Once Noah managed to step into the subconscious, he could access every part of his memories.
Before him, they appeared like an endless river, a constant stream of moments and feelings.
According to the book, the speed at which someone could reach all of their memories depended on talent. This was the first time Noah had ever entered his subconscious, yet it already felt as if he could see his entire life.
Of course, not all the information stored in his mind was there. He couldn't recall trivial details or everyday events. Not every piece of information was preserved forever—so even though he could reach his memories, it was more accurate to say he could revisit meaningful moments, especially those tied to intense emotions.
But once he mastered the arts of the mind at an advanced level, he could hold a perfect memory, never forgetting anything again—even if he wished to.
"How hard can it be to see my own life? Haven't I lived all of this already?"
Noah drew in a deep breath and decided to start from the beginning. His life had started in another world, a distant one, preserved only within his memories.
He saw himself as a newborn, delivered in some forgotten alleyway. His mother, a young woman who had him by accident—though he was her child, there was more anger than love in her heart.
He saw the moment he was abandoned at the orphanage, his difficult childhood, his loneliness even among so many other children. The lack of belonging, the desperate search for a place to call home, for someone to call family, for someone to call a friend.
Memories he had long forgotten surfaced, unsettling his mind and overwhelming his heart.
Loneliness, fear, sorrow.
Then his life moved on. He met his grandfather, discovered he was a wizard. Learned small tricks of magic, inherited his grandfather's dream and life's purpose, and made them his own.
He traveled to many countries, met people, saw the world's ugliness as well as landscapes so beautiful they seemed like paintings. He found meaning in his life, someone to call family.
Happiness, hope.
And then everything changed. In a dark alley, a woman of deadly beauty, the stench of blood. Noah, who had tried so hard to bury that night, fell into the memory and relived it all again.
"Don't let her beauty deceive you. She'd kill you before you ever felt the warmth of her lips," his grandfather warned. Though his voice sounded calm, Noah could feel the tension.
"You won't leave if I tell you to, will you?" the old man asked. Noah, regaining his composure, stood firm.
"I can't."
"Then listen carefully. You'll only have one chance," his grandfather said, stroking a green ring on his index finger. "Let this old man play with her in the meantime."
After that, he didn't hesitate any longer. And Noah witnessed, for the first time, his grandfather unleashing his full power. No—it was beyond that.
Others might not see it, but his right eye revealed the truth. All over his grandfather's body, tattoos lit up. Not one or two, like the marks Noah bore on his hand—but his back and chest, his arms and legs, every part of him carried a symbol.
Noah could only recognize a handful of them, and that was terrifying. He knew the strain must have been unbearable.
As the old man ran, the runes on his legs glowed, and when his next step touched the ground, a gust of wind propelled him forward with impossible speed.
The witch was caught off guard and barely managed to step back before a leaf—sharp as a blade—sliced through strands of her hair, leaving a thin line of blood across her cheek.
Confusion filled her eyes. How could someone outside the coven wield magic so well? She had come on this mission alone, tasked only with buying the artifacts, never expecting to lose some to another. And so she decided to take them by force.
"Damn old man, I don't know how you did that, but I'll kill you," she snarled, pulling a deck of cards from her pocket. They looked ordinary, but Noah's eye told him otherwise.
Each card was shrouded in a dark aura, like demons eager to devour flesh and blood.
"Careful, Grandpa!" Noah shouted, though the old man was already on guard, moving to retreat.
But the witch wouldn't let him slip away. Smearing the cards with the blood dripping from her cheek, she made the deck blaze red. The cards floated around her, then shot forward at her command.
It happened so fast that Noah heard the scream before he registered the outcome.
"AHHHHH!"
"Grandpa!"
The old man's body was slashed in several places—none fatal, but blood spilled visibly, his clothes torn, revealing parts of his body and the runes etched there.
"What is this?" The witch froze at the sight of the markings. Shock coursed through her, and she staggered back two steps.
"It can't be… You're him. The Runic One."
"The Runic One?" Noah muttered, bewildered. He had never heard the name before.
The old man laughed. "So my name still carries weight among the witches?" he said. Without waiting for her answer, he attacked.
His ring glowed, unleashing dozens of razor-sharp leaves at the witch. She tried to block with her cards, but they were shredded instantly, the leaves losing no strength.
Two struck her arms, two her legs. The rest seemed to miss, but when they hit the ground, dust and debris rose in a choking cloud, shrouding everything from sight.
The old man charged again. His ring had no charge left—he'd have to get close. Noah's vision was blocked, and before he could activate his eye to pierce the haze, he heard two screams. A body flew toward him—his grandfather's.
