your journey awaits. You will find the gates of Elona Academy, an institution old as the kingdom itself, a place where knowledge is hoarded like gold.
On top of these letter, you will find a sealed letter of recommendation. Do not open it. Do not tamper with it. Present it, untouched, to the headmaster upon your arrival. This letter is your key. With it, you are a student of Elona.
Make no mistake—this will not be an easy path. Amrosia is a kingdom of the Exalted, a land ruled by royalty and noble bloodlines. The Grounded walk carefully there, and the Forsaken exist only as whispers in shadow. The laws will protect you, but nothing more.
Have the reasons for your journey fuel you.
*And one more warning: Do not use your last name.*
In this kingdom, a name is not simply an identity—it is a declaration of power and lineage. If you are not born of their blood, yet claim a name you have no right to, it will not simply offend them—it will mark you as an imposter. And for those who do not belong, Amrosia offers no mercy.
Conceal it. Let them know you only as Obinai. Nothing more.
I have given you all that I can—nearly thirty spells, including one of ancient magic. Refine them. Master them. Then learn even more. Magic is not simply an extension of power; it is the language of the world itself. Each spell is a sentence in an unspoken conversation, each incantation a thread woven into reality. If you do not understand the words you speak, they will consume you.
And history, Obinai—history holds answers as well. Amrosia thrives on illusion, rewriting its past as easily as one rewrites a tale. Look deeper. Read between the lines. Truth is rarely found in what is written, but rather in what has been erased.
And one last thing.
Never see yourself as a savior.
That path is paved with ruin.
Many before you have believed themselves righteous. Many have believed they alone could change the world. And many have burned for it.
Do what must be done, but never let the weight of it crush you. You are not their champion. You are not their martyr.
You are Obinai. That is enough.
With faith in your strength,
*—Vale*
Obinai exhales through his nose, staring at the words long after he's finished reading.
He folds the letter carefully, placing it back atop his travel clothes. His fingers linger on the envelope, tracing the edges. A sealed promise. He doesn't know what's written inside, but he trusts Vale. Or at least, he chooses to.
His eyes flicker to the table. The warm glow of lantern light dances across the meal, casting soft shadows along the wooden surface. The scent alone is a comforting warmth in the pit of his stomach.
He sits.
For a moment, he simply stares at the meal, his fingers drumming absently against the table's worn surface. His mind wanders, shifting through...
He should be excited.
He should be relieved.
But instead, he feels… adrift.
A life in near-peace, a year in training, and now—this. A leap into the unknown, a kingdom he's never seen, a society that would sooner spit on him than acknowledge him.
I'll manage.
I always do.
Shaking the thoughts away, he reaches for the food and begins to eat.
The chicken is tender, the skin crisp and flavorful, seasoned with a blend of spices that linger on his tongue. The vegetables are soft but not overcooked, each bite carrying the perfect mix of earthiness and sweetness. The bread, still warm,** breaks apart easily, the crust flaking between his fingers, its rich, yeasty scent grounding him.
He eats slowly, savoring each bite.
It's not just a meal. It's a sendoff.
His chest tightens again, but he doesn't dwell on it.
Not now.
By the time he finishes, he leans back slightly, hands resting on his lap, his breath steady. A familiar drowsiness creeps in, the warmth of the food settling in his stomach, making his eyelids grow heavier.
He shakes himself awake, rubbing his face. "No time for that," he mutters. "Gotta get moving."
Obinai exhales and runs a hand through his hair before reaching for the travel clothes. They're slightly heavier than he expected...
He picks up the dark olive tunic first, shaking it out before pulling it over his head. The fabric is strange against his skin—sturdy, yet unexpectedly soft where it rests against his shoulders. The metallic threading catches faintly in the dim light as he adjusts the fit. The sleeves sit just right, but the reinforced leather inlays at the shoulders feel stiff. He rolls his arms back, shifting uncomfortably before tugging at the material. It resists at first, then eases, the fibers adapting to his movements.
"Not bad," he mutters, smoothing a hand down the front.
Next, he grabs the charcoal-brown trousers. He steps into them one leg at a time, only to realize—the fit is tighter than he expected. He tugs them up, grimacing as the reinforced padding at the knees momentarily snags. A few frustrating seconds pass before he gets them properly adjusted.
The material is thick, sturdy...
He pats the side, fingers brushing against the almost invisible pockets, barely detectable even when he knows where to find them. Smart design.
Then...
...the cloak.
