"…This shouldn't still be standing."
The words slipped out almost unconsciously—less a deliberate statement and more a reflex against a violation of logic than the speech of a man who had just awakened. Vandal Nacht stood at the threshold of his first home—a house that, in his memory, had collapsed more than a decade ago, when the incident of the fractured sky tore through the boundaries of reality and brought down something that was never meant to be understood.
He didn't step inside right away. His gaze swept across every corner, testing for consistency, searching for flaws—cracks, residue, desynchronization.
There were none.
"…No degradation. No traces of destruction. Not even temporal discontinuity."
At last, he stepped in. The wooden floor creaked softly—a sound far too normal for something that should have long since lost its function. The air inside felt stable, untouched by any remnants of abnormal phenomena.
"This place should be empty. Abandoned. Or more precisely… it should no longer exist as an intact structure."
His hand brushed against the table. The wooden surface was cold, solid—real.
"What is this… reconstruction? Or… a rewrite?"
His breath caught for a moment, then slowly grew heavier.
"…I died."
He didn't say it as a hypothesis. It was a fact.
"That aura… Orpheon… it doesn't kill through conventional means. It erases. It nullifies. It erases until even the definition of 'having ever existed' no longer remains."
The memory wasn't blurred. If anything, it was too clear. The pressure that had enveloped the entire world—not from a single direction, but from the very concept of space itself.
"I felt it… as my consciousness collapsed. As the boundary between existence and nonexistence… disappeared."
He clenched his fist.
"Then why am I here?"
There was no answer.
He turned and stepped outside. The world beyond was too alive—the sky whole, human voices, the rhythm of life moving undisturbed. There was no sign that an event of global annihilation had ever taken place.
"This isn't just inconsistency… this is total denial."
He stopped a man passing by.
"You." His voice was flat, yet carried an inexplicable weight.
The man turned, mildly irritated. "What is it?"
"What year is it?"
The man frowned. "1324 of the Aether Calendar. Why?"
"And the date?"
"The seventeenth of the sixth month." Suspicion crept into his expression. "What's wrong with you—"
"That's the date." Vandal cut him off, his voice lower, heavier.
"The date of what?" the man asked, now wary.
"The day the world was supposed to end. The sky fractured. Something descended—not from above, but from a structure beyond direction. The Aura of Orpheon covered the entire earth. Every living being… was annihilated."
A moment of silence, then—
"You're insane." The man let out a short laugh—not because it was funny, but because it was too absurd. "Nothing like that has ever happened."
"That's impossible." Vandal's gaze sharpened. "You didn't feel that pressure? You have no memory of the sky splitting apart?"
"No." The answer was immediate, firm. "This world is fine. It's always been fine."
"Always?" Vandal echoed softly.
"Of course. We have a system. The Eight Councils maintain balance. The Guardians ensure everything runs according to the rules—including the causality of magic in this world."
That word—causality—dug in deep.
"…The Council of Fate," Vandal continued, his voice nearly a whisper, "who governs it?"
"Lady Moriana," the man answered without hesitation.
For a moment, Vandal didn't react. Not because he accepted it—but because something didn't fit. Something that should have been there… yet remained out of reach.
"…Wrong."
"Huh?"
"That's not the name that should be in that position." Vandal frowned. "The Council of Fate… it should be—"
He stopped.
Empty.
The name… didn't come.
"…Why can't I remember it?"
"What are you talking about?" The man took a step back. "You're seriously not right in the head."
"Something's been altered," Vandal murmured, more to himself. "Not just the world… but my memory as well."
"I don't have time for this." The man shook his head. "Go find a healer. Or a priest." He turned away and walked off. "You're crazy."
Vandal didn't pursue him. He simply stood there, processing the void that felt more disturbing than any contradiction.
"…That name was erased."
He walked on, without a clear destination. Each step felt like entering a layer of reality he didn't fully understand. The people around him showed no anomalies.
That was precisely the greatest anomaly.
"If that event was never recorded, if the world remains stable, and if my memory is distorted…"
He paused.
"…then who decides what is true?"
"Lord Vandal."
The voice stopped him.
He turned slowly. A young woman stood a few steps behind him—dressed as a maid, her posture calm, too calm for someone who had just called out a name she should not have known.
"You called me." Vandal's tone sharpened.
"Yes, my lord." The girl gave a slight bow.
"How do you know my name?"
"I serve you."
"I don't have a servant." The reply came instantly.
"I did not say I am your personal servant," she straightened, "I said I serve the Nacht family."
Silence pressed down at once.
"…Family?" Vandal repeated, his brow tightening. "What do you mean 'family'?"
"The Nacht family." Her answer remained flat, as though it were an unquestionable fact.
"There is no 'family.'" Vandal stepped closer. "I only know one person with that name."
"Valeria Nacht," the girl said without hesitation.
Vandal's body stiffened. "Don't say her name as if you know her."
"I do not know her personally," the girl replied calmly, "but I am aware of her position."
"Position?" The pressure in Vandal's voice rose.
"A part of the Nacht family structure." She met his gaze directly. "A structure you clearly do not understand."
"That's impossible." The denial came out harsher than intended. "I lived with her. There was no extended family. No servants. No structure."
"Your knowledge is limited to what you have seen," she responded without emotion, "that does not make it the whole."
"I don't need the whole to know reality." Vandal's eyes turned cold. "What I see is fact."
"Are you certain it is fact… or merely a fragment you have assumed to be complete?"
That sentence stilled him.
"…What do you mean?"
"If you are given only one piece," the girl stepped half a step closer, "it is natural to believe that piece is everything. But that does not make it whole."
"Enough." Vandal's voice lowered.
"Because if not," she continued, unaffected, "then the more important question is—who decides what you remember… and what you do not?"
Silence fell, heavier than before.
Vandal stared at her, searching for an opening—a contradiction, a lie, something he could refute.
There was none.
"…Who are you, really?"
"I have already answered." The girl bowed slightly. "A servant of the Nacht family."
"No." Vandal shook his head slowly. "That's not an answer."
The girl fell silent for a moment, then raised her head.
"…Then allow me to ask you, my lord."
"What."
"If you do not know the Nacht family…" her gaze remained calm, yet now carried a deeper weight, "…then why does that name still belong to you?"
There was no answer.
And for the first time since he awakened—
Vandal did not merely doubt the world.
He began to doubt… the very foundation of his own existence.