To name him is, in fact, to speak of destruction. Throughout history, different cultures have commemorated his existence by different names: Owner of the Desolation, Lord of Ruin, Shepherd of Ashes… But behind all these names lies the same truth. He is neither near the beginning nor the end; he is the path itself to the end. It is not for nothing that tongues that speak of the Lord of Destruction fall silent. For at his mention, stone collapses, iron rusts, the soul darkens and despair sets in. His coming heralds not the extinction of a nation, but the self-denial of being.
—The Book of Ashes of the Great Zorath
…
[Two days ago]
The sun had not yet fully risen over the horizon, but the light filtering through the tall, modernly designed glass had begun to pierce the complete darkness of the room.
The mist that appeared in thin lines on the surface of the glass was a sign of the cool air outside. The light filtering in fell first on the table, creating golden glints on the polished wood. An ink bottle, half-empty on the corner of the table, cast shadows across the pages of the open notebook beside it. The edges of the notebook were slightly curled, and some lines had dried in blurry smudges.
The bookshelf took up almost an entire wall of the room. Faded gold leaf could be seen on the spines of the thick, hardback books. Some were so old that their leather covers were cracked, practically collapsing against the shelves.
A few volumes on the top shelves exuded an untouched silence, as if they were there solely for collection. They were titled "The Mother Mother's Manual," "The Mesgen Language," "The Central Core of Mornfall," and "The Prophecy on the Four Continents"—all lined up side by side. The artwork hanging on the wall took on a completely different identity in the morning light. The somber gray sky in one painting took on a blood-red hue under the light. In another, the eyes of a man with a dull face seemed to gleam, as if the morning sun had brought them back to life.
The plants flanking the doorway revealed varying shades of green from the dim shadows. Light coursed through the fine veins of the leaves, making it seem as if liquid gold were flowing through them.
The chair, right in front of the window, absorbed the full force of the light. Its brown leather, despite years of use, was still intact. There were small cracks around the edges, but these cracks seemed like subtle details that complemented the chair's identity. A small silver clock on the table deepened the silence with each tick, seeming to remind more of time than measure it.
There was a clear order throughout the room. But the most striking aspect of this order was perhaps the enormous painting above the door. It depicted an old man wearing a white robe, holding a Bible-like book in his hand.
The door suddenly opened, and a slender, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy of about fifteen entered. The sharp features on his face marked him as a handsome boy. His white robe shone with the light entering the room.
He glanced around; the room was quiet and clean. He slowly walked toward the enormous window behind the table. Looking out, he saw children playing ball under a tree between the walls that covered a certain area; they were nine or ten years old. The joy of playfulness was evident on all their faces.
The blond-haired boy slowly extended his hand toward the glass. When his fingertips touched the glass, the coldness emanating from the surface permeated his skin like a subtle vibration. He seemed to sense the difference between the hardness of the glass and the bustling activity of life outside.
"Is it really that fun?" he whispered. His lips moved, but his voice didn't even rise enough to echo against the walls of the room. His expression was somber.
He lifted his gaze from the children outside and turned to the city beyond the walls. Grimwall… the city where Velenor's palace was located. Symmetrical buildings painted in cream tones were interspersed with trees dotted along the orderly avenues. Every corner that caught his eye was the product of a meticulously orchestrated layout. The plants, stone pavement, and lighting accentuated the city's majesty as well as its artificial tranquility.
Velenor Palace rose in the center of the city. From a distance, it appeared as a silhouette, yet its grandeur was palpable. Its slender towers reached for the sky, and although the ornamentation around its walls was invisible, a subtle grandeur emanated from it. The boy's blue eyes lingered on the palace for a moment.
The dullness in his eyes suggested a deep contemplation. Then he lowered his gaze back down to the children in the courtyard. But the nine- and ten-year-olds who had been happily playing ball a moment ago were no longer there. Only silence and the shadows of the trees had taken their place. A sadness, faint enough to be imperceptible but evident, passed over the boy's face. His lips moved, as if he were about to say something, but he stopped.
"Oh… right. I came here to get Dad's book."
He took his hand from the window. The silence inside drowned out the bustling activity outside. He walked over to the wooden table. As he traced his fingers along the edge of the table, he turned his head for a moment and looked back at the window. Where the children had played, there was only emptiness now; not even a trace of the laughter of a moment ago had vanished.
Then he turned his head and began flipping through the notebooks on the table. His fingertips brushed the rough surface of the paper as he tried to find the book he was looking for among the pages, each rustle echoing in the silence of the room.
"I hate it when he wakes me up so early in the day for a book," the boy complained as he tried to find the book among the notebooks. Each notebook had a different color and texture on its cover. Some had worn corners, others had smooth edges, as if freshly polished. The dust was thin, clearly a table frequently tidied, or at least carefully maintained by his father.
"No, not here either… Not here either…" The smell of dry, hard paper clung to his fingertips as he parted the pages. Among the books were notebooks he had filled with his father's heavy handwriting, old bound texts, and scraps of marked paper tucked in between. The boy's brows furrowed even deeper as he picked them up one by one and set them aside.
