Arnik woke to soft sunlight streaming through ornate windows. His eyes darted around the room—gold-trimmed portraits stared at him like judgmental ancestors, crimson drapes swayed gently in the breeze, and a chandelier sparkled as if it were trying to impress someone.
"Where… am I?" he muttered, sinking deeper into the ridiculously soft blanket.
"No way… this is definitely the wrong place."
Before he could think more, the door creaked open.
A maid entered. She bowed with such perfect posture that Arnik found himself sitting up straight without meaning to.
"We've been expecting you, sir," she said, voice calm and polite. "Please, follow me."
Arnik blinked. Expecting me? Yeah right, he thought. There's no way I belong here.
He swung his legs over the bed. His boots landed on a thick carpet that made it feel like even the floor was judging him for being here.
He stepped forward—
BZZZZMMM!
"Huh—?"
A floating chair zoomed into the room and bumped into him before scooping him up like he was carry-on luggage.
"WOOOH! What the—?!"
The maid walked beside him as the chair zipped through a hallway lined with fancy paintings and glowing crystal light fixtures. She didn't even flinch.
The ride ended at a giant dining hall.
The table stretched longer than any he'd ever seen. Everything was polished so clean it reflected like a mirror. Before he could admire anything, a plate was placed in front of him.
Pancakes.
Golden, fluffy, and stacked high. Syrup trickled over the sides. And sprinkled on top? Tiny, star-shaped sparkles that shimmered like candy.
"We hope you enjoy your meal," the maid said with another bow. "The head of the house will be with you shortly."
Arnik's stomach growled loud enough to echo.
He eyed the plate, then the maid, then the plate again.
"Is this a trap…?" he mumbled.
Whatever. He picked up the fork.
"It'd be rude not to eat."
He took a bite.
He was gone.
Each bite melted in his mouth. The pancakes were so soft and rich he forgot where he was. Syrup ran down his chin. He didn't just eat—he destroyed that plate. By the third helping, he leaned back in his floating seat, hand on his belly.
"If this is a test," he thought, licking syrup from his fingers, "I think I'm winning."
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Sharp. Calm.
The head of the house had arrived.Alaric Vayne entered.
Floating.
He sat on a throne that hovered just a few inches above the ground, gliding effortlessly across the floor. The throne itself was sleek, black with silver trim, and decorated with soft blue lights that pulsed quietly. A porcelain teacup rested in one of his gloved hands. A thin monocle perched on his left eye. His silver-and-navy suit was so sharp it probably cost more than a military cruiser.
He didn't just walk in.
He arrived.
Every servant in the room immediately bowed. Deep. Low. Like they'd practiced it every morning.
Arnik blinked. No way this guy's real.
The butler stepped forward.
"Master," he said with a smooth voice, "we've arranged your usual morning spread."
Vayne nodded slightly. He brought the teacup to his lips and took a quiet sip. Then, with a silk handkerchief, he dabbed once at his mouth and finally spoke.
"It smells fine."
Just that. Four calm words—and yet the room felt like it was holding its breath.
Arnik, who still had syrup on his lips, tried not to move.
Vayne's throne glided closer and gently lowered to the table's height. His posture remained perfect, chin lifted slightly, one hand resting on the throne's polished armrest.
He didn't look at the food. He didn't need to.
He looked directly at Arnik.
His eyes were calm. Focused. Sharp like he could see things Arnik hadn't even done yet.
Arnik wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
The silence dragged.
Finally, Vayne spoke again.
"I see you've found the pancakes… satisfactory."
Arnik almost choked.
"Uh… yeah," he mumbled. "They were good."
Vayne raised a single brow. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
"Manners are, of course, optional," he said. His voice was calm but carried weight, like every word had been selected on purpose.
A saucer appeared beside him. From where, Arnik had no idea. Vayne set his teacup down without looking.
"You must be the red tag."
Arnik sat up a little straighter. "Yeah. That's me. Arnik Handerfall."
Vayne repeated it softly. "Handerfall…"
He leaned back a little, folding his hands in front of him.
"Welcome," he said. "I assume you understand the significance of being under my care."
