It was night. In that region, silence at every turn was the norm. The stillness shattered when a tremor rippled through the street and a distant cry rent the air.
The road appeared almost deserted, but a glowing signal light and the clatter of horses' hooves. Like a royal troop's advance, suggested that something had transpired there.
In moments, the empty street filled with several royal guards who halted their horses in unison.
One of them, a young officer cloaked in black bearing the winged lion emblem, dismounted. He fixed his gaze on a narrow alley off the road, the source of the scream.
"Search inside. Make sure no one's left behind!" he ordered sharply.
A handful of soldiers hurried into the alley, their steps quick but organized. Meanwhile, the officer stepped into the street's center and bent down to examine the ground.
The soil was still damp from the afternoon's rain, and among the drying mud were drag marks… and spots of blood.
"We found something!" one soldier shouted from the alley.
The officer sprinted over. An old man, battered and bruised, leaned limply against a stone wall. His eyes were open but vacant.
"Still alive…" the soldier murmured, checking the man's pulse. "But barely."
The officer approached. He recognized the figure, not an ordinary villager, but one of the ancient watchers who once lived in the northern observatory tower.
Those men were known only to a select few, yet their presence always heralded greater events.
"Quick! Send for the healer from the eastern garrison. And dispatch word to the palace. Tell them… this was no ordinary attack."
From afar, the night wind carried the distant chime of metal, its source unknown.
And the sky, once simply dark, now glowed with a faint purple hue… a sign that something strange had just occurred there.
---
[One Day Earlier]
It drizzled that afternoon. The small town nestled among the hills dimmed as mist and damp air closed in. Between its narrow lanes and silent old houses, an elderly man trudged wearily.
His tattered cloak clung to his thin frame, and rain-soaked gray hair matted unkemptly about his head. To the townspeople, he was just another vagrant.
As night fell, the old man, whose name neither he nor anyone else could recall, hid beneath a forgotten footbridge. But this night was different. He felt… watched.
Soft, almost imperceptible footsteps stalked him from the shadows. Then… the metallic chime.
His body tensed. He rose to flee, but his knees buckled. From the darkness loomed a tall figure. A dark, gleaming mask concealed its face, and its cloak hung unnaturally still.
No warning. No sound. Only a strange weapon, not a sword, nor a dagger, glimmered faintly in the hunter's hand.
The old man screamed, then broke into a desperate run. He crossed the muddy street and plunged into the edge of the forest. Sharp roots and slick stones sent him sprawling again and again. Yet the figure pursued in silence, like an unwearied shadow.
During his flight, the old man took a slash across his shoulder and side. His blood stained the earth, mixing with mud and rain. He dragged himself deeper into the darkness, to a place unknown even to him.
When his pursuer's footsteps finally faded, his frail body could no longer stand. He collapsed near a low cliff, hidden by the roots of a great tree. He spent the next day in critical condition, undiscovered by any passerby.
---
[Xar'Kairos: Eastern District]
The air felt too calm, as though the world itself was trying to cover fresh wounds.
Birds began to sing in the distance, oblivious to what had happened on the other side of town last night.
In the Eastern District, Østberg sat on his windowsill. His hair was tousled, and his sleepy eyes gazed at the sky turning pale with dawn. He hadn't slept since the night before.
Dammit! Why haven't I found any answers?
Is all this because of those strange things that keep coming?
I… don't understand.
After a moment, he rose and walked slowly to a small drawer in the corner. His hand lingered on its knob before he pulled it open.
Inside lay an old book given to him yesterday by the elderly shopkeeper. The Code Arkhavel, the very tome he'd hidden away without his uncle's or aunt's knowledge.
Its cover was dark, almost dark, but on closer inspection, faint patterns pulsed as if alive.
He opened to the first page. At a glance, the script within seemed to shift and sway, adapting to the reader's thoughts.
Yet this morning, only one sentence stood out clearly:
["If fate is a chain, choose whether you will be its breaker… or merely one of its links."]
Østberg gripped the book tightly. For some reason, the words struck deeper today. He replaced it in the drawer, snapped it shut, and grabbed his worn jacket hanging on a chair.
In the front room, his uncle and aunt were having breakfast.
"I'm heading out," Østberg said, snatching a piece of bread. "Elara and Famed want to go play in the south."
His uncle raised an eyebrow. "South? Don't get too close to the royal border, understand?"
His aunt looked equally anxious. "Østberg… are you sure you want to go there?"
