What happened to the three of them was no ordinary tragedy—it was a catalyst. A spark that set off a chain of changes, far-reaching and unforeseen, like the wings of a butterfly altering the shape of storms. But the world did not stop to wait for them to recover. Time moved on, and the consequences of their actions rippled outward, quietly reshaping the fates of many.
Amid the gnawing pain, the wheel of destiny kept turning—pulling them, slowly but surely, onto a path far greater than any of them could have imagined.
Unknowingly, the three had ignited a tiny spark in the fabric of history, one that would someday set fire not only to themselves but to a world silently yearning for change.
Eldrin Gwinfael came to understand that friendship could lead to ruin. Once was enough. But who could truly know? No matter how careful a person's plans, no one could ever peer beyond the walls of their own knowledge.
"If it weren't for him," Eldrin once said after the incident, "I wouldn't have learned how real calamity can be. But that's how I came to understand: sometimes, disaster is the best thing that can happen to us. A lesson in disguise."
Despite the wounds and pain, Eldrin saw something others didn't in that tragedy.
"I'm lucky it happened at the end of the final year," he added.
To him, it was a hidden blessing. Had the incident occurred earlier in the year, it could have derailed his entire academic journey. But because it happened near the end, Eldrin felt something else: freedom.
Tradition at their academy dictated that, at the end of the final year, all official learning ceased. Students were given freedom—free to return, or to spend their remaining time however they wished.
In the days that followed, Eldrin often sat alone in the backyard of his family estate. The wind carried the scent of fermenting grapes from his father's vineyard—a scent that once soothed him, now strange to his senses.
The wound on his right ear had long since closed, though it still pulsed whenever the wind blew too hard. Strangely, the sensation no longer made him flinch. Instead, it reminded him: he had once fought for something that mattered—and he was still standing.
Above all else, one truth had taken root in him:
He wanted to stand beside them.
Not as the strongest, not as a hero, but as someone whose heart would never break, no matter how harshly the world tried to shatter it.
One day, once his body had fully healed, Eldrin walked with Louis toward the training field Elara and Arsy often used—the Leondhardt Multicourt.
From a distance, under the warmth of the late afternoon sun, they spotted familiar figures:
Arian, standing tall with a wooden staff in hand, guiding his children with a stern yet gentle discipline.
Elara swung her sword with full concentration, while Arsy—quick and precise—tried to match their father's movements.
Seeing them so alive, so… normal, in a world that had just nearly fallen apart, Eldrin let out a soft breath of relief.
"Thank the stars," he thought, allowing a quiet smile to rise from the depths of his chest.
Louis, who had been watching his brother, glanced sideways.
"What's on your mind?" he asked in his usual flat tone, as if afraid to disturb the stillness.
Eldrin shook his head gently, smile intact.
"Nothing."
But Louis knew that was a lie. With Eldrin, "nothing" always meant something too deep to say out loud. Still, Louis respected that. He gave a slight nod, letting his brother keep his thoughts to himself.
Amidst the playful shouts and rhythmic clashes of training, Eldrin noticed something different—something subtle in Arsy's movements. It wasn't just speed. It was a kind of strength born from pain. His eyes narrowed, curiosity blooming in his chest. Without another word, he and Louis stepped forward, their feet brushing across dew-wet grass beneath the shade of a tree.
As Arsy parried a sharp strike from Arian with an intricate maneuver, he suddenly froze. It was as if he had sensed their presence. Arsy turned—and for a moment, their eyes met.
Arsy stepped back and slowly lowered his sword.
Eldrin stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the black blade in Arsy's hand. A one-handed sword—crude in form, heavy in aura.
"Seems like you recovered faster than me, Arsy," Eldrin said—half teasing, half impressed.
He nodded toward the sword.
"And it looks like... something's changed."
Arsy gave a faint smile.
"How are you even lifting that? It looks heavy just from here," Eldrin continued, joking.
"Well, something like that," Arsy replied, his tone light and familiar.
Eldrin then turned his gaze toward Elara, still locked in her precise movements, wielding a sword-shaped Enerma.
Then to Arian Gofdraig, the sturdy man overseeing it all with thoughtful eyes.
