"My chosen apostle, receive my power."
The words didn't sound like a blessing. They sounded like a sentence.
Dawn's mind froze, and before she could even blink, a blinding flash swallowed the world.
It was so bright that it felt as if the sky itself had burst open. Her vision shattered into white, and the next thing she knew, she was back inside the Hall of Soul Spirit, gasping like someone dragged her out of deep water.
She instinctively covered her eyes with her right hand. At the same time, something heavy slammed into her left palm, pulling her arm downward. A sharp metallic sound rang out as if steel had struck the stone floor. Her fingers tightened around something without thinking, and her chest rose and fell wildly as she tried to understand what had just happened.
When she finally dared to open her eyes, her breath stopped.
A scythe was resting in her left hand. It was exactly the same as the one carried by the hooded specter. The handle was long and dark, and the blade curved like a crescent moon made for slaughter instead of harvest. The air around it felt cold, not like winter cold, but like the chill that crawled up the spine when standing near a grave.
In her right hand was an hourglass.
It looked simple at first glance, but the sand inside was pure white, glowing faintly, almost too clean to be real. The grains moved quietly, as if time itself was being poured in silence.
The examiner stared at the weapons like his soul had left his body. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His eyes darted between the scythe and the hourglass, and for a moment, his thoughts nearly leaped to a terrifying possibility.
A twin Soul Spirit.
He leaned forward, his eyes sharp now. His gaze lingered on the scythe first, and his throat bobbed slightly as if he swallowed hard. The aura coming off it was thick and heavy, like a beast warning others not to approach.
"At least purple-grade…" he whispered.
Then he turned to the hourglass, expecting the same pressure. But the moment he focused on it, his brows furrowed. The hourglass felt… empty. Not weak, not strong, just blank. It didn't give off any scent of power at all.
"This one… smells like nothing," he murmured in disbelief. "How can a Soul Spirit feel like nothing?"
His expression shifted from confusion to unease. "Strange… I'll need to report this."
Then he straightened, looking at Dawn again with a different kind of gaze, as if he had just found treasure hidden in mud.
"I can't believe it," he thought. "A gem in this small town…"
But Dawn wasn't listening to him.
She was trying to remember what happened a moment ago.
She remembered the soul spirit, meeting an oddly shaped creature that looked like a ghoulish humanoid skeleton, half-man and half-death, with hollow eyes and a twisted, unnatural posture.
Dawn's heartbeat slowed, but not because she was calm. It slowed because fear had squeezed it.
"A beast-type?" she thought. "But… I'm holding weapons."
"Is it Necromancy?"
The thought made her stomach turn.
Then the specter's words echoed in her mind again.
My chosen apostle...
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Apostle?" She whispered. "Only gods have apostles, though. What's happening?"
The examiner's voice snapped her back to the chamber. "Congratulations, Dawn. You have awakened a strong tool-set Soul Spirit."
Dawn blinked and quickly bowed. "Thank you."
The moment she thought of putting the weapons away, both the scythe and the hourglass vanished from her hands, disappearing as if they had never existed.
A scroll appeared then appeared in the examiner's hand with a quill and ink, and he shoved it toward Dawn. "You know how to write, right? Sit in the corner. And record your name, your family details, and address if you remember it correctly."
Dawn accepted it silently.
"Next!" the examiner called.
Dawn walked to the side and sat down without looking around. Other children whispered nearby, some excited, some crying. She ignored them all. Despite being young, she filled the form neatly, her handwriting clear and steady. When the ceremony ended, she walked back and handed it over without being told twice.
The examiner took it with a satisfied smile after looking at the address that seemed clear, "A letter from Larnwick Academy will reach your home within a week."
Dawn nodded.
But her body felt strange. The air felt strange. Even her own skin felt strange. A deep discomfort crawled under her flesh, like an invisible itch that couldn't be scratched. Her fingers twitched slightly, and her eyes narrowed as she tried to ignore it.
The examiner continued speaking, unaware.
"Larnwick Academy begins in the first week of the fourth month."
Dawn remained silent.
"It would be better to train for the next four months," the examiner added. "Class assignments are decided on the first day. I recommend you try to become at least a one-star Spirit Warrior before then."
"I understand," Dawn replied.
