His eyelids trembled as he opened his eyes, finding himself lying on a cold ground, as if it were made of gravestones. No familiar place, no human voices—only the echo of his ragged breaths reverberating in the emptiness. A faint light seeped through the cracks of a ceiling he could not tell was truly there or just a trick of his mind. He tried to rise, yet every movement deepened his certainty that this place was unknown… and perhaps never meant to be known. He whispered to himself in confusion: "Where am I...?"
Shion opened his eyes to a world drowned in blinding white, as though the mist had devoured everything around him. His gaze swept the ground uneasily before lifting—only to fall upon a towering black palace that loomed in solemn majesty. Ancient it was, yet its grandeur was undeniable. Even in its abandonment, it outshone the royal palace itself.
A faint smile touched Shion's lips as he whispered to himself:
"Even the kings' palaces pale before this one…"
But his awe was short-lived. The palace suddenly trembled, its walls shuddering as strange sounds surged from within—footsteps, muffled cries—before fading again into silence, as though the structure had chosen to still itself. Yet something inside continued to stir. With nowhere else to turn, Shion advanced toward the gates, each step heavy with hesitation. The closer he drew, the louder the echoes became, until unease gripped his chest.
Then, the moment his foot touched the stone stair, silence fell once more—thick, suffocating.
"Do I step inside… or retreat? This cannot be good…", he thought, beginning to turn away.
But there—an old man stood behind him. Dignified, venerable, with an aura so commanding that even kings would appear pale in comparison. The man's eyes carried an apologetic glint, and for reasons Shion could not understand, a strange familiarity stirred within him—as though this man were his true father. Yet, from his body came a scent… not foul, but terrifying.
"Dead…?!" Shion's mind recoiled at the thought.
As if answering his unspoken fear, the man spoke, his voice calm yet heavy:
"My son… come to the palace."
Shion hesitated, but at last chose to follow. Together they climbed the stairs, the silence around them thick and crushing, until they reached the great doors. Carved from wood rarer than gold, coated in black paint that radiated a primal aura, the gates seemed to weigh on his very soul. Etched into them were golden inscriptions—ancient, unfamiliar… yet somehow he could understand them.
"How… how can I read this?" he whispered in disbelief.
The words glowed in his mind:
"Shi Yon… It is not your sin to be born in the depths of darkness. But it will be your sin if you fail to find your light in life."
The moment he finished reading, the hinges groaned, and the doors creaked open—waiting, as though they had held their silence until he had spoken the words.
Inside, a vast hall unfolded, its very walls whispering of glories past. Portraits of men and women adorned the chambers, their painted eyes exuding majesty and pride. They were only pictures, yet each radiated the presence of legends, as if warning future generations of the greatness they once embodied.
Then, from the white marble staircase, figures began to descend. Dead, all of them—yet Shion felt the weight of their presence. Their eyes, however, pierced him with scorn and disdain. Only the old man beside him looked at him with wordless apology. And strangely, Shion did not feel anger. A voice echoed softly in his ear:
"Do not mind them… they are already dead."
Before he could comprehend further, the scene shifted. Suddenly, he stood in a lush forest surrounded by the same blinding whiteness. A young girl appeared before him, her lips moving as if to speak, yet he heard nothing. She reached out and grasped his hand, pulling him along the path.
He barely listened, too entranced by the forest's beauty. But soon, odd movements caught his eye among the trees. The girl halted, shouted his name, and then fled in fear. A cold weight settled on his chest.
"This girl… why does she feel like misfortune itself?"
And once more, the voice whispered:
"She is dead."
She looked back at him just before vanishing, her eyes filled with something unsettling—yet the world shifted again.
Shion now stood in the grand palace once more, within what seemed to be a private garden. Before him, a table set with tea awaited. He sat without thought, though confusion lingered—
"I want to drink… yet why can't I pour?"
Then a voice—gentle, melodic—broke the stillness:
"Coming, my lord!"
Unlike any sound he had ever known, it washed over him like warm water, quenching a thirst he never realized he carried. His heart quickened as he turned toward its source.
There she was. A vision of beauty, unlike any girl he had ever seen. With swift, graceful steps she approached, poured the tea, and began speaking to him of events that had passed in his absence. Yet he heard none of her words—entranced instead by her sweet voice, her enchanting presence.
Her long, raven-black hair fell over her shoulders, framing a face of porcelain-white skin. The contrast was striking, mesmerizing. And when she noticed his eyes fixed upon her, her cheeks flushed crimson, making her beauty unbearable.
Shion's heart pounded, and he whispered within himself:
"Damn it… stop this, or my heart will stop because of you!"
The same voice rang in Shion's ear, like a bucket of cold water poured down his back:
"She… is dead."
