Aethelgard Royal Palace. September 1, 546.
The ten-year-old boy, Lumian, sat cross-legged on the floor in a dark room filled with tall bookshelves. Before him, an aged book lay open to a page titled, 'How to Use the Matrix: The Initial Stage of Spiritual Harmonization.'
Every page he turned was accompanied by flashes of lightning piercing through the stone window. Then he stopped turning pages–He had reached a conclusion.
In short... All souls reside in the spiritual world—an abstract realm located beneath the subconscious. A dimension where all souls gather, unseen and untouchable. However, as living beings, we can sense its existence.
First, I must feel my own existence there. Only then can I access spiritual power. Second, and most importantly, this process is an exchange. Souls and Spiritual Power will not come freely. Borrowing their power is akin to borrowing a part of my own soul, and every loan must be repaid with an equivalent sacrifice. The strength of the spiritual energy also depends on how valuable one's sacrifice is.
Finally, he closed the book, leaving behind one guiding paragraph.
The key lies in one thing—feeling the existence of the spiritual world itself... And uttering an incantation as a catalyst.
A spark of conviction ignited within him.
"Alright!"
His eyes shifted to the wooden soldier doll he had placed beside him. Holding his breath, he raised both his palms towards it.
"O, 'The Seraphin'... Master of Law. Nothing is achieved without an equivalent sacrifice."
A glowing blue line appeared beneath the doll, slowly rotating to form a perfect circle. Then, new lines branched inward, filling the space with intricate geometric patterns. Ancient script bloomed in every gap.
So this is the Matrix? The initial stage of magic! His grey eyes shone with triumph. The roaring thunder and howling wind outside faded into insignificance, silenced by the palpable success hanging in the air.
"Success!"
Then, without warning, the Matrix flared with a blinding blue light, growing brighter and brighter. Before he could react, the light swallowed him, whitening his entire vision.
I can't see! Panic seized him.
He shook his head wildly, hoping to clear the whiteness from his eyes.
Foosh–! The sound suddenly appeared as his vision began to return. Then a stinging pain assaulted his pinky finger—as if something had ripped his nail off by force.
Fresh blood gushed from the tip of his finger, dripping down. My nail is completely gone… My sacrifice is accepted…
Kreek!
The sound of creaking wood diverted his gaze. It came from his wooden soldier doll.
The doll's eyelids slowly opened, revealing eyes that shone with a bright blue light, greyish smoke wafting from them. Its head turned with a stiff motion, its piercing gaze now fixed directly on Lumian.
The doll blinked a few times, as if trying to recognize the person who had given it life.
A wave of pure joy flooded Lumian's chest. It's alive? I succeeded?
"I have to show Father!"
He snatched up the living doll and struggled to his feet. His small body darted through the narrow gaps between the bookshelves until he finally found the exit from the dim room.
The door was left ajar as he burst out into the Corridor. The corridor was illuminated by golden lanterns, its walls adorned with artistic carvings of various symbols, a red carpet cushioning his enthusiastic steps.
Unbeknownst to him, blood continued to drip from his pinky, leaving damp, dark stains on the red carpet. But his excitement overpowered the pain.
A triumphant smile was stuck on his face. He glanced at the doll in his hand–Trying to confirm it was truly alive!
When he looked ahead again, his smile faded, replaced by confusion.
Huh?
The corridor he was traversing had now become a seemingly endless passage.
Not slowing his pace, he narrowed his eyes, trying to see the end of the pitch-black darkness at the corridor's end.
Crash!
His foot caught on something hard. Thud! He fell, a sharp pain immediately shooting up from his toes.
"Ouch…"
He pushed himself up, then looked back.
The obstacle that had tripped him turned out to be a steel war helmet, the kind worn by the royal guards. The helmet was dented, rusted, and most horrifyingly, stained with dark, dried blood splatters on its cheek guard, reminding him of something frightening he had once seen!
"Why is this here?" he murmured, clutching the wooden doll to his chest, then dusting off his clothes.
I can't meet father like this… After feeling presentable enough, he turned around.
He took one running step, but froze on the spot the instant he realized the corridor had turned dark.
What happened?
In the darkness of the corridor, the only illumination was a blood-red light penetrating through a series of high windows on the left—windows that hadn't been there before.
His spine stiffened, the hairs on his neck standing up. "Father? Mother? Big Brother? Eva?" he called out, but in the suffocating silence, his voice only echoed back to his own ears.
Crashh…! His foot knocked against the helmet again.
