The brilliant radiance of Zorkhalis, the celestial star that watched over this world, streamed through the high-arched window and spilled onto the face of the man known as Antares, stirring him from slumber.
He lay upon a modest bed carved into the wall of a chamber fashioned from pale stone, smooth and cool to the touch. The room breathed a sense of quiet reverence—tranquil, yet foreign.
It had been only a single night since the massacre. A night of bloodshed and freedom, of chains shattered and silence broken. All those once imprisoned had been liberated, taken into the care of local temples and infirmaries under the banners of mercy and atonement. Antares had not resisted as he was led toward the sanctuary of the Church of Darkness. There was no reason to. Others—similarly freed—walked alongside him, and to flinch from those who had just saved them seemed both unwise and unbecoming.
Still, a distant wariness lingered behind his crimson eyes. Not distrust, exactly—but a quiet alertness. A sense honed not by memory, but by instinct. He knew nothing of this world, its people, or its structure. In every way, he was like a newborn child—capable of thought and judgment, yet stripped of knowledge.
When they arrived at the Church of Darkness, nestled within the fortress-city of Estion, Antares was swiftly taken to the infirmary. There, with a quiet efficiency and an air of practiced duty, he was examined using arcane instruments. They detected strain, exhaustion, and a persistent, unrelenting pain etched into his very being.
He could do nothing to resist. His body had not yet returned to him—it felt like borrowed flesh, sluggish and numb. Even if he'd wanted to protest, he would not have had the strength to lift a hand.
It was then that she appeared—a woman in a robe of black trimmed with silver. Her chestnut hair peeked out from beneath a dark veil—half hood, half ceremonial drape. Her presence was quiet, solemn. Yet there was warmth in her movements.
The healers of this place, Antares noticed, all dressed in a singular aesthetic. The women bore long, flowing dresses of charcoal and silver, the same sigil embroidered at the shoulder—a crescent moon shining softly, encircled by a scythe. The men wore dark tunics and loose-fitting pants, over which draped black sashes adorned with that same sacred symbol, now placed proudly at the chest.
To him, they looked like shadows given purpose.
The woman knelt beside his bed and began to chant softly, whispering words Antares could not understand. Her voice was gentle, a murmur like wind through the branches of some forgotten grove. Then her hands glowed with a dim green aura, and the light flowed into him, curling around his limbs like warm breath. Pain receded. Not all of it—but enough.
When her spell ended, she rose and quietly excused herself. Some time later, she returned, this time carrying a small wooden tray bearing simple food and a clay cup of water. She placed it gently on the bedside table and gestured for him to eat. Then, without a word, she departed once more.
Most of the other wounded had already slipped into deep sleep, untouched by the greenish glow that had surrounded his bed. They, too, had survived horrors. They, too, rested now.
Antares ate in silence. The food was plain, but strangely satisfying. It quelled something inside him—hunger, yes, but also a deeper ache.
Afterward, he lay down again, the shadows of his memories scattering into the dark. Sleep claimed him quickly.
And now…
Now he sat upright, propped against the backrest of his bed, staring quietly at the place where golden radiance of Zorkhalis spilled across the stone floor. The others—his "companions" in captivity—were gone. The room stood silent and empty. Either they had been moved or had recovered enough to leave on their own.
He did not know.
There was still much he didn't know.
But at least… he was still breathing.
— — —
About half an hour had passed.
Antares still sat motionless, gathering his strength. There was little to do in this place. Sitting, lying down—those were his only available options. The exhaustion had mostly faded, though a dull ache still lingered in his limbs. Bearable, yet persistent. He was just about to let himself drift back into sleep when the door to the infirmary creaked open.
A tall man stepped inside—silver-haired, with emerald green eyes that seemed to pierce through shadows.
It was Inquisitor Idan.
He looked different from the night before. Gone was the grim black robe of the Church. Now he wore a simple white shirt and black trousers—plain, unadorned. No sigils, no ceremonial armor. It was as if the strict dress code did not apply to him. Perhaps it was a mark of privilege… or fear.