His heart trembled violently, the echo of those words reverberating inside him again and again. But what was the point? Every being meets the same end—death—even the most virtuous, even the most righteous. Shion shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was back in the black palace.
This time, he sat in a grand council hall. Around him were elders and dignitaries, each carrying themselves with impeccable grace. Yet unlike before, their presence no longer weighed upon him. It all felt strangely ordinary. Their eyes, however, still gleamed with contempt. Shion had long grown accustomed to such looks, and so he gave them no heed.
His gaze drifted across the chamber, falling on portraits of others—figures who stirred a sense of familiarity within him, as though they were brothers. And yet, they too cast the same scornful glance.
"At least I'm used to this."
Then his eyes were drawn upward, to the great throne at the head of the hall. There sat the same man who had guided him at the beginning of the dream. The throne itself was a masterpiece: black wood veined with deep brown, reinforced with dark iron that radiated strength. Resting upon its back was a massive sword—its hilt black as coal, its blade brighter than the sun. Were it not bound by ancient sorcery, its brilliance alone would have blinded all who looked upon it.
The man's voice resounded, deep and commanding:
"Today, we will decide the heir of the family. You have all been given the same environment, the same treatment, the same resources. True, your years may differ, but age is no measure. Now… let us begin!"
He leaned back with a calm expression, dignity radiating from his every movement, embodying the very essence of a patriarch.
"This… this is what I call the head of a family," thought Shion.
His brothers began speaking one after another. Shion could not hear their words, but their gestures revealed much—they were boasting of their achievements, each vying for recognition. And yet, beneath their displays, he noticed the same unease, as though each feared disappointing the man on the throne.
Occasionally, the man would smile. Then, suddenly, his gaze fell on Shion, and he smiled again—warmly.
"And you? What of you?"
The smile was different from the others: pure, filled with love and care. Shion felt it deep within him, and his brothers felt it too. Their faces froze, disbelief clouding their features.
One of them erupted in a furious cry, his words incomprehensible, before turning on Shion with bloodshot eyes—as though Shion had murdered their father. He drew his sword and pressed its edge against Shion's throat. The cold steel kissed his skin… yet Shion felt no fear.
Again, the voice whispered:
"He is dead."
Shion drew a deep breath—and the scene shattered.
He now stood in a place beyond imagination. The very air exuded sanctity and dignity, as though untouched by mortal hands. Clouds encircled him on all sides.
"We're… not on the ground? Could it be… only nine-circle sorcerers could create something this vast?"
Before him rose another palace—ancient, but this one shone in purest white. Its walls glimmered with emerald, turquoise, carnelian, and sapphire light. Behind its towering gates stood monuments to figures of ages long past, their presence steeped in majesty and pride, much like the statues of the black palace. Yet Shion's heart remained unmoved by them. Something else called to him from within… and at the same time, something held him back.
"What lies inside… that grips me so? Fear? Or something greater?"
Then he saw it—a distant shadow. Its features were unclear, but its mere presence filled him with an irresistible urge to advance.
"Who is that?"
The shadow drew closer, stepping into the light of its balcony. The sun revealed the face of a woman, middle-aged, her features touched with nobility, yet oddly unkempt. When her eyes met his, they widened, shimmering with tears that fell freely. She rushed toward him, her expression desperate with longing.
"Could she… be my mother?"
Shion did not understand, but he saw it clearly—the joy, the yearning in her gaze. Then, suddenly, her body froze, terror etched across her face. Shion's eyes darted around, and there he saw him—an elder with a long, snow-white beard that reached his chest. His voice thundered through the heavens:
"Is this boy… your son?"
The woman trembled, shaking her head in panic.
"No! He's not!"
The old man's eyes narrowed with fury.
"Liar! He is the bastard who stained the family's honor! I feel the blood you share. Did you reject all men back then… for the sake of this wretch from the dark lineage?!"
His words were like whips, and Shion's heart surged with rage, a killing intent screaming for the old man's head.
The woman collapsed, begging:
"Please… spare him! Let him go, and I will do whatever you ask!"
But the old man ignored her pleas. He fixed his gaze on Shion with pure disdain.
"I have decided. I will kill him."
"No—!" Her protest was silenced by a merciless slap that threw her to the ground.
The old man's voice roared:
"Seize him alive!"
From the sky descended dozens of warriors, hundreds of guards, forming ranks in perfect order. The old man surveyed the field with a mocking smile.
"So… you are bold enough to come here alone."
At that very moment, Shion's anger reached its peak, and it seemed as though the familiar voice was about to echo in his ears once again. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his features tense as if something had exploded deep within him. Yet, the unexpected occurred… a different voice broke through the silence—strange, yet firm—cutting the threads of rage that threatened to consume him.