___________
Arc 1 - Blind Faith
Blind Faith - Kairo Mercer - Part 1
Written by - Ellien S. Vorein
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Darkness.
Not the gentle kind that comes with sleep.
Not the kind with depth or silence or warmth.
This was flat.
Hollow.
Dead.
A pitch-black void stretched in all directions, too empty to be real, too silent to be safe.
Kairo stood in the centre of it, breathing shallow, heart unsteady.
In front of him were two silhouettes.
Faran.
Elyra.
Their backs were turned.
They walked away slowly —
not with urgency, not with emotion —
as if something unseen were pulling them forward,
and he was nothing but an afterthought left behind.
"Elyra…?"
His voice cracked.
"Faran…?"
No response.
Faran's boots echoed softly across the black surface —
a surface that wasn't stone, wasn't wood, wasn't anything.
Just a floor pretending to exist.
Elyra's pink hair drifted behind her, lifting gently as if a wind were passing through the void — even though there was no wind here.
There was nothing here.
Except him.
"Hey— wait," Kairo muttered, stepping forward.
Except he didn't move.
His feet were rooted in place.
Not by chains.
Not by magic.
Just… stuck.
As if the darkness itself had hardened around his ankles like cold, wet mud.
"Elyra… Faran…!"
His voice strained, trembling.
"Why won't you answer me?"
They kept walking.
He swallowed.
Once.
Twice.
Hard.
"Why…" he whispered.
"Why won't you look at me…?"
A new voice drifted behind him.
Soft.
Familiar.
Wrong.
"Kairo… why would you do that?"
He turned slowly.
His breath stopped.
"Mum…?"
His throat tightened.
"Dad…?"
They stood there — still, unmoving, their faces carved with expressions that didn't belong to the people he remembered.
His father spoke first — not loud, not angry — just cold.
"Stand up, Kairo."
Before Kairo could breathe, his father's tone shifted again.
Softer.
Heavier.
"Even in your dreams… why, Kairo?"
"Why do you disappoint us?"
Something inside Kairo's chest splintered.
His mother's eyes didn't blink.
"You are weak," she said quietly.
"You are nothing but a curse. Why don't you see that?"
They both turned away.
Just like Faran.
Just like Elyra.
His knees buckled.
Kairo collapsed onto the black floor — not violently, just… quietly.
As if his legs had given up holding the weight he'd been carrying for years.
His hands shook.
His breath broke into thin, sharp inhales that scraped at his throat.
The void listened.
No echo.
No shift in air.
No answer.
Just his breathing — fragile and uneven — swallowed immediately by the dark.
Kairo lifted his head.
His eyes glistened, unfocused, struggling to understand the shape of his own loneliness.
He tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn't close.
His voice escaped anyway — small, accidental.
"…Why are you all…"
A shaky inhale.
His chest caved inward.
His teeth pressed together.
"…so fine…"
The word trembled, shrinking mid-sentence.
Even he seemed startled hearing it out loud.
A moment of silence.
Too long.
Too still.
Then:
"…with leaving me…"
The last word didn't sound spoken.
It sounded exhaled.
Like something he'd held in for years had finally slipped through the cracks.
His lips quivered.
His eyes shut tight, as if ashamed of himself.
The darkness around his ankles tightened —
not painful, just inevitable —
as if the void silently agreed with him.
As if it believed he deserved to remain alone.
Kairo's breath shuddered once—
—and he woke.
He lurched upright in a queen-sized bed, chest heaving, breath tearing out of him.
Warm sheets.
Soft air.
Morning light.
His hand trembled over his heartbeat.
"…Huh?" he muttered.
A small, broken thought whispered through his mind:
Oh…
it was just a dream.
Kairo stayed still for a moment.
Not because he was calm —
but because his body refused to move.
His heartbeat thudded softly beneath his palm, too loud in the silence of the room.
He swallowed.
Once.
Twice.
His eyes lifted, slow and unfocused.
…Where am I?
The thought crept in before he could stop it.
He looked around.
A ceiling he didn't recognise —
smooth wood, carved with patterns too elegant for anything in Lagos.
Long, pale curtains hung from tall windows, drawn slightly open.
Golden morning light slipped through the fabric, casting soft shapes across the room.
Beside the bed sat a small table
— polished oak
— clean
— untouched
with a vase of fresh flowers resting on top.
White lilies.
Lavender sprigs.
A single blue bloom he'd never seen before.
He blinked.
Slow. Heavy.
As if his eyes weren't sure what reality they'd returned to.
The sheets beneath him were soft.
Too soft.
A queen-sized bed — larger than anything he'd ever slept in.
He rubbed his thumb gently along the blanket.
It felt expensive.
Warm.
Comfortable.
…Where… am I?
He breathed out shakily.
