He still lay sprawled across the cold wooden floor, unmoving, as though time itself had paused around him. His body was stiff, breath shallow, heart beating with the stubborn rhythm of something that refused to let go. Though his lungs still took in air, his soul remained suspended—hovering on that fragile threshold between life and death, trapped somewhere between the burn of memory and the weight of unconsciousness.
Suddenly, his body lurched. He vomited with a bitter convulsion as shards of his execution stabbed back into his mind: the electric surges that scorched his nerves, the searing agony that tore through the depths of his soul, and the deafening silence that followed the last beat of his heart. It was not a memory—it was a living nightmare etched into the seams of his consciousness.
With effort, he lifted his head. His vision was blurred, as though the world had been swallowed by fog and silence. Nothing felt right. The room was unfamiliar. His body felt alien, as though it didn't belong to him. Was this a dream? A hallucination? Or some purgatory between existence and oblivion?
His legs trembled as he tried to stand, and even gravity seemed hesitant to recognize his presence. Each step across the floor was hesitant and unsure, as though his very being had forgotten how to be alive.
Near the bed, he noticed pills scattered across the floor and an empty bottle lying on its side. The meaning struck him in chilling silence.
"Did this body… try to kill itself before I entered it?" he muttered into the stillness. "Or… has it been locked here for years, decaying in silence?"
He brought his hands to his face, trying to trace the lines of his skin—searching for recognition. There was none. No memories, no connection, no familiarity. "Who… who am I?" The words were dry ash on his tongue, as though even his voice belonged to someone else. His mind clawed desperately at the darkness, searching for a name, a history, something to anchor him—but found nothing. Only silence. Only emptiness.
He moved through the room like a prisoner exploring a new cell. The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet—each groan like the breath of a dying house. He opened a tall wardrobe covered in dust. Inside, between forgotten garments, he found a small leather box, sealed only by a half-broken rusted chain. He opened it gently. Inside was a worn black notebook. Its title was etched in a slanted, desperate hand:
"Memoirs of Roman Silver"
He sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, and opened the first page. The handwriting was tight and slanted, as though written under pressure—or madness.
"If you've found this notebook, then I am no longer among the living. I am Roman Silver, last of the sorcerers who dared turn against the crown. Yes—my family betrayed the king, and we paid for it in blood. Everyone was meant to be executed. Even me. But I survived. I faked my death. Deceived them all. I vanished into silence. I just needed time… two more years to finish what I began."
"Our family's power is known and feared: control over twelve servants bound by absolute obedience. No more. No less. If one dies, they cannot be replaced. They weren't mere followers—they were parts of us."
"In this world, every soul is born with one ability. Always one. That law has never been broken. Some inherit theirs, others awaken it through trauma or transformation. But it always remains singular. It may evolve—yes—but it cannot be exchanged. And it cannot be multiplied."
He—if he could still be called a boy—kept reading, his mind suspended between disbelief and wonder. Then came the next page, its ink darker, the letters pressed harder into the page:
"I didn't disappear out of cowardice or madness. I was here, in this rotting manor, sealing myself off from the world to finish something forbidden. The Eye of Truth. A tool I forged at the cost of my mind. It is no weapon, but a key. It reveals what must not be seen: people's true natures, their abilities, their corrupted secrets. It grants no power—only sight. Be warned. Do not trust what you see. Just watch."
"Before you take your first step, know this manor hides more than dust and memories. A secret library lies within. It cannot be opened by force or key—only with the blood of the Silver bloodline. Inside… lies the truth no one wants to hear: why we turned against the king. And why we failed."
He closed the notebook slowly. His hands trembled.
On the bedside table, he saw it—a single-lensed monocle. The frame was metallic, dark, and polished. It looked like nothing more than an antique relic, but its presence made the air feel heavier. He lifted it and placed it over his left eye.
At first, nothing happened.
Then, as he looked into the mirror across the room, something shifted. His reflection shimmered. Above his left shoulder, faint gray letters appeared—suspended in the air like a ghost's whisper:
Ability: Twelve Servants
And just beneath it, glowing faintly in blood-red:
Ability: ???????
He froze. His throat tightened.
"Two?" he whispered. "That's… impossible."
Maybe it's a glitch, he thought. Maybe the remnants of Roman's soul are still clinging to mine. He stared into the mirror longer, studying the face that wasn't his—until a bitter smile curled across his lips.
"You want revenge, Roman Silver?" he said, not knowing whether he was speaking to Roman, to the manor, or to himself. "I don't even know you. And I don't care."
But the words tasted hollow. A tremor rose in him from somewhere ancient. That second ability… it didn't feel human.
He changed out of the clothes he'd woken in, pulling from the wardrobe a set of plain, dark garments. He tightened a belt around his waist, adjusted the monocle once more, and walked out of the room without a backward glance—as if sealing a grave.
The hallway outside stretched long and dark, like the throat of a dead palace. Flickering candles clung to the walls, casting shadows that moved too slowly. The floorboards groaned beneath his feet, reluctant to remember the sound of footsteps. Door after door, he opened them—finding only silence. Empty rooms. Furniture buried beneath dust. Wings of the manor long forgotten by time.
He descended to the kitchen. Cold. Lifeless. He opened the back door and stepped into a wild garden, overgrown and savage. Twisted trees. Grass left unchecked. A carpet of dead leaves layered thick from at least two winters. He stared into the stillness and murmured, "I'm alone here. Alone… for a very long time."
But he wasn't truly alone. The scent of death still clung to the manor's walls. And death, once summoned, rarely leaves willingly.
On his way back inside, one line from the journal echoed through his mind:
"The secret library."
He began to search, room after room. Until at last, behind an old wardrobe, he found a section of wall with a different texture. He retrieved a needle from a rusted medical kit, pricked his finger, and pressed his blood against the ancient carving.
The wall shuddered. Groaned. Then slowly split apart—revealing a narrow stone staircase spiraling downward into the dark.
He stepped through.
The wall sealed shut behind him.
And he did not know that the truth waiting below… was hungry.
[To be continued]