The late morning sun kissed Patricia's ranch in a golden hue, casting warmth over the shimmering garden landscape and grazing fields. Flowers swayed gently, their petals catching the light like fragments of late spring.
Patricia walked down the stony path, gravel crunching beneath her black boots. She wore a yellow blouse tucked into blue denim jeans, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.
She had just finished her early and utterly ridiculous marathon training with Bernard. That jerk had woken her up even earlier than usual. Probably out of spite, since she'd crushed his little test and bruised his ego. But that didn't mean he had to take it out on her. Huh.
Patricia grunted as she watched the horses galloping and prancing in the grazing area.
She smiled, despite herself. Their joy was infectious. It reminded her of when she was little—chasing horses around the family ranch, her laughter echoing through the fields. She could still see her father laughing as she tumbled to the ground, trying to catch one.
Sweet memories. They brought joy… and pain. She missed those days. Sometimes, she wished she could turn back time and live them all over again.
She closed her eyes, letting the breeze kiss her cheeks and weave through her hair. The soft sounds of neighing and galloping surrounded her like a lullaby.
"You feel it… don't you."
Patricia's eyes snapped open. She turned quickly.
Bernard stood there, clad in his horse derby attire—white shirt, black slacks, black boots, thick gloves. His golden-blonde hair was neatly combed to the side, and for some reason, his face glowed with an irritating kind of handsomeness. He looked unpleasantly attractive. Maybe her heart would've stirred if it didn't already belong to someone else… or if he weren't such a jerk.
Patricia sighed and turned her gaze back to the horses.
"Ah… it's sweet, isn't it?" Bernard said softly. "That feeling. That pull of reminiscence. Horses have a way of stirring old memories—especially if your heart's carved with a love for the majestic creatures. They move you… in ways you can't explain."
Patricia snorted.
"I didn't think you were the sentimental type. I guess I stand corrected. Sorry, but..your stone-cold behavior threw me off. I always pictured you as the ruthless boant who sees horses as money-making machines—not majestic creatures that stir the soul. Just pitiful tools to be discarded when they're no longer useful."
Bernard shook his head and sighed.
"Of course. Only you would think the worst of me."
"Do you blame me?" Patricia shot back.
Bernard chuckled.
"No… I don't. I've been called worse. 'White devil.' 'Pig in white silk.' Take your pick."
Patricia laughed.
"'Pig in white silk'? Jeez, I wonder what you did to earn that one. Not that I blame them. You do behave like a pig sometimes. That's a fact."
Bernard gave her a look.
"Ouch. I always thought I was just a jerkass to you. But a pig? That's a new low."
"Well, Mr. Crisby, jerkasses and pigs aren't that different. They are cut from the same cloth. They may look different, but they behave alike. So yeah—you're a pig. And if you'll excuse me, I'd rather not let you spoil my beautiful mood. Have a good day."
She turned and began walking away.
Until—
"I'm sorry…"
Patricia froze.
Slowly, she turned to face him.
"Excuse me? What did you just say?" Patricia asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.
Bernard sighed and stepped forward slowly, stopping just a few paces from her.
"I said… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you have the wrong impression of me. For making you think I was some narcissistic asshole who didn't want you in the race. For making you believe I was trying to prove you couldn't do it—so you'd give up."
He paused, his gaze steady.
"I'll admit it. When I first heard a woman was joining our circle, I had doubts. Thought it was some ridiculous, daring conquest. But then I saw you at the tryout race. The stunts you pulled… the way you gripped those reins like your lifeline, even when you were staring death in the face. I saw the spark in you. And I knew—it wasn't a flame that would be easily snuffed out."
He took a breath.
"That's why I volunteered to train you. For the speed. For the marathon. I wanted to toughen you up so that when the real narcissistic assholes came for you, you'd be ready. So you could carve your way to the championship circle. My strictness? It's necessary. And I'm going to keep pushing you until I see gold glimmering around your neck. If I have to be a jerkass and a pig in white silk to get you there—so be it."
Patricia felt her heart soften. She'd always known, deep down, that Bernard's harshness was a form of armor-building. She was walking into a wolves' den, and they wouldn't hesitate to tear her apart at the first sign of weakness. She didn't like his methods—but for the first time, she was glad he was doing it. Because she was going to need it.
She sighed and looked at him.
"It's okay, Bernard. I knew what you were trying to do. But I'm glad you finally said it. Because honestly, I wasn't sure anymore—if you were training me or trying to break me. Trying to make me quit. But what you are doing… reminded me that I'm not easy to break. And I needed that. That confidence. That fire to keep going."
She leaned in slightly, locking eyes with him.
"But I have one question. How did you know something was wrong? That my stunt wasn't for show—but survival?"
Bernard smirked.
"Ms. Patricia, I'm not called the White Knight of the Derby for nothing. That wasn't my first rodeo. I knew because... I was just like you."
Patricia raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
Bernard stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned towards Patricia's ear.
"You're not the only one with a legacy to fulfill. If you know what I mean. After all… 'It started with a race, and it will end with a race.'"
