The Oryfal Empire – Astorite Palace
Main Building
The sound of the man's footsteps echoed through the marble hallways of Astorite Palace, a blend of calm and authority.
He asked in a low but sharp voice, without turning to his companion:
"Are you saying she's sick?"
The soldier walking beside him, dressed in the official armor of Astorite knights, answered:
"Yes, sir… ever since young master Kyle departed to the Cursed Arax, she hasn't been the same."
The man paused briefly, let out an indistinct sigh, then said:
"Hmm… very well."
They reached a massive wooden door crowned with ancient carvings of the Astorite trees. The man stood before it, then said in a commanding tone:
"Go now."
The soldier bowed quickly, then left in silence.
The man extended his hand, pushed the door slowly, and entered.
He saw her there.
Celia.
She was lying on the large bed, her body still, her face pale as if life had decided to leave it temporarily. The weariness of years was etched into her features, and on her tired forehead, the shadows of loneliness were reflected.
She slowly lifted her head and sat upright despite the obvious weight on her shoulders, murmuring in a barely audible voice:
"Lucien...?"
The man approached with slow steps, threw his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it without averting his gaze from her.
He smiled a forced smile, as if compelling his features into a shape they no longer wore with ease.
He said in a playfully fake tone:
"No need to sit up for me, Lady Celia."
She looked at him with eyes drowned in exhaustion and said in a faint voice:
"What brought you here, Lucien?"
He laughed, louder than necessary, then replied:
"I came to check on you. Isn't that obvious?"
Celia turned her face to the other side of the bed, as if fatigue had settled in her eyes and she no longer had the energy to face anything.
In a quietly tired tone, she asked without bothering to look at him:
"What happened in the meeting with the elders?"
It wasn't an ordinary question.
Lucien's eyes narrowed for a moment, and the expression on his face froze, as if struck by an invisible bullet.
But he quickly recovered his artificial smile, the one he wore like armor.
"Huh? They didn't say anything noteworthy."
He spoke while breathing slowly, careful not to let any hint of concern slip into his voice.
"They were… just a little upset that you didn't inform them about the heir's return, that's all."
A lie.
He hid the truth with elegance.
But Celia didn't seem interested—or perhaps she was simply too weak to show any interest.
She responded with a drowsy hum, barely escaping her lips:
"Hmm… very well."
Then silence returned to fill the room, as if words had become a heavy burden on both their souls.
On the other side of the world...
In the heart of the Cursed Arax, that land abandoned by time and forsaken by life,
Kyle was fighting.
He moved with blinding speed, his feet barely touching the ground, and his dagger gleamed each time it sank into the body of a new beast.
He was fighting like someone caught in a battle with no choice... a battle against everything inhuman.
A growl, then a scream, then the sound of flesh tearing.
Kyle spun his body in a half-circle, slashing down a leaping beast from behind, then turned to take another blow on his arm.
But the body reinforcement absorbed the impact, and his wounds began to heal instantly, as if time itself were trying to protect him.
Between his ragged breaths, he muttered:
"Damn it... if not for the temporary immortality, I wouldn't have survived a second."
Then he laughed bitterly, wiping blood from his brow with his arm:
"And let's not forget... the body reinforcement. This damned system... useful, despite everything."
And with every round, with every beast that fell, there was an unshakable feeling within him:
That with each step deeper into this hell, he drifted further from everything he once knew.
The ground beneath his feet fell quiet for a moment.
The roar vanished, and the wind stilled among Arax's barren trees.
Kyle stood amidst the corpses of the slain beasts, his breath still heavy, but he looked like someone who had just emerged from a crashing wave into a silent void.
He raised his head toward the cracked sky, his eyes gazing into the pale gray emptiness, as if searching for an answer that would never come.
Then, quietly, his daggers gradually vanished, returning to their place within the magical bracelet wrapped around his wrist.
A faint, familiar glimmer shimmered across the bracelet's surface before settling—as if nothing had happened.
He spoke in a low voice, but one filled with resolve and alertness:
"I have to get out of here... as fast as possible."
Suddenly—
A fierce, violent wind swept across the land around him, carrying with it dust and particles of dried blood.
And in that moment,
Kyle's shadow disappeared.
As if his body had melted into the wind,
As if speed itself had answered his call,
Kyle moved... as the wind moves.
No sound.
No trace.
