Forget the book. Rosario needed action, not speculation.
He slid the volume back onto the shelf and stepped out into the fading light. The city buzzed with life, but he moved through it like a blade through water—silent, focused, eyes fixed ahead.
By the time he reached the dojo, the halls were quiet. Just a few late stragglers lingered near the front. Rosario made his way through without a word, heading straight for one of the private training rooms in the east wing.
He shut the heavy door behind him. The room was simple: a few dummies, a single slashing post, scuffed floors, the scent of oil and sweat still lingering in the wood.
Rosario stepped into the center.
It was time to test the edge.
He unsheathed his sword and gripped it in both hands. Calm breath. Relaxed shoulders. His body moved on instinct—precision drilled into him through years of combat.
Eyes closed.
The vision came again—not a memory. Not imagination. A flash—sharp, deliberate. A sword is tearing through shadows.
He opened his eyes.
They glinted faintly blue. The sigil on his left hand burned dark, casting a thin black glow.
He slashed.
The blade cut nothing but air—
But three feet ahead, the post hissed. A clean, flawless gash tore through the wood.
Rosario didn't flinch. He stepped forward, examined the cut. Deep. Smooth. Real.
He backed away and tried again—same distance—another perfect line.
Further back—nothing.
He stepped forward an inch. This time, just a shallow scrape.
So that was it.
Three feet of invisible cutting force, projected from the edge of his blade.
No effort. No strain. Just technique—and whatever power now lived in his hand.
He stared at the post. At the lines he'd carved.
Once, in the war, he'd missed a strike by inches. He could still hear the sound the enemy's blade made as it cut the air where his throat had been.
Three feet. Back then, it would've been a kill.
Now, it would be.
Rosario exhaled slowly, lowering his sword. The sigil's glow began to fade, but his focus didn't waver.
It was a weapon.
And it was his.
"Let's keep pushing," he muttered.
Time passed quickly.
He no longer needed to close his eyes to summon the edge. It came on command now—reflexive, effortless.
He ran toward the post and slashed.
A gust of wind stirred—and the ferralyte longsword carved a deep horizontal split. The top half slid off cleanly and struck the floor.
Clunk. Clunk.
Rosario sheathed the sword. His hands were steady.
He left the dojo and stepped into the quiet glow of evening. Street lamps flickered to life as he began the walk home, the buzz of the market just beginning to soften into the night.
Earlier that day, while the golden sun still hung high in the sky, Lox arrived at the wall separating the commoners from the powdered elite.
The noble district was split cleanly—just like everything else in Kartha.
The third ring housed the lower nobles—barons, viscounts, and earls—the kind of men who argued over coat fabric and called it politics.
The second ring was worse: marquises and dukes—the truly untouchable.
They lived just below the royal palace, stacked like perfume-scented parasites beneath the emperor's marble boots.
Lox had visited both. Neither left a good taste in his mouth.
At the base of the wall stood a large sealed gate—an ornate, armored thing meant to keep everyone who mattered away from everyone who didn't.
Lox approached the soldier on duty.
There stood a lazy-looking youth, gold bangs spilling over his closed eyes, leaning on a spear like it was a cane. The standard Karthan gate guard uniform made him look more like a half-dressed doorman than a soldier—dark navy trousers, polished boots, crimson tailcoat with brass clasps, and a half-cape clipped at the shoulder with the Empire's insignia.
A drowsy bellhop at the gates of nobility.
"Good evening, Perry."
Nothing.
Still leaning. Still snoring.
Lox sighed. Of course, he was asleep again.
He leaned in. "GOOD EVENING."
"What, what?" Perry jolted upright, blinking. Then, recognizing Lox, he relaxed and slouched again.
"Oh, Lox. Going to see your girlfriend."
"Yeah," Lox muttered, handing over the paper.
Perry glanced at it, nodded lazily, and handed it back. "The invitations are valid. You know the way. I won't bother leading you."
And with that, he drifted back to sleep like a man punching a time card in a dream.
Lox walked past the gate and took a right. Beside the large entrance stood a smaller side door. He opened it and stepped into a modest guard station.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by the flickering flames of the fireplace. A wooden chair sat tucked beneath a desk cluttered with papers, ink pots, and half-finished reports. Two small stools faced the hearth, their cushions worn from years of idle chatter. A narrow staircase wound upward into the guard tower. At the far end of the room, another door stood shut.
Lox made his way across and pulled it open.
As he stepped through, he entered the third ring.
Here, the air was different—absent of steam, soot, and the noisy clamor of the working class. It was quieter, calmer, perfumed with the scent of exotic flowers and freshly cut grass. Each estate seemed determined to outshine the last—no two homes alike.