Patricia's eyes widened, just for a moment, before narrowing again.
"What do you know?" she whispered.
Bernard smirked.
"That you smell lovely. Like a field of wildflowers—fresh and damp from the evening rain. I wish your scent was a perfume… I'd wear it every day."
Patricia gasped at the brazen compliment and spun toward him, eyes blazing.
"You… jerka—"
But he cut her off.
"I'll see you tomorrow, darling. 3 a.m. sharp. We've got less than five days to the big debut, and I don't plan on wasting them. Ciaó."
He turned and walked away before she could respond.
"Urrgh!! The nerve of that pig! I swear, one day I'll—Urrgh!" Patricia fumed, watching him disappear down the path.
She grunted and turned to head in the opposite direction—only to freeze.
Isaac stood just a few steps away, his gaze locked on Bernard's retreating figure. His fists clenched slightly at his sides.
He had arrived a few minutes earlier, looking for Patricia after noticing she wasn't at the stables. He remembered that she sometimes wandered to the grazing area to watch the horses, so he came to find her there.
And he found her.
Talking to Bernard.
Standing far too close.
Isaac didn't like it. Not one bit. He considered stepping in, making his presence known, forcing some distance between them. But then he saw it.
The scumbag leaned in. Whispered something into Patricia's ear.
That alone was a grenade.
But then—he smirked. Right at Isaac. A smug, calculated smirk. And as if that wasn't enough, he leaned even closer to Patricia's nape and inhaled her scent.
That was the ticking time bomb.
'The nerve of that asshole. He did it on purpose. To provoke him. To stake a claim. A clear message: I'm in your territory, and I'm waging war.'
Well, if it's war he wants—then war he'll get.
'I won't let smug bastards like him take what's mine. If he thinks I'm weak, he's dead wrong. He just awakened the beast. And the beast doesn't let go. Not until it tears a limb or two. I will defend what belongs to me. So game on.'
"Isaac…"
His gaze snapped from the path Bernard had disappeared down to Patricia, who was now standing just a breath away.
She could see it in his eyes. He'd seen her with Bernard—again. In yet another awkward moment.
'Oh, brother… Urrgh. This is getting more boring by the minute', she thought, shaking her head gently.
She stepped closer, expecting him to embrace her. Or kiss her. Something.
But nothing came.
Isaac remained stoic, his eyes still drifting toward the path Bernard had taken.
And then—something clicked.
He wasn't seeing a path anymore. He was seeing a hallway. Stark. Dimly lit. Oil lamps flickering instead of electric lights. He wasn't sure if the man walking down it was Bernard… but it was one of those episodes. The ones that started after he touched that cursed thing.
As if remembering the events of the previous night, Isaac looked down at his hands.
No grotesque snake-like veins. Just his usual creamy skin.
But the sensation of them—pulsing beneath the surface—still lingered. And it terrified him.
Those things were beyond imagination. And if they—
"Are you seriously ignoring me now?"
Patricia's voice cut through his thoughts like a whip.
He blinked, jolted back to reality.
She was standing in front of him, eyes blazing with fury.
Oh no… He'd zoned out for too long. Forgotten that his Sweeches was right there—and now she looked like an angry bull ready to charge.
He needed to salvage this. Fast.
Or he'd never hear the end of it.
"Urrgh! Are you serious?" Patricia snapped. "Don't tell me you're acting all stoic and pimp now because of what you just saw—after I explained everything yesterday. That you have nothing to worry about. That Bernard is just a jerkass,an asshole who lives to get on my nerves. Don't tell me you're going to join him in that game with your childish jealousy."
Isaac sighed and stepped closer, just a breath away.
"And what if I am jealous? What are you going to do about it?"
Patricia snorted.
"Unbelievable." She turned to walk away, but Isaac grabbed her waist and held her firmly.
"That bastard may act like a jerkass to you…" he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her cheek,
"…but to me, he's a threat. A threat treading on dangerous territory. And I don't like threats."
Patricia lifted her gaze and met his eyes.
"And I don't like people who don't trust their partner's loyalty. The only reason he's a threat to you is because you don't trust me. You don't trust that I'll be faithful. That I'll ignore him. That I'll stay loyal to you. And that's very disappointing, Isaac. Very."
She removed his hands from her waist and walked away.
Isaac stood there, stunned.
"Is she for real? Ha!" he muttered, then hurried after her.
"Patricia, wait! Just wait a minute!" he called.
But she kept walking, heading back toward the stables.
"Patricia—Sweeches—come on!" He reached out, almost grabbing her arm—
Until—
"Lord Phillips. If loyalty isn't one of thy virtues, then do not assume it of me! If thou art not a filial dog, then do not presume me a jackal—lest I teach thee how to keep thy virtues in a way thou wouldst never forget!"
The voice boomed inside Isaac's skull like a thunderclap.
Then came the pain.
Skull-splitting. Blinding.
He clutched his head and collapsed to the ground.
Patricia turned at the sudden silence—and saw him crumpled, clutching his head, gasping in agony.