Noah caught him, crashing to the ground together. "Grandpa!"
"I'm fine," the old man said, but when he coughed up blood immediately after, Noah knew those words were meant only to ease him.
Wiping the blood from his lips, the old man stared into the thinning dust. "Who would've thought the leader of the witches would leave her lair?"
Noah followed his gaze—and saw her. The witch his grandfather had wounded lay collapsed on the ground, her state uncertain. Beside her now stood another woman, as old as his grandfather, with pale skin and long white hair. Her most striking feature, however, was her eyes. Not because they were strange like Noah's, but because of their emptiness. She was blind.
Her eyes were blank, devoid of light.
"It's been a long time… brother," she said, leaving Noah stunned and confused.
This woman was the leader of the witches? His grandfather's sister?
"I see you're looking after a brat," she sneered, gesturing. Two witches emerged from the shadows and carried the fallen one away. "You still haven't moved past his death? Your son was a fool, just like you. Chasing a worthless dream, when we could have ruled this world as gods."
"We can't even call ourselves wizards," his grandfather retorted, struggling to his feet. He paused, then continued, "You saw the future, didn't you? What did you say back then? That my son would rule the witches, that the world would lie at his feet." His voice grew hoarse, his eyes wet.
"Because of a prophecy—one damned prophecy—you killed him. I should have killed you then. Should have offered your body and your blood at his grave, and welcomed death for my sins."
Noah was shaken. He had never heard anything like this. A prophecy? A son? But what shocked him most was his grandfather's reaction. The man who never raised his voice, who was always calm and kind, now burned with rage.
"I could never let uncertainty destroy everything I built. I would kill again if I had to," the witch declared, her lifeless eyes locking onto them. For blind eyes, they seemed to see everything.
But then something strange happened. When her gaze fell on Noah, she froze. For several seconds, she didn't move. When she finally did, blood streamed from her eyes.
"It can't be…" she whispered, unfazed by the gruesome sight.
Noah didn't understand, but when his grandfather stepped in front of him, he knew something was terribly wrong.
"What did you see?" he demanded, his voice trembling.
The witch burst into wild laughter.
"WHAT DID YOU SEE?" he roared.
"It wasn't your son in the end…" she murmured, then without another word, pointed at them both.
"Watch out!" Noah's grandfather shoved him aside.
The boy stared, horrified. "Grandpa…"
From the ground, a pillar of earth shot up—thin as a spear, but deadly. His grandfather had taken the strike in his place. His arm was obliterated.
"I'm fine," the old man said, keeping Noah from running to him. Looking at his sister, he continued, "You want to take everything from me again? I never wanted to stay here, and you knew it. Still, you turned against me, killed my son. And now again—you saw something that made you afraid. But this time, I won't let you hurt the ones I love. This time, I'll wash my sins away with your blood."
"Will you help me?" he asked Noah. And of course, the boy stood and nodded. "Yes."
"Good. Take the mirror I gave you. You'll need it for what comes next."
Noah pulled a small mirror from his pocket, smaller than a playing card.
"Now, pour your magic into it," his grandfather ordered. Noah did, and the mirror began to glow.
Noah realized something was wrong when the light swelled, wrapping around his body. "Wait for me at home. I'll be back for dinner," his grandfather's voice rang out.
Noah opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, the world blurred, and he felt himself falling. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the secret room at home. In front of him, a large mirror cracked.
"Grandpa…" Noah whispered, numb. He tried to touch the mirror, to channel his magic into it, but nothing worked.
"He'll be fine. He has to be," he told himself, trying to believe his own words.
Noah waited, sitting in front of the mirror. His grandfather had one as well. Surely, if things became too dangerous, he'd flee through it. Wouldn't he?
Wasn't it already too dangerous? Why didn't he come with me?
Almost half an hour later, the mirror lit up. Noah leapt to his feet, heart pounding. But it wasn't what he expected.
First came the smell—iron, blood. Then his grandfather's body fell through, and the mirror shattered into pieces like salt.
"GRANDPA!"
Noah jolted awake in bed, screaming. His emotions churned violently inside him.
He knew he had failed this attempt. He hadn't realized it would be so hard. Accepting every memory, whether joyful or tragic, was unbearable. It hurt.
He buried his face in his hands and wept.
Across France, a thin rain fell, as if the world itself mourned with him.
It had been less than two decades of life, of memories, yet each one held emotions profound and distinct.
Hatred. Anger. Loneliness. Joy. Sadness. Hope.
And part of him wanted to deny them. But he couldn't. He had to accept them.
He didn't want to. He didn't want to.