May had arrived. Across the nation, the atmosphere was growing tense. At the end of this month, the National Final Examination would be held simultaneously for all final-year students—whether in Elementary School, Middle School, or High School.
The Virellano residence was busier than usual that evening. Among the bustle, Clarista—the fourth daughter of the Virellano family—had just returned from abroad. Her purpose was clear: to become the private tutor for David, who was now in his final year at Makazhar Elite School, the second-best high school in Eastern Indorosia.
In the living room, the atmosphere was warm. Edward sat with a tablet in hand, occasionally glancing at a digital newspaper. Sandra, as always, maintained control over the household with her calm smile. Between them, David was absorbed in studying his worksheet modules.
Al? He had just arrived, summoned by his father through their butler, Harun. He sat not far away, isolating himself like a shadow among the light.
Even so, his posture remained relaxed—leaning slightly back against the chair, one leg crossed casually over the other. After all, this was the seat that should have belonged to him from the very beginning. His expression carried a faint trace of boredom, as though he already knew what awaited him. If it wasn't going to be another needless family drama, then it would probably be some unreasonable argument tossed his way.
"You're in your final year too, right? How's your exam prep?" Edward asked.
"Everything's fine, Dad."
"How are your grades, Al?" Sandra asked casually as she brewed tea, as if it were just small talk.
Al replied without turning. "Just average, Mom. Nothing special."
Everyone nodded. Nothing surprising. It was as if that answer was meant to be a part of Al's life narrative—a norm that was accepted without argument.
But David, who was focused on studying the module Clarista had prepared, mumbled softly, "They said during the last mock exam, the top scorer at HIHS was someone named... Al. Could it be?"
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. All eyes shifted—to Al. Yet the young man continued staring blankly at the TV, which was playing one of Sandra's favorite Korean dramas. His eyes darted aimlessly, avoiding anyone's gaze.
"Hm... doesn't seem likely," Edward muttered lazily before going back to his tablet.
David frowned, slightly irritated. He knew the truth. He knew who had actually scored highest at Hazandeen International High School. But sometimes the truth isn't loud enough to be heard. Besides, it was just a mock exam. A small achievement not worth talking about—even if it did give David a pinch of anxiety.
What if Al actually made it into the national top three in the real exam?
"If it really was Brother Al who got the top score, then that's amazing," David said, half-challenging.
"But what's the point of a mock exam if your final score ends up being bad?" Clarista added flatly, her tone sharp yet unshaken. "Besides, I doubt it was him anyway. How could someone who usually lazes around all day suddenly score that high, especially in a school like HIHS?"
"You have a point," Sandra remarked with a nod. Edward silently agreed as well. Even Al, who sat quietly beside them, ended up nodding—though no one could tell whether he genuinely agreed or if he was simply indifferent.
"You need to maintain that performance of yours, Al, if you truly are capable," Edward added, his tone carrying a mixture of encouragement and skepticism.
"And you really must reduce that habit of idling away your days. You've been here for quite a while now, and yet I still see no significant change in you. At the very least, you no longer cause as many problems as before, but I hope you improve soon. Honestly, it's tiring to continue holding back the publication of your status for too long." His words were part advice, part warning, yet also a reminder of Al's place in the household.
Al froze for a brief moment, startled. This was the first time Edward had directly mentioned his status after such a long silence.
He responded only with a slight nod and a faint smile. Deep down, he understood that most of Edward's words were no more than formalities, but to him, it was enough. At the very least, it meant that his effort to integrate into this household had not been entirely invisible. There was, perhaps, a small glimmer of progress.
Meanwhile, David felt irritation bubble up inside him. The mere thought of Al being acknowledged as part of the family was unbearable. His jaw tightened, his brow furrowed. Yet in the very next second, he masked those emotions, forcing his face back into the harmless expression of an ordinary seventeen-year-old boy.
Before the silence lingered too long, Sandra gently shifted the subject. "Al, what do you think if I arrange a tutor for you as well? Clarista might have plenty of acquaintances who could help."
The contrast was obvious. For David, a tutor had been provided without question—Clarista herself had even returned from overseas just to tutor him. For Al, however, the offer was posed as a mere suggestion, as though the choice lay entirely in his hands, though everyone knew that such expectations had never truly existed for him in the first place.
"That won't be necessary, Mom," Al answered politely yet firmly. "I can still study on my own."
Sandra tried to insist a little more, her voice softening as if to coax him.
Al considered her goodwill. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate it, but rather that having a tutor would interfere with his personal activities and restrict his already limited freedom. That alone would be troublesome. So, he refused once again, this time with a gentle but decisive tone.
