Arnik woke to soft sunlight streaming through ornate windows.
Gold-trimmed portraits stared down 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 further, the door creaked open.
A maid stepped inside, bowing with such perfect posture that Arnik instinctively straightened.
"We've been expecting you, sir," she said, voice calm and polite. "Please, follow me."
Arnik blinked. Expecting me? Yeah right. There's no way I belong here.
He swung his legs over the bed. His boots sank into a carpet so thick it felt like even the floor was judging him for existing.
He took one step forward—
BZZZMMM!
"Huh—?"
A floating chair zoomed through the doorway and bumped into him before scooping him up like he was luggage.
"WOOAH! What the—?!"
The maid followed beside him, completely unfazed as the chair zipped through a hallway lined with glowing crystals and elegant paintings.
The ride ended in a massive dining hall.
A table stretched longer than any he'd ever seen. Everything gleamed so perfectly polished it reflected like a mirror.
Before he could admire it, a plate was placed before him.
Pancakes.
Golden, fluffy, and stacked high—syrup trickling down the sides, topped with 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 muttered.
Whatever. He picked up the fork.
"It'd be rude not to eat."
The first bite hit—and he was gone.
Not literally, but mentally obliterated. Each bite melted on his tongue; soft, rich, perfect. He forgot where he was. Syrup ran down his chin as he devoured every piece.
By the third helping, he leaned back in his floating chair, hand on his stomach.
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.
Vayne entered.
Floating.
He sat upon a throne that hovered a few inches above the floor, gliding effortlessly across the marble. The throne was black with silver trim, lined with faint blue lights that pulsed softly. A porcelain teacup rested in one gloved hand; a thin monocle perched on his left eye. His silver-and-navy suit was so sharply pressed it probably cost more than a warship.
He didn't walk in.
He arrived.
Every servant in the room bowed—deep, synchronized, like it was part of their morning ritual.
Arnik stared. No way this guy's real.
A butler stepped forward. "Master, your usual morning spread is ready."
Vayne nodded, bringing the teacup to his lips for a slow sip. He dabbed his mouth once with a silk handkerchief and finally spoke.
"It smells fine."
Just four calm words—yet the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Arnik, syrup still on his lips, froze in place.
Vayne's throne drifted closer and lowered gracefully to the table's height. His posture remained perfect, chin raised slightly, one hand resting on the armrest.
He didn't glance at the food. He didn't have to. His eyes locked directly on Arnik—steady, unreadable, sharp enough to cut through excuses.
Arnik wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
The silence dragged.
Finally, Vayne spoke again.
"I see you've found the pancakes… satisfactory."
Arnik nearly choked.
"Uh… yeah. They were good."
Vayne's brow lifted. His lips twitched—almost a smile.
"Manners are, of course, optional," he said. His tone was calm, deliberate, every word measured.
A saucer appeared beside him from seemingly nowhere. Vayne set his cup down without looking.
"You must be the red tag."
Arnik straightened. "Yeah. That's me—Arnik Handerfall."
"Handerfall…" Vayne repeated softly, then leaned back, folding his hands.
"Welcome. I assume you understand the significance of being under my care."
Arnik hesitated. "Not really. But I'm guessing I'll find out."
Vayne's chuckle was quiet and restrained.
"Oh, you will."
He took another sip of tea. "Let me assure you—this will not be an experience you forget."
When the meal ended, the plates vanished almost instantly—as if the staff teleported them away. Not even a crumb remained.
Vayne folded his napkin, placed it neatly on the table, and his tone changed.
"Now," he said, eyes narrowing slightly, "what is your goal?"
Arnik stiffened. His heartbeat quickened.
What is your goal?
The question echoed in his head. Vayne's tone wasn't casual—it was a test.
"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 curved slightly—not kindly, but in acknowledgment.
"How… elegant."
He leaned in a little.
"And what are you willing to do to make that happen?"
Arnik didn't hesitate.
"Anything. Even if I have to become a monster to do it."
The air froze.
Vayne's faint smile disappeared. He set his teacup down slowly, deliberately—each movement surgical.
He dabbed his lips once. Twice. Then stopped.
"…How inelegant," he whispered.
The words had barely left his mouth before—
BOOM!
Both his palms slammed onto the table. The sound cracked through the air like thunder. Plates rattled. Arnik flinched.
The calm atmosphere shattered.
A suffocating pressure rolled from Vayne like a tidal wave. Darkness swirled in the air, coiling around the room like invisible chains. The chandelier above dimmed to a dying glow.
Servants scattered instantly. All except the head butler, who stood unmoving beside his master.
"You IDIOT," Vayne roared. "You think becoming a monster is noble?!"
Arnik gasped. The pressure crushed down on his chest like a mountain.
What is this?! This aura… it's like drowning!
"You eat like a pig," Vayne hissed, stepping closer. "No manners. No control. And now this? This is your grand answer?"
"I—I didn't mean—"
"Silence!"
The word struck like a whip.
"You say you want to save people? That you fight for humanity's sake? And your solution is to become what they fear most?!"
The air crackled. Shadows twisted around Vayne's arms like living smoke.
Arnik's chair creaked under the pressure. His head hung low, pride cracking under the weight.
And then—
The power vanished.
Vayne exhaled quietly, smoothing his sleeves. The chandelier brightened again.
The silence that followed was absolute.
"Here's some advice," Vayne said, voice soft now—almost cold. "If you throw away your morals, you may win the war… but only the war."
He met Arnik's eyes.
"And when it's over, there will be nothing left but ashes."
Arnik sat frozen, chest heaving. It felt like he'd just been dragged through a storm.
He swallowed hard. "How do you fight a war like this without losing yourself?"
Vayne didn't answer right away.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—measured.
"You'll learn," he said.
"Starting tomorrow."