The corridor was silent—empty, save for the two of us.
Blood dripped steadily from my hand, splattering onto the polished floor below. Each droplet echoed louder than it should've. My body felt heavy, but my mind was spiraling faster than ever.
I turned to see the man behind me. He still wore that same cocky smile—like this was some kind of joke.
His eyes gleamed with amusement, even though we stood in the aftermath of a death.
"Follow me, and you'll be safe," he said. "And for your information... the boy you killed? He was a noble."
This time, his voice carried weight. No smirk, no sarcasm—just cold fact.
"Why should I trust you?" I asked, confused and wary.
"Do you have any other option?" he shot back casually, already turning his back and walking away.
I paused. My head was spinning, but I needed clarity.
"Show me a clock," I said.
He stopped. "You mean… you want to know the time?"
"No," I replied. "I want to know if this is a dream. Clocks are always distorted in dreams. If I see a working one… I might be able to tell if this is real."
His eyes widened slightly. Then that unsettling smile returned—more intrigued now.
"Oh, sure. Sure. Follow me," he said, his voice rising with excitement, like I had just answered a riddle he'd waited years to hear.
He led me into a small room. But just as I stepped inside, a white flash consumed everything—
And I blacked out.
---
I awoke, tied to a chair. My vision was blurry, but the sharp sting in my gut snapped everything into focus.
A red-hot knife was lodged into my abdomen. It wasn't deep enough to kill, but just enough to burn.
Across from me sat the man—calm, smiling, now with a strange authority in his posture.
"I'm Edward," he said, voice crisp. "Senior Heat Sorcerer of the Pulsies Sorcerer School. If you move, I'll melt your insides."
Then his tone changed—sharper, almost reverent.
"After a thousand years… you've finally come into this world. I've been searching for you, boy. The one with the ability to manipulate the forbidden energy—Dark Energy."
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming.
"I have no data on it. No documentation. But I will learn. And I'll use you as my test subject."
His grin widened unnaturally. His excitement was bordering on madness.
I stared at him for a moment, frozen. Then… it clicked.
"So... in this world, I'm special," I said, the realization hitting me like a jolt of lightning.
Something changed inside me. A low hum began to rise in my chest—energy, raw and untamed.
The knife in my stomach suddenly lost its heat. I could feel the sorcery draining out of it. I was negating the very heat energy he had poured into the blade.
"No... this can't be happening," he stammered. "Those ropes—They absorb energy! You shouldn't have any power left!"
I smirked, something dark rising in me.
"You fool. I didn't even feel those ropes trying to drain me."
With a flex of my body, the ropes snapped like threads. I rose slowly from the chair—no strain, no hesitation.
Edward's expression was priceless. Disbelief. Horror.
"How are you—just—getting up like that?"
He barely had time to react before I punched him square in the chest. I hadn't even tried to put force behind it. But the impact sent him crashing into the wall, stone crumbling around him. Debris scattered across the room.
I walked toward him with calm, measured steps.
"I'm not a test subject." My voice was cold. Detached.
He coughed, barely lifting his head.
"Hey, I was just kidd—"
I grabbed him by the throat. His words died on his tongue.
His eyes widened as my grip tightened, and dark energy surged into my palm.
"-I am Aloran."
The black energy pulsed out like a shockwave—pure, dense, and violent.
His neck erupted in a dark blast, the sheer pressure rupturing his throat and snapping the spine clean.
His body dropped to the ground like a sack of bones.
Lifeless.
And I… felt nothing.
No remorse. No regret. Just power. Cold, absolute power.
I walked out of the building with newfound confidence surging through my veins. Every step felt heavier—not from exhaustion, but from power.
Standing in front of the exit was a lone figure, calm and composed, as if he'd been waiting for me all along.
"Hey," he called out casually, "my name is Colred, and I'm assuming you're the one who caused all this chaos… since you're the only one walking out of an otherwise empty place."
He stood tall with an easy air of charm. Light brown eyes watched me with sharp intelligence, his black curly hair effortlessly styled as if every strand knew its place. His athletic frame was wrapped in a sleek outfit that suggested both agility and discipline—he looked like someone who belonged on a battlefield and in a strategy room. Smart. Handsome. Calculated.
He extended his hand for a handshake.
After a brief pause, I took it.
"I'm Aloran," I said, staring him down. "Care to explain why you're the only one here?"
He gave a slight nod, then pointed at my side."First off—you're bleeding."
Before I could respond, Colred placed a hand over my stomach. I didn't stop him. There was no hostility in his aura. Instead, I felt a warm, healing sensation wash over the wound as it slowly closed.
"You didn't say any spell," I muttered, brows narrowed.
He smiled faintly. "People only shout spells to show off or intimidate enemies during a fight. It's not actually necessary to say them aloud."
His calmness intrigued me.
"Follow me," he said, already turning to leave. His voice was level, assured. I followed.
As we stepped outside, we were met by a squad of uniformed knights—they stood like statues, disciplined and unmoving.
Their uniforms were sleek and polished, jet black from top to bottom, clean and precise, with a distinct white strip running diagonally across the chest—a symbol of status or allegiance. No armor. No helmets. Just tailored combat suits built for mobility and command. Each had a short blade sheathed at the side, and most carried themselves like they had formal training drilled into their bones.
Amid them stood one man who was clearly above the rest.
He wore a crimson red uniform, sharp and custom-fit, with high collars and subtle gold embroidery along the seams. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, hinting at special craftsmanship. His face was exposed—a chiseled jawline, piercing dark eyes, and a scar that curved down from his left cheek to the side of his neck. His black hair was tied back, giving him a ruthless edge, and his very presence seemed to press against the air around him.
I could feel his aura—immense and unrelenting. One thing was certain: his energy far exceeded Edward's.
He stepped forward with commanding intent."Colred," he said, voice firm and measured, "hand the boy over, and you're free to go."