"You're awake already? Then I came at the right time," Idan said calmly, striding toward him.
Antares' eyes widened.
He understood him.
These were the first wordssince his arrival in this world, that carried meaning. All the voices before had been nothing but indistinct murmurs—sound without sense. But now… they resonated.
"You… I understand you. How? I couldn't make sense of anything before," he asked, bewildered.
"Ah, so you really didn't speak our language. That confirms it," Idan replied, pulling a golden amulet from his pocket. Its surface glimmered with embedded diamonds, radiating a subtle magical glow. "Thanks to this artifact, I can understand any creature's speech. It's not important how it works. What matters is this—who are you? And where did you come from? There's something… strange about you. I can feel it. Call it intuition, but I don't think you're ordinary."
"I don't remember anything," Antares said, his tone flat. "I woke up in the wastelands, passed out again… and when I came to, I was already in that slave wagon. The rest you know."
Idan fell silent for a moment, studying him with quiet intensity. His gaze was analytical, dissecting every breath, every flicker of movement.
"You're not lying," he finally said. "I can tell from your breathing—steady, calm. When people lie, they tense up, their pulse quickens. That leaves two possibilities: either you're telling the truth… or you're an exceptionally skilled liar. But if you are, you should know this—truth potions and memory scrying are real. If someone starts digging through your mind… well, let's just say the consequences can be… unpredictable."
His voice hardened, and the air between them seemed to grow heavier.
But only for a moment. Then, as quickly as it came, his sternness faded. The calm mask returned, and he continued, almost casually:
"Would you like to try unlocking your memories? It might work. This temple is smaller than the main cathedral in the capital, but they should have the right spells here. You get your answers. I get confirmation you're not a threat. Seems fair, doesn't it?"
Antares remained silent. It was tempting. The offer to learn who he was, where he came from, even if just a fragment of his past, hovered before him like an outstretched hand. There might be risks, yes—but turning it down would be pointless.
"Will it work for sure?" he asked cautiously.
"It should. It always has before," Idan said with a shrug.
"…Then I'll do it," Antares replied.
"Can you stand on your own, or do you need help?" Idan's tone was matter-of-fact rather than concerned. If the red-eyed stranger was still too weak, he'd have to send for the proper potions and healing spells—or worse, get someone to carry him. A hassle, either way.
In response, Antares pulled the blanket off himself—until now, he hadn't bothered—and braced against the edge of the bed to push himself up. Pain flared through his body, but it was manageable. He could stand, and even walk, albeit stiffly.
Seeing that the red-haired man could move without aid, Idan gave him a brief nod and gestured for him to follow.
The two made their way through the quiet halls, the atmosphere thick with distant murmurs and the faint scent of incense. Along the way, conversation continued—casual, but probing.
"So… what's your name?"
"I'm Antares."
"Antares…" Idan echoed softly, his tone laced with curiosity. "Strange. You've lost your memory, yet you remember your name?"
"It's the only thing I do remember."
"Hm. Fascinating. Well, we'll know more once we've gone through your memories."
Soon, they reached their destination.
A simple wooden door stood before them—dark oak, unadorned. Above it, a single lantern glowed steadily despite the bright daylight beyond the temple's windows. All the lights in this place ran on magic, Antares realized—imbued to remain constantly lit, regardless of time or weather.
Without knocking, Idan pushed open the door and stepped inside. Formalities, it seemed, did not concern him.
The room was exactly what one might expect of a scholar's lab—or perhaps more fittingly, a wizard's den. Shelves overflowed with ancient tomes and crumbling scrolls, alchemical vials sat clustered in trays, and parchment littered the floors like fallen leaves. The faint aroma of burnt herbs and ink hung in the air.
Idan was first to cross the threshold, with Antares close behind.
At first glance, the room seemed empty. But a quick flick of Idan's eye caught something odd—a leg sticking out from behind the cluttered desk. Curious, he stepped closer and found the source: a young woman collapsed atop a heap of crumpled papers, streaked with ink from head to toe.
"Ahem." Idan cleared his throat sharply.
The girl groaned, flinching at the sound and mumbling groggily without even opening her eyes.