He offered a light nod. "Don't worry. The fastest route to Moth Garden is closed, so the only way is through the southern gate, since the eastern and southern districts aren't far apart."
After finishing his bread, he slipped on his little boots and darted out the door.
After a stretch of running, Østberg reached the unguarded gate between the Eastern and Southern Districts, and, luckily, no one was on watch there.
---
[Xar'Kairos: Southern District]
Østberg burst through the gate, glancing left and right as he ran. It was his first time in the Southern District, his uncle and aunt always forbade him from going there.
He entered the marketplace, now bustling with activity. He weaved hurriedly through the crowd.
Some of the merchants shot him odd looks, as if to say, 'What's that kid doing? Running around like a headless chicken.'
In his frantic dash, Østberg collided with a burly man carrying a sack of goods. Both fell, spilling the man's wares onto the ground.
"Hey! You little bastard!" the man snarled, furious.
(He grabbed Østberg by the throat, hoisting him off the ground.)
Stinging pain rose in Østberg's throat as he tried to pull himself up. "I'm sorry, sir… I didn't mean to…"
The man sneered closer. "Didn't mean to? Next time you run, watch where you're going! Didn't anyone teach you manners, huh?!"
(He squeezed Østberg's neck tighter.)
Østberg, helpless, struggled against the grip.
Onlookers gathered, some with sneers, others openly hostile.
"Yeah! Teach that brat a lesson!" one shouted.
"They've never taught that kid manners! Punish him!" another chimed in.
The big man, grinning cruelly, flung the child aside with brute force, sending him crashing onto the stones in pain.
It was clear, Østberg's home lay far from the populous market village. Unlike the Eastern District, the Southern townsfolk had labeled his parents traitors for reasons unknown, and extended their hatred to anyone bearing their blood.
Østberg was branded a harbinger of misfortune, a descendant of his parents' supposed crimes. And tragically, he had no idea why any of this was happening to him.
"Huh…?" The man advanced again, eyeing Østberg writhing in pain.
He stomped on Østberg's foot. "I knew it... you're one of them."
Østberg clutched the man's foot, tears in his eyes. "Please… let me go…"
A bystander shouted, "Don't spare him! The brat needs to feel what we did for ten long years!"
The crowd roared in agreement. The man ceased trampling Østberg's foot and let him rise, though the boy could hardly stand. He swayed, dazed, as dozens glared at him.
Østberg was overwhelmed by the blows and jeers. The poor kid collapsed face-down, his vision blurring.
I…
"Huh?" Østberg tried to focus.
I…
"Who… is speaking?" His blurry sight flicked around.
Everyone… where did they all go…? I'm so scared…
No! Bring them back!
A voice, uncertain from where, echoed.
For the first time, you will feel the truth of this world… its injustice.
"That's enough..!" Østberg murmured, tears spilling.
I will kill you! Just you… and only you!!!
"Enough!!" he screamed, sobbing.
Hey! Hang on! We'll survive and we'll make it! I promise!!
Østberg… forgive me. I failed. I failed!!
"…"
SORRY SORRY SORRY
ØSTBERG ØSTBERG
ØSTBERG
WHY DIDN'T YOU FIGHT BACK?
YOU FAILED. YOU FAILED.
SORRY SORRY SORRY
ØSTBERG ØSTBERG ØSTBERG
YOU LET THEM BREAK YOU.
IT'S TOO LATE TOO LATE
SORRY SORRY SORRY
ØSTBERG ØSTBERG ØSTBERG
THIS IS WHO YOU ARE.
ØSTBERG ØSTBERG
SORRY SORRY SORRY
SORRY SORRY SORRY
SORRY SORRY SORRY
SORRY SORRY SORRY
YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!!
...
"AAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!"
Without warning, the man pummeled Østberg's face, sending him sprawling once more. The watching villagers cheered, rallying behind the big man.
They formed a circle around the two, chanting.
This time, Østberg fought to his feet, barely keeping his balance. Exhaustion and confusion clouded his mind.
The man loomed over him. "Get out of here, outsider! Before I beat you senseless again!"
Another villager jeered, "GET lOST, YOU NUISANCE!"
"GO ON!!" the crowd yelled.
Bleary-eyed, Østberg staggered away, tears streaming down his face as he fled the market with a broken heart.
He continued running past deserted, winding lanes between empty stalls and old houses.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest tight... and each tear that fell felt sharper than the blows he'd endured.