The water shimmered with an unnatural glow. Not neon. Not magical in any flashy, fireworky way. Just... different.
Clive—now Avin—sat submerged in a tub that was more sculpture than bath. It was crafted from what appeared to be unrusting gold, the kind that didn't dull, didn't stain, didn't even hold water stains. The surface was smoother than marble, warm without fire, and etched along its edges were glyphs that occasionally blinked, as if syncing to a silent, unseen rhythm.
Steam drifted lazily into the air, but the water didn't scald. It cocooned him. Comforted him. Like it knew how hot to be.
There was no faucet. No showerhead. Yet water flowed endlessly from sculpted lion mouths that snarled on opposite ends of the tub, their eyes dimly glowing with some blue fire-light. The streams that poured out had perfect pressure—constant, unflinching. Too perfect.
No wires. No switches. No pipes.
"Yeah… this world's definitely cheating," he muttered to himself, watching a stream of water twist midair into a swirl before landing gently into the tub. "No electricity, no tech, but it's got gold bathtubs that outsmart my entire plumbing system back home."
He sunk deeper into the warmth. Muscles eased. Breath slowed.
For a moment, he forgot the abyss. The gods. The book. The snake.
For a moment, he could've sworn he was just a spoiled noble kid with a fancy tub and nothing better to do.
But peace never lingers.
He rose with a groan, water sloshing around him as he stood. Droplets clung to his skin like stubborn memories. A towel—folded, embroidered, and absurdly soft—was already resting beside the tub, scented faintly with dried lilies and firewood. He wrapped it around himself, stepping onto stone tiles that heated under his feet like they were alive.
A wardrobe stood tall in the adjoining chamber, flanked by two golden candelabras shaped like spears.
Inside? Royalty.
The outfit waiting for him was nothing short of art.
The inner tunic: snow-white, tailored close to the body, sleeved to the wrists and stitched with thread that shimmered like dew under moonlight. It hugged him with just enough restraint to feel princely, not prisoned.
The overcoat: black, deep and velvety, embroidered with golden lines that bent and curled into geometric shapes—some were recognizable constellations, others symbols of the Chrono family legacy. The shoulders bore sharp golden accents that hinted at authority but whispered elegance.
The sash: white again, crossing the chest diagonally and cinched by a crest-shaped clasp—pure gold, shaped like an hourglass surrounded by thorny laurels. The insignia of House Chrono.
The trousers: black like a starless sky, tight but flexible, lined with subtle golden accents that traced the calves and thighs.
And finally, the boots: knee-high, lacquered, polished obsidian leather inlaid with golden studs shaped like tiny watch gears. Every step they made would click—a soft chime like time ticking forward.
It was too much. He knew it. But damn, it looked good.
He stood before the mirror—towering, gilded, almost as excessive as the bath. It showed him the truth in detail.
His reflection.
Red hair, slicked back now, glistened like fresh blood in sunlight. His jawline could cut frozen butter. His eyes, a cold, impossible blue, held something sharper than before—an awareness, maybe, or a soul that had seen too much too fast.
Avin's body was taller than Clive's. Broader. Built like a prince carved by someone with an unhealthy obsession with aesthetics. Even his nose—slim, straight, aristocratic—looked like it had been molded by a perfectionist deity.
Clive sighed. "Must be all the royal treatment," he said aloud.
But the sarcasm in his voice couldn't cover the irony. Avin had been the least royally treated noble in the family.
Still, damn, the genes didn't miss.
He turned toward the large double doors and pulled them open with both hands.
Standing right outside was a maid. Frozen. Unmoving. Her face blank, almost like a doll, eyes locked forward as if programmed. No greeting. No blink. Just silence.
It made something cold slither down his spine.
"Umm... Hello?" he offered.
She curtsied perfectly, then pivoted on her heel and gestured to the corridor. "After you, young Lord."
Clive blinked. No, no, no. That's not right.
He looked down the hallway—and froze.
The corridor stretched endlessly. Long. Grand. Terrifying. Adorned with priceless vases, oil paintings, glowing crystal sconces, and gold-lined tiles. The walls bore muraled stories of ancient Chrono victories, and hallways branched out like a hedge maze of nobility.
Clive's heart skipped a beat.
"...I have no idea where I'm going," he realized, his thoughts tumbling.
Avin knew this place. Avin was born here. Clive? Clive would get lost and wind up sleeping in the stables or worse—the dungeon.
He looked at the maid. Her expression hadn't changed.
"Um… no. You lead the way," he said quickly.
She turned her head slightly, confused. "What?"
The realization hit him like a brick to the temple.
He was still a noble. Treated like trash or not, Avin was part of the ruling bloodline. That came with status. And expectation.
Confidence wasn't optional. It was law.
He straightened his spine, raised his chin slightly, and put on the coldest voice he could muster.
"Lead the way."
The maid startled.
She stepped back, bowed again, and for the first time, Clive noticed it—her posture changed. Slightly hunched. Compressed.
Fear.
She turned and walked ahead.
Clive followed, trying not to choke on the absurdity. "It worked, huh… Being a noble might not be that bad," he muttered, fiddling with the golden collar around his throat. "But how the hell do people wear these things without dying of a heatstroke?"
The dining hall was absurd.
More cathedral than dining space, the room loomed with vaulted ceilings and curved glass windows etched with sigils. At the farthest end, elevated by marble steps, sat a mount where musicians played a haunting, delicate melody using instruments Clive couldn't name.
To either side stood rows of armored guards—twenty or more on each side, still as statues.
Down the center stretched a massive banquet table, long enough to seat a battalion. It was covered in a cloth more gold than fabric, and atop it—piles of decadent food. Fruits that glowed faintly, meats that steamed with exotic spice, breads braided in intricate patterns.