Only an unseen lightness, and a decision that would not be undone.
And at that same moment, in Astorite Palace…
Celia's eyes opened suddenly, as if a strange cold had swept through her limbs.
She sat up slowly, her gaze fixed and empty, not looking at anything in particular.
Lucien noticed a faint tremble in her fingers and stopped smoking by the window.
"What is it?" he asked, but his voice sounded distant… as if she hadn't heard him.
Celia whispered, as though speaking to the wind:
"...I felt him."
"Him?" Lucien repeated, raising an eyebrow.
She didn't answer.
She simply lowered her head and pressed her fingers to her chest, where the unseen bond lay hidden.
Her bond with her son… or at least, that's what she believed it to be…
"Lucien..."
She called him in a soft voice, like a fearful heartbeat of longing.
He turned to her immediately and said calmly:
"Yes, my lady."
He raised his eyebrow slightly, watching the fading light in her features.
In her eyes, sorrow wasn't just passing… it was something deeper, heavier, as if it had lived within her for a long time and refused to leave.
She hesitated, her lips trembling slightly before she spoke the words she'd been trying to suppress:
"Do you think that… that Kyle will return to my arms again?
Do you think… he won't leave me like he did before?"
Her question wasn't just words.
It was a cry for help, a quiet plea to hold onto hope—even if that hope was worn and tattered.
Lucien stared into her eyes for a few seconds, saying nothing at first.
Perhaps because he didn't have an answer… or because he was afraid of being too honest.
He sighed slowly, as though the question weighed heavier on his chest than anything he had ever carried.
He raised a hand to his head, lightly rubbing his hair like a man searching for an answer caught between despair and pity.
Then he said in a quiet voice:
"I don't know, my lady… I truly don't know what to tell you."
He paused for a moment, his eyes watching the fragility in her expression, as if afraid she might break before him with a single word.
Then he continued, with a more serious tone, as if pulling the truth out of his own throat:
"But if you want the truth…"
Silence.
Not the silence of hesitation, but the silence of someone who knows that honesty is sometimes harsher than lies.
Finally, he said—
in a tone stripped of pretense, grounded in reality:
"I don't believe that someone who came out of a place like that… from a land without enough resources to build a proper mana core…
can return whole.
Those islands, my lady, are cursed.
Even the strongest warriors we sent there never came back…
And if they did, we never saw them again on the battlefield."
He let his words drift into the space between them, making no attempt to soften their weight.
Because he knew—Celia wasn't seeking comfort… but truth, no matter how harsh.
Lucien took a deep breath, as if what he had just said drained him more than a battle lasting days.
Then he adjusted his coat lightly, and spoke with a respectful yet firm tone:
"Now… if you'll excuse me, my lady, I must take my leave."
He stepped toward the door with slow, unhurried steps, as if part of him still hesitated to leave her alone in that room soaked in silence and memory.
But just before reaching for the handle, he stopped.
He turned quietly, then bowed slightly in a gesture of respect uncommon from most, looking at her with a calm gaze—a mix of respect and cautious pity.
He spoke softly:
"My lady… don't worry about anything. Everything will be alright."
He didn't wait for her reply, nor did he try to read her expression further.
He turned again, opened the door, and left…
without uttering a single word.
Celia was left alone, with a void larger than any word, and a new chance for tears… yet to come.
As soon as the door closed behind him, a wave of silence filled the room,
a heavy silence broken only by Celia's uneven breaths.
She didn't move.
She sat there, rooted to the spot as if petrified by waiting.
Then, quietly, she turned her head toward the window.
Daylight was soft, slipping through the clouds, washing the edges of the sky in a pale blue hue.
She stared for a long time… as if searching for some shadow, for the ghost of one who left and never returned.
And at that moment, a different expression formed on her face—a mixture of longing and faith, something only a mother's heart can hold.
She whispered, barely audible, as if addressing the sky rather than herself:
"He will return… I am sure."
Her eyes remained fixed on the emptiness,
seeing Kyle… or perhaps someone else who resembled him.
It was a face like his, but not of this time… rather of something she had lost long ago.
Elsewhere...
Storms blew from every direction, turning the sky and stirring the sands and debris.
The shattered buildings lay scattered like broken bones across the land, remnants of an ancient battle erased by fire and dust.
On a high hill overlooking the ruin, stood a dark palace, towering in its red and black colors.
