The room was not merely dark—it was steeped in a dead shadow, as if light had long since abandoned it.
The corners of the walls drowned in such dense blackness that it seemed no illumination had ever reached them. The air carried a mingled scent of old paper, dust, and scorched oil. The only living thing in the entire chamber was the small gas lamp resting on the table. Its yellowish flame flickered slowly, as though even it feared the oppressive silence.
Papers lay scattered across the table in chaotic heaps.
Half-finished sentences, words violently crossed out, ink stains driven so deep into the fibers that it was clear the pen had nearly torn through the sheet in frustration. It looked like a man desperately trying to finish a story… only to discard every attempt, tormented by its imperfections.
The face of the man seated beneath the lamp remained hidden.
A mask covered it, yet even the mask seemed swallowed by the gloom. Only a number engraved on one side briefly caught the light—
1.
The man moved his pen with deliberate slowness.
A new line bloomed across the fresh sheet:
"Then, by threatening the corrupt emperor with the judgment of the Joker, the supreme arbiter of the great void, he guided him back to the righteous path like an ideal teacher."
Several seconds of silence followed.
Then, very slowly, the man tilted his head.
It was as if he were judging his own words.
In the next instant, he crumpled the paper.
The sound of it tearing echoed unnaturally loud through the silent room.
At that exact moment, another figure emerged from the depths of the darkness.
He too wore a mask. He appeared to be twenty-four or twenty-five years old. His footsteps were almost soundless as he approached and stopped before the table. In a low voice, he said,
"Rion Smith and Oliver Darren have reached Meson."
The seated man offered no reply.
The young messenger didn't wait for one. His task was simply to deliver the news. Within seconds, he had melted back into the shadows.
The room fell silent once more.
The lamp's flame shivered faintly.
Then the masked figure at the table slowly lifted his head.
From beneath the mask came a deep, weary voice:
"Now we only wait for time…"
A faint smile seemed to touch the corner of his lips.
Or perhaps it was only a shadow.
---
[2 days earlier ]
Rion and Oliver Darren stepped into a sword shop.
Rows of blades lined the walls—some gleaming, some ancient, others with such strange designs that they looked more like exhibition pieces than weapons of war. Afternoon light slipped through the window gaps, carving thin lines through the dusty air.
Rion scanned the interior the moment he entered, his eyes instinctively assessing the weight, balance, and edge of every weapon.
But Oliver…
He had already drifted elsewhere.
His gaze had locked onto a sword standing in one corner.
At first glance, it seemed utterly ordinary. Yet any skilled and experienced swordsman would notice something unnatural about it upon closer inspection.
A thin green line ran down the center of the blade, as if molten emerald had been poured into the metal. The hilt bore no excessive ornamentation, yet it possessed an elegant, silent danger.
Oliver reached out slowly and grasped the hilt.
For a brief moment, a different light flickered in his eyes.
The shopkeeper stepped forward.
"That one?" The man cleared his throat lightly. "Its name is *The Green Sea*."
He launched into a practiced tale meant to impress Oliver. "It's an excellent sword. Once belonged to a great king who defeated mighty warriors in the blink of an eye. A real rare grade."
Oliver spoke calmly, "It's nothing special—just a normal sword. But I like the design."
The shopkeeper shrugged.
"Seems you're quite experienced. You could tell at a glance that it's just a normal sword with a slightly unusual look."
Rion watched from the side.
He had known Oliver long enough.
Whenever Oliver looked at something that way… it was never ordinary.
"How much?" Oliver asked.
"Twenty Amble."
Oliver raised an eyebrow.
"Twenty Amble for this rusty old shop?"
"Rare things tend to gather in rusty old shops," the shopkeeper retorted.
"Ten Amble," Oliver said.
The shopkeeper countered, "Out of respect for an experienced man like yourself, fifteen Amble. I can't go lower than that—I'd be taking a loss."
"Final offer: twelve Amble," Oliver replied. "Not a coin more."
The shopkeeper shook his head. "No."
Oliver turned to leave with Rion when the shopkeeper called out,
"Fine, you win. Twelve Amble it is. Take it."
Once they had left the shop, Rion finally spoke.
"The way you were looking at it… that doesn't seem like a normal sword."
Oliver smiled faintly as he walked.
"Because it isn't."
He ran his fingers along the scabbard.
"Something above rare grade."
Rion frowned.
"But the man said—"
"He doesn't know."
Oliver paused for a moment. A shadow of thought crossed his eyes.
"Normal rare weapons amplify a specific type of magic—fire, ice, lightning… something like that. But this one…" His voice dropped. "It can amplify anything."
Rion remained silent.
Oliver glanced at him.
"So it's perfect for you."
The words stirred something strange in Rion's chest.
He didn't show it.
He simply kept walking forward.
It took them two full days to reach Meson.
On the final evening, as they drew near the village, its unnatural atmosphere became unmistakable.
The entire area was oppressively quiet.
The forest trees grew so thick that even daylight barely reached the ground. The air carried the scent of damp earth mixed with something burnt.
The village was small.
Unnaturally small.
Few people were visible. A handful of wooden houses stood in the distance.
It felt as though the place itself was holding its breath.
"People are watching us," Rion said quietly.
Oliver answered without looking around, "Yes."
Several pairs of eyes followed them from behind window slits.
Fearful eyes.
Exhausted eyes.
And some filled with outright terror.
"I don't like this place," Rion said.
Oliver replied in a cold tone,
"Good. That means we've come to the right spot."
Instead of staying inside the village, they chose a distant hill for their camp. It was slightly elevated and had less surrounding forest.
By the time they reached it, night had fallen.
There was no moon in the sky.
Only mist and cold wind.
Rion walked ahead, dry leaves crunching beneath his boots.
Suddenly, he stopped.
His entire body tensed in an instant.
Oliver was a few steps behind.
"What is it?"
Rion gave no answer.
He simply stared straight ahead.
Oliver moved up beside him.
Then…
He too froze.
In the middle of the hilltop stood a massive bull.
No—
Calling it a bull felt wrong.
It looked like a demonic bull forged from fire itself.
Its entire body blazed. Cracks of dark lava glowed within the flames. With every breath, smoke poured from its nostrils.
But the most terrifying thing was its eyes.
There were no pupils.
No dark sclera.
Only white.
The dead white of a corpse's eyes.
Between its two horns floated a red orb.
No—not an orb.
It was a molten heart made of liquid lava.
Thump…
Thump…
Thump…
Its pulsing could be felt in the air across the hill.
Rion's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt.
His throat had gone dry.
"…What the hell is that?"
Oliver answered, "This is exactly the kind of danger we came here to get used to."
His gaze remained fixed on the burning creature.
And at that moment—
The flaming bull lifted its head.
Its white eyes turned directly toward Rion.
The air on the hill seemed to stop moving.
Then the beast stared at him like a predator sighting its prey.