Clive's stomach growled on sight.
"Do people here not get gold poisoning?" he wondered as his eyes danced over the feast.
But his gaze halted.
Leo.
He stood at the head of the table. Dressed differently—darker armor, less ceremonial, more earned. He turned slowly, meeting Clive's stare.
A smirk.
That polite, fake, poisonous smile.
Leo raised his right hand to his chest, left hand behind his back, and bowed.
A shallow, insincere bow.
Disrespect wrapped in tradition.
Clive clenched his jaw. "Just a commoner. Looking down on his Lord. And Avin just let him be… I would've—"
–TSK–
He walked past Leo without a word, ignoring the thorns in his gut. He reached a seat at the side—one of the ornate thrones practically crusted in diamonds—and pulled it out.
His eyes locked on the centerpiece: a full roast bird the size of a small horse.
"Mom would never…" he thought, mouth watering.
Then.
Stillness.
He couldn't move.
Not a finger. Not a breath. The world held him tight.
A voice—smug, venomous—dripped behind him.
"You must've gone senile, young Lord."
Clive's—Avin's—lungs screamed. His fingers wouldn't twitch. His tongue wouldn't shift. His knees locked. Not even his heartbeat felt like it was under his control anymore.
It was as if the air around him had congealed. Like time itself decided he wasn't worthy of motion.
His eyes—barely—darted to the side. Peripheral blur. Leo.
He was moving slowly. Casually. Like a snake crawling toward prey already caught in its jaws.
"You come in here with a maid leading the way like some lost servant," Leo said, voice smooth, mocking, as he approached the table.
Clive tried to speak. Tried to flinch. Nothing.
Leo stopped behind him. One hand rested on the top of Avin's ornate chair. The other arm relaxed at his side. His voice dropped low, intimate—like a ghost whispering a secret into a corpse.
"You didn't even greet your tutor."
Clive's heart was punching through his ribs. His vision pulsed. Each breath was more of a gasp than a draw of air.
Then it got worse.
Leo leaned in.
And breathed. Right. Into. His. Ear.
It wasn't warm. It was cold. Cold like betrayal. Cold like venom sliding across bone.
Then came the pressure.
It wasn't physical—no hand, no blade. But something pushed. Something squeezed his body like it was trying to fold him into himself. Something ancient. Twisted.
Then—color.
The air turned green.
Not dyed. Not lit. Just… green. Like someone poured envy into the atmosphere and let it bleed.
Then the crawling began.
Clive felt something slithering up his legs.
Thin. Smooth. Purposeful.
His veins froze as it climbed—around his waist, up his chest, coiling tightly. His eyes jerked forward—
There it was.
A snake.
Huge. Vivid green. Coiled in layered loops so wide its body could have been mistaken for a rug if not for the movement. Its scales shimmered—each one inscribed with tiny, pulsing runes, like living tattoos of ancient scripture.
But it was the eyes that struck deepest.
One was normal, black slit and green iris.
The other?
Massive. Bigger than Clive's entire head. It stared without blinking, without judging, without fear.
Just being.
He tried to look away.
He couldn't.
He was drowning in the stare. Drowning in silence. And in that infinite, hypnotic gaze—he felt something impossible.
Peace.
Desire.
Freedom.
It was the most seductive feeling he'd ever known.
Then—blink.
Clive snapped back.
Terror rushed in.
His breath caught again as he strained to move. Come on, come on, come on— but it was useless.
Leo's voice returned. Still close. Still ice.
"You passed by your tutor without even acknowledging him."
The coils tightened.
A groan cracked out of Clive's throat. Raw, strangled. "What the fuck is happening... why can't I... move?"
Leo stepped back.
The chair moved, as if pulled gently by unseen hands—just enough space for Clive to walk forward.
And then—his body moved.
Not on his own.
His feet stepped forward. His head tilted down, spine slightly bent in an obedient posture.
He was a puppet.
No strings.
Just power.
He walked behind Leo, like a dog to its master.
They stopped at the head of the table—one seat, smaller than the rest. Less ornate. Modest to the point of insult.
Leo pulled it out.
Clive sat.
The snake was still there.
He didn't know how. He didn't know if it was real. But he felt it.
He could still feel its scales across his arms, its coils gripping his chest, its body curled around him like a living shroud. Still looking through him.
Then Leo leaned in again, voice smooth, mocking:
"The abyss must've changed you. You've grown more… arrogant."
Clive flinched at the word. Not physically. Not visibly.
Internally, it stabbed.
"Arrogant."
He'd heard that his whole life. Teachers. Classmates. Relatives. "Too confident for a nobody." "Too proud for someone so average." "Too loud for someone so weak."
He was never arrogant. Just tired of bowing.
Now this word again. From this man. From Leo.
Boiling.
He could feel it. The rage bubbling under the snake's grip.
"What the hell?"
And then—
Something changed.
The snake moved.
Slowly, its face drifted closer to his.
It smiled.
Wide. Too wide. Its mouth opened, exposing fangs—deep black, glistening like obsidian glass dipped in oil. Two long razors framed its face like curved blades.
And reflected in one of them—
Clive saw his face.
And he looked...
Terrified.
he gasped internally.
"Why the hell is the snake—smiling?"
And then-
The color drained from the air.
The green haze vanished like fog burned by sunlight.
The weight lifted.
The snake was gone.
Clive collapsed against the back of the chair, finally able to gasp for real air. His chest rose and fell like a drum being pounded in panic. He clutched his neck, skin slick with sweat.
His eyes darted.
Leo had already turned away.
Facing the door now.
"Ah… They're here"
Then—footsteps.
Boots. Light. Graceful. More than one pair.
They echoed into the hall like a warning. A rhythm.
They were coming.
And Clive's eyes widened.
-To be continued-