As soon as I pulled the lever, I heard a sharp crack — like wood snapping in the distance — and then, the sound faded away.
A magical circle formed beneath my feet, spreading out in intricate patterns and arcane symbols that seemed to dance under the earth. The inscriptions glowed with a silvery-blue hue, and a light began to rise slowly, wrapping first around my ankles… then my torso… and finally, my entire body.
Axel, beside me, let out a low growl and assumed a defensive stance. His ears dropped, the fur on his nape bristled. His golden eyes, ever loyal and alert, shimmered with unease.
The light grew intense — nearly blinding — until the world around us began to warp.
The trees, the ground, the sky… all dissolved into blurred outlines, like watercolor paint being washed away by a storm.
It all happened so fast. One moment I could feel the earth beneath my feet, the damp forest air around me… and in the next, everything had vanished.
A sudden absence of sound, of scent, of wind. As if the very world had drawn in a breath and held it.
I was somewhere else.
There was no gradual transition. No sensation of movement. Just the before… and the after.
'Teleportation magic…?' I thought, startled.
The idea cut through me like a cold blade of wonder and awe. I'd always thought of that kind of magic as something far beyond the ordinary. An extremely advanced spell, complex and reserved for those who had delved deep into the highest arcane mysteries.
Even Leopold, an archmage, used that type of magic with caution — a snap of his fingers, sure, but I always assumed that behind that gesture lay a great deal of preparation, and circles inscribed in advance, waiting for the final command.
And now… I had just activated one. With a lever. In the middle of the forest.
"This is madness…" my voice came out low, almost a whisper, still trying to convince myself nothing was wrong.
I began reflecting on the absurdity of it all: the forest was vast, and the number of children and teens participating in the Trial each year was massive. If each had a different teleportation point — and from what I could speculate, they likely did — then that meant there were hundreds, maybe thousands of magical circles scattered across the region.
But then, the memories, blurry, began to surface. Like a gentle tide, images, words… feelings washed over me.
'Dracknum. Of course. Why was I even surprised?' The family wasn't ordinary. They weren't new. There are accounts of that name from even before the founding of the kingdom. It made sense that they wielded this kind of magic with such mastery.
And while there were other places where magical circles were part of the land itself, part of the architecture, of tradition… grand halls, structures meant to receive a high volume of people, secret chambers, and so on — only in Dracknum would they be hidden so organically in tree trunks, carved into forgotten stones, buried under fallen leaves, waiting only for the right touch.
I let out a long sigh. The heat of the magic still lingered in my body, leaving behind a slight tingling on my skin, as if the laws of the world were trying to recalibrate around me. The sensation was oddly comforting. Like waking from a dream… and realizing that, in truth, I had only now truly awakened.
"I need to visit the library…" I murmured, with a faint smirk. The words came out almost like a promise.
But I quickly forced myself out of the reverie.
My eyes searched the new surroundings. There was no forest anymore. No darkness, no damp leaves beneath my feet.
I stood in what seemed to be a broad plaza, open to the sky. The sunlight — soft and golden — fell upon a pavement of gray stones, each one carefully polished. There was life around me: the distant sound of voices, hurried footsteps, the rustle of flags in the wind.
Behind me, the silhouette of a colossal statue rose. I turned slowly, a shiver crawling up my spine as I took in its full form.
It was made of weapons. Swords, spears, broken shields, hammers, axes, daggers, and every kind of weapon one could imagine — even hoes and pickaxes. All of them driven in as if piercing the same creature.
I said nothing. There simply weren't enough words to describe what I saw.
The image was raw. Threatening. Almost cruel. And yet… "Beautiful…" I whispered, eyes fixed on the colossal sculpture.
There was something profoundly beautiful in that composition. A beauty in the scars. In the history etched into every broken blade, every splintered hilt. It was more than a work of art — it was a testament. A silent tribute to war, to pain… and to survival.
Simply looking at it already meant so much to me. It showed that I had left behind the unknown of the forest. That now, at last… I had reached civilization.
Axel sat beside me, his posture calm.
"I agree," said a deep, gravelly voice at my side, like stone grinding against stone. "It truly is beautiful. After all, it represents a great deal of our family's history."
My body reacted before my mind could.
I took an instinctive step back. The forest had taught me well: when caught off guard, blind aggression was a mistake. Retreat — observe — that was the first step to survival.
"Looking at her always brings back memories," the voice continued, now lower, as if speaking to himself.
I raised my head, shoulders still tense, taking a subtly defensive stance. Just enough to react if I needed to. But nothing happened. No hostility. Just his presence.
Before me stood a broad man — shoulders wide, muscles dense like the walls of an ancient fortress. He wore ornate armor, his features unmistakably those of anyone with even a drop of Dracknum blood. But there was also something in his eyes… a melancholy glimmer, almost reverent, as he gazed at the statue.
'When did he appear? Better yet… where did he come from?' I hadn't heard footsteps. Not the clink of armor. Nothing.
