...
Luna sat by the tall window of the Duke's library, her chin resting on her palm, the weight of her thoughts heavier than the tome spread before her.
I am not strong enough in this world…
The admission burned her pride. For someone who once moved like a phantom, cutting down men twice her size, the realization that she could be caught unprepared, dumbfounded, was intolerable.
Her fingers drummed against the wooden desk. Tsk. Weakness was the one luxury she had never allowed herself—not in the secret organization that bred her, not in the blood-soaked corridors of her past life, and certainly not now.
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the ancient script inked across brittle parchment.
"If I cannot overpower this world," she whispered, these anomalies, "then I will outthink it. Outlearn it. Outlast it."
So she did.
Days became a cycle: mornings buried in the endless vaults of knowledge, evenings filled with practice until her body trembled from exertion, nights spent sitting in silence, sharpening her instincts until the edge of her intent could cut through the dark itself.
But what she read disturbed her.
In the library's restricted wing, she discovered faded accounts of a kingdom that once thrived at the edges of the Pheonix lands—a kingdom erased, not by war, but by something that had no name. The texts spoke of shadows that devoured cities, of winged statues that wept blood, of an ancient king whose hunger even gods could not sate. The scribes had not dared write his true name.
The records ended abruptly. Pages burned. Paragraphs blotted out in ink.
And yet, the more she read, the stronger the itch at the back of her skull grew. This is no mere myth.
Her assassin's instinct whispered. She recognized the stench of secrets hidden deliberately. Someone—or something—had wanted these truths erased.
That night, during her training, she tested the silence of her breath, stalking shadows in the empty courtyard. Her blades moved without sound, but as she exhaled, a strange weight pressed against her chest. For a split second, she felt it—a gaze, vast and hollow, like a bird of prey staring down from unseen skies.
She turned sharply. Nothing was there.
Still, her body tensed as it always had in her past life when a mission went wrong. Something watches.
Far ....
Far away from Luna ...
"Ivan! Ivan Velmora!"
The boy stirred from his half-sleep, lifting his head from his hand. The classroom was silent, eyes on him.
The professor frowned. "It is not like you, Ivan, to doze in my class."
Ivan's lips curled faintly. If only you could stop yapping.
The professor's eyes narrowed. "Page two hundred and twenty-five. Explain it."
The boy did not open the book. His voice carried steady, each word slicing cleanly through the air:
"The body possesses a latent circuit through which mana flows—though hidden, it can be awakened through crisis or bloodline. In Raven Kingdom, only five are known to bear it."
His eyes darkened. One of them—Grandfather.
The professor faltered. The class fell into silence. He had expected a child's arrogance, not this unnerving precision. That look in his eyes… not a boy's look. Something older.
Ivan left the classroom as snow drifted outside, pale against the stone courtyard. He glanced at the flurries with a distant expression. The snow reminded him of Velmora estate—cold, sharp, empty. And of whispers his grandfather once muttered about watching crows that perched where none should be.
.....
[The land of fallen God's ..]
Southward, beneath dead skies, six riders entered the ruins of a kingdom swallowed by time. Their cart rattled over broken stone, rifles slung over their shoulders.o
"Why the hell are we here?" one grumbled. "Even beasts don't tread this wasteland."
"All because of that damned substitute commander," another muttered, eyes flicking to the man leading them.
The commander said nothing. His gaze remained fixed ahead, cold as carved steel.
Finally, at the edge of a blackened jungle, he halted. "Dismount."
The charioteer hesitated. "But sir, we are still half a day's—"
"Return," the commander ordered. "From here, we walk."
The cart rattled away. Fear prickled through the five remaining soldiers.
The deeper they walked, the heavier the silence became. Shadows moved against the trees. Screams echoed faintly, distorted and inhuman.
A soldier clutched his rifle. "What in the gods' names was that?"
"Not human," another whispered. "A demon."
Suddenly, stone shifted. A hidden door appeared in the rock wall, etched with fading runes.
One soldier vanished as they entered. Swallowed by the dark.
"Commander! He's—"
"We continue." His tone brooked no argument.
At last, they reached a vast gate, guarded by a statue of a crow with outstretched wings, its obsidian beak open as though frozen mid-scream.
"Place your hands," the commander ordered.
The soldiers hesitated, but obeyed. The gate shuddered open, revealing a spiral staircase descending endlessly.
The commander's rifle clicked as he reloaded. He looked at the men, his voice quiet, calm, deadly:
"Do you know why you should always be cautious?"
"What?" one soldier stammered.
"Because a man with a gun and a tendency to betray… should never be trusted."
Three shots rang out. Three bodies fell.
The commander lowered his rifle and turned to the statue.
"I offer this feast to you, O King of Demons—Ravencroth."
The crow shuddered. Its wings unfurled with a grinding shriek, stone turning to shadow, shadow to flesh. Its beak opened wide, tearing into the corpses with grotesque hunger.
The staircase shimmered, clearer now, as though welcoming its faithful servant.
Without a backward glance, the commander descended, the whispers of the abyss calling his name.
....
That night, Luna sat at her window, staring into the garden where snow had begun to fall. She exhaled, her breath fogging the glass.
Her instincts prickled again. The same feeling as in the courtyard. A presence—distant, ancient—brushed against her mind like feathers against her skin.
Unbidden, a crow landed on the branch outside. Its eyes glowed faintly red before vanishing into the night.
Luna's grip tightened on the dagger in her lap.
"…So. Something wicked stirs in this world," she murmured. "Then I'll carve my blade sharp enough to meet it."
The snow kept falling.
But far below, in the abyss, Ravencroth feasted.
....