You arrive at the inn, the place you call home. Temporary home.
Your footsteps echo against the worn floorboards, swallowed by the morning hum.
Mrs. Palois is there, behind the counter.
"Ar," she says, not loudly, not softly. Just enough.
"You didn't come back last night. I was worried. Thought I'd have to report you to the City Security Bureau."
She pauses, her gaze sharp but warm.
"But… I see you're fine. That's good."
You nod, barely. You faintly smell like blood and sweat... need to take a bath.
The weight of the glyph burns faintly under your sleeve. You're not fine. But you made it back.
And that has to be enough... at least for now.
"Yeah. Sorry for making you worry, Mrs. Palois. I had... university work. Haha."
Your mouth bends into a shape that resembles a smile. A soft, broken laugh escapes. Brittle and dishonest. Lies, perfumed with academic excuses. You hand it to her like counterfeit currency.
A few more words are exchanged. Pleasant. Forgettable. Human wallpaper.
Then you ascend to 2nd floor.
The stairs groan underfoot. They remember things you don't.
You reach your room.
Close the door.
Darkness greets you. The air smells like paper, iron, and sleep left unfinished.
You flick on the desk lamp. Dim light spills across cluttered surfaces. Familiar. Foreign. Both.
The thought of bathing crosses your mind. Clean skin. A reset.
But another urge claws louder.
Curiosity.
Stronger than smell of sweat and blood.
You need to know.
Need to find his notes.
And the brooch.
Yes. The one given by a nun who splayed open in yesterday's headlines, her organs harvested like fruit in its ripe season.
You begin to search.
You lift the pillow. Nothing. Just the dent where a head once laid, warm then, cold now.
The desk drawer resists. You pull harder. A spider darts out. Startled, frantic, disappearing into a floor. Even it doesn't want to be here.
Then it hits you. Not a memory. A reflex. Something from the old world, when you chased liars and found their truths tucked between floorboards and fear. The logic of the hunted and the hiding. People don't keep things safe. They keep them close, then forget where.
You crouch.
The yellow light from the lamp stretches its reach beneath the bed. Just enough to reveal it.
A suitcase.
And on top: a brown leather handbag. Fake. Cheap. The kind that pretends to be something it isn't. No real stitching, no brand mark, just theater. But you know the type.
He couldn't afford the real thing. Not then. Not ever.
And from the shape of it, from the way it sits quiet and confident atop the case… you know.
This is where it starts.
You pull the suitcase toward you, but your attention lingers on the handbag. Priorities. The fake leather creaks as you unfasten it.
Bingo.
A cluster of books, dense with obsession.
Etheric Alignments and Planetary Resonance
Chronocraft & Stars
Mechanisms of the Celestial Sphere
Non-fiction books.
But your eyes drift. Something smaller tucked beneath them. A brown softcover notebook, modest and pocket-sized. Meant to be hidden. Or carried always.
You open it.
First page.
3 January 357
I've decided to start writing this journal. I got the chance to study abroad. This is my shot to get away from here and make fortune. Finally.
Beneath it,
5 January 357
I'm leaving in a few days. The other kids at the orphanage seemed happy for me. They were excited. I'll definitely come back someday. Once I make enough money.
Yuka looked sad, even if she tried to hide it. Haruto told me to just say 'it'. To tell her 'that'. But I wasn't ready. Not even close.
9 January 357
I said goodbye to everyone. They cried. So did I. I talked to Haruka before I left. But just like I feared… I couldn't say it.
Ah.
A romance. Lovely. Bittersweet.
But not what you came for.
You turn the pages. Skip ahead. Let the memories fall away like dried leaves. You're not here for love. You're here for the truth. Or what's left of it.
You flip further through the journal. The paper is beginning to soften near the edges,
3 July 357
Met with Professor Areldine today. It wasn't a lecture, It was a revelation! He spoke of something he called the Astral Cosmos, a concept not found in most academic texts, at least not directly.
He handed me Chronocraft & Stars. Told me to read it twice, then forget what I thought I knew.
15 July 357
He invited me into his research. Not as a mere assistant, but as a co-author. Co-author! Me.
Said I had the potential,
This could change everything.
A real project, a real breakthrough.
My name printed beside his. Recognition, finally.
25 July 357
We found it. Or at least, a doorway. A method to reach the Astral Cosmos.
But it's flawed. Unstable.
Professor already knew this. I could tell.