He lifts it, expecting the usual weight of a traveling cloak, but it's lighter, richer, like woven shadows slipping through his fingers. The deep moss-green fabric is thick yet fluid, cascading over his hands like water. When he drapes it over his shoulders, the weight settles comfortably, though the way it moves suggests a finer craftsmanship than anything he's worn before.
The hem brushes against the back of his legs, the embroidered sigils along the edges feeling raised, textured beneath his fingertips as he adjusts it. Copper-threaded filigree glints subtly when he moves, catching the light only at the right angles. He fiddles with it for a moment, unsure if he's wearing it correctly, then gives up and just focuses on the clasp.
The silver crescent moon, entwined with delicate gears, is cool beneath his fingertips. He tries to fasten it—only to fumble with the mechanism.
He exhales sharply, irritation flaring as he struggles to slot the clasp into place. "Come on, you stupid—"
Click.
It snaps together at last, securing the cloak against his chest. Obinai releases a breath, fingers lingering over the polished metal. A symbol of something. But of what?
Vale never mentioned it.
It doesn't matter. It's his now.
The boots are the last piece. He slides his foot into the first one and immediately notices the difference. The interior molds to his foot, firm yet flexible. The thick, reinforced soles feel sturdy but not cumbersome.
He bends to fasten the straps, only to buckle them too tight on the first try. He curses under his breath, adjusting them until they're snug but don't cut into his ankles. The segmented brass plating at the heels and toe caps adds a faint weight...
When he finally straightens, he rolls his shoulders, shifting his stance. The fabric moves with him, the weight balanced, the fit secure but unrestrictive.
"This is… different."
He's used to simpler clothes, things that don't take effort to put on. But this? This was made for him. Or someone like him. Someone meant to move, to fight, to endure.
He exhales, reaching up to run his fingers over the clasp one last time before dropping his hands to his sides.
"No point thinking too much about it."
With that, he takes a step forward, the faintest sound of his boots meeting the ground the only noise in the quiet room.
Finally, he reaches into the pocket of his trousers. His fingers close around something cool, smooth, and pulsing faintly with energy.
He pulls out the crystal.
It's mesmerizing—roughly the size of a walnut, but weightless in his palm. The glow shifts from deep azure to brilliant emerald, then fades into a soft violet. The colors swirl and pulse like tiny stars trapped within, flickering with an inner light.
Obinai watches it, entranced.
Vale made this.
Vale made all of this.
And now he's just… gone.
His fingers tighten around the crystal.
Obinai huffs, shaking his head. "Damn cryptic old man," he mutters, pocketing the stone.
He looks at the empty cottage, at the soft glow of the lanterns, the warmth still lingering in the air...
One last deep breath.
Then, with a final glance at the table, he turns.
"Time to pack up."
Obinai climbs the ladder one last time, emerging into the study—his room.
The dim glow of slow falling faint light wisp in the air like soft embers, their golden light cascading down before fading into nothingness. The room is warm, the air still carrying the familiar scent of aged parchment, faint incense, and the lingering aroma of burnt wood.
It feels lived in...
His gaze sweeps the space, a quiet huff of amusement slipping past his lips.
"I can't believe I actually asked him to put a bookshelf in here…"
A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head, stepping further in, his boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor.
The shelf lines the wall now, stuffed haphazardly with tomes, ink-stained journals, and a few leather-bound volumes. Small artifacts are scattered among them—objects that don't quite belong, strange and intricate.
His fingers hover over a peculiar trinket perched on the edge of a shelf. It's small, metallic, its surface etched with swirling, interlocking patterns. A tiny mechanism sits at its center, delicate gears barely visible through the filigree.
He picks it up, feeling the smooth metal shift under his touch. His thumb instinctively presses against a raised symbol on its side.
Click.
The device stirs to life, gears turning with a soft, rhythmic pulse before releasing a sound—a melody.
It starts as a low hum, deep, resonant, almost like a whisper against his ribs. Then, it swells, layers unfolding into something eerily beautiful. Hints of a symphony weave through the air, but the instruments sound…wrong. Or rather, unlike anything he's ever heard. A deep, hollow chime. A distant reverberation, like wind through metal. And beneath it all—a voice.
Not words. Not a song.
But something achingly close to an opera singer's wail.
A shiver crawls up his spine.
Obinai lets out a slow breath, rolling the trinket between his fingers. Vale said this was used to calm soldiers in war. Help them sleep.
He glances at it again...
"It's… kind of sad," he murmurs to himself. His voice feels too loud against the melody's lingering echo.
Yet, despite its eerie, haunting quality, he doesn't put it down.