Eldrin stepped up, bowing his head slightly.
"Good afternoon, Sir Arian. Thank you for visiting me the other day. I truly appreciated it."
Arian returned a warm smile—not just one of politeness, but of pride. He saw in Eldrin something rare: sincerity and strength—qualities not often found in this world.
"You're welcome, son," Arian said. "It was my duty. And from what I can see now, you're doing just fine."
Then he turned to Louis, who stood a step behind.
"And you, Louis? How have you been?"
"I'm doing well, Sir. Nothing's gone wrong," Louis replied.
Arian nodded, satisfied. "Good to hear."
His eyes shifted to Arsy—and to the blade in his hand—before landing once more on Eldrin.
"Glatenebris," Arian said, his tone growing heavier, as if the name itself carried a weight.
"What do you think of it, Eldrin?"
Eldrin turned to look at the black sword more closely. There was something about it. The air around the blade seemed to hold its breath.
Not just power—but presence.
As if the sword carried the shadow of a forgotten world.
To him, Glatenebris was not merely steel and magic.
Along its spine, ancient glyphs and dark sigils shimmered faintly in the fading light, as though whispering long-lost oaths.
At its hilt, a white gem rested, frozen within thick silver, forming a symbol of eternity the world itself had long abandoned.
"It looks heavy," Eldrin murmured honestly. "But… I believe it's light in the right hands."
Arian gave a quiet nod, his smile laced with pride he made no effort to hide.
"It's one of the finest Arcanum I've ever forged," he said. "Its weight is an illusion. To the one worthy of it, it's as light as faith itself. I forged it specifically for Arsy."
"I thought it was too soon to hand an Arcanum to a ten-year-old," he added, "but maybe… it's the only reasonable choice to prepare for what lies ahead."
Eldrin nodded, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
"I'm sure he'll make good use of it."
Above them, the sky melted into a golden-orange hue as the sun dipped lower. A cool breeze rolled down from the northern mountains, brushing past the aging trees around the training field, whispering through brittle leaves. Shadows stretched long across the earth, drifting slowly as the light leaned into the horizon. Every fallen leaf felt like time itself bowing its head.
Eldrin understood what he meant.
Arian stood still for a moment before turning his gaze toward an old wooden table placed beneath an even older tree—its crooked, sturdy branches seemed to cradle centuries within their grasp.
Atop the table, a white cloth had been carefully laid out, wrapped around something short and slender. The twilight glow kissed the fabric, making it shimmer like mist clinging to a mountaintop jewel.
Without saying a word, Arian turned and gestured at Eldrin.
The signal was simple.
Eldrin paused, but he didn't ask. He understood.
He walked forward without hesitation.
"This is for you, Eldrin."
Arian lifted the object wrapped in white and handed it to him.
Eldrin stared at it, brow slightly raised.
"For me? Seriously?" he thought, almost in disbelief.
With cautious fingers and a trace of doubt still lingering in his eyes, he accepted the gift.
"Go on. Open it," Arian said with a small, honest smile—the kind that only belonged to him.
From a distance, Arsy and Louis both smiled as they watched.
Elara, on the other hand, was still completely absorbed in her training, as if the world had no right to interrupt her focus.
Carefully, Eldrin began to unwrap the white cloth—slow, almost reverent, as though he feared what lay beneath might be something greater than himself.
And then, the last fold fell away.
He froze.
Before him lay a pair of small weapons—curved, sharp, and shimmering in an unusual hue: a blend of vibrant yellow and deep violet that pulsed with life under the twilight.
The blades were short and hooked like claws—but not ordinary claws. Their surface glowed faintly, as if they had a heartbeat of their own. The handles were slender, wrapped in black-gold patterns that warmed at his touch, as though they had been waiting for him all along.
Eldrin stood speechless.
His eyes caught the dancing hues along the blades, and for a moment, the world hushed.
No wind, no voices—just him and the weapons, as if time had stepped aside to let them meet properly.
"Dreknir, Eldrin. That's their name," Arian said softly, sipping from a cup of Liriavelle, its spicy aroma curling in the air.
He looked at Eldrin with a calm gaze, unreadable and steady.
