In an arid place deep in the desert, where only the whistling of hot winds and the clattering of sand grains against iron chains could be heard, at least a hundred children were crouched on the ground, their arms and legs bound with heavy shackles gnawing at their skin. Some were bleeding from old wounds, others could barely lift their heads. Fear shrouded their little eyes—eyes that had not yet known the taste of childhood, but had instead been sown with the seeds of horror and despair.
The guards stood around them with hardened faces, their eyes cold as stone, showing no pity. Long weapons dangled from their shoulders, and each treated the children as if they were nothing more than worthless numbers. Amidst their ranks stood a strange-looking man with only one eye. He silently and ponderously watched a small clock in his hand before raising his gaze toward the dirt road stretched out on the horizon, where another batch of children was expected.
One of the guards, coldly inspecting the rows, said:
— "The rest seem to have died... or fainted. Either way, they're finished."
Another laughed sarcastically and added:
— "That'll reduce the number of examinees. Maybe that's for the best."
But the one-eyed man ignored them, his lone eye fixed on the ticking hands of his watch. He counted the minutes like one counting the last breaths of children; every passing moment reduced their chances of survival. He muttered in a low voice:
— "What a pity... truly."
Then, turning to them slowly, he spoke in a commanding tone:
— "I'll go and rest. If anyone arrives, inform me immediately."
Silence reigned. The guards exchanged bewildered glances, but none dared to object. They remained in their posts, while the desert bore witness to a hundred small souls swaying between life and death.
Farther into the desert, where nothing met the eye but golden sands beneath a merciless sun, a boy and a girl stumbled forward across the scorching ground. The dry air burned their throats, and the heat seemed to melt their small, weary feet. No one was with them—only their exhausted determination to continue—for they knew that any delay meant a punishment harsher than they could endure.
Elise said, struggling to hide her groans:
— "Brother... just let me down. I can walk, believe me."
Her brother smiled despite the sweat dripping down his face and replied:
— "Ah, how many times have you said that to me? You already know my answer."
She looked at him with worried eyes.
— "But you're not well either..."
He chuckled softly despite his exhaustion:
— "I'm your older brother, so I'll always endure more than you. Besides, how could I let my little sister suffer, walking barefoot on this burning sand?"
Elise's cheeks flushed, and she lowered her voice until it was barely audible:
— "I'm... not little."
He raised a brow in surprise.
— "What did you say?"
She answered with newfound resolve:
— "I said I'm not that young. The difference between us is only one year."
Her brother laughed in a short burst:
— "Hahaha! Wrong again, silly sister. I'm a year, nine months, four days, five and a half hours older than you!"
Her jaw dropped in disbelief.
— "Impossible! How do you know the time so precisely?"
Still smiling, he trudged forward:
— "When I learned I'd have a little sister, I began counting the days until you came into this world."
Elise stopped for a moment, her heart filling with a warmth unlike the desert sun. It was the warmth of family, one she was tasting sincerely for the first time. She remembered how her parents and brother often left her alone at home, how she always felt like a silent burden on their tired shoulders. Even when her brother tried to play with her, she refused, believing she was nothing but a weight to him.
But now, in this harsh wasteland, she rested her head on his back for the first time, as if admitting that she needed him. The walk remained arduous, the sand merciless, but she smiled—for at last, she realized she had someone she could truly rely on, no matter how cruel the desert.
…
The guards stared at the wavering horizon, where heat shimmered over the sand. Suddenly, a small figure appeared in the distance, swaying with each step. An exhausted boy emerged, carrying on his back a girl—unconscious or asleep. Every step seemed as though it might be his last, but he pressed on until he reached the guards.
One of them laughed mockingly:
— "Tell the commander... he's fifty minutes late for the test."
Another replied coldly:
— "Doesn't matter. They'll die anyway. Delay means death."