"I'm glad to see there are still descendants with good taste and wisdom," he said, still not taking his eyes off the statue. One hand rested, almost out of habit, on the hilt of a long, sheathed sword.
Then he turned. His eyes met mine.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, as if only now noticing the expression on my face. An amused grimace crossed his features, like someone who'd just heard an inside joke.
"Forgive me. I hope I didn't frighten you too badly." He smiled, his weathered face softening for a moment. "Whenever I get carried away, I start rambling… especially when nostalgia's involved." He let out a rough, sincere laugh, bringing a hand behind his head in a sheepish, almost boyish gesture — one that didn't match his imposing appearance at all.
I kept watching him. 'How…? How can someone in such heavy armor, with that kind of build, move without making a sound?'
Every step he took was wide, deliberate. And still… not a creak of metal, not an echo of weight against stone. It was as if the world itself went quiet to let him pass.
He seemed far too solid to be a ghost… and yet, moved with the lightness of one. The contrast was jarring — almost unnatural.
Then, without warning, he approached.
His hand landed firmly on my shoulder.
"Huh?" I gasped, my muscles tightening in a delayed reflex.
Once again, he had moved too fast. My eyes hadn't even tracked it. It was as if time around him obeyed a different rhythm.
"Boy!" he said enthusiastically, his voice vibrating like thunder held in check. "No more delays — congratulations on successfully passing the Hunter's Trial!"
"Thank… you…" I murmured, still trying to keep up with the pace of everything.
His palm remained firm on my shoulder, as if trying to anchor reality for me. Axel, beside me, let out a long sigh and lay down on the stone floor of the plaza, resting his snout on his paws — eyes half-closed, looking more interested in a nap than in worrying about the towering man.
"Tell me, boy," he went on, his eyes gleaming with curiosity, "which one are you? Alexander… or Nikolas?"
'Which one…?' I frowned, puzzled.
"Alexander," I answered naturally. "But… why the question?"
"OH!" he exclaimed, taking a step back like someone pleasantly startled. "So it was true that you really came back from the dead?!"
"Came back…?" I echoed, now even more lost.
"Or was it the other one…?" he muttered, scratching his chin in thought. "Ah! Forget it, forget it…"
He waved a hand in the air like shooing away a bothersome idea, then took a deep breath, his broad chest rising like a bellows.
"Well, kid…" he started again, his tone now more serious — though no less chatty. "Due to… you-know-what… the patriarch ordered a temporary halt to all the Trials. Long story short, we had to find a way for everyone to either finish early or fail."
"What…?"
"Yeah, yeah," he went on, not even hearing me. "You two really threw off our schedule. We couldn't move forward with the ceremony because you stayed in the forest for over six months. Six! At least you made it out. But the other one…"
He made a vague gesture, either pointing toward the horizon or toward fate itself — hard to say.
"Okay, okay… I get it," I tried to interject, raising my hands. "I get it."
"No, you don't get it!" he insisted, throwing his arms wide. "We even had to expand the number of crests! Had to make more teleportation points! And it still didn't work. We ended up clearing out the entire region so you wouldn't run into any more magical beasts. And still, you two managed to… spend more time out there than everyone else combined."
"But… why?" I tried to say, but he was already on a roll.
"And don't get me started on the other one! Because of his father — and now that damn Israel confirming he's alive — we can't even finish the ceremony! Everything's on hold! Frozen! Complete chaos!"
He was pacing now, arms flailing like a frustrated general recounting a lost battle. Axel, who'd been lightly napping until now, let out a snore and shifted, clearly more invested in the comfort of the cool stone floor than in the man's raging monologue.
"All this because we had to shut the entire Trial down! Closed! Like a tavern on a mourning day!" With a long sigh, the man rubbed his face. "Ah… I miss the days when everyone did things at their own pace. Finish the trial, hold a quick ceremony, and off you go to live your life…"
He fell silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the statue behind me. A soft breeze swept through the square, and for a brief instant, everything went still.
"Not that I'm complaining," he added with a resigned sigh. "I'm just getting too old for all these dramas — people coming back from the dead, long-lost sons, interrupted ceremonies… I preferred the surprises back when the biggest one was a kid crying because he saw a glowing moth."
"…That actually happened?"
"Three times," he answered dead serious. "One of them fainted."
I stood there, my mind trying to piece together the scattered bits of his rambling. 'Back from the dead? Nikolas? Ceremony postponed?'
Axel yawned wide, tongue lolling, and shot me a drowsy look that said, "You deal with the lunatic. I'm just here for naps."
I sighed, drained. "Sir… could you please breathe between one piece of information and the next?"
"Oh! Right. Got carried away." he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "My bad. Old habit. The years may weigh heavy, but the tongue stays sharp."
Without a second thought, the man plopped down onto the cold, dusty ground.
From somewhere — and I gave up trying to understand where — he pulled out a wooden cup. And from another equally impossible place, a jug, from which he calmly began to pour himself a drink.
