Plsh…
Warm liquid struck Noa's face.
Blood.
The blood of the first human he had killed in this world.
It should have shaken him to his core, should have clawed at the edges of his mind and left him screaming into the night. But it didn't. Not really. The sound, the wet strike, the metallic scent—it was nothing more than a note in the symphony of chaos he was already conducting.
He could not have ended the man. Knocked him unconscious, broken his body, and walked away unscathed. He knew it.
Yet he hadn't.
Because of a simple, unspoken question.
"Why would I?"
Glass exploded outward as he vaulted through the window, the shards catching the moonlight and throwing dancing prisms across the cold stone floor. Night air tore into his lungs, sharp as a whip, and for a fleeting, intoxicating second—he tasted freedom. A moment of relief so bright it almost blinded him.
Then he remembered.
He was still inside the kingdom. Still inside the castle.
Steel rang out behind him, ringing through the night with the metallic chorus of inevitability. Soldiers spun toward him, confusion briefly slowing their movements, while training anchored others in place like statues of war. Their eyes tracked him. Calculated. He had an advantage—but it was narrow, thinning with every heartbeat.
He ran.
Some he slipped past. Others tried to close ranks, the formation tightening like a vice. With every branching corridor he dove into, the castle opened new mazes of storage rooms, servants' paths, and forgotten passages—a labyrinth of dust, rust, and darkness. Perfect for ghosts to vanish into.
DHUM!
He slammed a door behind him. Storage. Old crates, dust motes dancing in faint moonlight, the scent of iron and old wood heavy in the air. Only now did he press a hand to his side.
Blood soaked his fingers.
And then he saw him.
Someone already there.
Their eyes locked.
"T-the hell? Who are you?" Noa shouted, voice sharper than the thought behind it.
"That's what I should be asking," came the reply.
"Huh?"
"Huh?"
They froze, mirroring each other's surprise like two predators caught mid-stalk.
The other was older—early twenties. Short black hair, dark eyes like molten stone. A sword in his hand that caught the light in a way Noa's did not. Black clothes, streaked with drying blood.
"Are you one of the guards?" The man asked, raising his blade defensively.
"No. I'm trying to escape."
The man hesitated—long enough to weigh the truth, then exhaled.
"Haah… figures. Looks like we're on the same boat."
He tossed a small bottle toward Noa.
"Drink and Heal."
A green liquid inside—a healing potion, most likely. Noa caught it mid-air, uncaring. If the man wanted the wounded him dead, he already was.
"Thanks," Noa said, voice low. "Who are you?"
Footsteps echoed faintly beyond the door.
"Name's Leon. No time." His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Get ready. They're coming."
The door exploded inward.
"They're here!" a soldier shouted.
Splshh.
Noa moved first.
Steel slid through flesh. A cry cut off mid-word. He caught the body before it hit the floor, lowering it gently and replacing his sword.
"You can call me Noa," he murmured. "Any plans?"
Leon paused, listening intently to the corridor. Then—
"Run."
Ehhhh?
Can I really trust this guy?
Time didn't wait for trust. They ran.
…
Huff—huff.
The castle became a blur of movement, shadows, and ringing steel. Resistance was cut through—not heroically, not cleanly, but just enough to keep forward momentum.
Leon's skill was obvious. Footwork precise. Blade efficient. His sword, there was something peculiar about it—not cursed, not glowing, but precise enough to carve fate itself.
Moonlight spilled through the gates ahead, washing the courtyard in silver and shadow.
At least thirty soldiers were waiting—shields braced, spears lowered, swords half-drawn. They didn't charge. They waited. The ones behind were slower, closing in. The rhythm of their boots pressed into Noa's skull like a drum of doom.
"There's no other way," he said, voice taut.
Leon didn't answer. He measured the formation—angles, distances, probabilities.
"Right side. Me—left. If a path opens, don't look back. Just go."
A thin smile pulled at Leon's mouth, almost amused.
"Good. Don't expect me to wait."
Trust was not spoken. It was assumed.
They stepped forward, swords heavy in their hands.
One special. One stolen.
The first soldier lunged.
Gueh.
Noa intercepted, impact ringing up his arms, rattling bone. He twisted inside the guard and drove his blade into the soldier's throat—not deep, just enough. The man collapsed soundlessly.
