Achlalt passed through the village gate and turned east.
This area—about 20 kilometers out—had recently been assigned to him. Most scouts had been sent west, where raider activity had increased. But here, in the quiet east, they placed newcomers like him.
At first, traveling alone through the dense woods terrified him. Even the sound of a rabbit would make his heart leap.
But now… he was starting to feel like a man.
If he could find just one hidden stash from the raiders—just one!—he'd prove himself and bring glory to his name.
After four or five hours of walking, he arrived at the designated zone. It was uncharted, and that meant high risk—but also high reward.
The terrain was steep. Jagged cliffs towered on either side. One wrong step could mean a deadly fall.
Then—a noise.
Something shifted behind him.
His heart slammed in his chest. He turned too fast—his foot slipped—and he plummeted down into darkness.
Splash.
His body hit shallow water. Pain flared in his limbs. His head spun.
He was still alive—barely. The fall had left him bruised and aching.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he wasn't in a regular ravine.
This… was a man-made pit.
Its sides were lined with stone. Passageways extended from either end, stretching into darkness.
The rain from earlier had made the stone walls slick—there was no way to climb out.
So, he made a choice.
He reached into his bag, found his oil-soaked cloth, and lit it with a match. The flame sputtered, then steadied.
With a makeshift torch in hand, he ventured deeper.
The tunnel walls were lined with rusted metal and eroded carvings. Strange symbols—artwork—skeletons.
He moved quietly. Carefully.
Eventually, he came upon a sealed steel door.
Achlalt (thinking):Could this be… what Azriel once mentioned? That "possibility" buried in the earth?
The center of the door had collapsed slightly, likely from pressure above. That weakness gave him hope.
He drew his blade and began prying at the door.
Sparks flew. Metal screeched. After a long struggle, he managed to force a hole just wide enough to crawl through.
What lay beyond was a long, dim corridor. About three meters high, six meters wide. The air smelled of dust and metal.
He kept moving forward.
More artwork. More bones. Ancient coffins. Small rooms with sarcophagus-shaped containers lined the walls.
Then—another steel door.
This one was warped. Deliberately, perhaps. As if someone had tried to seal it… or tried to keep something in.
Achlalt took a deep breath, pushed the door, and stepped inside.
The room was cube-shaped. Ten meters across. Walls decorated with old relics and strange ornaments. Desks lined the far right side.
At the center, a coffin-like container stood—sealed tight.
Faint light flickered from within it.
His eyes were drawn to the control panel beside it.
He hesitated.
Then, with a deep breath—he pressed the button.
Click.
With a slow, grinding groan, the container began to open.
Steam hissed. Light poured out. Achlalt stepped back, holding his torch high.
A figure rose from inside.
Muscular. Old. Hair silver-gray. A scar ran across his face, and one eye was blind. Even from a distance, the aura he gave off made Achlalt's instincts scream.
This was no ordinary man.
This was a killer.
Every bone in Achlalt's body told him to run.
So he did.
He dropped everything and bolted for the exit.
But the figure moved.
It chased him.
Fast.
Achlalt looked back—and what had been ten meters was now five.
Four.
Three.
Panic surged through him.
He had no weapon. Nothing useful. Nowhere to hide.
He turned, desperate.
Achlalt: "Wait! Stop! Let's talk! I'm a Sharkow! I mean no harm!"
The figure didn't slow.
Achlalt (thinking):No choice. I have to fight.
He dropped into a battle stance—one Azriel had taught him.
But his opponent was bigger. Faster. Stronger.
As the stranger lunged, Achlalt struck first—but his blow was deflected with terrifying ease.
A punch landed in his gut. He gasped, stumbling.
Another strike—across his head.
Darkness swallowed him.
Achlalt stirred.
Pain bloomed across his shoulder, and the cold surface beneath his back made him flinch. His arms were strapped down. The room was dim and narrow, lit only by a flickering ceiling lamp. Nearby, a metal table stood with a gleaming syringe resting on it.
His chest tightened.
Then, the door creaked open.
The man from before—towering, scarred, cold-eyed—stepped into the room.
Thorvard.
He walked over with steady, heavy steps and picked up the syringe.
Thorvard: "You're awake. Good. The gift I promised… is ready."
Achlalt's breath caught in his throat.
Achlalt: "W-Wait... what is that? What are you doing?"
Thorvard didn't answer.
Without hesitation, he approached, rolled up Achlalt's sleeve, and pushed the needle deep into the muscle of his left shoulder.
Achlalt: "No—!"
The liquid surged into his bloodstream.
A burning coldness tore through his body like liquid ice. It wasn't just pain—it was dissolution. Like pieces of him were coming undone from the inside out.
His pulse exploded in his ears.
His head spun violently, vision shaking, warping, fading at the edges. His limbs jerked. His body rebelled.
Achlalt (thinking):Something's wrong. Something's so, so wrong.
Sweat burst from his skin. He couldn't focus. Couldn't breathe.
The floor tilted beneath him even though he wasn't moving. His thoughts scrambled like ants in fire.
A thousand voices screamed inside his skull—but none of them were his.
Achlalt: "What... what did you do to me…?"
Thorvard (calm): "Truth serum. Military-grade. If you're lying, your own mind will betray you."
Achlalt choked on his own breath. His teeth clenched. Veins in his neck bulged.
He tried to speak, but only a strained whisper escaped:
Achlalt: "I-I… don't even know… what Empire you're talking about…"
The ceiling melted in and out of focus. Colors twisted. The lights above swam like stars underwater.
His stomach turned. His skin felt too tight. Like his body wasn't his anymore.
Thorvard (stepping closer): "Name?"
Achlalt (gasping): "Achlalt…"
Thorvard: "Where are you from?"
Achlalt: "W-Woodhaven… I live in the outer rings…"
Thorvard: "Do you know Celestia?"
Achlalt: "No…"
Thorvard: "What year is it?"
Achlalt: "New Era… three thousand… fifteen…"
Thorvard froze. The shadows in his face deepened.
Thorvard (low): "So it has been over a thousand years…"
But Achlalt wasn't hearing him anymore.
The pressure in his skull grew unbearable. His eyes rolled back.
Achlalt (thinking):Can't... hold on... can't…
He began convulsing, his body twisting violently once—then going still.
The torch inside his mind went out.
Everything went white—
Then black.
Then nothing.
Darkness.
Time lost meaning.
Only a ringing silence remained.
Thorvard stood over him, watching the unconscious boy with no hint of pity.
Thorvard (quietly): "Not bad, kid. You survived more than most."
He laid the empty syringe down.
Then turned away—expression unreadable.