Arnik hesitated. "Not really. But I'm guessing I'll find out."
Vayne chuckled.
It was quiet. Controlled. Almost amused.
"Oh, you will."
He lifted his cup again. Took another sip.
"Let me assure you—this experience will not be one you forget."
The meal ended not long after. The plates were cleared so fast it was like the staff had teleported in and out. Not even a crumb was left behind.
Arnik leaned back again, hands folded in his lap.
His stomach was full.
But his mind was starting to spin.
Vayne folded his napkin neatly, then placed it on the table.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting. It was no longer casual. No longer polite.
It was business.
The monocle caught a glint of light.
"What is your goal?"Arnik woke to soft sunlight streaming through ornate windows. His eyes darted around the room—gold-trimmed portraits stared at him like judgmental ancestors, crimson drapes swayed gently in the breeze, and a chandelier sparkled as if it were trying to impress someone.
"Where… am I?" he muttered, sinking deeper into the ridiculously soft blanket.
"No way… this is definitely the wrong place."
Before he could think more, the door creaked open.
A maid entered. She bowed with such perfect posture that Arnik found himself sitting up straight without meaning to.
"We've been expecting you, sir," she said, voice calm and polite. "Please, follow me."
Arnik blinked. Expecting me? Yeah right, he thought. There's no way I belong here.
He swung his legs over the bed. His boots landed on a thick carpet that made it feel like even the floor was judging him for being here.
He stepped forward—
BZZZZMMM!
"Huh—?"
A floating chair zoomed into the room and bumped into him before scooping him up like he was carry-on luggage.
"WOOOH! What the—?!"
The maid walked beside him as the chair zipped through a hallway lined with fancy paintings and glowing crystal light fixtures. She didn't even flinch.
The ride ended at a giant dining hall.
The table stretched longer than any he'd ever seen. Everything was polished so clean it reflected like a mirror. Before he could admire anything, a plate was placed in front of him.
Pancakes.
Golden, fluffy, and stacked high. Syrup trickled over the sides. And sprinkled on top? Tiny, star-shaped sparkles that shimmered like candy.
"We hope you enjoy your meal," the maid said with another bow. "The head of the house will be with you shortly."
Arnik's stomach growled loud enough to echo.
He eyed the plate, then the maid, then the plate again.
"Is this a trap…?" he mumbled.
Whatever. He picked up the fork.
"It'd be rude not to eat."
He took a bite.
He was gone.
Each bite melted in his mouth. The pancakes were so soft and rich he forgot where he was. Syrup ran down his chin. He didn't just eat—he destroyed that plate. By the third helping, he leaned back in his floating seat, hand on his belly.
"If this is a test," he thought, licking syrup from his fingers, "I think I'm winning."
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Sharp. Calm.
The head of the house had arrived.Alaric Vayne entered.
Floating.
He sat on a throne that hovered just a few inches above the ground, gliding effortlessly across the floor. The throne itself was sleek, black with silver trim, and decorated with soft blue lights that pulsed quietly. A porcelain teacup rested in one of his gloved hands. A thin monocle perched on his left eye. His silver-and-navy suit was so sharp it probably cost more than a military cruiser.
He didn't just walk in.
He arrived.
Every servant in the room immediately bowed. Deep. Low. Like they'd practiced it every morning.
Arnik blinked. No way this guy's real.
The butler stepped forward.
"Master," he said with a smooth voice, "we've arranged your usual morning spread."
Vayne nodded slightly. He brought the teacup to his lips and took a quiet sip. Then, with a silk handkerchief, he dabbed once at his mouth and finally spoke.
"It smells fine."
Just that. Four calm words—and yet the room felt like it was holding its breath.
Arnik, who still had syrup on his lips, tried not to move.
Vayne's throne glided closer and gently lowered to the table's height. His posture remained perfect, chin lifted slightly, one hand resting on the throne's polished armrest.
He didn't look at the food. He didn't need to.
He looked directly at Arnik.
His eyes were calm. Focused. Sharp like he could see things Arnik hadn't even done yet.
Arnik wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
The silence dragged.
Finally, Vayne spoke again.
