The children, though, were enchanted. Leya whispered, "You were… really cute."
"I'm still cute," Elias deadpanned.
They all groaned at once but couldn't deny.
Then—another clip began. Elias, older now, maybe fifteen. The setting was different—less warmth, more formality. He stood in ceremonial clothes, and behind him… the shadow of a tall figure flickered, unrecognizable, watching him.
Elias's jaw tensed. In a smooth motion, he reached forward and clicked the projector off.
"Eh?!" Elen jumped up. "Why'd you stop it?"
"Yeah," Leya chimed in, narrowing her eyes. "We've already shown our clips. It's your turn now. Keep going!"
Lucien, calm but insistent, nodded. "We want to see all of you. From the beginning."
Elias's lips curved faintly, unreadable. "You will. Not yet. Some things… are better left for later."
The children groaned, protesting in unison—"Nooo! Now! Now!"—but Elias only leaned back, eyes flickering toward the darkened screen where that faint outline still lingered in his memory.
For a moment, he wasn't the one in control. For a moment, the past looked back at him
----
The children slept soundly in their room. Elias, too, lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"That man…" he muttered under his breath. "I haven't seen him in the game, have I? Huh… I don't know anymore." His voice trailed off. "But let's focus on the present instead. And if you really come back again… I'll be ready this time. Not again."
With that, Elias shut his eyes and slowly drifted back into sleep.
---
Far away, in a mansion standing in the middle of nowhere, the world looked dead. Fallen animals littered the grounds, broken trees jutted like corpses, and the rain—no, not rain, but acid—poured down, eating away the last remains of greenery.
It wasn't truly a mansion. It was a haunted house, walls black and gray, shattered, lifeless. Inside, the wind howled through a broken window, carrying the scent of rot.
There, in the center hall, stood a boy—eight years old, at most. His small face was painted with pride.
"I have learned it, Master," the boy said firmly.
"Oh? Really?" The man sitting in the chair responded. Because of the night's darkness, his figure wasn't fully visible. In one hand, he held a glass of wine, swirling it gently.
Not a single drop spilled. He wasn't even looking at the boy—his eyes were fixed outside the window, as if searching for something that wasn't there. Or perhaps, simply lost in thought.
"So… since you've mastered the technique, what are you still doing here?" His voice was calm, cold, firm.
The boy didn't flinch. He was used to it. "Well, well. After all, I'm the hero. You can't really speak to me like that, can you?"
The man didn't reply at first. Silence stretched, heavy. Then he let out a low chuckle.
"Hah." His laugh was empty, hollow, merciless. "Yes, yes. You are the hero. Of course. The savior of the world—the only one who can protect it from the dangers ahead."
The boy's expression grew even more arrogant. "Of course. Just give me the order now!" he said, his voice trembling with excitement.
"There is no order anymore." The man's gaze remained fixed outside the window, his abyss-like eyes glistening faintly with something cruel.
They were pitch black—unnatural, devouring, like staring into a void. When he finally turned those eyes toward the boy, the child flinched slightly, though he forced himself to stand tall.
"Well then… what are you doing here? Leave. You know what to do."
"Of course I do," the boy answered sharply.
The man gave a slight nod of approval. His fingers curled, and from his hand spilled a black smoke, wrapping around the boy's body. In an instant, the child vanished.
For a moment, the man gazed at the empty space. Then he exhaled softly.
"Go on then, little savior. Save the world… Let's see what becomes of it."
Thunder split the sky, and for just a flicker, his expression shifted—something darker, something merciless. His voice, once calm, now dripped with cruelty. The voice of a predator ready to hunt.
---
The boy reappeared elsewhere—in the grand hall of a noble mansion. Without hesitation, he packed his bags. At the main gate, just as he was about to step out, a girlish voice called to him.
"Sam!"
He turned and smiled, arms opening. "Oh, Silvia."
The girl rushed to him, hugging him tightly. "You shouldn't have left without telling me!" she scolded in her childish voice.
Sam patted her head. "I was only worried you wouldn't want to leave your parents behind."
"It doesn't matter, Sam. I'm coming with you. I've already talked to them—so no need to worry!" she said with a bright smile.
"Yeah… why not," Sam said, smiling faintly. "Let's go."
They clasped each other's hands and turned to leave.
"Sam…"
A frail voice stopped him. His mother. The mistress of the house, now bedridden, stood at the doorway with trembling steps.
Sam's eyes turned to her—expressionless, bored. "Yes?" His voice was flat.
"Where are you going?" she asked weakly.
"Nowhere," he said.
"When will you come back?" she pressed.
Sam sighed. "Soon. Or maybe not. Don't wait for me. Just rest." His tone held no warmth.
Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, "If you need anything, come back, dear…"
But Sam had already turned away. His figure vanished into the distance, hand in hand with Silvia, until he could no longer be seen.
Servants appeared silently, guiding the mistress back inside. She kept glancing over her shoulder, hoping, wishing, that her son might return. But he never did.
Sam's journey had already begun....
---
Sam and Sylvia strolled through the market. Night had already settled—no sun, only the moon gleaming above, silver light spilling across lanterns and glowing magical lamps that littered the city in color.