Some were crafted in the style of foreign palaces, with curved rooftops and stained glass domes. Others boasted white marble columns or ivy-covered stone walls. Grand gardens stretched out in front of each property, bursting with rare blooms, sculpted hedges, and trees bearing strange, colorful fruits.
Lox passed nobles strolling arm in arm, their voices soft and melodic. The men wore tailored coats of deep green, burgundy, and ivory, adorned with embroidered patterns and pocket watches that gleamed in the light. The women floated past in sweeping silk and lace dresses, parasols in hand, their hair styled with jeweled pins and feathers.
This was a world apart. Gilded. Ornamental. Timed to a slower, gentler rhythm.
Lox kept his pace steady, walking with a graceful stride.
When he was sixteen, at the start of his final year at the conservatory, he had performed at the Grand Karthan Opera. The audience, as always, was filled with nobles—draped in silks and swaying fans, eager to be seen appreciating the arts.
That was when he met Elandra Vale.
She was a beautiful, elegant woman ten years his senior. She had watched his performance from a private balcony box and requested to meet him afterward. What began as praise and polite conversation soon grew—softly, quietly—into something far more intimate.
Eventually, Lox became her lover.
In Karthan society, it was not unusual for noblewomen to take castratos as companions. Their condition made them both desirable and non-threatening—welcomed as courtly confidants or private indulgences without scandal.
Elandra was the daughter of a wealthy merchant family. Years ago, her family had traded her into marriage with an aging marquis in exchange for power and noble standing. But like many such arrangements, the marquis soon grew bored. He left her behind in the capital and returned to his provincial estate—with another mistress in tow.
Since then, Elandra remained in the city, moving through elite circles but always along the edges—half noble, half castoff.
And Lox?
He was her secret solace.
Lox arrived in front of the mansion. Though grand and elegant, it was modest compared to the extravagant estates he had passed on the way. Its gardens were neatly kept but simple—just a few flowering trees, trimmed hedges, and a stone path lined with modest lanterns. The architecture followed classic Karthian tradition: tall columns, pale stone walls, and arched windows with wrought-iron frames.
He walked up and knocked on the door.
After a brief wait, a butler opened it, bowing slightly. "Good evening, Mr. Faelix. The madam is expecting you in the other room."
Lox stepped inside. The mansion looked as it always did—quiet, clean, dignified. A pair of maids dusted the shelves and polished the floor—embroidered flower-patterned sofas surrounded carved tables adorned with elegant leaf motifs. Golden light filtered in through curtained windows, giving the whole room a warm, amber glow.
He made his way down the hallway toward Elandra's office. Stopping at the door, he knocked gently.
A soft, familiar voice called from within.
"Come in."
Opening the door, Lox stepped inside. Elandra sat at her desk, dressed in a simple yet elegant yellow gown that complemented her golden hair. A pen moved steadily in her hand, and a neat stack of papers sat off to one side.
She looked up and smiled. "You're early."
"Sorry. I didn't have much to do today, so I left a little early."
"No, it's fine. I'm happy you're here." She gestured toward the couch. "Why don't you take a seat? I'm almost done."
Lox settled onto one of the couches. The office was simple but elegant—polished bookshelves lined one wall, and two couches faced each other beneath a circularMaranzan-made carpet, its golden thread glimmering faintly in the afternoon light. The centerpiece desk was carved from dark hardwood, each corner inlaid with silver filigree.
He glanced to the side.
Curled beside him on the couch was Elandra's white poodle. It blinked up at him with watery eyes, tail wagging lazily.
Lox noticed something new: a black collar, sleek and expensive-looking, with delicate embroidery stitched along the inside.
"You got Pooch a new collar?"
"No," Elandra said without looking up. "It was a gift from Marchioness Ismeria. Doesn't it just look darling on Poochie?"
"Yeah," Lox murmured, running his fingers gently through the dog's fur.
Time passed quietly as Elandra finished writing. Eventually, she put down her pen and leaned back with a soft yawn, stretching her arms.
"All this sitting is making me stiff," she said. "Let's take a walk in the gardens."
—
Lox and Elandra shared a close relationship—one that had only deepened with the years.
When Lox finished his education, it was Elandra who had pulled strings among the nobles to keep him away from the front lines. Thanks to her, he was assigned to logistics—far from danger.
In the Empire, most middle- and lower-class conscripts were sent directly to the front. Barely half returned.
During his month off, Lox was fortunate enough to come home. Rosario and Luck weren't so lucky. Their assignments had taken them too far to return during leave.
As a result, while his friends fought on distant fields, Lox had spent much of those years here—by Elandra's side, walking through these halls, tending her garden, quietly grateful to be alive.
As they walked side by side through the garden, the scent of late-blooming flowers hanging in the air, Lox's vision suddenly darkened.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed.
The last thing he heard was Elandra's voice—shocked and panicked.
"Lox!"
