The excitement stirred by what Leo had learned chased away any trace of fatigue. His mind, now fully alert, leapt toward another question that refused to be ignored. If domains existed between this world and Ethereon, then what exactly was Ethereon? And why weren't domains within it, rather than surrounding it?
A chilling thought crept into his mind—one so unsettling he instinctively resisted accepting it.
What if Ethereon itself was a domain—one crafted by a god?
Perhaps one of the known gods… or one of the forgotten old gods. Or worse, the Void itself?
He shuddered. The implications were too vast, too heavy to face without more knowledge. But there were no answers—not yet. So he tucked the questions away, burying them under layers of caution and focus.
He reached again for the book, tempted to keep reading, but something deep within him resisted. A quiet, instinctual warning whispered that consuming this knowledge too quickly might be more dangerous than ignorance. It could unravel him.
With a sigh, he placed the book aside, letting it rest beside him like a dormant weapon, and reminded himself to be patient.
With nothing else left to occupy his mind, weariness returned—this time welcomed. He stepped out of his domain and onto the floor of his room. The weight of the day settled over him, and without another thought, he lay on the bed, letting sleep finally take him.
…
In the Kingdom of Light, Flesa City
Today was Liam's rest day—but like every rest day, he spent it training with his older brother, Steve. After learning a new spell from him, their routine always ended the same way: they summoned their creatures and dueled.
Now the match had just ended, and both were catching their breath in the open courtyard when their father, the Duke of House Hans, stepped into the yard. His presence carried weight, and both Liam and Steve immediately bowed.
"I see you've grown, Liam," the Duke said, his voice firm and unreadable.
"Thank you, Father," Liam replied with respectful poise.
The Duke clasped his hands behind his back. "After watching your duel, I've decided to add you to the roster for the Noble Families' Combat Tournament."
Both Liam and Steve froze, their eyes wide.
"Father," Steve said quickly, "that tournament has no ranking divisions. There are C-rank combatants there—it's too soon for Liam to be included."
The Duke didn't flinch. "He doesn't need to win. Showing his progress will be enough to boost his standing."
"Or get him killed in the process," Steve muttered under his breath.
"Enough," the Duke snapped, his voice rising. "My decision is final." He turned his cold gaze to Liam. "Well?"
Liam bowed again, lower this time. "Understood."
As the Duke turned and left, flanked by his ever-present attendants, Liam watched him go. When he turned to Steve, his brother's expression was tense.
"Is it really that dangerous?" Liam asked, uncertain.
Steve forced a smile. "Don't worry. The tournament's in a month—I'll train you every day until then. You'll be ready."
Liam nodded, trusting him. "Thank you, brother."
"I'll see you tomorrow." Steve clapped him on the shoulder and began to walk away.
But once he was far enough from Liam, the smile vanished. His jaw clenched, and a shadow darkened his face.
'He's sending him to die.'
This wasn't the first time a noble had used the tournament to quietly dispose of a weak heir. Liam might be improving, but compared to others in their lineage, he lagged behind. In the eyes of the nobility, there was no room for failure—only power.
…
Somewhere south of the Kingdom of the North, in a small village called Stillwood
Most of the Kingdom of the North was cloaked in snow year-round, but Stillwood stood as a rare exception. It was one of the few places fertile enough to support agriculture, a patch of green amidst a sea of white. Though the village had a small population, its wide, fertile lands made it crucial to feeding nearby towns and cities.
It was five in the morning. As usual, Marco Grabner was already awake and preparing for his daily training. Though he spent most of his days tending to his farmland, he had always dreamed of becoming a warrior. To chase that dream, he practiced with a wooden sword every morning before the sun fully rose.
But before stepping into the cold morning air, he never skipped his prayers. Like most villagers, Marco worshipped the Goddess of Nature. He sat cross-legged before a modest altar in the corner of his home, made of polished wood and adorned with simple green cloth and dried flowers. There, he gave thanks—for fertile soil, for good harvests, for protection, and for the peaceful life he led.
With the final words of his prayer spoken, Marco stepped into his yard.
Outside, the air was brisk and the sky still a soft gray. He began his training routine, moving through sword drills with precision and dedication. He had no teacher, but he'd bought a training manual from a wandering merchant who passed through the village now and then. Since then, he followed its lessons carefully, correcting his form and repeating the movements until they felt natural.
After a few days, he discovered that wearing a shirt during training only left it soaked in sweat. Now, he trained bare-chested—and it hadn't gone unnoticed. In fact, within a week, a group of young village girls had taken to wandering by during his practice sessions, pretending to be on morning errands while sneaking glances. It was harmless, and not entirely unexpected. Marco had always drawn attention thanks to his strong build, chiseled from years of farm work, his tousled blond hair, and striking features.
After about an hour, sweat glistened on his skin and his muscles ached in that deeply satisfying way only hard training could bring. Finished, he returned his wooden sword to its place inside the house, wiped the sweat from his body with a wet cloth, then pulled on his shirt. With his shovel in hand, he stepped out once more and began the walk toward the fields.
He greeted everyone he passed. In a village this small, everyone knew each other, and Marco was well liked.
