I had heard something. Someone.
A voice I would never forget.
Unfortunately.
The moment it touched my ears, soaked in that calm, unimpressed tone, I knew exactly who it belonged to. And frankly, I'd have preferred the afterlife. Death was peaceful. That voice? It carried history. Unpleasant history.
"Please let this be a dream," I muttered—mentally, half-praying. Maybe I had hallucinated the voice as part of my descent into some hellish version of limbo.
But the pain that followed was too real. Too familiar.
A searing wave crawled from the back of my skull, down my spine, and into every inch of my battered body like wildfire trapped in veins. If I wasn't already sure I'd survived that nightmare, my broken ribs, the aching weight of bandages on my chest, and the vacant hollow where my right eye used to be were now screaming the facts into my soul.
It wasn't a dream.
I was alive.
For better or worse.
As I groaned—barely managing to move—I registered the soft wrap of bandages across my limbs, the soreness under my skin, and a sharp, persistent throb behind what used to be my right eye. Someone had saved me. Treated me. Pulled me out of that hellhole.
I opened my eye—my only eye—and was met with the soft, golden hue of a wheat-coloured ceiling. The room was modest, clean, oddly cozy. A small fireplace burned at the far end, filling the air with too many conflicting smells—coffee, medicine, and the faint burnt smell of dried herbs. All of it together made the air feel... claustrophobic. Like I was being nursed back to life in the lungs of an apothecary.
And there she was.
Seated on a chair, reading a worn-out, leather-bound book as if I weren't the half-dead stranger occupying what could only be her bed. Her legs were crossed, her posture relaxed, her eyes skimming through the pages with the same casual elegance I remembered all too well. The coffee cup beside her still steamed, its smell alone strong enough to punch my sinuses back to life. Way too strong for me. It was the kind of coffee people drink when they've seen too much of the world and decided sleep was no longer an option.
She didn't even glance at me.
That alone was terrifying.
Still, for some reason… a crooked smile crept across my face. The movement sent sharp pulses across my bruised cheekbones, like needles dancing under my skin.
"You're finally up, huh?"
She didn't even look up.
"Y-Yeah…" I croaked. Even a single word felt like coughing up molten iron. My throat felt torched, the fire licking every syllable I dared to push out.
She looked up—finally—and her sharp, aged eyes met mine.
Despite the faint wrinkles tracing her face, she looked... ageless. Eternal. The type of beauty that doesn't fade, only evolves. Her silver-white hair was neatly tied back, but what caught my attention was the scar. A thin, almost deliberate mark that ran along her right cheekbone, sliding past her nose and toward her ear. It should've looked out of place on someone so regal, but somehow… it fit. Gave her an edge. A strange, cold kind of allure.
"Thank you," I managed. "For saving me… Elder Ninia."
She paused. The edge of her mouth curled—not in warmth, but in acknowledgement.
And then it happened.
Her voice echoed inside my mind.
"Well, thank you for the compliment, little one."
I flinched, my head jerking back instinctively—just barely avoiding a collision with the bed's headrest.
What the hell was that?!
Her gaze remained fixed on her book, unbothered.
"I thought it was too hard for you to speak verbally… so I approached you with this method."
As if casually reading minds was something everyone did over coffee.
I knew she was special. She didn't earn the title "Lord of the Experts" for nothing. But psychic powers? I had no idea people with high-ranked titles had… this.
Can you really read my mind? I asked, cautiously, while deliberately turning my gaze away.
She didn't answer.
For a moment, I felt hope—maybe she can't. Maybe she had to focus, maybe—
When I turned back, she was already staring.
Smiling.
And then… nodded.
Twice.
I froze.
She could read my mind. Fully. Casually. Like flipping through the pages of a half-finished book where every plot twist had already been spoiled.
And I, unfortunately, was a chronic overthinker. My mind was a theatre. A non-stop, chaotic, sleepless festival of inner monologue. This was a disaster.
There were no barriers. No privacy. No mental locks I could activate. She saw everything. My thoughts were hers now. Every anxiety. Every insult I held back. Every stupid theory I ever whispered to myself in the silence of my nightmares.
This woman was a walking, talking, privacy violation wrapped in silk robes and ancient power.
'Are you just going to sit there and nod… or do you want to know what happened yesterday?' I asked, doing my best to sound calm, despite knowing full well that I was dying to talk about it.
Wait.
What day was it? What time?
How long had I been unconscious?
"You've still got time," she replied, nonchalant. "It's evening now. You've been asleep for about twelve hours."
She set her book down, finally, and leaned forward slightly. "That mission of yours? It's scheduled for tomorrow morning."
…What?
Mission?
I barely survived a Wraith and a field of explosive mana bombs. I was down an eye. My circulation was in shambles. And you thought it was a good idea to remind me of my mission tomorrow morning?!
And then she added—almost lazily—"Also, no need to explain what happened. I've already seen your memories."
My heart stopped.
"I saw the whole encounter," she added. "The Wraith. The shadows. Those beautiful little orbs. The part where you nearly died impaled on a tree like an ornament? Very vivid. You're lucky to still be breathing."
Her tone was calm. Almost playful.
As if she hadn't just said the psychic equivalent of "I watched your life like a play last night while sipping coffee."