He touched the wooden headboard —
smooth, polished, curved.
He stared at the tall windows —
too high, too clean, too quiet.
He looked at the curtains —
white lace drifting slightly from the morning breeze.
Everything felt wrong.
Beautiful — but wrong.
Kairo whispered under his breath, voice still groggy:
…This isn't my house.
He sat up slowly, the air feeling heavier than it should.
He looked down at himself.
Someone had changed his clothes.
Someone had cleaned his wounds.
Someone had tucked him in.
His throat tightened.
His inner voice trembled:
Where… am I?
Whose bed is this…?
A single chill ran up his spine.
Not fear.
Not danger.
Just that quiet, eerie sense that he had stepped into a life that wasn't his.
The window-door to his left shifted.
Creeee—ak.
Kairo's breath caught.
The sound wasn't loud.
It wasn't rushed.
It was the kind of slow creak that felt deliberate.
Intentional.
Like someone — or something — was taking its time entering.
Kairo shot upright, panic flashing across his face as instinct took over.
His hand darted to his side—
—his katana wasn't there.
His fingers closed around nothing but air.
"…What?" he whispered.
He scanned the room quickly — heart pounding — but there was no sword in sight.
Not leaning against the wall.
Not beside the bed.
Not anywhere.
The door creaked again.
Creee—eeak…
Kairo stepped back automatically, his foot brushing against the wooden frame of the bed.
He lowered his stance — hands empty, palms trembling slightly, ready to move anyway.
A shadow stretched into the room.
Long.
Thin.
Unhurried.
Kairo swallowed hard.
"Who's there…?"
His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut the stillness.
The breeze from outside drifted in — cold morning air brushing across his skin.
For a moment, nothing moved.
The creaking stopped.
Silence.
Just the faint flutter of curtains…
…
…
Then—
A small head peeked around the opening.
Pink hair.
Wide eyes.
A flicker of relief.
"…Kairo?"
Elyra stepped into view, blinking softly.
"You're awake…"
Her voice was gentle — but her expression said everything:
She didn't expect him to look this afraid.
She didn't expect him to be standing like someone cornered.
She didn't expect him to be shaking.
Kairo exhaled shakily — not from safety, but from the adrenaline finally loosening in his chest.
He lowered his hands, staring at her — breath uneven, confusion slowly taking over the fear.
"…Elyra?" he whispered.
"What are you doing…?"
She stopped halfway through the doorway, noticing for the first time the way he stood — tense, ready, empty-handed.
Her expression softened.
"Kairo…" she said quietly, "it's just me."
But she didn't step any closer.
Not yet.
She could see something was wrong.
Something deeper than a bad dream.
And Kairo realised something too:
His katana wasn't missing.
Someone had moved it.
Elyra rushed to his side the moment she saw the tension leave his shoulders.
"Kairo—" she breathed, almost stumbling as she hurried across the room.
She reached him in seconds, sitting beside him on the bed and pressing a cool glass of water into his hands. Her movements were quick, clumsy with worry — like she hadn't slept the entire night.
She let out a shaky sigh.
"I'm so relieved…"
Her lips curved into a warm, tiny smile — the kind she only ever gave him.
"You passed out," she said, voice lifting slightly.
"I… I was really worried."
Kairo stared at her for a moment, eyes still adjusting, breath still uneven.
Her closeness, her voice, the warmth of her hand brushing his shoulder — it grounded him just enough to remember what reality felt like.
"I passed… out?" he muttered.
He dragged a hand down his face, gripping his hair for a second as the dull ache behind his eyes pulsed. The nightmare still stuck to his ribs like tar.
Then something else hit him.
His fingertips brushed fabric.
Soft.
Loose.
Not his.
He froze.
Kairo looked down.
A black, oversized t-shirt hung off his shoulders — the kind you'd sleep in.
Simple black trousers.
Bare feet.
His suit, his tie, his belt, his jacket — gone.
He looked up at Elyra slowly.
"…My clothes," he whispered.
Elyra blinked innocently.
"Oh — Faran changed them," she said with a small nod.
"Mister Cyran and Faran found you after you passed out. I was panicking."
She rubbed the back of her neck.
"Sorry… we didn't know your size, so we just picked something comfortable."
Kairo stared at the clothes again, a cold shiver running through him.
He wasn't just unconscious.
Someone had carried him.
Undressed him.
Cleaned him.
Changed him.
Put him in a bed he didn't recognise.
He wasn't in the room he'd slept in before.
And—
His katana wasn't here.
Elyra watched his expression shift — confusion, fear, something deeper.
Her voice softened.
"Kairo…?"
She leaned a little closer.
"Is everything okay…?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
His hand curled slightly — the remnants of that cold void still clinging to him.
"…Where," he whispered, "am I?"
