Jade's body stirred under the thin sheets as consciousness returned to her like a slow, pulling tide. A deep breath passed through her lips before she opened her eyes, sapphire-blue irises flickering softly in the dim room. The air was cool, laced with something metallic and something else—older, stranger. Her gaze drifted across the space with foggy confusion before locking onto the only figure sitting upright nearby.
"Where the hell are we?" she rasped, her voice low and disoriented as she slowly sat up.
Rin turned from where he sat, hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. His porcelain features were pensive, shadowed by the soft, flickering white light that hung from a ceiling beam, and the soft lights etched into the walls. He glanced at her with faint relief but also quiet concern. "Some sort of old base," he replied. "Used to belong to a group called the False Threads… at least, that's what the coachman said. Said it's not active anymore. Supposedly."
Jade frowned at that, her fingers curling instinctively. The name left a sour taste in her mouth. Slowly, she lifted her hands and turned them over in the soft light. The burns that had scorched her skin earlier—gone. Not even the faintest scar remained. Just smooth, unmarred skin.
"What the hell happened to us?" she whispered.
"We got healed," Rin said, the words falling from his mouth like a strange truth he hadn't accepted himself. "Don't know how. Just… woke up like this."
Jade stood, her joints stiff from inactivity, and arched her back slightly as she stretched. A series of soft pops echoed from her spine. She took in a long, steady breath through her nose.
The scent of petrichor filtered in, thick and earthy. It filled her lungs, comforting and ominous all at once. Her head turned toward the massive window—a monolithic pane of blue-tinted glass that started halfway up the wall and stretched all the way to the ceiling. Lightning danced beyond the glass like silver veins slashing across the night sky. Each flash illuminated streaks of rain as they rolled in watery trails down the window, distorting the outside world like a living painting.
She stared at it for a long while.
"…Doesn't feel like we were saved," she murmured, almost to herself. Her voice was soft, but in it was the echo of a growing fear—of powers she didn't understand, and a game she hadn't agreed to play.
—
The man in black sat alone in the gloom of his study, the room bathed in low amber light from a crystal lantern suspended above his desk. Papers were spread before him—journals, letters, half-burned notes. The desk bore scars: scratches from old blades, ink stains from rushed writing, and a black mark that pulsed faintly when touched.
He flipped through a leather-bound journal, filled with entries written over the past three years. Diagrams of Seals. Notes on dream distortion. Records of creatures that should not have existed. Names. Faces. Most crossed out.
"Three years of tracking threads," he muttered under his breath, flipping to the last page. "And not a single knot worth pulling."
The chair creaked as he pushed himself back and rose. He moved with a quiet, careful grace, the long black coat he wore trailing behind him. Slowly, he walked to the far end of the office where the wall was taken up entirely by a window—floor to ceiling—looking out across a dense, fog-drenched forest. The storm beyond was furious, thunder rolling like cannon fire in the distance. Lightning revealed silhouettes of trees bent by the wind, branches clawing at the sky.
He stood there, silent, as if waiting for something to emerge from the darkness.
Then, his gaze dropped to his gloved right hand. Without a word, he peeled the glove back.
Etched into his skin was the mark of a claw—jagged and blackened, glowing faintly with each flash of lightning. The veins around it pulsed unnaturally, as though the mark itself lived beneath the flesh.
He stared at it for a long moment, the silence heavy with memory.
Then he pulled the glove back on, tugging it tight before exhaling deeply through his nose.
The man in black remained still, his silhouette framed in the tall, storm-lit window like a figure carved into shadow itself. Below, just beyond the iron-wrought fence that separated the mansion grounds from the forest, figures emerged—five of them. Cloaked head to toe in black robes, their boots silent against the soaked earth. Each wore a mask, faceless and pale, smooth as porcelain.
They stepped out from the trees, standing just at the edge of the estate's boundary. Rain ran down their hoods and shoulders in unbroken lines. For a heartbeat, they simply stood there—watching.
Their eyes, though hidden, locked onto the man in the window.
And then, as if some unseen instinct struck them all at once, they turned. Not a single word was said. They moved back into the mist without hesitation, vanishing into the thicket like wraiths dissuaded from an old curse. Not one dared approach.