The last person he saw on his way was a man who'd arrived just two weeks earlier—a stranger named Carter. He claimed to be a researcher sent to investigate strange incidents in nearby villages. He kept mostly to himself but was polite and seemed to be on good terms with the villagers.
"Mr. Carter, good morning," Marco said as he approached.
"Grabner," Carter replied with a warm smile. "Up early as always, I see."
"Any new findings from your research?" Marco asked, adjusting the grip on his shovel.
Carter chuckled. "These things take time, son."
Marco forced a polite smile, though the word "son" always made his chest tighten. He had lost his family in a fire when he was just a boy, and being addressed like that—even kindly—stirred up old wounds.
"Then I won't keep you," Marco said, stepping aside.
Carter gave a nod of thanks and continued toward the small home the villagers had provided him. Once inside, he bolted the door, ensured the curtains were tightly drawn, and descended the stairs to the basement.
Below, the air grew thick and cold. The basement was steeped in shadows, and the stench of blood was overwhelming. Scattered across the floor were the bodies of animals—and some humans. They were arranged around a large, intricate magic circle etched into the stone floor, glowing faintly red in the dim light. Blood had dried in streaks on the walls, and bones were stacked neatly in the corners like kindling.
Carter stepped forward, standing at the edge of the circle, and grinned.
"Yes… it will take time," he whispered to himself. "About a month, and this village will fall. Every last one of them…"
His laughing, a slow, cold and hollow sound, echoed through the chamber, mingling with the silence of death that surrounded him.
…
In a small village, somewhere in the Shadow Land.
Alina sat by the small window, staring out into the endless dark. There was nothing to see beyond the glass—only a thick, unnatural blackness that swallowed everything—but she kept looking anyway, as if hoping something might appear. Something to give her a reason to keep going.
It had been a month since her father died fighting a dark creator. Since then, she had been completely alone. The other hunters still brought her food, out of respect for her father, but it felt hollow. She had no family left, and no hope of ever escaping this cursed land. The darkness wasn't even the worst part. In some ways, it protected them—allowed them to hide. It was the creatures that moved inside it that hunted and killed them.
As she watched the void outside, a knock came at the door. A moment later, a man stepped inside.
"Alina, I brought your food," he said, placing a tray gently on the wooden floor. His voice was kind, but tired. "Eat. You need your strength. Remember, your father wouldn't want you to waste away."
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped back out and closed the door behind him.
Alina's eyes flicked to the tray for a moment—then drifted back to the darkness. The meat was from one of the beasts. After years of eating their black flesh, people here had begun to change. Some grew claws. Others scales. A few had eyes that glowed in the dark. Her own body had started to show signs.
She raised a hand to brush her long hair from her face. Hidden beneath the strands, two small black horns curved slightly upward from her forehead.
In her nineteen years, she had read every book available in the settlement. She had studied the gods and their stories. She had prayed to all of them—each one known to answer in times of darkness. But none had answered her. Not once. She was alone in this place, like everyone else.
Still, like everyone here, she had trained to fight. Her father had made sure of that. But no training could prepare you for some of the monsters that stalked the Shadow Land. Some were too strong. Too fast. Too ancient.
For a moment, she stayed frozen, then drew a shaky breath and stood. Her eyes lingered on the tray. Her father had given his life to protect her. She couldn't let that be in vain. Even if everything felt hopeless, she couldn't afford to give up.
Tears welled in her eyes as she crouched down and picked up the food. Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to eat.
She would survive.
For now.
…
Leo had been informed by Gerard that his meeting would take place in two days. He spent that time wisely, exploring the city's winding alleys and main roads, learning its layout and observing its people. Before he knew it, the two days had passed, and now he found himself walking toward the grandest house in the city—an estate perched on the highest elevation, visible from nearly every corner below.
The walk took him nearly half an hour, weaving through bustling streets and quiet lanes until he finally arrived at the gates. A young man stood waiting there, arms relaxed at his sides, but his posture sharp with alertness. As Leo approached, their eyes met with.
"Are you Victor Black?" the young man asked.
Leo gave a small nod. "Yes."
The man raised a hand in greeting. "I'm Fabio Kaiser. Lord Victor Leon is expecting you."
"Nice to meet you," Leo replied with a calm tone.
Fabio nodded once in acknowledgment and turned on his heel. Leo followed him through the gate and into the estate grounds.
The mansion loomed before them—three stories tall and elegantly built, with smooth stone walls, arched windows, and ivy curling along its outer edges. Without a doubt, it was the most beautiful house in the city, both in design and stature.
They made their way up to the third floor and stopped before a large, double-sided door. Fabio knocked firmly. A voice came from within, calm and clear.
"Come in."
Fabio opened the door, and they both stepped inside.
The room was modest, lit primarily by the soft morning light spilling through a tall, narrow window behind the desk. The furnishings were simple but tasteful—nothing ostentatious, yet everything was of fine quality.
Behind the desk stood a man who exuded confidence. He wore casual, practical clothing. A cream-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into well-fitted brown trousers held by worn leather suspenders. His light brown hair was neatly swept back, and his features were striking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline softened by a dusting of stubble, and eyes that held an intelligent, focused gleam. A faint, knowing smile played at his lips, the kind worn by someone used to facing challenges with calm certainty.
He raised a hand in greeting. "Hello, I'm Victor Leon."