"No time… busy… come back later. Evening. Or tomorrow, maybe…"
Her voice trailed off into a sleepy murmur. Idan chuckled under his breath, then released a flicker of his aura. A tiny spark zapped against her ankle.
She bolted upright with a yelp, rubbing her leg and glaring up in irritation—just as she opened her mouth to scold whoever dared disturb her, her eyes landed on him.
"Oh no."
She froze. Her gaze darted from the gleam of his emerald eyes to the calm severity in his expression. All the color drained from her face.
Dropping to her knees, she bowed her head in panic.
"G-Great Inquisitor?! P-Please forgive me! I didn't know it was you—I-I swear, I wasn't slacking off on purpose! Please don't kill me! I'll never sleep on the job again!"
'Why do they always assume I'm here to kill them?' Idan thought, sighing inwardly
"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," Idan said flatly. "I've got a task for you. See that red-haired man over there? We need to view his memories. Can you handle it?"
"T-thank you for sparing me, Great Inquisitor!" she stammered, still visibly shaken. "Y-yes, I have the required potions and I've managed to learn the memory-reading spell. B-but I'll need a little time to prepare—just a few hours, no more."
Her voice trembled, as did her hands. Standing so close to a man like Idan was enough to rattle even the most seasoned temple mage. To her, it felt like she'd just barely avoided the gallows.
"Understood. Once everything's ready, meet us in the southern wing. Second floor, main office," he said, casting a brief glance at Antares. "That's where we'll be waiting. And next time—don't you dare fall asleep on duty."
"Y-yes, of course… I'll come personally once all is prepared," she replied, bowing.
With that, Idan and Antares turned and exited, heading down the corridor toward the southern wing. The mage watched them go, offering a respectful parting bow. No one had asked her name. A small thing—but still, it stung.
Lira. That was her name. A lovely name, or so she liked to believe.
Maybe next time she'd get to say it aloud.
— — —
Roughly an hour and a half had passed since Idan had given his instructions. Now he sat alone in a chair by the desk in the southern wing's main office, reviewing temple documents with measured focus.
The high priest of Estion's temple was away—summoned to the capital by order of the bishop. In his absence, another senior priest had taken on the role of overseer, but in truth, only a handful within the Church of Darkness ranked higher than Idan. As a Grand Inquisitor, he had full authority not just to crush heretics but to audit temple affairs as he saw fit.
So far, the records were in good order. Donations were flowing as expected, the treasury looked healthy, and no signs of corruption had surfaced. That, at least, was a rare relief.
Antares, meanwhile, sat silently on a plush sofa at the far end of the spacious office. The room was tastefully appointed—elegant, yet free of ostentation. Not a speck of dust to be seen. It was clear the place was kept in immaculate condition.
Decorations were modest: shelves of books, a few potted plants, and framed portraits on the walls. No gold, no jeweled embellishments—save for the silver embroidery of the Church's crescent-moon emblem. Still, despite its restraint, the room felt luxurious. A sharp contrast to the chaotic, ink-stained den of the temple's resident mage.
A few minutes passed before a knock echoed at the door.
"Come in," Idan said calmly, not lifting his gaze from the scrolls.
The door creaked open, and in stepped the same woman from earlier—the one tasked with the memory-viewing preparations.
"Great Inquisitor," she said, this time with more composure, "everything is ready, as you requested. Please, follow me."
She seemed far more confident now. Gone was the stammering apprentice of an hour ago.
"Good," Idan replied, standing. "Antares—let's go. Time to find out who you really are."
They both rose to their feet and began following the mage toward the ritual chamber. As they walked, she hesitated slightly, then tried to speak.
"By the way, my name is Li—"
"No time for small talk," Idan cut her off. "You have a job to do. Focus on that."
Lira winced but didn't protest. She swallowed her pride, nodded politely, and guided them onward in silence.
Soon, the three of them disappeared beyond the door.
— — —
As Antares and Idan followed the young woman deeper into the temple, their steps echoed faintly against the stone as they descended a spiral staircase leading into the underground level. Despite being below ground, the hallway they entered was brightly lit—an odd contrast to the otherwise somber aesthetic of the Church of Darkness.