"I know you're used to twin daggers," he continued. "But I believe karambits suit your style better—faster, slicker, and far more unpredictable."
"Daggers give freedom to both hands. But karambits?"
"They give you something more important: complete control over the most dangerous range. When you're too close to think, a karambit speaks for you."
Eldrin lowered his gaze and gently touched Dreknir with both hands, as if afraid to drop them.
There was a light in his eyes—a quiet blend of awe and deep gratitude.
"Consider it an apology," Arian said, taking another sip of Liriavelle, "from both me and Elda."
"Thank you, Sir Arian..." Eldrin murmured, voice barely audible over the whispering breeze.
It wasn't just a polite reply.
It was reverence.
To Eldrin, this gift was more than blades or strength—it was trust.
A bridge built without conditions.
He knew who Arsy was. He knew the Gofdraig family could be intense, even overwhelming. But to him, human connections weren't defined by noise or reputation.
What he saw… was sincerity.
And for that, Eldrin would carry this gratitude far beyond the passing of any season.
Eldrin stepped into the center of the field—Dreknir still in hand, unfamiliar but not resisting.
He began with the motions he had always used with daggers: light spins, short thrusts, steps forward and back.
But he realized quickly—Dreknir didn't dance in straight lines.
These karambits curved, demanded arcs and spirals.
He adjusted his wrist, trying a horizontal slash—and the blades responded with fluid grace.
As he turned and sliced through the air, the curved metal sang a clean, sharp note.
There was a strange sensation in the way they cut—not like piercing, but like slicing the very line between offense and defense.
Dreknir didn't just want to be wielded.
They wanted to be followed.
And Eldrin, slowly, began to learn their rhythm.
"Someone's enjoying himself," Arsy called out from afar—half teasing, a wide grin on his face.
Louis crossed his arms over his chest, his signature posture when silently observing something—like a quiet spectator enjoying a play he didn't wish to interrupt.
Arian, still near the table, narrowed his eyes slightly, then nodded.
"Your movements are clean, Eldrin."
Before Eldrin could steady his breath, the sound of rushing footsteps broke across the field.
Arsy—eyes sparkling like a child who just found a new toy—charged in, Glatenebris drawn, grin wide and shameless.
"Let's spar!" he yelled, and without warning, lunged diagonally toward Eldrin.
Eldrin instinctively stepped back, raising Dreknir just in time to block the first strike.
The clash of blades rang out—not explosive, but crisp.
He wasn't angry.
He smiled.
There was something familiar in the challenge—like a rhythm he hadn't heard in a long time.
From the edge of the field, Arian raised his voice—calm but firm.
"No magic! This is a village field, not a battlefield. If anything breaks… you're both responsible."
On the other end of the court, Elara continued moving in steady patterns—slice, spin, block. Striking the air with near-boring precision.
Her face showed no emotion. Her eyes didn't shift—focused, as if the world around her didn't exist.
Soft footsteps approached from behind.
Louis stopped a few meters away, careful not to intrude.
"Hey," he said softly. His tone, as always, was flat—but enough to break the stillness.
Elara didn't answer. Didn't even glance his way.
Her movements stayed sharp, unfaltering.
Louis watched for a while, then said quietly,
"Focusing too long drains your vis. Your body needs space to breathe, too."
She didn't respond.
But the words struck somewhere deep.
For a moment, Elara simply stood still... then exhaled.
She stopped.
Took a long breath.
Slowly lowered Enerma.
The soft sound of the blade fading back into the air whispered between the wind.
Her shoulders rose and fell, a small sign of how deeply she'd been holding on.
She turned slowly—finally looking at Louis.
Their eyes met—not sharply, but gently, like two people too tired to pretend anymore.
"Hey, Louis," Elara said, her voice a little hoarse.
"Long time no see… You look like you're doing alright."
Louis gave a small smile—not the polite kind, but the honest one from someone not used to showing it.
Elara dipped her head slightly. Then murmured,
"I'm sorry... for not being able to protect Eldrin back then."
Louis shrugged lightly.
"It was fate. Besides... Eldrin seems to have learned a lot from it."
