The room was vast and circular, with high ceilings that disappeared into shadow. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls. A large wooden desk sat near the center, covered in papers, brushes, and half-finished paintings.
But what caught Noir's attention immediately was the figure standing near the far window.
Yuusha Yurikabe stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him, white robes flowing around him like liquid moonlight. He was looking out at the city below, bathed in the soft golden light of early morning.
He didn't turn when Noir entered.
"Close the door," he said quietly.
Noir obeyed, the heavy wooden door clicking shut with a finality that made his pulse quicken.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Yuusha turned.
His expression was serene, unreadable, his narrow eyes studying Noir with the same calm intensity as before.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
The question was so unexpected that Noir almost laughed.
"No," he said flatly.
"I thought not." Yuusha moved toward the desk, his movements graceful and unhurried. "Nightmares are common among those who carry heavy burdens. The mind struggles to process what the heart refuses to accept."
He gestured toward a chair in front of the desk.
"Sit."
Noir hesitated, then complied.
Yuusha settled into the chair opposite him, folding his hands on the desk between them.
"I asked you here," he began, "because there are things you must understand before your training begins in earnest."
Noir said nothing, watching him warily.
Yuusha's gaze never wavered.
"The path of a seer is not one of glory or heroism, despite what stories might tell you. It is a path of sacrifice. Of loss. Of watching the people you care about suffer and die while you carry on, because someone must."
His voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was steel beneath it.
"Seers are not soldiers. We are not warriors who fight for honor or fame. We are guardians. We stand between humanity and the darkness that seeks to consume it. And that darkness does not discriminate. It does not care if you are strong or weak, young or old, loved or alone."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"It will take from you. Again and again. Until you have nothing left to give."
Noir's jaw tightened. "I know what I'm getting into."
"Do you?" Yuusha tilted his head slightly. "You've experienced loss, certainly. Tragedy. Pain. But loss as a seer is different. It is not a single wound that heals over time. It is a slow bleeding that never stops."
He rose from his chair and moved toward a large cabinet against the wall.
"Every seer who joins the Ise Order must choose a blessed artifact. A weapon or tool that will become an extension of their will, their spiritual energy, their very soul."
He opened the cabinet, revealing rows of objects arranged neatly on velvet-lined shelves.
Swords. Spears. Staves. Daggers. Chains. Gauntlets.
Each one gleamed with a faint, otherworldly light—spiritual energy woven into the metal, the wood, the fabric.
"These artifacts," Yuusha continued, "are not merely tools. They are bonds. They amplify your strength, yes, but they also tie you to the Order. To the duty."
He gestured for Noir to approach.
"Choose wisely. The weapon you select will shape the kind of seer you become."
Noir stood slowly and walked toward the cabinet.
His eyes moved across the artifacts, taking in their details.
At the front of the display were the most popular choices—gleaming swords with intricate hilts, perfectly balanced spears, staves carved with flowing script. Each one radiated power, confidence, beauty.
Behind them were less common options—daggers, whips, shields, gauntlets. Still impressive, but clearly favored by fewer seers.
And then, at the very end of the bottom shelf, almost hidden in shadow, was something that didn't belong.
A scarf.
Tattered. Faded. The fabric was a deep crimson that had dulled with age, fraying at the edges. It looked like something forgotten, discarded, left to gather dust while the other artifacts gleamed in the light.
Noir's hand moved toward it almost unconsciously.
His fingers brushed the fabric, and a jolt ran through him—not painful, but aware. Like the scarf recognized him.
"That one," Yuusha said quietly from behind him, "is not a weapon most seers would choose."
Noir didn't pull his hand away.
"What is it?"
"A scarf worn by the Crimson Seers of ages past." Yuusha's voice was carefully neutral. "It is not a blade. It does not cut or pierce. But in the hands of those who bear the title, it becomes something far more dangerous."
Noir turned to look at him.
Yuusha's expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or concern.
"You're drawn to it," Yuusha observed. "Why?"
Noir didn't have an answer.
Or maybe he did, but couldn't put it into words.
The scarf felt right. Like it had been waiting for him. Like it understood the weight he carried.
"I want this one," Noir said.
Yuusha was silent for a long moment.
Then he stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Noir's with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.
"If you choose that artifact," he said slowly, "you are choosing the path of the Crimson Seer. Do you understand what that means?"
"You already told me. It's a cursed position. Everyone avoids it."
"It is more than that." Yuusha's voice dropped, becoming almost somber. "The Crimson Seer is not merely avoided—it is feared. And for good reason."
He moved to the window, clasping his hands behind his back once more.
"What I am about to tell you is knowledge reserved for head priests alone. It is not written in our archives. It is not taught to trainees. It is passed down through whispers, through warnings, through the blood of those who came before."
Noir felt his pulse quicken.
Yuusha turned to face him fully.
"Every Crimson Seer in the history of the Ise Order," he said, "has met a tragic end."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"Not some. Not most. Everysingleone."
Yuusha's gaze was steady, unflinching.
"They die young. They lose everything they love. They descend into madness, corruption, or despair. Some betray the Order. Some are consumed by rippers. Some take their own lives. But all of them—allofthem—suffer fates so cruel that even their names are spoken with dread."
He took a step closer.
"The position is cursed, Noir Adélard. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. The Crimson Seer is a role that devours those who take it. It strips them of hope, of love, of peace. It leaves nothing but ashes."
Noir's hand was still resting on the scarf.
He could feel it pulsing faintly beneath his fingers, as though it had a heartbeat of its own.
"Why?" Noir asked, his voice hoarse. "Why does it exist if it's cursed?"
"Because," Yuusha said quietly, "someone must bear it. The Crimson Seer walks paths others cannot. Faces evils others will not. Carries sins others would break under."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"It is a position of sacrifice, Noir. Not glory. Not power. Sacrifice."
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
Yuusha's expression softened, just slightly.
"I am telling you this now, before you make your choice final, because once you take that scarf, there is no turning back. The curse will recognize you. The path will open before you. And your fate will be sealed."
He gestured toward the other artifacts.
"Choose something else. A sword. A spear. Something that will let you live, fight, and perhaps even find peace one day."
Noir stared down at the crimson scarf.
His thoughts reeled back in a flash.
The masked figure raising the scythe.
The blood pooling on the floor.
The years of searching, running, suffering.
He thought of Yuusha's words.
Tragic fates. Madness. Corruption. Death.
And he thought of the scarf beneath his hand, pulsing like a living thing, waiting for him to decide.
Yuusha watched him in silence, expression unreadable.
"So," the head priest said softly. "What will you choose, Noir Adélard?"
Noir's fingers tightened around the fabric.
His heart hammered in his chest.
The weight of the decision pressed down on him like the sky itself was collapsing.
Choose to become darkness.
Or choose to reflect light through darkness.
He stood there, frozen, caught between two futures.
One where he might live.
And one where he would almost certainly die.
The scarf pulsed again beneath his hand.
"I love you so much."
And Noir closed his eyes.