The Royal Palace of Aethelgard. September 1, 546, Julian calendar.
That night, the dark sky above the palace was slashed by fierce flashes of lightning. Each rumble shook the foundations of the centuries-old stone tower.
In a room lined with tall bookshelves, a young boy sat cross-legged on the floor. He was Lumian, the ten-year-old prince of the Kingdom of Aethelgard.
Before him, a worn book was open to a page titled 'How to Use the Matrix: A Technique for Transaction with the Gods.' The book radiated a faint golden light, as if alive.
He had been there for hours, absorbing every word and diagram. His lips moved incessantly, trying to memorize the mantra. His left hand clenched tightly on his knee, while his right hand carefully turned the fragile pages.
Finally, feeling reassured, he exclaimed, "Alright!"
His gaze shifted to his wooden warrior doll, which he had set aside. With bated breath, he raised both palms, pointing them at the doll.
"Oh, 'The Arbiter...' the Master of Law. Nothing is achieved without equal sacrifice."
Suddenly, beneath the wooden doll, a glowing blue line appeared, slowly rotating in a circle. After encircling the doll, new lines began to radiate into the empty circle, filling it with intricate geometric patterns. Ancient writings appeared in every crevice. This was the Matrix—a magic circle that made magic more focused and dense, but with its own risks.
His gray eyes sparkled, his pounding heart now filled with triumph. Outside, the rumble of thunder and the howling of the wind seemed insignificant, silenced by the success he felt.
"It's Working!"
The pattern of circles and ancient writing had perfectly formed.
Then, without warning, the Matrix lit up with a bright blue light, growing ever brighter.
Lumian was stunned. Before he could react, the light had consumed him, blotting out his vision.
I can't see anything! he thought in panic.
He shook his head, hoping to dispel the blinding white glow.
His vision returned. However, that recovery was followed by a sharp pain in his pinky finger, as if something had forcefully ripped out his nail.
"Huh? So this is real?" He came to.
Fresh blood flowed from his fingertips, dripping and staining his clean hand. His nail was completely gone. But he knew it was a heavy price to pay for using the Matrix—especially for a child like himself who had nothing to trade for other than his own limbs.
Creak!
The sound of creaking wood drew his gaze away from his pinky finger. The voice came from her wooden soldier doll.
It's moving?!
The doll slowly opened its eyelids. They glowed blue, accompanied by a grayish smoke. Its head turned slowly, now staring directly at Lumian.
They stared at each other in a meaningful silence.
The doll blinked several times, as if trying to recognize the person who had resurrected it.
"It worked?!" Joy flooded Lumian's heart. "I have to show it to Father!"
Without thinking, she snatched the wooden doll and ran. Her tiny body weaved through the gaps between the tall bookshelves, finally finding the door that led out of the dark place.
The door was left wide open as she darted out. Now she was running through the deserted palace hallway. The hallway was lit by golden lanterns, with a red carpet spread out. The walls were decorated with artistic carvings of various symbols, giving it an elegant and luxurious look.
Unbeknownst to her, blood continued to drip from her pinky finger, staining the red carpet. However, her joy overpowered her pain. Right now, he had only one goal: to find his father and show that he could learn the Matrix without a teacher.
A smile couldn't leave his face. He glanced at the wooden doll in his hand, confirming that this was all real—that it was alive.
When he straightened his gaze again, his smile faded, replaced by confusion.
The hallway, which had branched off several times earlier, had now become one seemingly endless path.
Lumian squinted, trying to see to the end of the dark passage.
Crash!
His foot caught on something hard. Bang! He fell, crashing onto the wooden doll in his hand. Pain immediately seared through his toes.
"Ouch... what was that?" he muttered softly. Still falling, his hands supporting himself, he looked back.
The object he had tripped over was a steel war helmet—the kind typically worn by royal soldiers. However, it was dented, rusted, and most horrifying of all: a stain of dried black blood was on its cheek.
"Why is that here?"
She got up, picked up the wooden doll, and cradled it in her arms, then brushed off some of the dust that had clung to her clothes.
"My clothes are dirty," she muttered softly.