Everything in the room was too clean.
Too expensive.
Too high-class for anything in Velronia he'd ever seen.
The air felt… wrong.
Before Elyra could speak—
The floorboard outside creaked.
And a slow, heavy set of footsteps approached the door.
The door creaked open.
"Hey, Kairo — so you're finally awake."
Faran stepped inside with a long, tired yawn, rubbing his eyes like a man who hadn't slept in a week.
Behind him came someone Kairo didn't recognise.
A man with smooth, textured lime-green hair — neat yet stylish, brushing lightly past his ears.
He was a little taller than Faran, dressed in a refined outfit of pale green and white. The fabric shimmered subtly in the morning light — classy, expensive, unmistakably custom-tailored.
His skin looked soft, clean, almost unreal.
He smelt faintly of warmth — something like spring and sunlight mixed together.
But the thing that stood out most was the bow resting across his back.
A golden bow.
Elegant, curved, polished like sunlight frozen into metal.
No string attached — yet it felt complete.
And the arrows?
They sat in a small quiver at his hip… except they weren't arrows at all.
Smooth wooden shafts with no tips.
No metal.
No sharpened edges.
Just clean, flat ends — fully useless as weapons.
Unless you knew who this man was.
He didn't need real arrows.
The moment Kairo looked at him, the man smiled gently — the kind of smile that felt naturally warm, effortlessly kind.
"Three days," he said with a soft laugh. "Did you enjoy your stay?"
Kairo blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…Huh?"
The words didn't register until a full second later.
Then—
"Wait— three days!?"
Elyra nodded quickly, sitting upright beside him.
"Yeah… three days. You slept for a while, Kairo."
Before Kairo could process anything,
the door slammed open.
Five maids rushed in at once — skirts sweeping, steps coordinated, heads bowed so low their hair nearly touched the polished floor.
They moved straight past Kairo and Elyra.
All of them dropped to one knee in perfect unison before the green-haired man.
"Lord Cyran," they said together, voices clear and respectful.
"We have washed and upgraded your guest's clothes."
One maid stepped forward, lifting a folded set of fabrics with both hands.
Kairo recognised them immediately —
his black suit.
But… not the same one.
The black blazer gleamed with a cleaner finish, its stitching sharper and tighter than before.
The white button-shirt looked freshly pressed, smooth as silk.
The trousers held a new weight to them — durable, tailored, almost expensive-looking.
They weren't just washed.
They were restored.
Upgraded.
Refined.
As if the clothes he'd worn through dirt, forest, rain, blood, and nightmares… had been rewritten into something brand new.
Something worthy of Velronia's capital.
Kairo blinked, mouth slightly open.
"…Those are mine?" he muttered.
Cyran flashed a small smile — warm, effortless.
"Of course. You're my guest, after all," he said lightly. "Can't have you walking around Velronia looking like you got kicked out of a volcano."
Faran snorted behind him.
Elyra hid a soft laugh behind her hand.
Kairo didn't.
He just stared at the maids holding his clothes —
as if the world had shifted again
and he wasn't sure he'd caught up.
"Kairo"
Faran waved a hand in front of Kairo's face.
"Oi. Kid. You listening?"
There was no joke this time.
No smirk.
No playful jab.
Kairo blinked once, slow.
"…What?"
Faran exchanged a look with Elyra — a quiet this isn't normal passing between them.
"You've been staring at the wall for five minutes," Faran said.
"I asked if you can stand."
Kairo didn't answer.
Not until the second time Faran repeated it.
He finally nodded, but his eyes didn't focus on anything.
Not the floor.
Not the room.
Not the people.
It was like he was looking through the world.
Elyra touched his arm gently.
"Kairo…? Are you okay?"
He swallowed hard, but even that seemed delayed — like his body forgot how to react until the last possible second.
"I'm fine," he said quietly.
But the tone was wrong.
Too soft.
Too flat.
Too empty.
As if the words belonged to someone else and he was only borrowing them.
Cyran stepped closer, smiling lightly.
"Kairo, you slept three days," he repeated, patient.
Kairo's brow furrowed slowly, the reaction several seconds late.
"…Three?"
"Yes," Cyran said again, a little louder.
"You've been asleep for three days."
Silence.
Then:
"…Three days?"
The exact same words, but spoken like he'd never heard them.
Cyran's smile faded.
Elyra's hands tightened around the glass.
Faran's jaw clenched, expression sharpening.
Something was wrong with him.
Deeply wrong.
And Kairo didn't even realise it.
The maids moved one by one, forming a diagonal line as they approached.
Each carried something carefully between their hands — passing it down the line with a kind of ritual precision, like handling a sacred object.
When the final maid stepped forward, all five lowered their heads.
"This belongs to you—"
"Here you go, sir."