A scream erupted behind the lines.
Chaos. Steel and armor collided in violent music. Noa parried blindly, a blade slipping past his shoulder, pain flaring hot and white.
Plsh.
Blood struck his cheek. Mine? His? He didn't look. Couldn't afford it.
A spear grazed his ribs. He seized the shaft, yanked, and used momentum to shove the soldier into the one behind him. A sword stolen mid-fall, thrown. A scream cut abruptly.
He didn't look at Leon.
Breath was shallow now. Legs lagged half a step behind thought. Every movement cost more than the last.
The gate was closer.
So was the ground.
CLANG!
A lone soldier blocked his path. Hands trembling, stance wrong—too wide, too stiff.
Left? Right? Above? Below?
The first strike came from above.
Noa leaned, caught the blade between both hands, felt his palms tear. Chest to chest for a heartbeat. Fear radiated off the man.
"Get the hell out of my way!" he shouted.
Drop-Drop.
The sword sank into the man's chest. Blood spread like spilled ink across armor. The path opened.
…
Noa ran without looking back. Every step heavy. Senses dull, vision a watery smear.
If fate allows it, we'll meet again, my friend.
The stone beneath his feet changed.
Smooth castle roads gave way to cracked earth and uneven bricks. The air thickened—stale water, smoke, something rotting slowly beyond sight.
The slums.
He kept moving—not running, not walking, somewhere in between, propelled more by habit than thought. The sword dragged behind him, scraping faint lines into the ground.
People noticed.
Doors cracked open. Closed again. Shadows moved. Whispers passed without words.
No one approached.
Blood dripped from his sleeve, each drop loud enough to echo in his mind. Vision pulsed—edges dimming, sharpening, dimming again.
Don't stop.
He willed his legs forward. They obeyed reluctantly.
A child stared from a corner, wide-eyed. Noa looked away first.
Breathing shallow. Hands distant. Body not fully his own.
He leaned against a wall without thinking. Cold stone held him upright when he could not.
Just a little more.
Away from the gate. Away from soldiers. Away from noise.
The sword slipped from his fingers. Hit the ground dullly. No one moved to take it.
Knees buckled.
THUD!
One hand caught himself. Missed. Second impact rattled teeth.
The world tilted. Voices muffled. Wrapped in wet cloth.
He sank fully to the ground, back against cold stone, legs folded wrong beneath him. Pain arrived late—deep, heavy, all-consuming.
People gathered at a distance. Curiosity without courage.
Vision narrowed. Faces blurred into shapeless forms. Night sky stretched above the slums farther than it should.
If I sleep now…
The thought didn't finish.
Head fell forward. Darkness crept—not rushed, but slow, patient, like ink spreading across a page.
***
A boy sat alone in the third row, fourth line, staring out a classroom window.
Another student—the transfer from yesterday—watched silently before approaching.
"Hey," he said, voice distant, muffled, passing through water. "What are you looking at so seriously?"
The seated boy lifted his head. Silver-black hair. Eyes too dark—no whites, only purple pupils floating in shadow.
"…Nothing," he replied, uninterested. "Just thinking."
The blue-haired student dragged a chair closer anyway.
"Thinking about what to do, huh?"
The seated boy finally looked. Face blurred—edges softening, fading, as if reality itself were forgetting him.
***
Gasp.
Noa woke in a bed.
Pain bloomed in every corner of his body at once, a symphony of aches.
What was that? A dream?
A shitty one at that.
"Ugh…"
"Oh! You're awake!"
A girl stood beside him. Pink twin-tails, blue eyes, smile too bright for the dim room. Simple dress, cheap fabric, worn boots. She looked like a chaotic sunbeam in the shadow of the world.
"Hey mister, did you hit your head?"
"…No," he muttered. "Just a bad dream."
"A bad dream?" She nodded earnestly. "I have those too. You should pray to God before sleeping."
He blinked.
Pray to God? He wasn't sure he believed in one.
"Oh my—he's awake?"
A woman entered. Long brown hair, brown eyes, ordinary yet beautiful, a quiet gravity around her. She looked maybe four or five years older than him.
"Where am I?" he asked. "And who are you?"
Bandages covered his body. Food rested beside the bed.
They had treated him.