Like an open wound in the heart of this cursed land.
Inside that palace, within walls that absorbed light,
small whispers echoed—both joyful and sinister at once.
A girl walked lightly on her tiptoes, jumping like a butterfly dancing in the shadows,
a playful hum on her lips,
and her slender tail with a sharp tip swayed behind her with every step, as if it were a separate creature expressing her mood more than she did.
Then came the voice, dry, from behind her:
"How many times have I told you to stop walking like that?"
She stopped and slowly turned to him, a small smile born on her lips, carrying a childish challenge:
"And why should I listen to you? Huh? Give me one reason."
But before she could finish her sentence,
He was already behind her.
She didn't see him move… didn't hear a sound.
Only, in the blink of an eye, he closed the distance as if he had cut through the very fabric of space.
He was tall, pale-faced, as if his skin had never known the sun,
his long black hair falling on his shoulders like a curtain of shadows,
and two curved horns protruding from the top of his head, like a demon's crown born beyond this world's bounds.
He stood close behind her, so near that his cold breath touched her neck. He leaned in closer, his voice flowing like a cold thread in her ear:
"Because I said so… Savira-chan."
His voice was soft but carried that commanding tone that brooked no argument,
as if everyone he spoke to must submit—not by conviction, but by instinct.
She raised her eyebrows, then turned her head toward him in a half glance, her lips still bearing the trace of a mocking smile.
"As usual… you're very annoying."
She said it, flicking her tail with obvious irritation, then turned and began walking again with her usual lightness, as if his words were nothing more than a joke that failed to amuse her.
He did not move—he only smiled to himself, that smile carrying no warmth... but something else.
Something resembling satisfaction... or a veiled threat.
In the Cursed Arax...
Kyle was fighting bravely, amid a hell that knew no truce.
The flying beasts came from every direction, as if the sky had decided to pour all its nightmares on him at once.
Their wings tore the air, their sounds filled the void with roars akin to wails,
circling him, swooping suddenly, then retreating... as if toying with him before striking.
Kyle moved lightly among them, blocking, stabbing, dodging—but his body was no machine.
Each passing moment left its mark—a wound here, a bruise there, a deep scratch on his shoulder, bleeding on his thigh.
His injuries began to multiply.
The pain was no longer incidental; it hindered his movement, slowed his reaction.
Yet, he did not stop.
His breath was ragged, his sweat mixed with blood, but he remained standing,
fighting with all the consciousness and strength he had left.
This was natural,
for someone who hadn't received enough training... and had not yet reached a high level.
But he didn't need to be at the top...
just to stay alive, strike by strike, until this night ended—or his life did.
"Tsk..."
Kyle muttered between ragged breaths, a soft voice heard only by himself.
"Damn... damn... how long will this hell last?"
His voice was tinged with anger and despair, as if the words themselves were burning in his throat.
He lifted his gaze, but the scene around him began to blur.
The world was no longer clear.
The sky rippled like an inverted sea, and the beasts became distorted shadows moving without form.
His eyes...
his vision started to cloud,
the view blurred before him, as if dust had settled behind—not on—his eyes,
and everything around him became faded, colorless, meaningless.
He felt heaviness in his head, as if his brain itself was starting to refuse to continue.
His body resisted...
but his mind was about to collapse.
Amid the fog, and among the sounds of the beasts that began to fade around him—as if the world had suddenly shrunk...
The voice came.
Soft, tender, deep—
as if it had come from memory itself:
"Don't give up, my son."
Kyle froze.
He blinked repeatedly, then rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand, unable to believe what he had just heard.
He turned slowly, as if afraid the moment would shatter if he moved too quickly...
Then his eyes widened in disbelief, a surprise that felt more like a dream.
"Mother?"
He whispered the word with dry lips, his voice laden with exhaustion and defeat.
His long white hair hung around his dust- and blood-stained face,
and his crimson eyes—dimmed by sheer fatigue—lit up for a moment with a faint glow.
She stood there, her form glowing with a softness that didn't belong to this place.
Familiar… comforting… impossible.
He reached out to her, his movement slow, like someone reaching for a ghost he feared might vanish:
"Mother… is it really you?"
And in his voice was the plea of a child… not a warrior fighting to stay alive.
A plea from someone who had forgotten what an embrace felt like… and suddenly remembered.