"I see you've found the pancakes… satisfactory."
Arnik almost choked.
"Uh… yeah," he mumbled. "They were good."
Vayne raised a single brow. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
"Manners are, of course, optional," he said. His voice was calm but carried weight, like every word had been selected on purpose.
A saucer appeared beside him. From where, Arnik had no idea. Vayne set his teacup down without looking.
"You must be the red tag."
Arnik sat up a little straighter. "Yeah. That's me. Arnik Handerfall."
Vayne repeated it softly. "Handerfall…"
He leaned back a little, folding his hands in front of him.
"Welcome," he said. "I assume you understand the significance of being under my care."
Arnik hesitated. "Not really. But I'm guessing I'll find out."
Vayne chuckled.
It was quiet. Controlled. Almost amused.
"Oh, you will."
He lifted his cup again. Took another sip.
"Let me assure you—this experience will not be one you forget."
The meal ended not long after. The plates were cleared so fast it was like the staff had teleported in and out. Not even a crumb was left behind.
Arnik leaned back again, hands folded in his lap.
His stomach was full.
But his mind was starting to spin.
Vayne folded his napkin neatly, then placed it on the table.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting. It was no longer casual. No longer polite.
It was business.
The monocle caught a glint of light.
"What is your goal?"Arnik straightened in his chair. His heartbeat quickened.
What is your goal?
The words echoed in his head like a drill. They weren't asked lightly. Vayne's voice was calm—but not casual. He was testing him.
"To stop Lionel," Arnik said firmly. "For humanity's sake. I want to protect what's left. I don't want to see anyone else I care about die."
Vayne didn't blink.
His lips curled into a small smile—not kind, but acknowledging.
"How… elegant."
He paused, then leaned in just a little.
"And what are you willing to do to make that happen?"
Arnik didn't hesitate.
"Anything," he said. "Even if I have to become a monster to do it."
The moment froze.
Vayne's smile faded.
He placed his teacup down again. Slower this time. His fingers moved carefully, deliberately, as if setting the stage for something more important.
He dabbed his lips with his napkin once. Twice.
And then he stopped moving altogether.
"…How unelegant," he whispered.
The words barely left his mouth before—
BOOM!
Vayne slammed both hands onto the table.
The shockwave cracked the air. The plates rattled. Arnik flinched hard. The aura in the room changed instantly—no longer calm, no longer charming.
Now it was suffocating.
A black pressure rolled off of Vayne's body like a crashing tide. Dark energy leaked from the air around him, wrapping the room in invisible chains. The chandelier above dimmed. The air turned heavy.
The servants ran.
All of them.
Except for the head butler, who remained perfectly still at his master's side—unshaken.
"You IDIOT," Vayne snapped, voice booming like thunder. "You think becoming a monster is noble?!"
Arnik couldn't breathe.
The pressure crushed down on his chest like a mountain. He gritted his teeth, fingers trembling against the table.
What is this?! This aura… It's like drowning!
"You eat like a pig," Vayne hissed, stepping forward. "No manners. No control. And now this? This is your grand answer?"
"I—I didn't mean—" Arnik tried to say, gasping.
"Silence!"
Vayne's voice cut the air like a knife.
"You say you want to save people? That you're doing this for humanity's sake? And your solution is to become the very thing they fear?!"
The shadows crackled around him. Magic coiled like snakes around his arms.
Arnik's chair groaned beneath him as the weight of it all bore down.
His head hung low.
His pride—shattered.
But just as fast as it began, the energy vanished.
Gone.
Vayne exhaled through his nose and calmly pulled back into his seat, adjusting his sleeves as if nothing had happened.
He folded his hands neatly. The room brightened again.
The silence returned.
"Here's some advice," Vayne said, his voice soft, almost cold. "If you throw away your morals, you may win the war… but only the war."
He looked Arnik directly in the eye.
"And when it's over… there will be nothing left but ashes."
Arnik was still catching his breath.
He felt like someone had just dragged him through a storm.
He swallowed.
"…How do you fight a war like this without losing yourself?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Vayne's expression didn't change.
"You'll learn," he said quietly.
"Starting tomorrow."