A shrill sound filled the air as a young man's eyes fluttered open, revealing pupils that burned with a deep ember glow. He lay in his bed, observing his dark room with a deadpan expression. Groaning, he tapped the alarm clock, letting silence blanket the room. He slid the sheets off his pale body and got up to start the day.
The room was spacious. A desk made of pale wood sat to the right of the sizable bed. A laptop rested on it, its screen folded down. Next to it lay a book with a deep blue cover, open amidst a scatter of loose papers. At the far end of the room stood a couple of shelves filled with old books—their covers worn and cracked yet neatly arranged and dust-free.
The young man's gaze flicked to the calendar pinned to the wall beside the light switch. One day was circled in red. Underneath it, the word "Birthday" was written.
He sighed heavily.
Right. Guess it's finally time.
Yawning, Elion trudged to the kitchen. The house he lived in was big and luxurious, yet it felt hollow. His father was rarely present, and even when he was, the emptiness never faded—if anything, it pressed in harder, threatening to bury everything under the weight of unspoken pain.
He turned on the gas, igniting a burner with a burst of blue flame. Aromatic oil sizzled in the pan as Elion cracked in two eggs and tossed in a slice of beautifully marbled meat. The umami scent filled the air, lifting his heavy mood, if only slightly. He boiled some water for tea before sprinkling some pepper and salt over the eggs and slid them onto a white ceramic plate, careful not to break the yolk.
Two slices of bread popped from the toaster. He slathered a generous amount of jelly on one and left the other plain to dip into the runny yolk. Finally, he sat at the end of a long table, his plate in front of him and a steaming cup of tea to his right.
He took a tentative bite of the egg whites and chewed slowly.
Slightly overcooked…
After devouring his breakfast, he brushed his teeth and washed his face. The mirror reflected a pale, somewhat gaunt young man with ember-like eyes and disheveled black hair. He ran a comb through the strands, trying to look if not good, then at least somewhat presentable.
The appearance is a mirror to one's soul, after all.
He slipped on a pair of black jeans, followed by a gray T-shirt, and finished with a black jacket—one sleeve, white with dark lines resembling a cross.
Elion forced a smile at his reflection. It might have been convincing, if not for the flicker of something darker lingering in his eyes.
With that, he grabbed his bag, stuffing in his laptop and a couple of books. This time, he also added his toothbrush and a few personal items—he likely wouldn't be coming back for a long time.
As the front door creaked open, the breathtaking view of Mirth spread across the horizon. The house stood on a high terrace in a cozy, affluent neighborhood.
Everything was dark, as it always was in Mirth. Instead of a sky, a vast ceiling of black stone loomed overhead, reinforced by massive arches of smooth ivory. It looked almost as if the city had been built inside the ribcage of some colossal, unfathomable creature.
Where the white arches met was lost in the shadows above, hidden by the murk, making it feel as though night was eternal. The streets were lit by powerful lamps, pushing the shadows back—though some still clung pitifully to the corners.
Far to the west, across the sprawling city, stood a tall building made of white stone: White Feather, the university Elion attended… though likely not for much longer. He had started a history degree, knowing full well his chances of finishing it were slim. Today was probably the last day he'd ever set foot there.
Shaking off the unpleasant thought, he walked to the metro station. A web of tracks ran beneath the city in deep tunnels—personal vehicles didn't exist in Mirth. The roads were too narrow to accommodate such pointless indulgences.
Maybe in Goreth—their hubris has always been the source of many useless inventions.
The metro was packed—most people heading to Station Three, where the farms were. Mirth wasn't called the City of Growth and Rebirth for nothing; it was the main food producer in all of Nexus.
Elion was heading to Station Eight, the stop for White Feather. The passengers here looked quite different from the rugged workers on their way to the farms. These wore scholarly garments—elegant, yet modest. There was no uniform at this peculiar school, but students still adhered to a certain classy aesthetic.
A girl, youthful yet stern, wearing a navy skirt and dark vest, waved at him.
"Eli! How did you do on the homework that Teacher Bruno assigned us?"
Elion sighed inwardly.
Just because you know me doesn't mean you have to talk to me...
His lips curved upward in a polite smile.
"It wasn't too bad, though I found the question about the First Age tricky."
She smiled warmly, brushing a strand of brown hair from her face.
"I know, right? We barely know anything about the First Age... especially about the relationship between mortals and the gods!"
How clueless… are we really in the same class?
Elion's smile didn't waver. He looked her straight in the eyes without saying anything, letting the silence turn awkward. She quickly averted her gaze and excused herself, moving to sit elsewhere.
Maybe I should've said something. Might've avoided the awkwardness…
The young man scratched his forehead.
