Raviel walked through the bustling streets of Hashphere, the mask still clinging tight against his face. The voices, the lights, the smells of food carts and potion shops all blurred together into a single haze. But his thoughts—they were sharp. Too sharp.
He replayed the scene in Wilson's shop again and again. The way he'd spoken. Cold. Detached. Almost… inhuman. He hadn't even hesitated when he told a father his daughter could die. Not a flinch of guilt, not a trace of warmth.
It was unnatural.
Why did I sound like that? he thought, jaw tightening. Why did it come so easily… like it was the most natural thing in the world?
But there was no answer. Just the memory of Wilson's terrified eyes, and his own voice, echoing like frost against glass.
By the time he realized it, he had wandered further into the city. Hashphere's public garden spread out before him—green lawns alive with laughter, elder folk bent over board games, children chasing each other in a blur of joy. It was normal. Peaceful. The exact opposite of what was happening in his head.
Raviel stepped forward, hoping—just for a moment—that the sight might calm his racing mind.
But he never made it past the gate.
"Oi, you—stop right there."
Two association guards, flanked by a pair of city police officers, blocked his path. Both guards carried the Association's standard supercharged batons, crackling faintly with restrained electricity.
One of the officers—a young man with a crooked grin—looked him up and down. "Full head mask, huh? You trying to blend in, or scare the locals?"
The female officer beside him elbowed him lightly, smirking. "Don't start, you're just mad his mask looks cooler than yours."
Her tone was playful, but her eyes stayed sharp. They both shifted, stepping just close enough to remind him this wasn't a request.
"This area's been crawling with weirdos lately," the guard said flatly. "People hiding their faces, hassling citizens. We're not taking chances. Either show us your identity on Arctic… or remove the mask."
For a second, Raviel stiffened. He had forgotten. He should have taken the mask off after leaving Wilson's shop. The realization made his chest tighten.
"…Understood," he said, his voice calm. Too calm.
He tapped his wrist. The Arctic pulsed with soft light, displaying his ID. But the guard frowned.
"Face too, kid. Rules are rules."
There was no avoiding it. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Raviel raised his hands and pulled the mask free.
The effect was immediate.
The female officer's eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in surprise. Even a few bystanders who had stopped to watch let out low murmurs. White hair, pale skin, and those striking violet eyes—it wasn't a face easily ignored.
The male officer whistled under his breath. "...Damn. You hiding that under a mask? No wonder people are staring."
The female officer shot him a look, but her own composure wasn't flawless. For just a second, she seemed caught between professionalism and something else entirely.
Raviel's jaw twitched. He hated the attention. He wasn't here to stand out.
"Are we done?" he asked evenly, though his voice carried just enough of an edge to cut through the stares.
The guard checked his Arctic ID again, then gave a stiff nod. "Clean. You can go. Just don't wear that mask around here again—it spooks people. Understood?"
"…Understood."
Raviel slid the mask back on, ignoring the whispers of curiosity around him, and stepped past them into the garden.
But even as he walked, his thoughts gnawed at him.
He wasn't sure which unsettled him more—the officers and bystanders reacting to his appearance…
Or the fact that, deep down, part of him hadn't cared at all about being threatened.
Raviel sank onto one of the park benches, leaning back, the mask pressed against his knee. Around him, the sounds of laughter and chatter blurred, his mind drifting back to the shop… Wilson's eyes, his own voice, the sharp, merciless way he had spoken.
Cold. Detached. Ruthless.
It should have disturbed him more. But instead, the longer he thought about it, the more natural it felt, as if a part of him had always been that way, lurking just beneath the surface.
His gaze lowered. His hands were steady. Too steady.
But then, like a ripple in a still pond, another memory surfaced. A softer one.
"Marky, you know when you're hungry you're batshit crazy!"
His little sister's voice. Teasing, laughing, full of warmth he would never feel again.
At that exact moment, his stomach growled. Loudly.
He blinked, almost startled by it—then exhaled through his nose, half a bitter laugh.
"…Guess you're right."
He hadn't eaten since waking up in this new world. Not a bite. And suddenly, the gnawing emptiness was impossible to ignore.
Dragging himself up, Raviel wandered the garden paths until he found a modest food stall tucked between the larger thoroughfares. The smell of caramelized sugar and butter hit him, sweet and overwhelming. The signboard read: Honey Glazed Pancakes – Extra Honey Available.
Without overthinking, he ordered exactly that.
A few minutes later, he sat back on another bench, the small paper plate balanced on his lap. The pancakes glistened with golden syrup, sticky and fragrant.
He ate in silence, each bite heavier than it should have been, yet oddly comforting. Sweetness on his tongue, warmth in his chest. By the time he finished, the emptiness inside had dulled a little.
When he set the plate aside, he noticed some honey still clinging to his fingertips. He lifted his hand, about to lick it off—
—and then a flutter of wings brushed against him.
A butterfly.
Larger than the ones he remembered from his world, its wings shimmered with streaks of violet and gold, glowing faintly with the touch of mana. It landed delicately on his hand and began to drink the honey from his fingertips, its tiny tongue curling in rhythmic motions.
Raviel froze. He didn't move, didn't even breathe, watching the fragile creature. For some reason, his chest tightened—not with fear, not with cold calculation, but with something else.
A memory stirred.
Long ago, his father had given him an old encyclopedia. He'd skimmed through it, bored, until he'd stopped on a page with colored pictures of butterflies. He remembered reading one peculiar fact—that butterflies couldn't truly feel joy or sorrow. They were guided only by instinct. And yet, for centuries, people had looked at them and felt… lighter. Happier. Butterflies gave beauty they did not possess themselves.
The thought sank deep as he watched the creature. A being that unknowingly spread happiness, even while carrying none of its own.
The butterfly lingered for a while, wings pulsing softly like a heartbeat, before finally lifting off. It circled once in the air, then fluttered away, leaving his fingers sticky with the leftover honey and oddly cold.
"…Hope you find your joy someday," Raviel whispered, his voice low, almost reverent.
His eyes followed the fading wings, a faint sadness threading his words.
"Truly… one of the most beautiful creatures of nature."
For the first time since he woke in this world, the place felt more real than had thought, even though he had long accepted this was a real world where variables could occur anytime.