I should have been panicking.
I should have been shouting, gasping, asking how and why and when and what else she saw—
But I didn't.
There were no shivers down my spine. No racing heartbeat. Just... stillness. As if my body finally accepted it had nothing left to give. No fear. No dignity. Just survival.
And somehow… that scared me more.
"Hmm, so you want to talk about it, huh?" Elder Ninia finally said, voice slow, almost theatrical, her eyes still hovering over the edge of her book. "That's a reasonable request. Our first instincts are to share… to communicate… to gossip about such incidents to someone, anyone—especially when the ones we really want to talk to aren't around anymore."
She finally shut the book with a soft thump. The sound echoed strangely loudly in the quiet room.
"Even if it means exposing ourselves like open books," she continued. "Books we think we've hidden, but are actually just waiting in someone else's hand, patiently read."
Philosophical, calm, annoyingly perceptive.
Yeah. This woman wasn't just some old psychic. She was the kind of person who could read your soul like scripture and make you feel stupid for writing it.
A perfect person to talk to.
A dangerous person to be around.
"Alright then," I said slowly, my voice still gravel and ash, "Let's start with something basic."
She looked up, mildly amused.
"How the hell did you find me? More importantly… how did you manage to save me?"
I leaned slightly forward, ignoring the throb in my chest.
"Because I remember getting impaled by a fucking shadow spike—through my head. Not just my eye. That kind of wound means death, straight-up. No second chances. No 'wake-up call in a cosy room with coffee'. You saw the memories. You know I wasn't being dramatic."
I waited.
Half-expecting her to offer a crafted story. Some convenient tale. Maybe an excuse about a premonition or fate or a sudden pull in the strings of mana. A coincidence. A miracle.
But no.
She didn't even blink.
"That pathetic veil those mysterious entities cast," she said, tone now void of charm, "can create a blind spot for others."
Her eyes narrowed.
"But not for me."
She set the book down beside her and folded her hands.
"The moment I sensed the disturbance… the moment I felt the formation of that cursed veil, I rushed. I ran toward it. I'll admit I was late—occupied, elsewhere—but I came."
A flicker of irritation passed through her face.
"And as for saving you?" she added, voice suddenly sharp. "Just be grateful I was in the mood to help someone as vile as you."
That stung more than I expected.
I blinked.
Wait—vile?
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
She'd treated my wounds, saved my life, read my memories, basically walked through my trauma like it was an afternoon museum tour—and now she was lashing out like I was the villain?
Her expression didn't waver.
"That scar," she said suddenly, fingers reaching up to trace the thin, sharp line running along the side of her face, "the one that you said 'elevates' my beauty—" she smiled bitterly, "—this wasn't always here. This wasn't age, or battle, or accident. This was a gift bestowed upon me."
She paused. The air around her thickened. Her mana didn't flare—but her presence did. Like gravity itself shifted slightly toward her.
"All because of you."
I didn't even get a chance to ask before she continued.
"It was the day we first met, 10 years ago. The day you came to my orphanage."
My body tensed.
Wait. What?
"Back then, I didn't see the warning signs. You were... quiet. Isolated. Brilliant. Curious. But there was something else. Something darker. I thought if I just observed you, helped you unlock your abilities, I could prepare you for the path ahead. A noble effort, I thought."
Her voice grew colder.
"But that day… that day I tried to reach out, tried to look deeper, to understand you, your nature, your mana, your identity…"
She ran her thumb along the scar slowly.
"This is what I got. This is what I earned. Not from you. But from that thing. That guardian demon hiding in your soul."
Her words sliced through the air like a blade dipped in old blood.
"This scar is not a wound—it's a warning. A mark burned into me to remind me… that if I dare to interfere again, even in your dreams, my end would follow. Not may follow. Will. That thing didn't speak. It didn't growl. It showed me. What would happen if I got closer."
My mind spun.
Guardian demon?
I searched my own memory, heart racing, but… I had nothing.
Nothing even close to the encounter she described.
But the way her voice cracked around the edges… the way her face darkened—not in fear, but respectful dread—told me she wasn't lying.
She believed this.
Every word of it.
"You think I remember this?" I asked, honestly.
"I know you don't," she said, quieter now. "Because you weren't… there, the message-the warning, it didn't come through you."
I clenched my jaw.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You weren't awake, little one," she said, folding her arms. "And you're still not. Not fully. You're like a blade half-forged. Strong, yes. Sharp, perhaps. But dangerous in ways even you don't understand. That Wraith you fought… it didn't just attack you randomly."
She paused.
"It recognised you."
My eye widened.
It did, didn't it?
That strange delay… the moments it just watched me… like it was confirming something.
Remembering.
"It wasn't just instinct or curiosity," she continued. "That Wraith had fear. Recognition. And that, my child, is not normal... because those beings have spared Saints, top-ranking adventurers, hunters, yet you weren't, even though unlike those suicidal manics, you didn't provoke it, challenge it or sort them out..."
Silence swallowed the room.
The fire cracked faintly. Her untouched coffee had gone cold. The only sound now was the pounding of my heart, back in rhythm—but just barely.
"You said you weren't scared when I read your thoughts," she said. "Well, you should be."