Dawn had not yet fully risen when the first screams were heard.
A farmer, Mr. Loran, ran to the middle of the village, his face pale, his clothes covered in blood. He could only point towards his field, his mouth open but no words came out. Several villagers soon followed.
In the middle of the rice field, hanging on a wooden pole that was usually used to scare birds, was the body of a young man—Teren, the carpenter's son—stuck dead.
His body was torn from stomach to chest. His entrails hung around like decorations. His head was tilted to the side, as if he was watching them. On his chest was written something—not in ink, but with a magic carving that burned the flesh.
"THE ORDER DOES NOT APPLY HERE"
The villagers panicked. Some cried. Others vomited.
The village head immediately accused: "This is the work of a witch! Someone is playing forbidden magic!"
Zeo stood among the crowd, his face blank, but his eyes glowed softly. He didn't do this—not directly. But… he knew the style. The spell used was not to kill. But to show power. This was some kind of message. And not from him.
Or… from his old self?
On the other side, Rivan stood far behind the crowd. He didn't see the body like everyone else. He saw the magic carving—and recognized a small symbol on the right corner of Teren's chest.
A symbol that was also on the basement wall of Zeo's house.
His heart beat faster. Not because of fear. But because the pieces were starting to come together.
And Zeo knew. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a different look in Rivan's eyes. Not surprise. Not horror. But… certainty.
"Good," Zeo whispered. "Find me. The deeper you dig, the faster this world will fall apart."
Two days after Teren's body was found, the village became a tense silence. No one spoke too loudly. No one went out at night. The village chief locked his own house, and even the elders began to pray—though everyone knew the gods had long since fallen silent.
Finally, a decision was made: send someone to the kingdom to ask for help.
The messenger returned three days later. But he was not alone.
They came on black horses, dark robes, and the kingdom's crest on their chests. Not the main crest, though. This was the branch crest—a symbol that rarely appeared: a closed eye with three drops of blood.
Everyone fell silent at the sight. Even the village chief bowed deeply.
The man dismounted. Tall, thin, his skin pale, his hair white as bone. His eyes seemed to always be half-closed. But his voice? Cold and clear.
"My name is Veyrn. I was not sent to help. But to find the source of the chaos. And… to erase it."
The villagers were silent. No one dared to ask.
But Zeo, who stood in the back corner, smiled faintly. He knew who Veyrn was.
A member of the Third Order. A hunter of forbidden magic. But also a user of forbidden magic.
Veyrn was no savior. He was a predator. And every mess was bait for him.
That night, Zeo returned to the basement. This time not to try out a new spell. But to open a page he had never touched before.
One spell, one name: "Veyrn"
"So you were sent," he whispered. "This is going to be more interesting than I imagined."
And from the shadows around the village, Veyrn sensed something too. He looked toward Zeo's house… and smiled.
"I've smelled something like you for a long time," he said softly. "Think you can play with fire, little one? Let's see… who gets burned first."