Simon awoke to an overwhelming whiteness—an immaculate, endless expanse that consumed the horizon of his sight. It pulsed with a magical luminescence, dazzling and surreal, as though woven from the very rays of a sun imprisoned within pure crystal. For a few moments, he lingered at the edge of awareness, blinking hesitantly as his senses, sluggish and scattered, began to coalesce. Then it struck him: he was inside a sterile chamber, steeped in the antiseptic breath of disinfectants and clinical austerity.
From one of the seemingly solid corners, the wall parted—an impossible fracture in what had appeared immutable—gliding silently aside to reveal a hidden doorway. Through it stepped a man clad in a white coat, his features smooth and emotionless, like a surgical mask carved into flesh.
He approached with deliberate steps, his voice low and professional.
"Mr. Simon... I see you've regained consciousness."
Simon, still grappling with the raw edges of clarity, replied in a hushed voice laced with suspicion.
"What... happened?"
The doctor extended a hand toward a cluster of hovering documents—papers that floated in quiet order before him, dancing to some unseen will. His eyes, trained and analytical, scanned them before he answered:
"You were caught in a violent earthquake. Amid the chaos, a heavy metal cabinet collapsed on your leg. The bone was shattered. The skin torn. But we rebuilt you. Your body has been... restored. Precisely."
Simon was silent for a moment. Then, struggling to sit upright as a wave of nausea swelled in his gut, he asked:
"Am I... free to leave?"
The doctor lifted his gaze, met Simon's eyes with calm finality, and gave a brief nod.
"Yes. Our task is complete."
But beneath that silence, something lingered. Something unspoken.
Simon rose slowly, as if negotiating the terms of movement with pain itself. He pulled the sheet aside, let his feet brush the floor, tentative. One step. Then another. As he approached the threshold, he turned—eyes scanning the room as though searching for a ghost he had forgotten to summon.
"What about Butler?" he asked, voice low but sharp.
The doctor didn't look up. He continued reading a line from his hovering documents.
"He's alive. Though his injuries were more severe. He risked his life to save yours. He'll need two more days in the bio-recovery chamber. But he will recover."
Simon nodded once, expression unreadable. Then he left the room.
The corridor beyond was long, gleaming, almost offensively white. As if the entire place had been architected on the principle of forced purity. But Simon's mind was elsewhere—fixed on the doctor's phrasing.
"An earthquake?"
He muttered the word aloud as he walked, confusion deepening in his eyes like black ink spilled slowly into water.
"Impossible... There are hundreds of high-tier mages monitoring the tectonic plates. That kind of disaster doesn't occur without permission... or a suspicious lapse."
Before he could reach the crystalline elevator at the hall's end, a soldier stepped into his path. His armor shimmered with advanced tech; behind his helmet, his eyes glowed like relics of some ancient operating system.
"Sir, urgent news," the soldier said, posture rigid with protocol.
Simon shot him a glance—tired and quietly burning with restrained fury.
"What do you want?"
The soldier hesitated—not out of fear alone, but with the grave awareness of what it meant to interrupt this man.
"Sir... Several civilians are requesting medical attention. Children in the eastern quadrant are in critical condition. Some are still bleeding, and the local healers lack the necessary experience—"
Simon narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, close enough to press his presence into the soldier's nerves.
"So you're telling me, you malfunctioning scrap heap, that you stopped me for this? Do you always need to be screamed at before doing what ought to be instinct?"
The soldier trembled, head bowed slightly, bracing for a blow.
But it never came.
Simon simply exhaled—a sharp, bitter sound.
"Send in second-tier healers... no, third-tier as well. I don't want to hear more of this idiocy again."
"Yes, sir!" the soldier barked, voice echoing more like a system acknowledgment than a human reply.
Simon turned to leave, but another voice called out—this time feminine, cool, and edged with something sharper than the words themselves.
"Isn't that... the clergy's task? Especially the Saintess?"
He turned slowly.
A cat-girl stood at the intersection—hair black as cinders, eyes wide and gleaming with a curiosity that didn't belong in such a place.
Simon stared at her. No words. No reaction.
His gaze slid past her like a blade across water.
Then he simply moved on—her presence dismissed as if it were a wrong note in a melody that did not tolerate improvisation.