Their voices layered over each other, perfectly in sync.
Kairo didn't respond.
His eyes followed the object mechanically as it was offered to him.
A black sheath.
His katana.
The weapon he never let out of his sight.
The weapon that hadn't been anywhere in the room.
He just stared at it.
Not with relief.
Not with recognition.
Just… blankly.
Like he was looking at something from a memory he didn't remember having.
"Kairo…?"
Elyra's voice wavered gently beside him.
He didn't react.
Not at first.
His hand lifted slowly — almost delayed — and he took the katana from the maid's hands.
His fingers brushed the sheath.
He felt the familiar weight.
The familiar balance.
But he didn't feel anything else.
"…Thanks," he muttered.
Emotionless.
Flat.
Disconnected.
As if he wasn't talking to anyone.
As if he wasn't even in the room.
Elyra's expression tightened — worry quietly blooming at the corners of her eyes.
Faran noticed too.
Cyran stopped smiling.
And Kairo…
just held the katana against his leg, staring at nothing.
Like the world was several seconds ahead of him,
and he hadn't caught up yet.
The maids rushed out of the room in a flurry of skirts and soft footsteps, the door shutting behind them with a quiet click.
Silence followed.
Faran exhaled sharply through his nose, crossing his arms.
"Kairo…"
Elyra leaned in, whispering, her voice trembling:
"Kairo… what's wrong…?"
Kairo didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
He just stood there — katana at his side, eyes unfocused, breathing too quiet.
Faran's brow twitched.
"Alright. Enough."
Before anyone could react—
BANG.
Faran's fist sank straight into Kairo's stomach.
"Gh—!"
Kairo jolted violently, doubling over, the air ripping out of his chest as he clutched his abdomen. His breath shattered into broken gasps.
"The hell— Faran!?"
He choked, struggling to inhale.
Elyra flinched hard, eyes wide.
Even Cyran's smile vanished completely.
Faran stepped forward, grabbing Kairo by the collar and yanking him upright.
"The hell's up with you today, kid?"
His tone wasn't mocking.
Not joking.
Not even angry.
It was sharp.
Serious.
Borderline furious — but from concern, not rage.
"You're staring at walls," Faran growled.
"You're ignoring people."
"You look through us like we're not even here."
Kairo's breath hitched painfully.
Faran narrowed his eyes.
"So I'm asking again," he said, voice low and heavy.
"What the hell is going on with you?"
Kairo pushed himself off the bed, shoulders tense, fingers curling slowly into fists.
Clap.
Clap.
Cyran stepped forward, hands coming together again in a light, elegant rhythm. He wore that same warm smile — the kind that fit him too effortlessly, almost like he'd rehearsed it.
"Well," he said brightly, as if the air wasn't thick with tension,
"this seems like the perfect moment for breakfast… no?"
His voice was confident, gentle, almost musical — cutting straight through the heaviness without pretending it wasn't there.
Kairo sat stiffly at the long table, eyes drifting across the spotless marble.
Elyra hummed beside him, feet kicking softly under her chair.
Faran slumped opposite them, yawning so wide his jaw cracked.
Cyran folded his hands neatly, posture perfect even at a breakfast table.
Kairo stared at the empty plate in front of him.
White.
Clean.
Plain.
Then—
FLASH.
A flick of movement — impossibly fast — like the air itself had glitched.
"What—"
Kairo snapped his head to the left.
Nothing.
No servant.
No motion.
Not even a breeze.
He blinked, confused.
When he turned back—
The plate was no longer empty.
Stacked food covered it.
Fresh bread.
Sliced fruit.
Pastries.
Steamed eggs.
Everything perfectly arranged, steaming as if it had just been cooked.
"…Huh?"
Elyra didn't even question it.
She gasped excitedly and grabbed her knife and fork.
"Breakfast!" she beamed.
Faran bit into a bread roll immediately, tearing it with his teeth.
"Finally."
Not a single person in the room reacted like anything unusual had happened.
Cyran offered a gentle smile, lifting his own fork with elegance.
"Well," he said softly,
"let us eat."
Kairo just stared.
"…When did—?"
Faran shrugged between bites.
"The servants here are fast."
"Fast?" Kairo echoed.
"Yeah," Faran said, yawning.
"You get used to it."
Elyra nodded enthusiastically.
"It's kinda fun to watch!"
Kairo blinked again.
"Watch…? I didn't even see them."
Cyran chuckled lightly, resting his chin on his hand.
"That just means you haven't adjusted yet."
He said it politely — almost apologetically — like it was perfectly normal for food to appear at relativistic speed.
Kairo stared at the plate again.
"…What kind of servants move like that?"
Faran snorted.
"Velronian nobles hire weirdos. You'll get used to it."
Cyran smiled gracefully.
"They're very well-trained."