Once she felt clean enough, she turned around. She had only taken one step when her feet stopped abruptly. Her body froze in place when she realized: The hallway that had been lit by golden lanterns was now gone, replaced by blood-red light filtering through a row of tall windows on the left—windows she was sure weren't there.
His spine stiffened, his body felt like it was swarmed by ants. "Father? Mother? Brother? Eva? Where are you?" he called. But his trembling voice only bounced off the silent hallway and returned to his ears.
Crash... His foot brushed against the helmet again.
His breath was ragged, his chest heaving erratically. The cold pierced his bones. He swallowed hard, then, filled with curiosity tinged with fear, he turned to his left. His movements were slow, as stiff as a statue.
Instantly, his eyes widened.
From behind the glass, the moon, which should have been shining white, instead hung in the sky, a blood-red hue, casting a gloomy glow that turned the surrounding clouds reddish.
He gasped, his heart pounding. Without thinking, Lumian darted back into the increasingly dark and eerie hallway. His footsteps hurried, his breath ragged.
However, the hallway seemed alive and spinning. Lumian felt like he was walking in place, even as if he were walking upside down. The red color deepened, making his vision wavy and nauseating. At a time like this, her only instinct was to keep running.
Then, her eyes caught something at the end of the hallway: a large door with magnificent iron and gold carvings.
Lumian quickened her pace, faster and faster. "Father must be in there," she murmured, smiling with relief.
As the door drew closer, loud voices rang out from behind it. Two voices hurling words at each other. Lumian knew both voices very well.
Cautiously, she pushed the door open slowly. Through the gap, she saw her father, King Askeld, facing someone standing on the steps leading to the throne—her Uncle William.
Lumian slowly entered. Fear made her want to shout for them, but the oppressive atmosphere seemed to squeeze her throat and make her steps heavy. Everything was muffled in an unnatural silence.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
All Lumian could hear was the sound of her own heart. Each beat echoed in her head, vibrating her entire vision, as if the room was alive with her heartbeat.
Her father and uncle seemed to be arguing heatedly, but strangely, she couldn't hear a single word coming out of their mouths. She could only see their lips moving silently.
Lumian forced her mouth open. "Father.…" her voice was muffled, not coming out.
Finally, they both fell silent, as if the argument had reached its climax. Then, Uncle William opened his mouth again.
"....." However, his words remained inaudible, muffled by the pounding of his own heart. The deep red moonlight illuminated half of his face, making his smile seem torn between human and demonic.
Seeing her uncle's increasingly terrifying face, Lumian began to feel incredibly nauseous. Her knees felt weak.
She couldn't really hear what they were saying. But one thing was certain: they were arguing.
Suddenly, Uncle William's gaze—already terrifying—shifted toward her. It seemed to carry a wave of energy that left her frozen in pure fear.
Then, her father followed that gaze. His eyes widened, filled with panic.
"RUN, LUMI!" That was the only word that exploded, clear and piercing, shattering the silence of the room.
Lumian took a step back, confused. "Run?" he whispered softly, only to himself. His body froze, unable to obey his father's command.
At that moment, beneath the King's feet, a deep red Matrix formed in an instant, emitting dark smoke that enveloped the floor.
CRACK!
From within the magic circle, blood-colored energy tentacles burst forth, instantly wrapping themselves tightly around Askeld's body. The King's face flushed, the veins in his neck tensed.
"FATHER!" Lumian shouted, his voice barely suppressed by horror.
Behind his struggling father, Uncle William—the man he had always considered a second father—smiled with satisfaction. How could this happen? His mind was in disarray.
"RUN!" Askeld shouted once more, struggling to free himself.
From within the Matrix, a wave of red energy surged out, causing the tentacles to swell. The swelling crept rapidly, seeping into the King's body through every pore.
"ARGGHHHH!!" King Askeld screamed in unbearable agony. His eyes glowed red, and his skin began to crack, emitting a magma-like glow from within. Behind his groans, Uncle William's loud laughter echoed, as if watching a grand spectacle.
The tentacles slowly lowered his father, who was no longer human. His eyes glowed red, and his skin hardened like volcanic rock, with cracks radiating magma-colored energy.
"Father...?" Lumian whispered, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. He froze, his gaze blank as the figure that had once been his father approached, energy claws peeking from his fingertips.