Elara gave a slow nod but said nothing.
She let the evening wind drift between them in silence.
Even though Louis had said it was okay, the guilt remained lodged in her chest—quiet, but ever present. Because no matter how strong a person was, guilt always lingered… even when no one blamed them.
"I want to make it right," Elara said at last.
"I'll return to Nhal Vireth. I don't know why... maybe to understand. Or maybe to make sure that guilt doesn't rot inside me."
Louis looked at her for a long time.
No dramatic reaction—just a small nod.
"Then I'll go with you," he replied softly.
"At the start of the new year. We'll go back—together."
He paused, then added,
"Elara... you know you don't always have to blame yourself for things outside your control."
Elara sighed, but this time, didn't protest.
"Maybe. But if I don't take a step back into that place… I'll never find peace."
Louis nodded once.
"Then let's make sure you won't walk that path alone."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the field, the clash of blades had grown sparse.
Arsy and Eldrin, once swift and fierce, now only exchanged light movements.
Their breaths were heavy, their clothes messy, and twilight had claimed the day.
The last golden rays of sunlight reflected off Glatenebris and Dreknir, now crossed—not in battle, but in silent salute between two young warriors who knew it was time to stop.
Night fell at last, bringing a chill breeze that brushed across every corner of Leondhardt.
The soft light of small Lumium lanterns began to fade, one by one, as windows shut across the village.
The world settled into silence.
No more footsteps. No more steel.
Weeks passed since that quiet evening at Leondhardt Multicourt—since laughter, training, and conversation gently closed the pages of their wounds.
The days that followed moved as if nothing had changed.
But quietly… something lingered.
In his dimly lit bedroom, Arsy lay staring at the ceiling for an uncountable stretch of time.
His eyes were closed, but his thoughts floated restlessly.
His body was tired, but something inside him had not gone still.
It felt like a door that had never been closed—
And tonight, for reasons unknown…
It opened.
From the other side.
There was no sky. No ground.
Only a darkness that wrapped around everything, and a silence that hummed like the core of the world.
There, Arsy stood—
Or perhaps floated—
He couldn't tell.
His body was present, yet not quite his own.
No wind. No sound.
Then, from a distant place, came a sound that wasn't a sound.
A resonance. Like something slicing through space, but only he could hear it.
Heavy steps began to echo.
Like roots crawling through the earth.
Or stone grinding slowly in ancient rhythm.
From behind a veil of void and mist,
A towering figure emerged.
It was no creature.
Its body was wrapped in cracked bark, glowing with patches of living moss.
Every breath it drew carried the scent of damp soil and forgotten blossoms.
Branches and leaves grew from its hair, ever-shifting in color, as if reflecting seasons only it understood.
And its eyes…
Were not eyes.
But two massive emerald crystals—
Mirroring forests, mountains, and skies no human had ever seen.
Behind it floated symbols of nature:
A pulsing giant seed of light,
A bird woven from glowing roots,
A flat stone drifting like a second moon,
And suspended water that never fell.
They did not circle it like weapons,
But like witnesses.
The voice didn't come from outside.
It rose from within his chest.
Not a sound, not a vibration in his ears—
But something that crawled up from his ribs,
Through his throat,
And slammed into the ceiling of his awareness.
Arsy wanted to speak.
But he couldn't.
He wasn't afraid.
But his body knew—
Whatever stood before him was not to be questioned.
It was to be heard.
The entity didn't move—
But the space around it trembled softly.
Cracks of light widened along its bark-like body, then closed again—
As if it was breathing in a way no human could understand.
Then came the words—
One phrase, spoken in a tongue Arsy did not know…
Yet somehow understood.
"ᮘᮊᮤ ᮒᮨᮛ ᮦᮓᮧᮔ᮪ᮓᮥ ᮞᮀᮠᮡᮀ — bapa terang he dongdu Sanghyang."
A greeting.
A command.
A sacred invitation.
Speak His name. In the name of the light who forged the first blade from nothingness.
Arsy didn't know the meaning.
But something within him stirred.
Like an ancient root finally tasting water.
Like a forgotten ember touched by eternal wind.
