The alley fell silent. The drugged man's final breath slipped into the night, his lifeless body slumping against the damp wall. For a moment, only the sound of dripping water echoed in the distance, mixing with the metallic scent of blood that lingered heavily in the air.
The masked figure knelt again, the cardboard shifting slightly with the movement. With slow, deliberate hands, he lifted the crude mask from his face, exposing the hollow stillness of his expression. He gazed at the corpse for a long, unblinking moment before reaching down.
His fingers grasped the man's right hand. He lifted it gently, almost reverently, as if guiding the hand of a child. With calculated precision, he dipped the index finger into the gaping wound he had carved moments ago. The blood clung thickly to the fingertip, warm and glistening.
Then, he raised the mask. Using the man's own finger, he began to write across the cardboard surface. Each stroke left a crimson trail, jagged yet purposeful. Slowly, the word formed— Obliviscythe. By the time the last letter was complete, the mask was marked with the legacy of the dead.
He placed the hand back at the man's side, allowing it to rest forever in silence.
From his pocket, he drew a small device—strange, compact, humming with faint energy. He pressed a switch. A pulse of unseen force rippled outward, snuffing out the glow of nearby neon signs, silencing electric buzzers, and darkening the single security camera that had been watching from a corner above.
The alley was swallowed by shadow once more. He slid the mask back onto his face, turned without a word, and disappeared into the night.
The world shifted. Morning light spilled across a small room. Aghorik Vashundra lay tangled in his bedsheets, sweat dampening his brow. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his hand clutched over his heart. His breathing steadied slowly, but the unease in his eyes remained.
"That dream again…" he muttered, his voice hushed.
The image of a man shouting at him burned fresh in his mind. The same vision that had haunted his nights, over and over. He pressed his palm harder against his chest, as though it might silence the memory.
"Who the hell is this guy, anyway?" he whispered.
With a groan, he pushed himself upright, dragging his feet across the floor until he reached his wardrobe. He pulled out his uniform—neatly folded, pressed with the faint scent of starch. A global school's uniform, prestigious and formal, with sharp lines and a crest stitched into the chest pocket.
He dressed quickly, fastening the last button with mechanical precision. His reflection in the mirror looked back at him—calm, unreadable, the faintest shadow beneath his eyes betraying sleepless nights. Without another word, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped outside.
The city had woken. Students filled the streets, traffic roared again, and life moved as though the darkness of last night had never existed. Aghorik walked among them, silent, his thoughts wandering.
The campus of the global school loomed ahead, its grand gates alive with chatter, footsteps, and the weight of academic competition. He crossed through, blending into the sea of uniforms.
And then—impact.
He stumbled slightly, colliding with another student. The boy who stood before him was clean-cut, sharp-eyed, carrying an aura of brilliance that seemed to announce itself before he even spoke.
The boy adjusted his glasses, his gaze locked directly on Aghorik. "Aghorik Vashundra."
Aghorik's brow furrowed. His lips pressed into a thin line. "There was no need to say my full name."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The boy did not reply. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes lingered with something colder, sharper than simple curiosity. After a few seconds, he stepped aside and walked away, vanishing into the crowd.
Aghorik watched him leave. Inside, his thoughts whispered with unease. Out of all the students, teachers, and staff in this global school… that boy gives me the worst kind of chills.
His gaze followed the student's retreating figure. His lips parted slightly, and in a low, almost secretive whisper, he spoke the name that had just crossed his mind.
"Chen Yuhang…"
With that, Aghorik turned, his shoes clicking against the polished floor, and walked toward his classroom, the weight of unseen threads tightening silently around him.