Simon hurries through the distorted streets, stepping over the rubble of time crushed under the shock of the event. The dust still hangs
In the air, distant screams faded into the noise of reconstruction. When he reached his palace—or what remained of it—haunted eyes met him. Half the structure was gone, and the northern wings had vanished as if devoured by something unspeakable.
Outside, the rescue team was busy pulling corpses from the rubble. Simon moved among them with ravenous eyes, hunting for something specific—not just broken bodies. He paid no mind to the wails, to the shattered remains of flesh and bone.
The leader spotted him—a tall man in a torn hazard suit—and approached with cautious steps.
"We're sorry, Lord Simon… The losses were severe. Many of your slaves and servants—"
Simon cut him off, voice sharp like a blade slicing through mercy.
"Slaves? Damn them all. Did you find a girl—small, black hair, black eyes, skin pale like marble, dressed in a white, ragged cloth?"
The man froze, startled by the precision. Then, after a brief pause, replied:
"Ah… yes. We did, actually. A child matching that description was found. Buried beneath one of the pillars. Large splinter pierced her chest… heart burst instantly. We're terribly sorry—"
"Perfect," Simon said coldly, as if he'd just been given a shipping update.
He stepped closer, whispering with the dryness of poison in a golden cup:
"No one must know she was ever here. When you're done, send the body to the border estate. No words. No reports. Understood?"
The leader looked at him, startled and wary, but bowed slightly.
"As you command, my lord."
Simon walked away in silent precision, crossing the scattered rubble like every stone knew him by name. He found one of his guards—a filthy young man, but still alert—helping lift a corpse from beneath a collapsed ceiling.
Simon placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured with venomous intent:
"When the child arrives… erase everyone outside my authority who knows about her. No trace. No names."
The guard said nothing. Just a single nod, like sealing an oath older than sin. Then they parted, both men carrying unspeakable weight.
Days passed in his new palace—walls dripping with silence. In his den, Simon sat as always, immersed in poisonous reflection. His thoughts circled the strange girl, and the twisted words Butler had dropped into his ear that evening.
The spiral broke.
A knock—not a polite tap, but the sound of something striking the edges of his dominion.
An elven woman entered—impeccable, her hair falling like arrogant threads of gold, her eyes two withered emeralds. The moment she crossed the threshold, Simon spoke with a voice soaked in threat, needing no volume:
"Where are your manners? What breach of order is this? You enter unannounced as if your neck holds no value?"
She collapsed to her knees like her spine had shattered, pleading in a trembling voice:
"Forgive me… my grip slipped—I didn't mean to enter. It was… a misstep, nothing more."
His voice was colder than a headsman's steel:
"You'll be punished later. Now. Why are you here?"
She stammered:
"A message… from the Observatory Temple. The earthquake from days ago… it wasn't terrestrial. They're calling it a spatial quake. Its origin… unknown."
Simon's brow arched in a blend of disdain and curiosity.
"Spatial quake? What nonsense is this?"
She explained, voice hollowed by fear:
"It didn't just shake the earth. It tore through the fabric of space itself. They believe the fractures are spreading—perhaps triggered by a previous quake that ripped the veil between worlds."
Simon went silent. His eyes drifted to the window, as if he saw a prophecy lurking behind the clouds. She wanted to ask to leave—but lacked the courage. His silence wasn't safety—it was a warning wrapped in stillness. She stood frozen, legs trembling, sweat crawling down her brow like tearful confessions. She knew it well—humans don't need reasons to kill something lesser.
An hour passed like a century.
At last, he spoke—without looking her way:
"Go. Ready the carriage. We have a destination. You're coming with me."
Life returned to her. She fled to obey. Minutes later, the carriage carved through fog toward the unknown. Five hours swallowed by roads, until they stopped before a ruined estate—swallowed by thorns, gutted by dust.
The elf looked at the place and lit up.
"It's your father's estate, my lord… so many memories buried here."
Simon laughed—a sound that promised death:
"Memories? Maybe your mother died here under stone and labor while my father laughed."
She answered with a voice of broken loyalty:
"To die in your service… is an honor beyond measure."
"Hold onto that thought. You'll need it."
They entered.