He spoke less today. Looked at the chalkboard like it owed him an apology.
He has a solution. I know he does.
But something's holding him back.
Fear?
No. Not fear.
2 August 357
Today, he told me everything.
About Bearers.
Ordinary people, even the brightest minds, can't interact with the Astral directly. Not without becoming... something else.
Bearers are conduits, their bodies awakened Astral Veins.
He looked me in the eye when he said it.
Not as a teacher.
But as someone asking for consent.
6 August 357
I agreed.
He didn't celebrate. Just nodded.
Said he'd begin preparations. That the materials weren't common. Some of them needed to be... negotiated.
I asked if it would hurt.
He said, "Yes and no,"
I didn't ask for more.
12 August 357
Tonight's the night.
He calls it Lumen Infusum. A drink, but it seems more than that.
The sky is clear. Every constellation etched across the black. I can see them all.
It feels like an omen. A good one, I hope.
I want to believe I'm ready.
Not just for the pain.
For what comes after.
You sit still for a moment, notebook closed, its final page lingering like a breath that didn't fully leave your lungs. The silence of the room settles again, but it's heavier now. Dense. Thoughtful.
Your eyes drift.
Chronocraft & Stars lies nearby, patient, thick. The kind of book that demands time, not attention. Its spine is creased, its corners worn. The boy must've read it over and over, or tried to.
You'll have to study it. Eventually.
Not tonight.
Now… it's the suitcase's turn.
You unlatch the rust-bitten clasps. The lid opens with a tired creak, like it, too, remembers things it shouldn't.
Clothes. Folded. Minimal. Practical. Shirts, a worn coat, a pair of gloves with a hole at the thumb.
Then a photo frame, wedged between layers of fabric.
You lift it.
Black and white. A still world. Dozens of faces frozen in a moment.
Children, mostly. A few adults. Standing in rows like a choir that forgot its song.
There he is. The boy.
Center frame. Straight-backed. Eyes forward.
Not smiling.
You stare at the background — tall gates, a worn brick wall, trimmed hedges. Clean. Maintained.
An orphanage.
Looks like one. But not a bleak one. There's warmth in the way they stand. Like they knew one another. Like they belonged.
You set it aside. Gently.
Dig deeper.
Then… you find it.
Your fingers brush something solid, something cold.
The brooch.
Wrapped in a scarf, buried between clothes, nestled like a secret that wanted to be found.
Eight-pointed star. Same spirals. Same weight. Same subtle hum.
You've seen this before.
Not here.
Inside the boy's memory.
That also remind you with that terror during the fog, in the street. and blood. Your memory.
This is it.
The real thing!
And now it's in your hand.
Just as you're about to examine the brooch—really look at it, something shifts!
The room falls silent.
No, not silent. Vacuumed. Like reality itself just held its breath.
Then footsteps.
Dull thuds against wood, distant, deliberate. Someone's climbing the stairs. Slow. Controlled. But wrong.
Your instincts flare. Not fear. Not exactly. More like déjà vu wrapped in tension. Something about this presence… you know it.
And then!
Your vision fractures.
Not broken. Expanded.
Like your mind blinks outward. Past the walls. Past the door.
You see him.
A man. Mid-forties, maybe. Thick mustache, dark coat buttoned to the collar. A round-brimmed hat sits atop neatly combed brown hair. His steps are purposeful. He doesn't look around. Doesn't hesitate.
He feels real.
Too real.
The weight of him presses on your mind like a fingerprint on glass.
Then he vanishes. Walks into another room.
Your vision snaps back. Blinking. Distant. Normal.
Almost.
You exhale. Hands trembling just slightly. Not fear.
Not yet.
Mrs. Adler's voice echoes inside your skull.
"Since you've reached the Skyborn stage, your body will undergo some changes. It's natural."
So this is it.
The change.
But what does it mean?
Before your thoughts can spiral, another shift.
Voices.
You don't know how, but you hear them.
Not through the door.
Not through walls.
They exist somewhere... between.
Two men.
Rough tones. Low. Private. But clear... too clear!
"Heh—! It's not like you to lose your mark."
"He was clever. Escaped through the drainage tunnels."
"You didn't chase him?"
"He's just a pawn.
Goes to Helbrecht Academy. Someone's backing him. But he's got no connection to the brooch."
Your blood freezes.
They're talking about you.
They don't know it yet, but you do!
Holy crazy fuck!!!