—
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Lox awoke in a cold, dim cave. The air was damp, and the only sound was the steady drip of water echoing through the stone. A single beam of light cut through a crack in the ceiling, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Where... am I?
He sat up, heart pounding, eyes scanning the space. Just stone. Rough, jagged stone.
He stood shakily and called out,
"Elandra!"
"Elandra!"
His voice bounced off the walls, swallowed by silence.
No answer.
After a moment's hesitation, he pressed forward, moving deeper into the tunnel. The deeper he walked, the narrower it became, until the walls almost touched his shoulders. Finally, the passage opened into a chamber.
At its center lay a ritual circle—etched into the ground with strange, glowing hieroglyphics.
Lox stepped into it.
A sudden, searing pain tore into his right shoulder. His vision blurred, and before he could scream—
Darkness.
—
He awoke to warmth.
Soft sheets. A familiar scent. The ceiling above him was ornate, gilded at the corners.
He sat up slowly.
Pooch lay curled beside him on the bed, eyes closed and peacefully snoring.
Other than the dog, the room was empty.
This was Elandra's room—he recognized the grand master bed, the fireplace with its flickering embers, the plush sofa, and the low coffee table beside it. Velvet curtains draped the windows.
Lox swung his legs over the side and stood.
He crossed the room and pulled back the curtain. A glass-paned door led to the patio. He stepped outside.
The moon hung high and cold in the night sky, casting silver over the quiet city beyond.
What happened...?
He tried to remember. He had been walking with Elandra—then—the cave, the runes, the pain.
Lox took a deep breath, rubbing his shoulder.
Whatever that was... it wasn't just a dream.
He turned and stepped back inside. He needed to clear his head. A splash of water may help.
He headed for the washroom.
Elandra's room had a connecting door to the washroom. Lox pushed it open quietly, expecting nothing more than a splash of cold water to clear his head.
But the moment he stepped inside, he froze.
A yellow gown lay crumpled on the floor.
His breath caught.
He stepped closer—and stopped dead.
Inside the gown… was a body.
Shriveled. Dried out. Hollow-eyed.
A corpse.
And not just any corpse.
It was Elandra.
His heart dropped through his chest. A wave of emotion surged—confusion, sorrow, horror, rage.
He staggered back, hands trembling.
"No…" he whispered. "Elandra…"
He sank to his knees beside her, mumbling her name, again and again.
"Elandra… Elandra…"
Ten minutes passed like a blur.
At last, Lox stood, pale and breathless, his mind spinning. He looked down at her again—her small frame now light as air, weightless in death. Wordlessly, he grabbed the nearest bed sheet and began wrapping her carefully, tenderly, like a lover tucking someone in for sleep.
She had always been small. And now, like this... she was easy to carry.
Lox wasn't thinking clearly. He couldn't. All he knew was that he couldn't leave her here—not like this.
He was middle-class. A castrato. A visitor. If someone found her like this, would they believe him? Would they even care?
No… something was wrong. Deeply wrong. He'd never heard of someone dying like this.
Drained. Withered. Empty.
Was this connected to that cave?
To the vision?
Was someone showing him these things? Or… worse—testing him?
Fear dug its claws into him.
No time to think. Only move.
Lox fastened the sheet tighter around her, slung her over his back, and made his way to the patio.
The moon hung high. Silent. Watching.
He climbed down quietly, clinging to vines and stonework, praying every creak and scuff went unnoticed. It was the middle of the night—thankfully, no servants stirred, no eyes watched.
Crouching through bushes and ducking behind trimmed hedges, Lox slipped through the nobles' district like a shadow, avoiding the main road. Each step echoed in the silence, and still, he moved through the darkness, carrying the woman who had once given him a life beyond the battlefield.
Now… she was gone.
And something else had begun.
Lox reached the gate at the wall dividing the third and fourth rings. There was no guard required to stop nobles from descending into the common districts—though few ever chose to. The very idea of mingling with the working class was beneath most of them.
Lox only hoped one thing: that Perry was on the night shift.
Because if anyone else was posted there, he had no excuse—no explanation that would justify a bundled sheet slung over his back. No version of this scene would look innocent.
He pushed open the small side door, just enough to peek inside.
The quarters were dim and silent, the wooden chair by the desk empty as always. He slipped in, quiet as breath, crossed the room, and reached for the far door.
Slowly, he cracked it open.
Outside, under the dim lantern glow, stood Perry—leaned on his spear, head low, posture slack.
Snoring.
Lox exhaled, long and slow. A wave of relief passed through him.
He crept past without a sound, slipping into the streets of the fourth ring.
Behind him, beneath the warm flicker of the streetlamps, Perry's eyes cracked open. He stared through his long bangs at Lox's retreating figure—bundle and all.
"Interesting… The city's starting to hum again."
Then his eyes shut, and he drifted back into sleep.