"I can't believe one book can be so important…" he muttered, a faint reproach tugging at the corners of his lips.
Finally, as he leafed through the last notebook, his fingertips came into contact with a different texture.
A strangely dark black piece that stood out from the other papers… At first glance, it looked like a simple sheet of paper. When the boy pulled it carefully, he realized it wasn't paper at all, but a thin cover made of leather. The leather seemed to have dried out over the years; it felt hard, cracked between his fingers.
Holding it up, he looked with bated breath: the thing was a book. But it was extraordinarily thin, as if it were just a single sheet of paper. Its thinness created an almost unreal image in the boy's eyes. Curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly opened the cover. When it crackled open, he saw that there were only three pages inside. Not a sign, not a word... just blank, dry leaves that had turned more gray than white. As if time had forgotten even them.
The boy's face contorted. The corners of his lips quivered, and an impatient anger flashed in his eyes.
"...You woke me up just for an empty book!?"
His voice echoed softly, even harsher in the stillness of the room. He angrily dropped the book onto the corner of the table. The thin pages trembled under the impact, and the cover squeaked shut. The boy, trying to suppress his anger, began to rearrange the notebooks he had scattered. His fingers moved rapidly, the traces of his anger etched in the papers.
As he replaced each volume, his eyes suddenly fell on the book left at the edge of the table. For a moment, he thought he saw a faint gleam of light glimmering from the cover. But when he turned his head, there was nothing; the book looked as ordinary as all the others. The boy took a deep breath, blaming it on his lack of sleep.
After gathering the notebooks, he picked up the empty book and hurried to the door. The moment he pushed the heavy wooden door open, a long shadow fell over him.
"Ah! Our young master Leon, you were here."
The voice was calm, measured, yet filled the room with authority. When Leon looked up, he immediately recognized the man before him: a stately gentleman in a suit. He was approaching sixty. The deep lines on his face bore the weight of years, and his hair had long since receded, leaving only thin streaks of gray at the sides. But his eyes—those green eyes—were still extraordinarily bright. They held an intelligence that defied his age, a sparkle of vitality.
Leon was stunned for a few seconds by the man before him, then, recovering, spoke:
"G-good morning, Butler Arthur. What brings you here so early in the day?"
Arthur bowed his head slightly, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Your father was wondering why you were so late, young master Leon. I was waiting here until you left."
Leon's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"You waited here until I left? Why didn't you come in?"
There was a brief pause on Arthur's face. He cleared his throat, then his tone took on a slightly more formal tone: "This is your father's study, young master. As you know, only members of the Graves family are permitted here. It would have been… inappropriate for me to set foot inside."
Leon's mind was suddenly struck by a sharp remembrance.
True… this was no ordinary room. It was where the Graves family's most vital sources of information were stored. He remembered the warnings that had been drilled into him since childhood: a divine spell was woven into this room. Anyone who entered, except the Graves family, would feel their soul slowly being sucked away, and eventually, they would vanish entirely.
A brief look of unease crossed Leon's face, before he quickly composed himself. He shook his head with a weak smile.
"I'm sorry, Arthur… that was a stupid question. I guess I'm still groggy."
"Hahaha… young people like you aren't used to this time of morning, young master Leon."
Arthur laughed softly as they walked side by side down the corridor. The gray stone walls let in the morning light only through the tall, narrow windows, filling the room with a dim glow. Footsteps echoing on the wooden floor were the only sound that broke the silence every time.
Arthur's gaze fell on the thin volume Leon held in his hand. "Is this the book Master Vincent was looking for?"
Leon bowed his head, examining the thin pages between his fingers. The covers were worn, the edges dog-eared.
"Ah… yes, it must be this, Arthur. But… I'm not sure you can call it a book. It's more like a piece of paper pasted together."
Arthur brought his hand to his chin and walked a few more steps. His eyes lingered briefly on the piece in Leon's hand. "I see…" he said finally. He removed his hand from his face and straightened his back. "I've seen many books in my forty-five years of business—thick bindings, heavy scrolls of text… but this is the first time I've encountered one this thin."
They walked a while longer. At the end of the corridor were wide, dark wooden stairs leading up. Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and gestured toward them.
"Since you've found what you were looking for, shall we proceed to the dining hall, young master? Your father must still be waiting for you."
Leon lifted his head slightly after a short pause. There was a tired shadow in his eyes.
"Right… I completely forgot."
A subtle sadness flickered in his voice, almost imperceptible.
Arthur's sharp gaze didn't miss this detail. He leaned slowly over to Leon and whispered in a low voice, "If you'd like… I can bring a few sword technique books to your room later."
Leon's eyes lit up. The heavy expression on his face faded, replaced by a radiant light. "Really!" he said excitedly. Even his gait had a momentary lightness.
Arthur, noticing this sudden change, felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of his lips. "But don't tell your father. Is that clear?"