The man in black didn't flinch. He simply turned away and walked back to his desk, the weight of old memories tightening in his chest like coiled wire. Sitting down with a calm, practiced motion, he opened the worn leather-bound journal. His hand moved smoothly, flipping past filled pages—notes, diagrams, sketches, fragmented theories—until he found one that remained blank.
The storm whispered against the windows.
He dipped the blackened quill into the inkpot, the thick fluid clinging to the sharp metal tip like shadow.
But his mind drifted. Not to the page. Not to the storm. But to a memory.
A firelit room.
He remembered the heat of the argument. The bitter words. The way none of them could understand why he walked away. Why he had to. He remembered the moment he opened the door, the candlelight behind him, the cold wind on his face. No one stopped him. No one asked him to stay.
He had never looked back.
Not until now.
His hand paused over the paper, ink dotting the page. For just a moment, the edge of a grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Then the moment passed.
He pressed the quill to the page and began to write.
—
Jade glanced at Rin, her eyes gleaming with a flicker of mischief before a slow grin spread across her face. "Come on," she said, her voice light but edged with curiosity. "Let's do a little exploring. Who knows—maybe we'll find some real information. Old logs, journals, anything that tells us what this place really was."
Behind her, lightning split the sky in a brilliant flash, illuminating the room in a burst of pale blue. A moment later, thunder rolled through the walls like the low growl of something ancient stirring.
Rin arched a brow at her sudden enthusiasm, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. The storm outside cast faint flashes of blue light across his face, making his sapphire eyes glint like polished glass.
"…You're serious," he muttered, shaking his head with a sigh. "You just woke up, and you already want to go poking around a ruined base that belonged to an illusion-wielding cult."
Jade's grin only widened. "Exactly."
Rin shook his head again, his sapphire eyes meeting hers before he placed a palm over his face and looked toward the door. "...Let's go then," he said reluctantly. He didn't want to go, but figured it was better than letting her explore alone.
—
Zay followed Mike in silence. The sound of their boots echoed faintly, softened by the aged stone beneath their feet.
They finally stepped into a large chamber—clearly once a training hall, now reclaimed by silence and disuse. The floor bore faded sigils and scuffed circles, remnants of old duels and rituals. Shafts of pale blue light poured in from high, thin slits in the walls, illuminating particles of dust dancing through the air like spectral memories.
Mike turned to face him. "This was used by False Threads operatives back a few hundred years ago," he said, voice carrying the weight of time. "Figured it's good enough for what we're about to do."
Mike stepped forward, tracing the outline of an old, cracked seal embedded in the floor with the tip of his boot.
"We'll be using this space for training," he said, turning to face Zay. "Twice a day, without fail. At sunrise and just before dusk. Two duels—no exceptions, no excuses."
Zay's gaze narrowed. "And if I'm injured?"
Mike didn't flinch. "Then you fight injured. The world won't wait for you to recover, and neither will your enemies. Pain is a teacher. One of the few that doesn't lie."
He began pacing slowly, arms behind his back. "Each duel will be different. One focused on your aura control—your breathing, how you manage flow, how you compress and project. The other will be pure combat. Tactics. Movement. Improvisation under pressure. You've relied too much on instinct and raw power for too long."
He paused by a rack of ancient training weapons, most too rusted to use, but one or two gleaming faintly, maintained through arcane preservation seals. Mike didn't reach for them—he didn't need to.
Zay furrowed his brow, confusion tightening his expression. "I still don't understand what you mean," he said. "What title? What the hell did I used to be?"
Mike didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on Zay, unreadable, as though weighing what to say—what to reveal. Then, slowly, he looked away.
Zay inhaled, slow and measured, then exhaled just as carefully. "Fine. What do I get in return for going through all of this?"
Mike turned back, his expression flat, voice quiet but firm. "Your strength back, and, if you survive long enough—your answers."
Zay's fists clenched at his sides. "...Alright," Zay said. His voice was calm, but the fire behind it simmered. "Then let's start now."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Mike's mouth as he raised his hand.
"Very well. Lesson one—don't blink. Remember, use your Seal, whenever you can."
The chamber exploded into motion, Zay barely raising his guard in time. Mike was already on him, a streak of grey aura and silent speed, the air itself groaning under the weight of his movement.
The first duel had begun—and Zay didn't even have time to breathe.