Instead, his grip tightens slightly.
"I can't help but find this kind of… homey, I guess."
The thought is quiet, but it settles deep.
His gaze drifts, sweeping across the room...his home.
A soft exhale escapes him as he sets the trinket down. His fingers linger for a moment before he starts to pull away—
Then he hesitates.
Something about leaving it behind doesn't sit right.
With a quiet click of his tongue, he picks it back up, rolling the cool metal between his fingers.
"Might as well bring at least one thing that isn't food," he mutters under his breath, casting a glance around the room.
His gaze lands on a small, well-crafted pouch hanging off the end of his bed. He hadn't noticed it before...
Clicking his teeth, he strides over and snatches it up, running his fingers over the dark leather. Supple but firm.
He flips open the pouch, inspecting the multiple compartments inside. Neatly spaced. Designed for function. Small slots perfect for vials. His fingers graze the inner lining, feeling the subtle reinforcement beneath the surface—not just an ordinary bag.
"Fits too well to be random."
With a small huff, he tightens the straps around his waist, adjusting them until they sit just right—secure, snug.
The trinket in his palm hums faintly as he turns it over once more. The sensation is barely there, like a whisper against his skin.
Wordlessly, he slips it into the pouch, tucking it into one of the compartments before fastening the flap shut.
Obinai exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders, letting his muscles settle beneath the weight of his gear.
"Alright. That's that."
No point hesitating.
A canteen of fresh water. A few rations of dried meat and fruit. A set of writing tools and blank parchment. Anything useful, anything necessary.
When he reaches the final item—the sealed letter—he pauses.
The parchment is thick, the envelope pressed shut with an ornate silver wax seal.
What exactly did Vale write?
The thought lingers, but he quickly shoves it away. Doesn't matter. Vale told him not to open it.
And despite all of Vale's cryptic nonsense, Obinai trusts him.
He slides the letter into a separate pocket inside the pouch, ensuring it's protected before reaching for his essence.
Drawing energy to his fingertips, he places them against the pouch, feeling the magic pulse beneath his skin. He murmurs, "[Expansio.]"
A faint hum vibrates through the air as the runes along the leather softly glow, expanding the space within the bag. The magic settles, disappearing as quickly as it came.
Obinai grins, pleased. "Nice. That'll make things easier."
Once everything is packed, he makes his way downstairs, lingering for a brief moment in the main room. The wooden beams above, the worn stone floor, the ever-present scent of the forest seeping in through the cracks. This cottage, despite its small size, had been a world of its own. A place of safety. A place where he had grown.
And now, it's behind him.
He steps outside, greeted by the crisp, cool air of the forest. The night is still, but alive—a gentle wind stirs the treetops, the rustling leaves whispering their farewell...
Obinai takes a long breath, filling his lungs with the scent of pine, earth, and damp wood.
"Damn, I'm gonna miss this place."
His voice is quiet, almost lost...
He chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he pulls the crystal from his pocket.
The smooth, glowing gem pulses with a gentle rhythm, its light shifting seamlessly between deep sapphire, emerald green, and soft violet. It feels cool in his palm, yet strangely alive, as if something inside it were breathing.
"This thing kinda reminds me of that time..." he mutters absently, turning it over in his fingers. His mind drifts...
The first time Vale had thrown him into the wilds alone. The sudden terrain shift, the ground splitting beneath him, the sheer drop into that gorge. The way he had barely managed to crawl his way out before Vale's infuriatingly smug face greeted him at the top.
He shivers. "This is just like that, but worse."
This time, it's not a gorge.
It's the entire world.
His grip on the crystal tightens. How big is it, really?
He remembers Mya once telling him how scientists theorized...
His stomach twists.
No. Don't think about that now.
He shakes his head, forcing his thoughts away.
Instead, he focuses on Amrosia—the floating kingdom. Vale had said it was made up of clusters of islands, suspended high in the sky, connected by bridges and pathways woven with magic and machinery. A world in the clouds.
That part, at least, sounded kind of cool.
"...What else did he say about using this?"
Obinai examines the crystal again, narrowing his eyes. He shrugs. Probably doesn't matter.
He exhales, holding it tight in his hand.
"Thank you, Vale," he mutters.
The words hang in the air, fragile, real. Then, with one final breath, he speaks:
"[Return.]"
The world shatters.
A sudden pull—a force so strong it yanks the breath from his lungs. The air around him distorts, warping like a heatwave, colors blending together in a chaotic swirl. The trees vanish, the ground beneath him disappears—
And then, he's falling...