Brian stood gazing at the sky, his eyes shining. A golden light bathed the sprawling lands of the Blood Empire, its brilliance adorning the capital below.
A sudden glare forced him to raise a hand to shield his eyes.
"Wow… so this is the escape you found, Victor."
Victor did not answer. He lowered himself to sit at the edge of the balcony, his breathing calm, his fingertip tracing a gesture outward.
"Do you see it? The beginning of freedom. All that remains is finding a way back."
"I think… I have an idea," Brian said.
"Speak."
"This balcony connects to the lower castle. It looks like an abandoned storage area, right? I just need to slip in unnoticed, blend with the people."
His tone softened with a touch of humor.
"Unless… you really mean for me to leap into the waterfall?"
"No. Do what you' re meant to do, journalist."
The thin, dark-haired man raised a hand to his brow in a respectful salute, then waved farewell and vanished into the armory.
Victor lingered, gazing at the heavens as if this beauty were his life' s final moment.
Three layers of sky unfolded above—a painting without purpose, shifting in form like a dimension of its own. Sometimes, even at dawn, the stars still shone.
Then—metallic tremors reverberated in his chest. Something spoke again in Morse code.
Dragon.
Victor lifted his eyes. A strong wind swept across the skies, and there—a great shape flew against the vast blue, its wings swallowed by thick clouds.
Why? Why tell me this? What does it mean?
He tried to answer back in thought. Futile though it seemed, something mysterious was stirring.
Suddenly, an overwhelming force shook within him, tearing at his chest. He struggled to steady himself, breathing deep, forcing his mind to resist.
Kill the dragon.
Kill the dragon.
Kill the dragon.
His strength drained. He sank to one knee, sweat pouring down his face until the voice finally faded.
Perhaps the dragon was too far away—that was the only pattern he' d noticed. Yet he still could not grasp the connection between the beast and the object in his chest. He recalled the trembling darkness he once saw—motionless, nameless—and the cryptic words of that unknown man.
The mystery remained distant, unsolved.
Victor clutched his chest, forcing himself back to the bath chamber. His clothes were filthy and damp with the stench of crawling through sewers. Amid the heavy steam, he stripped and lowered himself into the hot water.
To calm himself after all that had happened was a necessity. Droplets scattered as he pressed a rough hand against his forehead.
His wet hair veiled his eyes. Water streamed from his nose down his neck, his soaked muscles recalling memories of freezing seas gnawing at his arms, of death' s shadow giving way to the first crimson sunrise.
His first moment in this world.
After cleansing himself, he wrapped a clean towel around his body and returned to his chamber. He dressed simply—white shirt, black trousers.
The golden-haired girl sat watching him intently, never blinking.
Her behavior seemed genuine, yet there was still much about this world he could not understand.
To judge nothing too quickly was the wisest choice.
He warned her three times not to leave the room, lest the princess discover her. Then he stepped into the morning sunlit training yard.
Nobles were gathered there in casual garb for practice. Their bodies were clad in tight suits overlaid with light armor at chest, shoulders, and knees—displaying their physiques with clarity, men and women alike.
Some women were terrifyingly flexible.
As Victor observed their warm-ups, a hand touched his shoulder.
A familiar face—pale skin, light brown hair, a natural, handsome look. Yet his calm, empty eyes set him apart from the others.
The noble who stepped forward to teach archery that day.
The man extended a courteous hand.
"Let' s get acquainted."
Victor shook it.
"Victor Weber."
"Richard Fisonafia. A pleasure."
But the calm was broken. Richard' s eyes flicked aside, his grip tightening until blood dripped from his palm. A snapped arrow shaft fell at his feet.
His face darkened. He glared at another noble.
"You again, Diego Frether!"
The broad-shouldered blond man showed no guilt. He puffed out his chest and strode away with arrogance. Others quickly averted their eyes.
Victor noted the scene with interest. Though of equal rank, there were still hierarchies among them, like high school cliques or university rivalries—strength or family influence deciding status.
And Diego' s insolence went unchecked.
From his surname alone, Victor knew he was no different from Daniel.
Richard' s anger boiled in silence. He strode forward and grabbed Diego by the collar.
The blond man grinned mockingly, tongue flicking out. Before the tension could escalate, a group of young nobles came to Diego' s defense.
Faction against faction.
On Richard' s side, some women stepped forth. Strength against intellect—or perhaps arrogance against brute force.
But limits prevented escalation. Both sides backed down. Richard led Victor to a preparation room.
"Take this practice outfit, if you wish to train. Many weapons are available—call on me if needed."
Victor accepted, watching Richard leave. Under lamplight, he changed calmly. The tight cloth pressed against his muscles, restrictive.
Back in the yard, nobles trained in their own ways—some running laps, others sparring.
Then—a sword was tossed into Victor' s hand.
A gleam of sunlight blinded him. A blade lunged for his head in that instant. He held his breath, tilting aside.
The wind roared, air bursting, dust scattering from its force.
Diego stood smirking.
"That outfit suits you well, Ambassador! But don' t you have a weapon of your own?"
Victor dropped the sword.
"I dislike fighting."
His calm face only soured the atmosphere further. His arrogance was plain, ignoring Diego' s attack entirely.
Richard stepped in, scolding.
Diego' s grin vanished. His eyes darkened, and he lunged again, faster than a human should move.
Yet Victor' s eyes stayed calm. Before the strike landed, Richard' s sword intercepted it.
The two blades clashed. Diego circled, restless. Victor drew a dagger from beneath his armor.
Though he hadn' t chosen a weapon earlier, the dagger—small, concealable—was practical for anyone.
Gasps rose as Victor suddenly closed in, pressing the dagger to Richard' s neck.
A wicked smile.
"Anyone who moves—Richard Fisonafia dies."
He didn' t stop.
"One."
Richard' s eyes trembled.
"Victor! What are you doing?"
"Two."
Diego froze, confusion in his gaze. Slowly, he lowered his sword and asked steadily:
"Why are you counting? What does it mean?"
As the nobles' spirits sank, Victor' s surged higher.
The miracle of Power, bound to his will.
"Three."