His transformed father looked up, and with terrifying speed—
Swoosh—! —he darted toward him.
***
Crash!!!
The table shook as Lumian jolted awake. His breath came in gasps, his heart pounding. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and across his body. His eyes widened, staring blankly at his own hands, which were still trembling violently. The sensations of the dream—the feeling of energy claws, the red light, the screams—still clearly gripped his soul.
"Did you have another nightmare, young master?"
The hoarse, inhuman voice slipped through the fog of panic, slowly pulling him out of the nightmare's lingering grip.
Lumian looked up. It was his own wooden soldier puppet—the same puppet from his dream. Barnaby's voice managed to anchor his consciousness back to reality.
A few seconds passed before he fully realized where he was. It had been a dream. Now he was back in his dark, musty room, sitting on an old wooden chair with a worn table and window in front of him. In the distance, a thin ray of morning sunlight was beginning to rise. Below, the sound of carts and the hustle and bustle of city life could be heard, signaling the start of a new day.
He tried to steady his still-gasping breath.
January 1, 554 Julian Calendar…
Lumian leaned his head back, looking up at the cracked wooden roof. His hands still trembled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Remnants of the dream lingered at the edges of his consciousness, like a fog that refused to leave.
"Yes…" he answered briefly, his voice hoarse. His hands were still rubbing his tired face, as if trying to erase the memories etched behind his eyelids.
"You should drink something first, sir"
Lumian nodded slowly. With a heavy breath, he picked up the metal cup that had been set beside him and drank it all down. The cool water ran down her throat, helping to drown out the lingering fear that still churned in her chest. This is real. I'm awake. I'm here, in my new life, she assured herself.
Her gaze then shifted to the table, where a teddy bear with button eyes and a tattered, patched body lay—the work she had knitted overnight for her sister. Only a few stitches remained on the back.
For some reason, just looking at the teddy bear calmed her heart. It was as if each stitch of yarn was an anchor, tethering her to the present reality. Lumian picked up the needle with scarred fingers. With stiff but calculated movements, she jabbed and pulled the thread, completing the final stitch. Once the back of the teddy bear was tight, she bit the thread to break it.
"Finally finished," she murmured with a faint smile that this time felt more genuine.
"Barnaby," she called to the wooden doll in the window, "Do you think Eva will like it?"
Barnaby blinked, his blue eyes staring at the teddy bear before replying, "Of course. It was handmade by Young Master. Princess Eva will love it."
Lumian smiled. The morning light began to touch her face, warming her pale skin and chasing away the lingering chill of her dream.
"Okay," she said, standing, "I guess I should get ready now."
Lumian walked over to the small faucet in her room. Her hands clenched into fists at her chest, and immediately a blue Matrix circle appeared in the air.
She had learned to create the Matrix without chanting. Since she already knew it by heart, she simply needed to mentally recall it and set a goal. If she didn't want to sacrifice a limb, she could use spiritual energy, which would be replenished by rest.
Drips of water began to drip from the Matrix circle, then poured down harder from the faucet. Lumian bent down, letting the water wash over her face and his black hair. The tangible coolness helped completely banish the image of the magma's heat from her dream.
"Sir, isn't that a waste of Spiritual Energy? You could faint if you overdo it," Barnaby called from his seat.
"No," Lumian replied, still under the pouring water. "I only used a little. Besides, it helps me… feel fresher." More grounded, he added to himself.
Then, the circle stopped dispensing water. Lumian grabbed a dirty-looking cloth—the only one he had. He walked over to the half-cracked mirror on the wall and brought it close to his face. In the reflection, the dark circles under his eyes and the fine lines on his forehead were clearly visible—a trace of fatigue and bitter memories he shouldn't have had in his teens.
Lumian turned and smoothed his hair back, though a few stray strands still fell forward. Once he felt comfortable, he picked up the emerald necklace and put it on, then picked up the teddy bear he had knitted.
I hope Eva likes it, he thought hopefully, feeling a slight warmth in his chest that had been eating away at the remnants of his dreams.
He then headed for the door. His hand touched the cool wooden doorknob. The smell of warm soup wafted through the crack, welcoming him with the promise of a normal life. As he turned the knob and slowly pulled the door open, he found someone standing behind it—as if waiting for him.