Inside a grand villa, music thumped through golden chandeliers and polished marble floors. Laughter echoed. Glasses clinked. The celebration was in full swing.
"Hey, hey, hey! Stop drinking— the night's still young and you're already wasted," said a young man, rushing to steady his clearly drunk friend before he could fall.
As he reached out, the drunk man suddenly threw his arms around him in a sloppy hug.
"You lucky bastard… I'm really happy for you, man," the drunk mumbled, slurring slightly.
The young man struggled to free himself from the embrace.
"Lucky, huh? I think that's the wrong word. I was top of the class, and for your information, I aced the entrance exam too. I don't think 'lucky' quite covers it."
Eventually prying himself free, he helped guide the drunk man to a sofa tucked into a quiet corner of the hall.
"No, 'lucky' is exactly the right word," the drunk insisted, sinking into the cushions.
"They don't usually accept red-eyed people, you know… It's always been like that. They take in three or four, just to act like they're being fair." said the drunk man
The words hung in the air longer than they should have. The truth had a way of doing that.
The young man said nothing as the drunk began to drift off.
"But hey... if you pull off something amazing, you might end up like Sir Varek Drosin—the pride of red-eyed people," drunk man murmured, before finally passing out.
The young man watched his friend fade into sleep. He turned away quietly and walked toward the villa doors, needing air. The noise behind him faded into a dull hum as he stepped into the garden.
"Pride of the red-eyed people, huh…" he muttered.
Lying in the garden of the villa, eyes fixed on the starry night sky glowing under the full moon's radiant light...
Anyone would assume peace would naturally settle in. Tranquility would seep into the bones, washing away the noise of the world.
For minds riddled with anxiety and chaos, this would seem like the perfect escape—a quiet breath before the storm, or a much-needed pause after endless days of motion.
But for one person staring at this so-called serenity, the feeling was... different.
'The moon and stars are overrated,' he thought.
"I mean really, what's the big deal? They're just tiny dots of light. I think People just pretend to admire stuff like this , just to look a bit thoughtful. Or maybe it's one of those butterfly effect things "
"And what is about those constellations? What even are they? Random shapes we force meaning onto. it is like making small meaningless things complicated. Turning nothing into something, just to sound poetic.
Then again... wait, don't they help with navigation? Damn. I should probably read up on that."
It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that invited thoughts you didn't ask for. Uselessly profound, mildly idiotic, but dressed up in the illusion of depth.
The night sky was peaceful, some might say silent. But peace? That is a myth.
Yes, peace is a misconception. Like those who walk a thorn-covered path—a path they love, despite its pain—calling their struggle peace. As if enduring hardship somehow made the journey calm.
And silence? That's another lie. Some want to chase their passion, follow the thorny road, but they hesitate—afraid to lose the comfort of their current life. So they stay silent. Yet to say silence is weakness is a misconception too. Sometimes silence is strength. Sometimes it's surrender. Sometimes, it's simply fear.
Now, myth stood between peace and silence. And he had to choose.
The young man, just seventeen, had eyes as red and vivid as fresh blood under the moonlight—so piercing they seemed to cut through souls. His hair was black as midnight, contrasting sharply with his fair skin. He lay there on the grass, unmoving, lost in thought.
In his hand, he held two pieces of paper. One choice in each.
His name... was Myth.
Myth Nyxen
In this country, there were two types of schools. One trained students for the Lawless Lands or the military, combining combat readiness with basic academics. The other focused solely on advanced academics, nurturing scholars, engineers, and thinkers.
The paper in his left hand was an acceptance letter to the best college in the city.
Myth was a brilliant student—his scores, discipline, and intellect had earned him a future most could only dream of. A well-paid career, stability, and respect awaited him. This was the life he had studied for, the goal he had worked toward for years. He had attended an advanced academic school, and there, he had excelled—always at the top.
The paper in his right hand, however, was something else entirely: an approval form for transfer to the Lawless Lands.
A place ruled by strength. A place of chaos, danger, and uncertainty. A place he hadn't studied for. A life he hadn't prepared for.
"I was an idiot back then, choosing the advanced academic school..." Myth muttered then he smiled . "Wait... I don't even know how to use a gun. I'm not strong. I'd be an even bigger idiot to choose the Lawless Lands."
He paused, staring at the papers again.
"…At least I know how to hold my own with a dagger," he whispered, almost trying to convince himself.
Myth looked up at the night sky and , a quiet grin tugged at his lips . Because deep down, he knew there was never really a choice. That path had always been calling.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "I have my decision."
"And it's the Lawless Lands."