The corridor stretched far ahead, lined on both sides with closed wooden doors, each leading to some hidden purpose. They did not stop or veer off. Their destination lay straight ahead, waiting in the depths.
What caught Antares's attention was how the moment they stepped into the underground passage, every lamp, lantern, and chandelier flared to life as if welcoming them. Another silent display of magic.
Idan walked just a few paces ahead, his stride unhurried, composed. There was something in his bearing—an authority that didn't demand attention, but commanded it nonetheless. His tone, posture, and poise painted the image of a man who bore strength not as a weapon, but as a fact of existence.
Antares watched him closely. There was no malice in the man. Not now, at least. To those under his protection, Idan was calm, almost considerate. But Antares knew from the whispers, the tension in the air, and the fear lingering in every glance—this was someone capable of great and merciless violence, should the situation call for it.
The woman leading them still spoke—likely giving instructions or context—but Antares understood none of it. Even so, he didn't need to understand words to see how cautious she was around the Inquisitor. That said everything.
And yet, despite her composed movements now, Antares recalled her earlier state. He had seen her slumped in a pile of notes and spilled ink not long ago—exhausted, unkempt, unguarded. She had the look of a woman constantly wrestling with deadlines, knowledge, and sleepless nights. Her fatigue was clearly the cost of intense mental labor.
She seemed relatively young, maybe in her late twenties. Long dark hair flowed just past her shoulders, and her eyes were a rich shade of hazel. Unlike the others in the temple, she wore no ceremonial headscarf. Instead, her attire was practical—brown trousers, a soft gray tunic, and an equally unadorned robe over her shoulders. A scholar, not a priestess.
Finally, they arrived at the room.
It was set up in advance. A small ritual chamber, clean and sparse. On a wooden table rested two glass vials—one filled with a shimmering pink liquid, the other a swirling blue. A silver-framed mirror hung on the far wall, and at the center of the stone floor, a large ritual circle had been drawn, etched with runes and old sigils.
Lira stepped into the middle and began giving instructions with a confidence that, while not overwhelming, was steady.
"You—red-eyes," she said, gesturing to Antares, "Drink the two vials on the table, then take your place inside the circle."
Then she turned toward Idan, her tone softening noticeably.
"And you, Grand Inquisitor… I would humbly ask you to wait in that corner. There's a chair, but if you'd prefer to stand, of course, I wouldn't presume—"
"I think I'll take the seat," Idan replied evenly, moving toward the indicated spot. Then he looked toward Antares and added with calm clarity,
"As for you—she said to drink those two potions and sit in the center of the circle."
Antares approached the table slowly. His crimson eyes flicked from the vials to the woman, narrowing slightly. For a moment, doubt flickered in his gaze.
Lira merely nodded, offering no further words—just reassurance, and a silent hint that it was probably safe.
After drinking the two potions, Antares felt a sharp pain spike through his head. Despite the discomfort, he moved to the center of the inscribed circle and sat down cross-legged, assuming a meditative posture. The court mage approached him, her expression focused, and began chanting the incantation.
From her mouth poured words—luminescent and shifting in color. Rose. Crimson. Azure. Emerald. The glowing syllables whirled around Antares, weaving through his body like threads of light before settling at the edges of the ritual circle. There, they etched radiant glyphs into the floor as if the very language of magic were branding the stone.
By the time the runes had taken shape, Antares was already gone—his consciousness slipping into the depths of his own mind. His body, however, remained perfectly still, seated at the center of the array.
Two minutes passed in silent anticipation before the silver mirror on the far wall began to ripple—and then, the image appeared.
Black. Nothing but black.
"What? That's… not supposed to happen!" Lira's thoughts raced in silent panic.
"…Why is it showing a black screen?" Idan asked, his tone calm but edged with suspicion. "I've seen this ritual before. That's not how it's supposed to look. Are you sure you followed the procedure correctly?"