The examiner paused, slightly surprised by the girl's cold tone, but quickly moved on to call the next child.
Dawn left the chamber without another word.
As she walked through the hall, her discomfort grew heavier. It wasn't pain. It wasn't sickness. It felt like hunger, but not in her stomach. It was like her bones wanted something. Like her blood was calling for something.
Something dark.
Something familiar.
Outside the hall, she spotted her grandUncle, Leandor, chatting with a group of townsmen. Leandor looked relaxed, smiling politely as the men spoke about the ceremony. But Dawn didn't feel like smiling.
She called out, her voice sharp enough to cut through the noise.
"Grandpa."
The coldness in her tone startled nearby children. A few even flinched.
Leandor turned, his smile fading instantly. His eyes searched Dawn's face, then his expression tightened. Perhaps he misunderstood. Perhaps he assumed the worst.
A blank soul spirit. Did she fail? How is that possible?
Without saying much, Leandor immediately excused himself from the group and walked quickly toward Dawn. The townsmen behind him exchanged looks and sighed as if they had already guessed the result.
Leandor didn't ask anything in the hall. He didn't want people to hear. He simply guided Dawn outside, and they climbed into the carriage.
The ride home was silent.
Dawn sat in her seat, staring out at the snow-covered streets, his eyes empty. Leandor held the reins tightly, his jaw stiff. Neither of them spoke until the house gates finally came into view.
Only when they stepped inside did Leandor turn around. "So," he said carefully, "what did you awaken?"
Dawn looked at him and said. "It wasn't blank. Don't worry."
Leandor's shoulders loosened slightly. "Then… a weak plant-type Soul Spirit?"
Dawn shook her head.
Leandor blinked. "Then what?"
Dawn's voice remained flat. "The examiner said it was strong. But I'll show you."
With a thought, the scythe appeared in her left hand. The hourglass formed in her right, as if summoned from thin air.
Leandor stared at the scythe first, and his face turned serious. The weapon looked heavy, dangerous, and unnatural in a child's grip. But when Leandor's eyes moved to the hourglass, something worse happened.
His pupils shrank.
His lips parted slightly.
And for a brief moment, his knees almost buckled.
"Grandpa?" Dawn asked. "Are you alright?"
Leandor didn't answer right away. He stepped closer, crouched down, and carefully examined the hourglass. His eyes were locked on the white sand inside, as if he feared it might disappear if he blinked.
His voice came out like a broken whisper. "Sands of Time…"
His hands trembled.
"No way…"
Then his expression snapped into urgency. Leandor straightened and shouted like a man struck by lightning.
"Ethar!"
A shadow moved.
A servant appeared beside them instantly, as if he had been waiting behind the wall.
"Yes, milord."
Leandor pointed toward the hallway. "Bring the Book of Death from my room. The third drawer of my desk. Now!"
The servant vanished like smoke.
Dawn frowned slightly, her eyes narrowing.
"Book of Death…" she thought. "What is that, I wonder?"
A moment later, Ethar returned, holding a thick book in both hands. The book looked ancient, its cover worn and dark. But the most disturbing part was the skull carved into the front, raised like a living mark.
Leandor snatched it and opened it quickly.
Pages flipped rapidly, one after another, until Leandor stopped at a certain page. His eyes moved between the drawing on the page and the hourglass in Dawn's hand. His breathing grew heavier as he compared them again and again.
Then slowly… his expression changed.
His lips curved upward.
The smile widened with every passing second.
It wasn't the smile of a physician.
It was the smile of someone who had just found something that should not exist.
Leandor shut the book with a thud. He closed his eyes and murmured, voice shaking with excitement. "Yes… It's real. Sands of Time."
His eyes opened, sharp as steel. "That means the other one is the Death Scythe."
He laughed softly, almost breathlessly. "Finally… after several millennia… it has returned."
Dawn stared at him. "What returned, Grandpa?" she asked, genuinely curious. "What does Sands of Time mean?"
Leandor snapped out of his trance, as if remembering Dawn was still a child standing in front of him. He grabbed Dawn's shoulders tightly, his grip firm, almost painful.
"I'll tell you later," Leandor said quickly. "Tomorrow, I'm going somewhere."
Dawn blinked. "Where?"
Leandor's answer was strange.
"Home."
Dawn frowned. "Huh?"
*