Doesn't matter anyway… doubt I'll see her again after today.
The rest of the ride passed in silence—which suited Elion just fine.
Station Eight looked as pristine as ever. The people here were well-dressed, all walking with purpose. No drunks, no litter. Just how things should be.
The young man walked at a moderate pace until he reached the gates of White Feather University.
The ground was paved with ivory stones, and the fence was made of dark metal. The building itself stood proud and elegant. A quill crossed with an arrow carved into the stone—White Feather's insignia—displayed on banners fluttering in the breeze created by the large open cavern Mirth was built upon.
Elion made his way to the library, greeting passing professors politely. He sifted through the history section, eventually pulling out a book titled The Great Holy War, about the Third Age.
The Third Age was the least understood of all—odd, considering it directly preceded the current era. It felt as though something had been violently ripped from history, leaving a gaping hole in its intricate tapestry. All that was known was that a war of unprecedented scale took place—a war between the Sun and the Earth: The Great Holy War.
Elion exhaled sharply, reading pages he'd already read countless times, hoping for a fresh insight. It was in vain. The muffled ringing of a massive bell filled the air. It was 9 a.m.
Walking into the auditorium, Eli noticed a few familiar faces—some offered faint smiles. He took his seat just before a balding man of medium build entered, wearing a brown coat and beige pants. The professor placed a book on the lectern, hung his coat on his chair, and began his lecture.
Normally, Elion would've listened intently, eager not to miss even a scrap of information. But right now, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and fear.
Today—May 5th—he turned eighteen. That meant he had to go to the sanctuary and offer his blood to the Wretched Hand. Everyone in Nexus had to do this upon turning eighteen. No one really knew what the Hand was—only that it was vital to civilization. The artifact could detect whether a soul was Unlocked or not.
Some humans are born with more powerful, awakened souls. These individuals are called Unlocked. Their emergence is random, though patterns exist: if one parent is Unlocked, the chance increases. If both are, the child is almost guaranteed to be.
Elion's father was an Unlocked of the highest rank—a Third Finger General. His mother, while alive, had reached the Second Finger—a revered healer from Horis.
His fist clenched under the desk.
Becoming Unlocked meant being forced to fight—only they could venture beyond Nexus without being twisted by Entropy. Only they could battle the horrors that crawled from the depths and defend humanity's last cities.
But Elion didn't dream of war. He dreamed of studying history... of opening a cozy restaurant in Mirth.
Not like I have a choice… if I don't go, my soul will unravel within the year.
The only way to survive as an Unlocked was to accept the Voice of God bestowed by the Wretched Hand and seek the First Finger. If the First Finger isn't found within a year, the soul begins to unravel, eventually disintegrating—leaving behind nothing but a broken husk.
The morning passed by. Elion sat alone in the crowded cafeteria, squinting at a grain of rice between his chopsticks. The food served at the school was top-tier, prepared by renowned chefs. He bit tentatively into a piece of tender meat, and for a moment, his expression softened.
It's… great. I'm going to miss this food.
A tray clattered onto his table, and a tall young man took the seat across from him. His sharp blue eyes and dark hair stood out strikingly against his pale skin. Then again, everyone had pale skin—no one in Mirth had ever seen the sun, and if they had, they'd be dead. Artificial tanning existed, but most people didn't bother.
"Hey, Eli," he greeted him as he sat down.
"Ross… what are you doing here?"
Ross's expression faltered. He scratched the back of his head before pressing his lips together.
"I just wanted to say happy birthday. It is today, right?"
Elion's eye twitched. It took effort to maintain his usual polite demeanor.
What the fuck do you mean, "happy birthday"? You know full well what that means for me.
"Ah… thank you," he replied, voice flat.
Sensing the shift in mood, Ross hesitated, then looked away.
"Sorry… maybe I shouldn't have—"
"It's… fine."
Elion bit into another piece of tender vegetable.
Great. Now the taste is ruined.
Ross ate at record speed, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom. He never came back. That suited Elion just fine.
The rest of the day passed in a blur—images, sounds, and thoughts all muddling together in his mind.
This time, instead of returning home, Elion boarded the metro to Station Five, a more isolated part of the city. This area wasn't under the authority of the Leaf family, the governing body of Mirth. Instead, it was administered by Nexus Central Service—a neutral organization tasked with maintaining Nexus's core infrastructure. Since Unlocked individuals were required for that role, the Wretched Hand fell under their jurisdiction.
Elion was fortunate the Hand was located in Mirth. Those from Goreth or the First River had to travel days just to reach it.
He stepped forward. The agents on duty checked his identity thoroughly, scrutinizing every detail before one of them silently escorted him inside.