"Of course not!" Leon laughed, his lips curling up. "You ask as if I've already told you." Arthur let out a short laugh.
He gestured to the stairs and called out again, "Then come in, young master. Your father shouldn't be kept waiting."
Leon nodded, now walking more confidently up the stairs. "Don't forget the books, Arthur!" he called as he ascended.
Arthur smiled back, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You say that as if you've seen me forget before, young master."
...
When Leon reached the bottom of the stairs, he glanced again at the thin volume in his hand. It had no weight or depth. It resembled a thick, folded sheet of paper. His lips curled.
"Why does my father want this book...?" he thought, but he remained silent, knowing there was no point in questioning it. "Well, it's none of my business, anyway."
The atmosphere of the corridor had changed when he went upstairs. The dark red carpet spread across the floor softened his steps, and the large paintings that lined the walls seemed to follow him with his eyes. The frames hung with dark drawings of ancient kings, ancient battles, and priests. The torches on the walls, though dim in the morning light, cast thin shadows on the stone walls.
When he reached a window, the sunlight streaming in stung his eyes. He raised his hand to cover his face, then reached out to draw aside the heavy blue curtain. Just as he was about to draw it back, he noticed the noise outside and began to look.
Grimwall was before him in all its glory. The city was in a festive mood. The streets were adorned with flags, flowers hung from balconies, and colorful fabrics draped across the facades of the houses. Crowds of people filled the stone paths, holding mugs of ale and bottles of wine, shouting at each other and laughter rising. Children ran ahead of the crowd, reaching out to touch the armor of the passing soldiers.
Leon's eyes fell on the formations of the army. In that moment, he understood why the entire city had gathered.
The rippling of the shining armor was dazzling. The pride of Velenor, the White Falcon Company, was marching. The tips of their spears and swords caught the sunlight, the edges of their shields gleamed as one. Their steps were so harmonious that even the steel echoing on the stone road became a rhythmic melody. At the forefront stood the mounted commanders; the shadows of their helmets hid their faces, but the embroidered crests on them were enough to identify them.
But… there was one person in the crowd that caught my eye involuntarily.
A man in a black cloak marched at the forefront of the White Falcon Corps, his heavy armor reflecting the morning light and shimmering like a mirror. In his right hand, he carried a massive sword that extended down to his back, and in his left, he clutched the red flag of the Velenor Empire, bearing the golden falcon crest. Every step seemed to shake the stone floor.
"Head Knight Leonhard!" someone shouted. That single name ignited the crowd's enthusiasm even further.
Women screamed, children tried to squeeze their heads through the overflowing crowd, and men raised their fists, chanting his name. The noise reached such a pitch that even the flags in the streets seemed to vibrate with the sound.
Head Knight Leonhard's long white hair swayed in waves, caught in the harsh wind. His yellow eyes seemed to gleam from within, radiating a profound majesty like a lion's gaze on its prey. The sharp lines on his face, the set jaw, and the dark circles under his eyelids made him seem not only powerful but also tired and seen-it-all.
Leon unconsciously held his breath as he gazed out the window. There was such power in the Chief Knight's stance, his walk, his gaze… Even the White Hawk Order seemed to be overshadowed by him.
"Chief Knight Leonhard…" he murmured to himself. His voice held both admiration and acceptance of an unattainable distance.
Leon involuntarily held his breath. He felt his heart beat faster.
For a moment, he dreamed of joining them. To wear armor, to move to the order's rhythm, to feel the admiration he saw in the eyes of the people of Grimwall, together… Most of all, he longed to wield a sword!
But his dream was fleeting. He noticed the thin book in his hand again. Empty, meaningless, light. He clenched it in his palms and looked back at the view beyond the window.
"White Falcon Order…" he murmured. His voice held admiration, but also an unattainable distance. When Leon drew the curtains, the darkness that suddenly filled the room trapped him in silence for a few seconds. It was as if an invisible curtain had descended between the bustling crowd outside and his own somber thoughts. A voice like a whisper escaped his lips:
"Come to your senses... You are a priest's son. You must not stray from his path."
His eyes trembled involuntarily as he spoke these words, and for a moment, his hands seemed suspended in space. The pale reflection in his pupils, cast by the thin light filtering through the window, seemed to carry the shadow of a burden upon him.
Finally, he moved away from the window; his steps were heavy, his thoughts blurred. He turned toward the dark brown wooden door that stood before him. The surface of the door was woven with cracks that curved almost like veins, the traces of years.
For a moment, Leon felt as if he were looking not at the door but at invisible eyes hidden within those cracks. For a few seconds, he stood there, his breathing uneven, his shoulders trembling slightly. An uneasiness he couldn't quite name welled up deep in his heart.
He took a deep, heavy breath. He banged his fist on the door three times. The sound echoed in the silence of the corridor, as if it had awakened old memories buried within the walls.
And then, from within, a deep, authoritative voice resounded with a clarity that shattered all hesitation:
"Come in."