It was a corpse forgotten by time. Dampness screamed in every corner, rats ruled the halls. In the first corridor, a portrait hung—of a man in a suit black as a sea at midnight. His features resembled Simon's, but age had carved his face with battles no one dared recount.
Simon asked:
"What's your name, elf?"
She trembled. "Evelyn…"
He smiled, then pointed at the painting.
"You know that ghost?"
She nodded quietly.
"That's Lord Wells. One of your founding ancestors. Legend says he sailed beyond the Three Continents… with Butler's grandfather, on his cursed ship."
A faint smile slipped onto Simon's face without explanation. They moved on, through the crumbling halls, until they reached a half-collapsed stone chamber.
Then Simon spoke again.
"The story of Wells… the one my father used to whisper to me—it changed every time, like it grew up with me: beasts that breathed moonlight, continents multiplying like mirages, reptiles older than history, cities that dream, horses that fly… and monstrous copies of ourselves, shaped from every buried desire."
He stopped.
"We're here."
Evelyn looked on in shock.
"This is..."
He cut her off:
"Yes, the Mirror of Truth. I wanted to move it, but it refuses to be separated from this place. You know why I brought you here."
She smiled, despite the fear.
"Yes, to feed it."
Simon smiled, venomous:
"Exactly. Its answers are primitive—yes or no—but they're honest."
He tossed her a knife.
"Now... cut your wrist."
She did so without hesitation. A scream tore out from deep within her vocal cords, but Simon silenced her with a quiet, angry glare. She placed a hand over her mouth, crying silently, smiling through the pain.
When her blood touched the mirror, their reflections vanished, swallowed by liquid night. Crimson words rose from the void, spelling out a question:
"What do you wish to know?"
Simon began asking.
About the continents? Yes.
About the number of kingdoms? Yes.
About the legendary ship's existence? Yes.
Whether it's on this continent? Yes.
With the Emperor or the priests? No.
A red question mark formed behind his eyes.
Then he asked another question—dangerous, suffocating:
"Can the elixir of life be extracted from that child?"
But this time...
The mirror didn't answer.
Simon exploded. He roared like a beast, then lunged at Evelyn and cut off her other hand without a second's pause. Blood sprayed from the wound. Her screams died into the silence of the hall. He lifted his head toward the mirror and asked again about the girl, then again... once, twice, dozens of times. Questions. Commands. Threats. Yet the mirror remained silent, as if the child simply did not exist in the record of the world.
Eventually, he calmed. Took a deep breath. Stepped back—something inside him cracked. He muttered, reorganizing his thoughts:
"At least I moved a step forward. If I can't extract the serum from this filth, then there are immortal beings beyond the continents... beyond the cloak of those sanctimonious dogs. They'll give me what I want... no matter the cost."
He turned toward Evelyn, barely breathing. Her frail body caught between bleeding and death. He saw nothing in her but a failed tool.
With mocking sarcasm, he said:
"Oh, damn me... forgot the first-aid kit. But no worries, you elves know magic, right?"
Then he burst out laughing.
"Ah, right... sorry again. No arms, no magic! How disappointing!"
He stepped closer, cold and merciless:
"I was going to take you in the carriage, but you're bleeding like a slaughtered pig, and I don't want you staining the seats. Stay here. Later, I'll send someone to carry your corpse. I'd say they'll rescue you, but we both know the truth, don't we? No hope for you, darling."
Despite the blood, despite the pain, Evelyn smiled. Her tears mingled with the blood on her pale face, and she whispered through ragged breaths:
"It doesn't matter... as long as I was useful to you."
Simon stared at her blankly and replied:
"Sure. Die in peace."
Then he turned his back on her.
But he paused. Her sobbing pierced the hall behind him, and he heard her whisper, shattered:
"I... I don't want to die."
He didn't look back. He didn't say a word. He just kept walking.
When he left the castle, he glanced down at the bloodstains on his clothes from the outburst. He pursed his lips, disgusted, and climbed into the carriage. From his dimensional pocket, he pulled out a new, clean suit and tossed the bloodied one outside.
He changed calmly, then sat behind the wheel and activated the magical engine.
He drove off as if everything that had just happened was nothing more than a failed experiment. And he forgot, or ignored, his old promise to Evelyn.
He left her body there, in the castle's silence... to rot in isolation, as maids always do.