The voice echoed not in his ears, but in his soul.
He felt… small.
But not ashamed.
More like a student
Standing before the one who shaped the very forge of existence.
His mouth opened—almost involuntarily.
And from his lips—
A word emerged.
Heavy. Sacred.
"Raksawana."
He didn't know what it meant.
But when it was spoken,
Everything around him halted.
The entity raised one hand—
And the space around them froze.
"Do you know what God created first, child of man?"
Anyone would panic when suddenly asked a question by a being they could not comprehend.
It's human instinct to try and answer—
Even when no answer is truly right.
Arsy's thoughts spun with possibilities.
Scenarios.
Guesses.
All hollow.
All wrong.
"I… I don't know. But I'm sure it wasn't nature."
The entity laughed.
A chorus of voices blended into one.
A sound that echoed through space,
Shaking the air around them.
"Not wrong, child of man."
"Even I do not know. God kept it from me."
"But I believe it was a book… and a pen."
"Knowledge. That was the first creation."
Arsy tried to comprehend the words—
But before he could,
The entity stepped forward.
At first, it looked like a tall man.
But each step warped reality.
Its body grew.
Taller.
Wider.
The world seemed to shift just to contain its form.
The dark sky pressed down.
The ground rumbled.
And when it finally stood before Arsy,
The boy was barely the size of a toe.
Or smaller.
His chest pounded.
Neck tingled.
Every hair stood on end,
As if silent lightning had struck his mind.
The difference in size wasn't just terrifying.
It was absurd.
Like a dream…
Too vivid to ignore.
What happens now?
whispered a voice within him—
One he couldn't tell was his own,
Or something deeper.
"You're probably wondering what's happening," the entity said,
its voice resonating through bone.
Arsy swallowed.
Slowly nodded.
After all, he was just ten.
No one had taught him how to face a being the size of a mountain.
The entity pointed to his chest.
And there—beneath his skin—
A small black crystal pulsed with red light.
It glowed like a second heartbeat—
Ancient and steady.
"Primordial Reliq: The Embodiment of Darkness."
Arsy looked down. At his own chest. He reached for it—and his fingers slipped right through.
"Why… why is it like this?" he whispered, panicked.
He tried again. And again.
Each time, his hand passed through.
"That relic… is not part of your body."
"Nor is it foreign."
"It is bound to your soul."
The entity paused.
"It was crafted by the Embodiment of Darkness itself."
Arsy furrowed his brows.
"Why me? Why do I have it?"
"I don't know either," the entity replied, honestly.
Its voice wasn't cold, nor was it sympathetic.
It spoke like something accustomed to mysteries not even the heavens had unraveled.
"Then… what are you?"
"I am a servant of God."
"In your tongue, we are often called gods. But we are not God. We are only Embodiments—manifestations of concepts older than the world itself."
"I am the Embodiment of Earth."
The moment the name was spoken, the world around them shuddered—
As if that name struck the bedrock of reality like a colossal hammer.
Arsy instinctively bowed low, as if some ancient part of him knew—
This being stood beyond kingdoms, beyond the world, beyond fate itself.
"No need for that, child of man," the voice was now slightly warmer, though still as firm as aged steel.
"I understand your meaning."
Slowly, Arsy straightened.
"So… is this a dream? But it all feels so real… too real."
"Because it is not just a dream," the entity replied.
"This is a place between consciousness and eternity. And we can meet here… because He opened the way."
"He?"
"It's not time to speak of Him. You already know more than enough."
The entity's gaze drifted to Arsy's right hand.
"You've seen the symbol on your palm, haven't you?"
Arsy looked at his hand.
It was still there—
A faint circular mark, almost one with his skin, pulsing with silver light like a glowing heartbeat.
"Because you're still alive, I cannot remove the relic from your body. But I also cannot let it remain unbound."
"So, I give you something—a blessing. In your world, it is known as Potentia."
"Potentia…?" Arsy murmured, recalling vague explanations from his father.
"A blessing from one of God's servants," the entity continued.
"A power that will aid you… if used wisely. Protect the relic as if tomorrow were your last day."
Strangely, for the first time in his life, Arsy didn't feel special.