"Y-yes, absolutely," Lira stammered. "I even triple-checked everything with the book beforehand. There shouldn't be any error in the spell…"
She wasn't lying. The ritual had been executed perfectly. The issue lay elsewhere.
It seemed as if the mirror would show nothing more. But then—an image began to shimmer into focus.
Antares.
He was lying in the middle of a barren wasteland, waking for the first time. His body ached, his mind a storm of pain and confusion. He muttered weakly, filled with disorientation and strain:
"Where… am I?"
And then he collapsed again.
Next came the wagon—his time spent shackled among the other captives. Their voices reached his ears, but the words meant nothing to him. Then, the ambush. The rescue. The temple. The first conversation with Idan.
"So he wasn't lying," Idan thought. "Everything we've seen… that's all he remembers."
"This is… impossible," Lira murmured. "Something like this could only happen if…"
"…If the subject was only just born," Idan finished her thought.
What they'd seen—those few flashes—had all taken place within the past few days. A moment ago, he'd opened his eyes for the first time in the wastelands. That meant there was no earlier memory, no past, no childhood. No life before.
Idan gave a quiet sigh and nodded.
"That's enough. End the ritual."
Lira obeyed. She raised her hand, uttered a short incantation, and the image in the mirror faded. The glowing words dissolved, the circle dimmed, and the air grew still.
"What in the gods' names are you…?" Idan thought, narrowing his eyes as he studied the motionless figure of Antares. Even with all his knowledge and power, he had no answers. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
After a few slow, shallow breaths, Antares stirred back into awareness. The ritual was over—he could tell by the silence and the heavy stillness in the air. But whether it had worked or not… he had no idea. The only thing he remembered from his time unconscious was pure, impenetrable darkness. No images, no memories—just a formless void, pressing in from all sides.
"…Did you see anything?" he asked quietly, his voice still hoarse with fatigue.
Lira, standing nearby and cleaning off her chalk-stained hands, tilted her head in confusion.
"What did he say, Great Inquisitor?"
"He wants to know if the ritual worked," Idan replied flatly. "The answer's rather obvious."
"Uhm, no. It didn't. But the fault doesn't lie in the ritual or its components," she said with a hint of frustration, casting a side glance at the still-glowing runes on the floor. "It's just… he is strange."
"No, Antares. Nothing appeared. No memories, no visions. And it wasn't a failure of the spell. She says… it's something about you," Idan translated, watching Antares closely.
"I–I'm Lira, by the way…" the mage added, almost as an afterthought—though, once again, no one responded to her.
Antares frowned, his brows furrowing in confusion. "So… what now?"
Idan sighed and crossed his arms, thinking for a moment. "There's little we can do for now. But you should stay here at the temple. I'll speak with the clergy—they'll begin training you. Our language, our history, the laws of this world… all the basics. Wandering blindly will only get you killed. But knowledge… that might give you a path."
Behind them, Lira visibly deflated as her name and voice were once again ignored. She folded her arms, watching the two with a mix of annoyance and resignation.
Antares nodded slowly. "That would help… If you're willing to accept me, I'm grateful. This place… it's done more for me than I could've imagined. But—what about the others? The ones who were rescued with me. Where did they go?"
"They were treated, like you," Idan said. "Then we checked their backgrounds—those with family were reunited. Or soon will be. The temple is sending letters to their hometowns. Some have already left. The others will be escorted by carriage when the time comes. We cover the cost."
"And the ones with nowhere to go?"
"They'll receive training—how to behave in noble households, how to serve with dignity. Some choose to stay here, joining the temple as acolytes or caretakers. You'll have that choice too. But for now, just focus on recovering and learning."
Antares lowered his gaze thoughtfully. "That sounds… reasonable. I'll decide when I'm ready."
"I—I'm still right here, you know…" Lira finally muttered, half to herself. But once again, she was brushed aside as Idan turned to Antares.
"Good. I'll speak to the instructors. They'll take care of you." He gestured toward the hallway. "Come on. Let's head back upstairs."
And with that, the three of them—Antares, Idan, and the half-forgotten mage—began their slow ascent from the ritual chamber, leaving the silence of the spell circle behind.