A soldier rushed off to report to the one-eyed commander. Upon hearing, the man himself came out to see. Inside, a heavy thought whispered to him: What a pity... this child could have been an excellent soldier. But now, because of his tardiness, his chance of survival is no more than one in a hundred.
The commander stood before the boy, his single eye locked on the sight: a frail child carrying a girl on his back as though he bore the weight of the world. Something stirred in the commander's chest, a feeling long forgotten, but he buried it beneath the mask of his cold face.
He spoke sternly:
— "You're late. You know the punishment will be severe. Both of you... will pay the price."
The boy lifted his head, his expression strangely calm, as though he wasn't on the brink of catastrophe. He asked boldly:
— "May I make one request?"
A guard sneered:
— "How dare you—"
But the commander silenced him with a sharp gesture.
— "Speak. What is it you want?"
The boy answered firmly:
— "Let me take the punishment instead of my sister. Make it double if you wish... but don't touch her."
Another guard grumbled:
— "That's not allowed! It's against the rules—"
Yet a single glare from the commander's lone, piercing eye silenced him.
After a long pause, the commander spoke:
— "Very well... I'll allow it. But on one condition: you will bear three times the punishment. Do you agree, little one... or will you back down in fear?"
All fell silent. The guards waited. Sweat dripped from the boy's brow, but he raised his head higher, as if ready to utter his last words.
…
Elsewhere, far from the noise of chains and guards, other eyes watched. Elise—the older Elise—found herself trapped within the memories of her younger self. She didn't know how she had arrived here; the last thing she recalled was collapsing at the sight of Adam's lifeless body. Then darkness... a long faint... until she awoke as a prisoner within this moment of the past. Powerless, she could only watch.
She screamed inside, unheard by anyone:
— "No... brother! Don't accept this! Please, don't!"
But her voice faded into the void. Even when she had rested briefly on his back, she hadn't been able to alter this world, unable to stray more than a few illusory steps from her past body.
There was a hush, all eyes fixed on the boy. Then, without hesitation, he spoke clearly:
— "I agree."
Elise's heart trembled. The guards froze. The commander folded his arms and said coolly:
— "Are you serious? Your death is certain—unless a miracle occurs. But we no longer live in an age of miracles."
The boy's voice was unwavering:
— "I know... and I accept it."
Something quivered inside the commander. In this child, his one eye saw what he had not seen in countless fighters: true courage, disregard for death, and a resolve both troubling and admirable. His thoughts wavered between scorn, regret over losing a potential soldier, and even a hidden wish for the boy's survival.
Finally, concealing his unease, he said:
— "Then... I hope you find the strength to live, despite everything."
Turning to the guards, he ordered:
— "Take the girl to join the others. As for him... bring him to the XQ Chamber."
The soldiers obeyed at once. The commander lingered a moment longer, silent, unsettled by the strange tightness in his chest.
…
But while the past replayed its wounds upon small bodies, the future loomed with even greater horror.
Elsewhere, Leon stood atop enormous ruins, his eyes wide as he gazed upon a square that had once been the heart of a great city. Now, nothing remained. Buildings had turned to ash, the ground lay cracked, and the sky was dark—like a nuclear bomb had swallowed all life.
The terror was not only in the destruction, but in the figure before him: a towering body, muscles like carved stone, golden hair flowing like fire, and eyes ablaze with gold. His face was rigid, expressionless as a statue, yet behind that mask lay a sorrow so deep it seemed to consume everything.
Leon froze, his voice breaking in a whisper:
— "My son..."
The shock pierced his heart. This was no stranger, no enemy unknown. This was Azrael Ivanhart—his son by Elise.
Leon remembered Azrael's small face, his innocent laughter, his eyes full of joy and hope. He was always the child who filled every room with smiles. But now... he was something else. His smile was gone, his golden eyes drowned in immeasurable grief, as though the entire world had been stolen from him.
For Leon, it was not just a shock—it was a living nightmare: to witness his son's future twisted into the embodiment of death and ruin.