He spread his arms wide, embracing every sensation, tasting the sunlight that bathed his body.
His heartbeat thundered like a drum, laughter resounded, revealing a smile steeped in hidden joy. His body shone brilliantly, scattering radiance across the skies, expanding in all four directions.
The heavens split into three, forming empty vortices that tore apart the sky, leaving vast rifts through which sunlight poured down onto the earth.
Numbers on his palm fluctuated wildly. Meteors crashed, unleashing cataclysmic destruction.
Whole regions of the kingdom blazed like hellfire that would never burn out. A single beam of light struck straight through the gaunt man's arms, while a sword pierced his chest.
It was a golden blade, four meters long, engraved with ancient letters. Sunlight reflected along its length, from its tip to its hilt.
The young man clad in golden armor unfurled his wings and soared through the air, diving toward the gaunt man with a roar that shook the heavens.
Shimmering blood rained down his body. His glowing eyes glanced at the one ascending toward him. He seized the sword, pulled it free, and the gaunt man plummeted from the sky along with millions of armored knights.
Before the golden warrior, a tiny spark of light appeared. It swelled into a great brilliance, revealing once more the gaunt man.
His coarse, calloused feet stepped upon the air, each stride transcending reality itself.
The raging wind fell silent.
"Pleased to meet you, current Light of the Dungeon Organization."
The golden warrior's jaw trembled. His mighty helmet shattered into glittering fragments, unveiling a radiant face beneath golden curls, his fiery eyes locked with the other's glowing yellow gaze.
His limbs shook uncontrollably. Every movement of the gaunt man mirrored the other's actions—each step, each breath—bound and unstoppable.
The disparity of their power was dictated by conditions, and by the price required.
"I have lived for millennia, seizing lives, trusting in my own hands. To stop me is no different than a moth flying into the sun."
Blood streamed from his quivering lips. His gaze fixed upon those radiant eyes until blood welled within his own. He clenched his teeth to breaking, his resolve shining through his defiance.
Not even fear lingered in his soul.
"Gh—hck… Y-you… I am the Sun!"
"The Dungeon Organization has grown weak indeed, with such a frail youth as its leader. Return me to the laboratory, and the assault will cease!"
"Y-you… made a mistake!"
The gaunt man placed his palm upon the golden warrior's head.
"Farewell, child."
Flesh exploded in all directions, a storm of blood dissolving into light.
The golden-eyed man watched the armored figure fall into the vast sky. Silence settled over him, the scene unchanged, unyielding to the passage of time.
…
Evening sunlight streamed through the window, washing the dull-colored bed in its glow inside a modest hotel room in Newfanrein.
Victor raised his arm to block the light. Exhaustion from recent events weighed on him, yet awareness of his situation forced him to rise.
His eyes swept the room, checking every furnishing—lamps, wardrobes, paintings.
Though this age lacked technology for eavesdropping, there could still be supernatural methods hidden above ceilings or beneath rugs. His mind raced through possibilities—until his gaze fell upon the bed.
Selith stirred, groggily pulling the blanket over herself, tidying her hair.
No surveillance device could rival the danger before him. She was watching him. Victor stood frozen, recalling Dengarth's command—it was no different than wearing a dog's collar.
Though she appeared an ordinary young woman with an ordinary heart, what made her perilous was her power. Dengarth had not assigned her because she could analyze supernatural abilities—he had done so to ensure Victor remained under constant watch.
Moreover, the mystery of powers beyond detection, beyond mental probing, could be tied to the metallic object. Victor touched his chest, recalling the chilling words: "Disappear from the stars."
It was not an order to flee—but to cease existing.
He searched his memories for answers, but the fragments yielded nothing. As he stood deep in thought, Selith opened the wardrobe.
Inside, elegant garments hung in neat rows: black suits, wide-hemmed dresses, polished black shoes, handbags.
"There are plenty of clothes for you to choose from. Today I must take you out. Please pick what you like! But let me dress first… could you wait outside, please?"
"Of course. I'll wait."
Victor stepped into the hallway, the red carpet soft beneath his feet. The corridor brimmed with ornate art and potted plants.
The luxury exceeded all reason—too much for mere contractual obligation. Providing such wealth to a select few among many carried hidden meaning.
Yet to brood in paranoia and ignore the present would drive him mad.
Everything had to proceed in time. Soon, he would encounter supernatural power. To master it meant uncovering truth.
Though he did not yet grasp the vastness of this world, he knew surviving Selith alone was nearly impossible. The cloaked man's existence set the standard even higher. Perhaps "disappearing from the stars" hinted at beings far beyond—or that the very stars themselves were dangerous.
When the future arrived, he would live free—without hiding, without struggle. His story would end not in obscurity, but as a vast dream realized. He would not die ignorant.
Before long, Selith emerged.
Her long black hair flowed down her back. She wore a black gown, its wide skirt blooming outward, white bows accenting its design. Light makeup, soft red lips, a touch beneath her eyes—heels refined her graceful stride.
"I'm ready. Please, go inside and dress."