"Isaac! Isaac! Are you okay? Isaac!"
She dropped beside him, frantically trying to pry his hands away, but he held tighter, groaning in pain.
"Isaac! Oh my gosh! Mr. Thompson! Mr. Thompson!" she shouted.
Mr. Thompson came running into the stables.
"Yes, Miss! What's wrong?"
"Help me! Please! Isaac's in pain—he collapsed! Help me get him back to the house!"
"Of course." Mr. Thompson rushed to help lift Isaac.
Isaac staggered to his feet, barely able to stand. He nearly tumbled again because of loss of strength.
"Whoa—easy there. I've got you." Peter arrived just in time, steadying him.
"Please help him," Patricia pleaded, her voice trembling.
The two men supported Isaac and carried him back to the house, laying him gently on his bed.
Patricia helped him rest his head on the pillows. His breathing had steadied, but his eyes were bloodshot, and tears streamed down his face.
"Oh Isaac… what happened to you?" Patricia whispered, her heart aching at the sight of him suffering.
Tears stung her eyes, threatening to fall.
"I've already called the doctor. He's on his way," Peter said.
Patricia looked at them with gratitude.
"Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Thompson, Peter. I don't know what I would've done without you."
"You're welcome, Miss," Mr. Thompson replied.
"My pleasure, Patricia. But what happened? Why is he like this?" Peter asked.
Patricia sighed.
"I don't know. We had a small argument. He was chasing after me to talk, and then… silence. I turned around and saw him clutching his head, gasping for breath, before collapsing."
"I saw some injuries on his head earlier. Could that be the cause?" Peter asked.
Patricia nodded.
"Maybe. But we won't know for sure until the doctor examines him."
Peter nodded.
"Okay. Excuse me—I actually came to see Alisha. I'll check in later."
Patricia nodded.
"It's fine. I'll wait here with Isaac. Mr. Thompson, please inform Mr. Carlos and Mr. Steven that I won't be attending the rest of today's training. Not while Isaac's like this."
She turned to Isaac and saw he had drifted into sleep, exhausted from the pain.
"It's okay, Miss. I'll inform them. Excuse me," Mr. Thompson said, leaving with Peter.
Patricia turned back to Isaac, watching his chest rise and fall gently.
She brushed a few strands of hair from his face and whispered,
"What's happening to you?"
Isaac's breathing was calm now.
But it wasn't peace.
It was the silence before the storm.
And somewhere inside him, he knew—
The storm was coming.
....
Somewhere…
The wind howled in violent gusts as a helicopter descended onto an open field.
As it landed, a man stepped out—clad in a pristine white suit, a silver mask concealing his face. His dark brown hair flowed down his shoulders and back like silk. In his hand, he held a silver staff, its crust engraved with a black tulip.
At the edge of the cliff near the sea stood a stark, magnificent mansion—its silhouette regal against the churning sky.
A middle-aged man in a black suit approached. Black hair, black eyes, a flat nose, pink lips, and a medium-toned physique sculpted beneath his tailored jacket. He bowed slightly in greeting, then led the masked man toward the mansion.
"I can't believe you decided to visit me after all, cousin. I thought you'd forgotten all about me," the man in black said as they walked along the garden corridor.
"You know why I haven't been able to visit," replied the masked man. "Business has been flowing perfectly. I didn't want to disrupt the rhythm. Besides… you didn't seem bothered by my absence. Truth be told, you were enjoying it."
"Ha. Ha. Typical Ricardo. You were always the sarcastic one among us , both then and now." The man in black scoffed. "Too bad I never found your sarcasm funny. I loathed it then. I still loathe it now. So tell me—what do I owe the pleasure? I thought we agreed to stay out of each other's way… after our past differences."
Ricardo sighed and stopped, turning to face the garden.
"I don't want to be here, Alberto. But I had no choice. I need answers. Answers only you can give."
Alberto stiffened, sensing the shift in tone.
"What is it?"
Ricardo turned to him and spoke a single word.
"Chronalis."
Alberto's eyes widened—just for a moment—before returning to their usual calm.
He stepped closer, voice low.
"How? Where is it? Who has it?"
"I believe it was in Blane's possession. But now… it's in someone else's hands. I haven't found it yet. I'm still searching. But before that—I need to know what it is. What makes it so… special."
Alberto exhaled slowly.
"It's not special, Ricardo." He paused.
"It's oblivion. A key to apocalypse. A threat beyond measure. Its emergence means the end is coming. And the one who ignited it… will unleash it. We must find it. And kill the beholder. Otherwise…" He looked out toward the sea.
"…everything will fall apart. Everything we had worked for. History will repeat itself. And this time… it will be permanent."
Rumble. Rumble.
Thunder echoed in the distance. Dark clouds gathered over the ocean, swirling like a warning.
A premonition.
A threat was rising.
And just as Alberto feared—it was an oblivion he could not control. Everything he'd built would collapse. And he would be powerless to stop it.
Now, a new mission burned in his mind.
Eliminate the beholder… or be eliminated before it's too late.