"Kid," he said, taking a swig before continuing, "do you have any idea what it's like being an old, tired man like me? With a wife, kids, nephews, grandkids and, most importantly… granddaughters to protect? Especially from hunters like you're going to become?"
'I never said I was going to be that kind of hunter,' I started to open my mouth, trying to object — but gave up. I didn't dare interrupt.
"I've been stuck in this place for over a year… without even… without even a single drop of decent booze?! No absinthe, no black vodka, not even a measly shot of draconic moonshine! Not even the most basic Dandelion Fang Wine. Nothing!"
His voice carried the weight of someone describing a war crime. As if he'd endured the worst kind of torture and was now sharing that burden with me, eyes haunted, the look of a man who bore invisible scars.
'Since when are those considered light drinks…?'
Each word from his mouth left me more stunned. It was as if the universe had decided to play an absurd prank on me the moment I reentered civilization.
And the last drink he mentioned — Dandelion Fang Wine — was so potent that a single sip could knock out hardened warriors and make bards forget the lyrics to their own songs.
I knew those drinks. Not from experience, but by reputation. Liquid legends. And yet… he spoke of them as though they were afternoon herbal teas.
"Kid…" he said with solemn weight, raising the wooden cup like a relic. "Because of you, I've been drinking nothing but water for an entire year!"
He said it with such grave sincerity that for a second I thought he was about to cry.
Then, in a theatrical gesture — as if appealing to the gods of intoxication — he squeezed the cup tightly. The wood creaked, yielding under his fingers as if it, too, shared its master's pain.
Inside it, the liquid — a perfectly clear, harmless water — swirled gently.
"Look at this… water!" he repeated, voice thick, as though he were speaking a forbidden curse in sacred lands.
I stood there, staring at the scene, my brain just… freezing. It was too much. Too fast. Too bizarre.
Beside me, Axel snored softly, curled up in his blanket like an old dog who had made a conscious decision to ignore all human chaos. At that point, I honestly envied his peace of mind.
I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "Sir… with all due respect… are you sure you're okay? Mentally, I mean?" I ventured, unable to hide my mix of confusion and creeping dread.
He turned his eyes to me. "Mentally? Kid… after spending a year sober, stuck in this pit, with nothing but trees, wind, and a cauldron of bland soup… you think anyone would walk out of that mentally intact?!"
"Soup without salt…" I muttered under my breath. "It's worse than I thought."
He pointed the cracked cup at me, the gesture half-threatening, half-comical. "And you still dare to mock a thirsty old warrior?"
"I'm not mocking you, I swear…" I mumbled, struggling to keep a straight face. "I'm just… trying to understand…"
"Understand…" he spat on the ground — a completely unknightly move.
"Living for over a year surrounded by moody, tearful, filthy, whiny kids and preteens…" he began, his eyes wide like someone reliving a nightmare. "Who know nothing but how to scream at each other! They don't recognize hierarchy! Or age! Or respect! Codes! It's like living in a pen of feral humans!"
He gestured so wildly the water nearly sloshed out of his cup. He went on, increasingly outraged: "It's the kind of thing that would drive anyone to madness. Even worse when the prettiest thing in the entire place is the damn squire."
I blinked. "A what?"
"A SQUIRE!" he bellowed, as if blaming me personally made sense. "There are no women here! And the only hope a man has for even the hint of something feminine is a BEARDED MAN… with shapely hips!"
I stood frozen. Every word was a fresh bomb, and he still wasn't done.
"The worst part…" he whispered, voice heavy, like it bore centuries of grief. "The worst part is having to wait for the poor bastard to have the decency to shave it… just to see if his face helps sell the illusion…"
He paused. Let out a heavy sigh. "Having to pay another man to shave his beard and wear a dress…" he shook his head, gaze hollow. "How far you people have made me fall…"
'What the hell…' I thought, struck once again — and, more than anything, filled with pity for the man before me.
And then it hit me. There I was. Filthy, exhausted, fresh out of the forest. Scarred — inside and out. And the first living soul destiny brought my way… was this man.
This man. With more stories behind a single empty cup than anyone I'd met on land or in the memories of the original Alexander.
I'd barely arrived, and I already wanted to go back into the woods.
Because if someone had told me that the first person I'd meet after such a journey… would be this man. This… being. This unhinged veteran with more alcohol-related and aesthetic traumas than any elder I've ever met. A survivor, sure — but of a very different war than I'd ever imagined.
There was no way I came out of the forest the same way I went in. 'Why… why is my first human interaction after so long with someone so… so… so unique?'
'This is some kind of bonus trial, isn't it?' I pleaded internally, eyes turned to the cloudy sky. 'Gods… this is personal, isn't it?'
Unaware of the weight of my suffering, he simply smiled. And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he offered me the cup — which turned out to be a slightly smaller one — and held it out to me.
"Want a sip?"
"It's water."
"But it's the best I've ever hated drinking."
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath.
It was official: civilization was just a madhouse in disguise.