Sandra could only relent with a quiet sigh.
"Very well… if that's what you want."
Al rose from his seat, offering a small bow out of respect, then walked slowly toward the exit of the living room.
Sandra's eyes lingered on her son's retreating back. A faint yearning stirred within her—a desire to spend a little more time in this rare, somewhat harmonious atmosphere with Al, her youngest child who had been lost to her for so many years. Yet the awkwardness in the expressions of the others convinced her otherwise. For now, perhaps it was better to let him go.
As for Al himself, he had begun to stop caring whether anyone invited him into their conversations or not. The mission of integration still remained, yes, but his expectations had been lowered. To expect too much would only damage his mental state.
With fewer hopes burdening him, his chest felt lighter, as though some invisible weight had been lifted. That freedom—the freedom of not having to tangle himself in the family's endless, unreasonable dramas—was something he welcomed. Al had lived a life heavy enough already. There was no need to add meaningless family conflicts to the list of troubles he carried.
Once in his small room, Al quietly dropped onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while before reaching for his old phone on the table.
Hundreds of unread messages—special groups, random notifications, and a few personal ones. Some made him smirk faintly, amused at how people spoke to him like they actually knew him. But one message made his eyebrows twitch slightly.
"You have to be this year's national top scorer, okay?"
Sent by someone who mattered to him.
Al stared at the screen blankly, then put it down.
"That poisonous witch is very persistent."
He replied to none of the messages. Instead, he whispered to himself, almost like a murmur.
"...Being at the top just doesn't suit me."
It wasn't rejection. More like quiet resignation. As if scores, praise, or targets were illusions that no longer reached his heart. Things unfit for someone like him who preferred laziness and finding the least troublesome path.
Out of boredom, he opened his favorite social media app. An app he usually ignored now caught his attention. Various viral news items filled the trending tab:
Ghost Sightings Across Makazhar!
He scrolled through post after post. Most were low-quality videos with exaggerated screaming. But one stood out—it was footage taken at Lorari Beach, one of Makazhar's top tourist spots.
Unlike the others, this video was recorded with a decent camera. No edits. No music overlays. Just a quiet beach, the sound of ocean wind, and... a faint silhouette standing still in the middle of the receding sea. No sound. No movement.
Al watched intently, analyzing the video carefully. His gaze sharpened.
After replaying the video several times, he sent the link to someone via message.
Not long after, a reply came:
"The video's real, Big Brother."
Al smiled, then stood up. He had made up his mind.
He was going to Lorari Beach. Alone.
He put on his uniform in one smooth motion.
Elemental Magic – Dark Type : Shadow Blend
His body merged with the shadows. And he vanished into the night.
---
Tonight was Monday. The sea breeze of Makazhar blew gently, brushing against empty buildings once lit up by tourists. But tonight... everything was different.
Al stood atop a large hotel, facing directly toward Lorari Beach—the main tourist beach that had since become deserted for nighttime visits after the viral sighting. Only the sound of crashing waves echoed in the distance, blending with the damp, cold sea breeze.
"Let's observe first..." Al whispered inwardly, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the aura in his surroundings. He activated his spiritual vision:
Dimensional Eye: Activated
His sight shifted. All unseen aspects of reality became visible to him through this ability.
Two hours passed. The clock struck just after midnight. A new day had begun. Yet nothing changed. Just the ripple of the waves and a few weak spiritual signals flitting by like night mosquitoes. Harmless.
"Boring," Al muttered under his breath. He drew in a long, weary breath. "I can't keep using these eyes for too long. The side effects from that day with Eva are still giving me trouble."
With that, Al deactivated his dimensional eye. The aftermath of that incident still lingered heavily on him. Prolonged use made his sight blur ever so slightly, his head throbbed with a dull ache, and an uncomfortable pulsation stabbed at his eyeballs, as if countless needles were pricking into them. His eyes had yet to fully recover.
All he could do was let out a resigned sigh, raising a hand to rub at his eyes in a slow, tired motion.
But then—his magical instincts twitched. A subtle yet rhythmic energy pattern surged, shaking his spiritual awareness. A group of people had appeared at the beach's edge. They wore black robes and carried ritual tools: incense, offerings, carving knives, black cloths, and glass bottles filled with cloudy red liquid.
Shamans, Al thought.
They're going to perform a ritual? Exorcism? Or maybe... something worse.
He observed from above. One among them radiated an aura that felt... familiar. Something that tugged at his memory, but not clearly enough to recall.