Stay calm…. Stay calm…
But it was no use, his breath hitched, his chest rising and falling irregularly. A deep, piercing cold seeped into his bones. With fear-filled curiosity, he slowly turned his stiff neck, trying to see the source of the red light.
His eyes widened.
The red light came from a moon hanging in the sky like a ball of blood, emitting such a deep crimson hue that it tinted the surrounding clouds reddish.
He gasped, his heart pounding. Without a second thought, Lumian turned and ran down the increasingly dark and threatening corridor. His footsteps were panicked, his breath ragged.
Must find… Must find… Father!
Yet, the corridor seemed alive, twisting and turning. Lumian felt as if he were running in place, or even upside down. The red tint deepened, making his vision dizzy and his stomach nauseous.
The echo of his footsteps and his ragged breath were the only sounds in the silent corridor.
Then, his eyes caught something at the end of the corridor–a large door, ornately carved from iron and gold.
Lumian quickened his pace. "Father must be there," he panted under his breath.
He stopped in front of the door, steadying his gasping breath.
Hesitantly, he pushed the door.
The push halted when he heard loud voices, accompanied by explosive anger from behind it. Two voices, hurling sharp words at each other.
Father? Uncle? He recognized both voices.
Through the crack, he saw his father, King Askeld, standing facing a man on the steps to the throne—Uncle William.
Lumian slipped in quietly. Fear urged him to scream, but the oppressive atmosphere seemed to crush his voice and weigh down his feet. Everything was muted, wrapped in an unnatural silence.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Each beat echoed inside his skull, vibrating through his entire field of vision, as if the room itself was pulsating with his terror.
They're fighting?
Father and his Uncle appeared locked in a fierce argument, but strangely, he couldn't hear a single word uttered; he could only see their mouths moving and gestures that were clearly unfriendly.
Lumian forced his own mouth open. "Father..." The voice was choked, barely audible.
Finally, the two fell silent, as if the argument had reached its peak. Then, Uncle William opened his mouth again.
"..."
But no sound was heard…
The blood-red light illuminated half of his face, making his smile appear terrifying, caught between human and demon.
Witnessing his uncle's increasingly frightening face, a powerful wave of nausea washed over him. His knees felt weak.
Suddenly, Uncle William's terrifying gaze shifted—and landed directly on him. That gaze felt like it carried a wave of pure energy that rooted Lumian to the spot.
Then, his father followed the gaze. His eyes widened in panic.
"RUN, LUMI!"
It was the only word that exploded through the silence, clear and piercing like shattering glass.
Lumian took a staggering step back, confused. "Run?" he whispered to himself, his body refusing to obey his father's command.
At that moment, a glowing red Matrix appeared beneath his father's feet, emitting tendrils of red smoke that crawled across the floor.
KRAAK!
Tendrils of red energy burst from the circle, coiling around his Father's body. His face turned purple, the veins on his neck bulging.
"FATHER!" He screamed, his voice finally breaking out, hoarse with horror.
Behind his struggling father, Uncle William—smiled with satisfaction…
"RUN!" His father's command again, fighting against his bindings.
Another wave of red energy radiated from the Matrix, causing the tendrils to swell and pulsate, spreading rapidly, seeping into his Father's body through every pore.
"ARGGHHHH!!"
His eyes glowed red, and his skin began to crack, emitting a magma-like light from within. All of this was accompanied by his uncle's laughter, as if his father's agony was a grand performance.
The tendrils lowered his father, who was no longer recognizable as human. His eyes were pools of fire, his skin hardened into volcanic rock, the cracks emitting molten energy.
"Father...?" Lumian whimpered. He was paralyzed, his gaze empty as the monstrous figure that was once his father stepped forward, gleaming energy claws at the tips of its fingers.
His father kept stepping closer and with a frightening, unnatural speed—
Swoosh—! —it lunged straight towards him.
***
Brak!!!
The table shook as Lumian jolted awake. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding wildly. Cold sweat drenched his body, which felt intensely hot.
His eyes were wide, staring blankly at his own hands, which trembled violently. The phantom sensations from the dream—the searing energy claws, the hellish red light. It all felt like it had just happened.
"Young Master, did you have a nightmare again?"
A hoarse, inhuman voice pierced through the remnants of his panic. Lumian looked up. It was his wooden soldier doll—Barnaby. The same doll from his dream, unable to move due to its hands and legs being connected only by threads, it could only lean against the window frame.
A few seconds passed before his awareness fully returned.