Not proud.
Not thrilled.
Instead…
His heart felt heavy.
As if an unseen weight had just settled on his back.
He looked down—
At his small hand, where the symbol pulsed in sync with his own heart.
And deep within his chest, a thought—
A quiet voice of reason often ignored by children—whispered:
Maybe… this isn't a blessing.
Maybe… it's a curse, wrapped in beautiful words.
Arsy looked up at the entity.
His eyes were still wide with youth,
But now held a flicker of doubt—
A faint ember beginning to question the world.
The entity met his gaze.
And for a moment…
The towering being looked pleased.
Not because Arsy had accepted the gift with eagerness,
But because Arsy was wise enough
To feel the weight of what had been placed upon him.
"You have the right to doubt, Arsy Gofdraig," it said, its voice low and deep.
"Doubt is the sign of thought. Do not let it stop you—
But never let it consume you."
The world began to tremble.
Light shifted—
As if time itself had taken a breath.
"ᮏᮥᮙᮨᮔᮨᮀ. Now… awaken."
With a single gesture,
The space around Arsy shattered—
Like glass struck by stone.
Darkness.
Cold.
Then—
"Arsy! Arsy!"
His mother's voice—
Elda—shaking his arm.
"It's the academy graduation ceremony today."
Arsy sat at the edge of his bed for a while before truly waking up.
The morning sun spilled through the wooden windows,
Painting warm stripes across the floor.
He drew a deep breath,
Trying to shake off the remnants of the dream still clinging to the edges of his mind.
But no matter how hard he tried…
The feeling remained.
As if something in the world had changed—
Ever so slightly—
Though everything looked the same.
On the small table beside his bed,
His light brown graduation outfit and sash had already been laid out by his mother the night before.
In the main room,
Elda patiently braided Elara's hair,
While Arian adjusted his robe, which looked unusually neat for the occasion.
The house smelled of boiled betel leaves and sesame cakes.
Elara glanced at Arsy and gave a small smile.
"If you keep spacing out like that, we'll be late."
Arsy rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear—
But he couldn't stop the faint smile from tugging at his lips.
Today was no ordinary day.
It was the day all students of Leondhardt Elementary Academy gathered to receive their final recognition—
Not just for what they had learned,
But for who they had become.
They walked together to the academy along a cobbled path,
Passing vineyards, red-tiled rooftops, and blooming wildflower fields.
That morning, the village of Leondhardt looked like it had been painted anew,
Brighter than usual.
Small flags of red, yellow, and blue were strung along fences and windows.
Villagers—young and old—lined the path, clapping, smiling, and sometimes cheering as the students passed.
From nearby kitchens and open hearths,
The scent of fresh bread and herbs drifted into the morning mist.
A young man played a bamboo flute from his porch,
Mingling with the laughter and chatter that filled the air—
A celebration not unlike a harvest festival.
By the time they reached the academy courtyard,
It was already lively.
Flags fluttered from the stone fences,
And long tables were arranged beneath the great central tree.
Teachers stood in ceremonial robes,
Some looking more emotional than usual.
Eldrin was already near the steps of the main hall,
Surrounded by Lielle, Gareth, and Thami.
He waved with a look of relief.
"Finally! I thought you overslept again."
Arsy walked over and greeted each of them with a handshake.
And though they laughed and joked as usual,
Something in Arsy's eyes made Eldrin ask softly,
"You alright?"
Arsy nodded, shrugged.
"Just… a strange dream."
Eldrin nodded back, not pushing.
In a world like theirs,
Everyone knew—
Some dreams were more real than daylight.
Soft music began to play,
Led by students from the arts class,
And the academy bell rang gently.
The ceremony was about to begin.
And for Arsy,
Though the world moved on like normal…
Some part of him knew:
From this day forward,
He would never be quite the same.
Behind the laughter, the music,
And the applause of celebration—
Arsy stood in silence,
Carrying something no one else could see.
This graduation day was not an end.
Nor a beginning.
But a bridge.
Between who he had been,
And who he would have to become—
To carry the weight of the world.
Et qui portat lucem, portat etiam umbram.
He who bears the light, bears also the shadow.