Victor passed her silently, closing the door.
Before the wardrobe, his hand lingered over the garments until his fingers stopped on a white shirt and black vest. He laid them on the bed, then selected a black tie, leather belt, and trousers. Shedding his soiled shirt, his sunlit skin showed before he clothed himself anew—shirt, trousers, tie, vest. Finally, a long brown coat completed the look.
Polished shoes in hand, he sat, slipped them on, then rose, adjusting himself in the light.
A knock came—and the door swung open.
"Forgive the intrusion! A message from the Contributors: 'Do not trouble yourself with doubts. You are granted this quality of life because you remain under the eyes of the Special Division.'"
Victor stepped close to Selith, his hand brushing her cheek, eyes piercing into hers. Her blue gaze wavered, but could not escape his dark stare.
"What are you doing?!"
"I wonder—are the Contributors watching me right now?"
"Impossible! I only deliver their words!"
She shoved him back.
"Let's go. If we waste more time, we won't rest tonight."
"Then tell me of the Revolution and the Special Division as we travel."
She nodded, leading him down. They passed bustling staff and attendants, all part of the cause.
"These people too?" he asked.
"Yes. Many skilled in such trades back in Ravenis are given roles here in the Republic."
Amidst the crowd, a carriage stopped. Selith stepped aboard, Victor taking the opposite seat. Their eyes met at intervals as the carriage moved. She closed the curtains, speaking calmly.
"The Revolution is an organization formed by Contributors—businessmen of Ravenis. Our purpose: to aid refugees fairly in the Republic, and to reclaim Ravenis one day.
We divide into five branches:
One: Contributors, guiding the organization's course.
Two: Border Division, operating at Ravenis's frontier and the Republic's underworld.
Three: Civilian Division, providing food, housing, and training refugees.
Four: Carriage Division, acting as eyes and hunters, with authority to call upon the Special Division.
Five: Special Division, unknown to civilians, wielding weapons and supernatural powers."
"And where do I belong?"
Victor traced his lips, intrigued. Selith clasped her hands on her lap, gaze lowered.
"I don't know."
Noticing her bare hands, Victor stared silently until the carriage halted. Selith peeked out.
"We've arrived."
As she rose, he seized her wrist. Drawing her close, he uncovered her smooth palm—
The number 12.
Victor's eyes widened. His suspicions confirmed: the numbers on palms tied to supernatural power. Ever since the coachman's reaction, he had suspected.
Perhaps it was a measure of strength—or something else. As he stared, Selith flushed, her skin warming, yanking her hand back with mistrustful eyes.
"What are you doing?!"
"I'm certain—the numbers mark supernatural power. I have one too."
He revealed his palm a single digit.
Their gazes locked, breaths steady, yet her tension grew.
"I know. Just don't show it to anyone. I'll explain when the time is right."
Victor nodded, still watching her. His boldness had not been in vain.
She stepped down, composed but silent. He followed, adjusting himself as the setting sun lit their path.
At last, they stopped before a university—smaller than Newfanrein's, quieter.
Victor pressed close, whispering as he held her hand.
"Forgive me. I didn't know you didn't want me to see. But I don't understand."
Selith turned, biting her lip, her palm trembling.
"Have you ever killed anyone?"
Victor froze. To him, killing bore no weight. Humanity's worth lay in how people valued one another. Without humans, no world. Friends were precious; strangers nameless.
Killers were branded evil. Victims drew sympathy, killers contempt. Yet revolutionaries and tyrants alike bore bloodied hands. Was there truly a difference?
In the end, he chose not to understand others.
Generations shifted values—once patriotic, now self-centered. Humanity redefined worth constantly.
He feared to answer. His palm bore a single digit. He held her hand, then embraced her loosely. She shed tears but spoke no more.
Supernatural power was rooted in killing, tied to the numbers. Yet he remembered nothing. His digit remained a mystery.
Night fell. Stars dotted a purple sky. Lanterns lit the cobbled paths, crows cawed overhead. The chill deepened, misting their breath.
Selith led him into the university, through halls, to a towering bookshelf. She pushed—it opened to a hidden passage.
At the end, a vast room cluttered with strange, broken relics, dusty and sand-stained.
"Don't touch anything. Many are dangerous."
Victor nodded, wandering among armor and weapons that stirred awe—and dread.
"What is this place?"
"It belonged to a professor who studied members of the Special Division."
"So, I'm here to be examined."
"You insisted to the Contributors you had no supernatural power. Yet your actions say otherwise. They suspect your memory erased—or your power tied to an object."
"An object can grant such power?"
Selith touched a heavy armor.
"Grow sharp!"
Spikes burst forth across it, especially at the shoulders. Victor's eyes gleamed.
"These are supernatural artifacts—infused with a will, drawing life not from power, but from the wearer."
The spikes retracted, and the armor cracked apart, splitting in two. Something tumbled from it, landing at Selith's feet.
She looked down—and screamed.
A severed head, bearded, with long, blood-soaked hair.
Victor searched the armor—only to find it drenched in thick, clotted blood.