A dream. It was just a dream, his heart whispered, trying to calm his still-pounding heart. I'm here. In my dark, stuffy, musty-smelling room.
His gaze slowly swept the surroundings, tracing every familiar corner. I'm sitting on an old wooden chair, there's a worn-out desk, and a window without glass in front of me. This was his ritual—a habit he always performed whenever haunted by nightmares. By naming and recognizing every object around him, he tried to anchor his runaway mind back to reality, convincing himself the horror was over.
January 1, 554… his mind reminded him, grasping for certainty from the string of numbers. Almost eight years had passed, but the memories still felt fresh in his mind.
A new day had begun.
Lumian leaned his head back against the chair, staring at the cracked wooden ceiling. His hands still trembled as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. The remnants of the dream clung to the edges of his mind like stubborn, toxic fog.
"Young Master, you should drink some water."
Lumian nodded slowly. With a heavy breath, he reached for the metal cup on the table and drank it dry. The cool liquid soothed his dry throat and helped quell the fear still raging in his gut. This is real. I'm awake. I'm here, in my new life, he repeated to himself.
Once his breath began to stabilize, his gaze then fell upon the table, where a teddy bear with button eyes and a patched-up, tattered body lay—the doll he had knitted all night for his little sister. Only a few stitches on its back remained to finish it.
He picked up the doll, his fingers already full of needle-prick wounds. Observing the doll, for some reason, the sight of the teddy bear seemed to calm his racing heart.
I will finish it…
He took the needle, then with stiff, slightly trembling movements, he pushed and pulled the thread. Each stitch felt like an anchor, pulling him firmly back to the present.
Then he finished the final stitch, pulled it tight, then bit the thread to break it.
"Finally done," he murmured, a faint, genuine smile finally spreading across his lips.
"Barnaby," he called to the wooden doll perched on the windowsill, "Do you think Eva will like it?"
Barnaby blinked as his blue eyes looked over the teddy bear. "Of course. The Young Master made it himself. Princess Eva will love it."
Hearing that answer, his smile warmed further.
At that very moment… The morning sunlight now touched his face, its gentle warmth driving the last of the nightmare's chill from his pale skin.
"Okay," he said, standing up. "I suppose I should get ready now."
He walked to the small washbasin in the corner of the room. Then, he clenched a fist over his chest. A blue Matrix circle materialized in the air without a single word uttered.
Lumian had learned to summon the Matrix through willpower alone. It was enough to visualize it and set his intention. If he wanted to avoid a physical sacrifice, he could expend his spiritual energy—which would recover on its own after he rested.
Droplets of water began to drip from the center of the Matrix, then flowed down like rain. Lumian bent over, letting the cold water drench his face and hair.
"Young Master, your spiritual energy was overflowing earlier," Barnaby interjected from his perch.
Lumian didn't answer. He was still washing his face and hair. Because such a thing was normal for him. His nightmares—a traumatic echo—always caused his spiritual energy to boil over and evaporate from his body, as his severely shaken soul and mind failed to maintain a stable resonance with the spiritual world. And as a spiritual entity bound to him, Barnaby automatically absorbed the energy leaking from him. That was what allowed it to remain active without his command or direct energy supply. But he didn't mind it; in fact, because of it, every time he had a nightmare, Barnaby would be active and immediately call out to him.
After a long wash, the Matrix circle vanished, followed by the stream of water. He stood upright, wiping the droplets still trickling from his chin. He took a rough cloth to dry his wet hair.
"The spiritual energy you absorbed earlier—keep it stored for now. Wait until I tell you to wake up," Lumian said, stretching his body. "I will definitely need you later."
Barnaby nodded, then the light in his eyes slowly faded until it went out.
Lumian then walked over to the half-cracked mirror on the wall. He leaned his face close to the blurred glass surface. The dark circles under his eyes and the fine lines of stress on his forehead seemed more pronounced.
Seems like I need to pay more attention to my appearance now…
After ensuring there was no dirt on his face, he picked up an emerald pendant and put it around his neck, then gently picked up the knitted teddy bear from the table.
I hope Eva likes it, that simple hope ignited a small, warm light in his chest, slowly burning away the last cold remnants of the nightmare's horror.
He headed for the door. His hand gripped the worn, cold wooden doorknob. The aroma of warm soup and bread wafted from the other side, a promise of ordinary, normal life. As he turned the knob and pulled the door open, he found someone standing right in his path—as if they had been waiting for him. Or more precisely…