Yes… the Dreadfall.
That was the name history gave to that moment.
But before I understood what had happened — before I even knew such an event had taken place — something occurred. Something seemingly small at the time. Something I wouldn't understand for years to come.
Even now, I don't know how much time passed between that night and the moment I woke up. Hours? Days? Longer? I can only guess.
When I finally regained consciousness, I saw nothing. Only black. Not the kind of black that comes from closing your eyes — but the cold, suffocating black of a place without light. A place that shouldn't exist.
I couldn't move. Thick chains held me in place — across my chest, my legs, even my neck. Iron pressed into my skin like ice, biting into flesh. I couldn't breathe properly. Each breath was tight and strained.
My body trembled. I was completely bound, completely alone. The silence was deafening. I didn't know where I was. Calling for help felt pointless — who would hear me here?
Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe I was in a coma. But my body ached. My mind was clear. No — this was real.
Then, I heard a sound.
A flicker. A faint crackle of fire. Something ignited.
The smell of burning oil drifted through the air. And then — light. A torch.
Footsteps followed, steady and deliberate, echoing through the dark. A figure approached.
Fear returned to me — not the quick, shallow fear of a horror movie or a sudden scare, but the deep, ancient kind. The kind that makes your body freeze before your mind can catch up.
The light drew closer.
And then I saw him.
A figure cloaked entirely in white. The robe touched the ground and flowed up across the body, covering everything — even the head, shrouded by a deep hood. His arms were hidden, save for the one holding the torch.
He stopped about four meters in front of me. I couldn't see his face — only his mouth, framed by the palest skin I had ever seen. His eyes remained in the shadow of his hood.
Silence stretched.
I tried to keep breathing even, but I was at my limit.
Then, he spoke.
His voice was deep, male, and strangely composed. It carried a faint accent — tinged with arrogance, with something old and unfamiliar. It sounded like mystery itself had decided to speak.
"Yamagami Kazutoshi," he said. "It is fate that brings you to this room. A place no one dares to know. You are a result. A creation. A will that has taken form."
He began to pace slowly, circling me.
"You know, Yamagami… I'm satisfied. Deeply satisfied. Everything proceeds as the gods intended. Yes, the gods." He paused. "Did they really leave us? Did they ever exist at all? Or… are they still coming?"
He turned his head toward me — sharply, mechanically.
I couldn't make sense of his words. My heart raced. I gritted my teeth and screamed, panic finally taking over.
"Who are you?! What the hell is this?! What do you want?!"
"Oh, Yamagami… I want nothing. Of course, I'd prefer you to act in certain ways — make certain choices — but I cannot force you. The path is yours. We can only show it to you."
"What sick shit is this?! You psychopath!"
I struggled again. The chains didn't budge. The cloaked figure laughed — manic, unhinged.
"Ah, we have so many years left ahead. Your path will be… entertaining."
As he bent over in laughter, something slid from his cloak — a chain, shimmering with strange colors: deep blue, purple, and copper. The pendant hanging from it was a crescent moon pointing downward, encircling a trident reaching skyward.
My aunt. Professor Albers. That same necklace.
No, Sergei Volkov is dead. And this man — he didn't sound like an almost 60-years old Russian. Who the hell was he?
"Oops," he said, tucking the chain back into his cloak.
"Who the fuck are you?! What do you have to do with my aunt and the professor?!"
Without warning, he slapped a gloved hand over my mouth. I fought it, but I was too weak.
"Yamagami… do you know the gods forgive — but never forget? And never forgetting… can be quite beautiful." He leaned closer. "May Aeternum prosper you. You'll understand… when you meet him."
He reached into his cloak — and pulled out a knife.
I thrashed as much as I could, but he held me still. The blade gleamed.
"Isn't it beautiful, Yamagami? They all exist. Gods. Kings. Mistakes."
He slid the blade gently across my chest.
"Let this mark remind you. This moment did happen."
Then, with slow precision, he cut.
I screamed. The pain was sharp, precise, unforgettable. He grinned — an empty, joyless grin. "Get used to pain, Yamagami," he whispered. "It will live inside you from now on."
He cut again — across my stomach, then my shoulder. My vision blurred. The agony became distant. My strength failed me.
Before darkness overtook me, I saw him pull out a syringe. My limbs were numb. I could barely whisper:
"Who… are you…?"
He leaned in close, his grin growing monstrous.
"Kazutoshi," he said softly, almost lovingly. "It's me."
Just before my vision went black — I saw it.
Pitch-black hair beneath the white hood.
Then nothing.