-Year 7335, Island of the Second Strand – Southeast of Decatry-
The island has no name.
Old maps called it only a "blot" — a black dot southeast of Decatry, below the Derylini peninsula. Sailors avoided it. Fishermen changed course. Birds, even the most lost, never landed there.
The ground is black, barren, crossed by fissures from which exudes a vapor that smells of sulfur and rotting flesh. There are no trees, no grass, no moss. Only stone and ash. And the sky, always grey, as if light itself had given up shining there.
The corruption is so dense that it can be felt on the skin — an invisible itch, a voice whispering at the back of the skull. The few explorers who landed there over the centuries were never the same. Those who returned told stories of shadows moving alone, of voices calling the names of the dead.
No one lives there. No one watches there.
So when the rift tears through the air in the center of the island, there are no eyes to see it.
---
The portal is a wound in reality.
Vertical, black, pulsing. Its edges are red, like raw flesh, and veins of dark energy run along them in a slow, irregular rhythm. There is no thunder. No explosions of light. Only a low sound, humble, almost shy — like a heartbeat far away, deep within the earth.
Trussum emerges first.
His body is monstrous, but not in the grand manner of his brothers. He is small, almost fragile. His flesh is alive, mutilated, with blood dripping from open wounds — dark, thick blood that evaporates before touching the ground. Several blue eyes are scattered across his torso, his arms, his face. Some are closed. Others move independently, observing the deserted island, the grey sky, the nothing.
He inhales.
The smell of corruption is familiar. Intimate. Like coming home after a long journey.
"We are close," he says.
His voice is strange. Sweet, almost hypnotic. Like a whisper in the head of someone asleep.
Mantis emerges behind him.
Taller. Much taller. His body is an armor of black and green chitin, with metallic reflections in the uncertain light. His forearms end in curved scythes, sharp as razor blades. His head is triangular, with compound eyes that reflect the landscape in a thousand fragments.
The butler. The executor. The friend.
Mantis bows slightly.
"The second layer smells of fear, master."
"It smells of opportunity."
Trussum closes some eyes. Others remain open, scanning the horizon.
"The gods sent their chosen ones to defeat us. They failed. This time, I will send their own children back to them."
"Corrupt the chosen ones?" Mantis does not ask. He states.
"Corrupt some. Only those who are most afraid. Those who doubt. Those who lie." Trussum touches his own chest. Blood drips between his fingers. "Like me."
---
The portal begins to close behind them. Slowly, like a tired eyelid.
There is no hurry. No army waiting. Only the two of them.
Trussum closes all his eyes.
His body begins to contract, to reshape itself. The blue eyes disappear, one by one, absorbed into the flesh. The mutilated flesh heals, stretches, covers itself with pale skin. The wounds scar. The blood evaporates. His limbs shorten, thin. His face transforms — losing its monstrous edges, gaining human contours.
In seconds, where a demon stood, there is a boy of sixteen or seventeen.
Blood-red hair, grey eyes, simple traveler's clothes. Nothing special. Nothing that would draw attention in a crowd.
Mantis watches, impassive.
"You look tired, master."
"I am. The disguise takes energy. And it only works during the day."
Trussum looks at the grey sky. The sun is hidden behind the clouds, but there is enough light to maintain the illusion.
"At nightfall," he continues, "I return to what I am."
"And if someone sees?"
"They won't. My smell is human now. My aura is human. Even the chosen ones will find me... ordinary."
"Unless they have a Decetuarius."
"Yes. Unless they have a Decetuarius." Trussum smiles. It is a human smile, almost innocent. Almost. "But those are rare. Nearly extinct. Humans have forgotten about them."
His grey eyes fix on the horizon. Far away, the silhouette of the Derylini peninsula stands out against the mist.
"And I, master?" asks Mantis.
"You will stay on the island. Wait."
"I will serve."
Mantis turns to the portal, now only a thin line in the air. He sits on the black rock, his scythes crossed behind his back, his compound eyes reflecting nothing.
---
Trussum walks to the edge of the island.
The sea is dark, restless. Low, regular waves crash against the black-tipped rocks. On the other side, the peninsula. The academy. The chosen ones.
He speaks to himself. Or perhaps to the wind. Or perhaps to Mantis, who is too far away to hear.
"I will do something none of my brothers have tried. Enter their fortress. Sit at their table. Look into their eyes."
The wind howls.
"And they won't know."
The sea crashes against the rocks.
"No one will know."
Trussum smiles again. The human smile. The innocent smile.
Then he steps forward.
The water does not swallow him. The waves do not knock him down. He walks on the sea as if it were solid ground — light, silent, unhurried.
His silhouette grows smaller. More distant.
Mantis watches from the black beach.
"The great liar," he murmurs, to no one.
The rift of the portal closes with a sigh.
The island returns to silence.
---
No one knew.
Not yet.