"Mother…"
Kyle called her with a trembling, broken voice—
as if the words themselves had bled out of a wound, not from his mouth.
His crimson eyes, which had long resisted collapse, now shimmered with tears gathering at the edges of his lids… light, quivering, battling to hold back the fall.
He extended his hand slightly, his voice shaking like a small heart knocking on the door of safety:
"Mother… I'm so tired…"
His breath caught for a moment,
as if admitting weakness weighed heavier than every blow he had taken.
Then he smiled—a faint smile, carrying a pain beyond words—and added:
"I just… want to hug you. Even if you're only an illusion…"
His words weren't a plea.
They were longing, given shape—desperate, reaching for the warmth of a moment… even a false one.
And in his eyes,
that final look no one wears unless they're standing near the edge.
Kyle fell to his knees.
Mud and blood mingled beneath his feet, and his trembling body could barely hold itself upright.
He tried to walk toward her,
toward that figure that felt achingly familiar…
His mother's face, just as his weary mind remembered it—standing in the ruin as if unchanged,
as if she had come to pull him from it all.
His sword slipped from his grip, striking the ground with a soft clang—
a sound that resembled farewell.
He lifted his arms toward her, slowly,
his eyes tearful, blurred, pleading for release from this hell.
And he whispered, in a crumbling voice, as though all that remained of his heart clung to those words:
"Mother… hold my hand…
I'm so tired… I just want to sleep."
But that moment—
that moment where he came closest to safety…
It ended—suddenly.
From behind—
a sharp claw pierced into his right side,
driving into his chest with no mercy, slow and deliberate,
as if the pain itself was being played like a cruel melody.
Kyle gasped.
His eyes widened in shock,
his mouth opened, but no sound came out… only the silence of oncoming death.
His arms, still outstretched toward the image of his mother,
froze in the air...
then began to tremble.
He looked at her…
and despite the blurring, despite the pain, his eyes remained fixed on her,
as if he saw nothing else,
as if the entire world had collapsed and condensed into that single face—
the face he had wished to be the last he'd ever see.
He smiled.
A faint, cracked, blood-stained smile,
as if he were apologizing, or saying goodbye… or thanking her for the beautiful illusion.
Blood slipped from his mouth, drop by drop,
and his arms, once reaching toward her, finally gave out… falling to his sides with the weight of one whose strength had left him completely.
Then his body slackened,
and his head dropped slowly to the ground,
as if the earth was embracing him in a way life never had.
And in a soft, whispered instant, the final word passed from his trembling lips…
"Mother…"
Then silence fell.
A heavy silence…
as if the end of a dream that was never meant to be completed.
---
---
In Astorite Palace...
Her voice filled the halls, tearing through the ancient silence that clung to its walls:
"Ahhh… Get away from me!"
Celia screamed,
as if something had been torn from her chest without warning.
"I want to go to Kyle! He's in danger! He's not okay! Let me… Let me go to him!"
She trembled, thrashed, screamed, gasped,
trying to push away the servants who had gathered around her in a desperate attempt to restrain her.
But she was stronger than them…
or perhaps it wasn't her body at all—
but the strength of a mother's love that drove her.
Her eyes blazed with fear, her gaze unfocused—
as if she were seeing something no one else could see—
as if she had felt… something shatter.
"Kyle… Kyle is bleeding… He's calling me… I… I can feel him!"
Her body trembled,
her breath came in ragged bursts,
and her words poured out like an unstoppable, furious flood.
There was no explanation.
But she knew.
She knew something terrible had happened…
and that her heart had been crushed in a place only souls could reach.
"Celia… stop this madness!"
His voice exploded through the palace like thunder—sharp, piercing, slicing through the last of her sobs.
It was Lucien, standing at the hall's entrance, hands on his hips, eyes narrowing with frustration.
He raised a hand, raking it through his hair with clear tension, then stepped forward—slowly, yet confidently—toward her.
"Tchhh… look at yourself,"
he said, his tone growing colder with each step.
"Is this how the head of House Astorite should carry herself?"
He stopped right in front of her,
gazing into her swollen golden eyes, the tears still streaming freely.
She was gasping, shaking—on the brink of breaking once more.
But his voice came suddenly calm—
so calm it was unsettling:
"What is all this fuss, Celia?"
he said in a tone more reproachful than commanding.
And there he stood…
staring into her eyes—not to understand her, but to force her back into her