A dense forest.
Its depths were darker than night itself, and within those shadows walked a group of chained men. Their hands bore iron shackles, their backs carried scars of endless lashes. Each step was heavy, each breath filled with pain.
Among them, one whispered, his voice trembling:
"I want to die…"
Before the words could linger, a harsh voice snapped through the silence.
"Shut up."
The speaker, a tall man with cruel eyes, smirked as he struck the slave across the face. He leaned closer, studying him with twisted amusement.
"Interesting… you're still alive."
From his hand, a strange weapon gleamed briefly. In a single motion, he stabbed the slave. The body fell to the ground, lifeless. The man sneered, turning to the rest.
"Keep moving. If anyone stops, I'll make sure your death is far worse than his."
The slaves lowered their heads and dragged their weary feet forward, fear chaining them more tightly than the irons on their wrists.
But then, shouts erupted from the front.
"Run! Beast tide is coming!"
The forest quaked. A thunderous roar echoed, and the ground split as monstrous beasts surged forth like a living wave. Chaos erupted. Slaves screamed, masters shouted commands, but it was useless—blood filled the forest floor. Bodies of men and beasts piled together in carnage.
And then… silence.
When the beast tide receded, what remained was ruin. Amid the destruction, a lone figure stepped into the clearing. His face was hidden by a black mask, his robes resembling those of a master. His voice was calm, yet filled with triumph.
"Come to me… the Book of Secrets."
From within the rubble, a faint glow emerged—an ancient tome, untouched by the slaughter. The figure extended his hand, his tone cold with ambition.
"Today, I have finally found it. No one can stop me now. The path to the Second World… the World of Time… opens for me alone."
But just as his fingers brushed the book, the scene shattered.
A voice echoed.
"Son, awake."
The masked man vanished. The blood, the forest, the screams—all dissolved into mist.
A young man opened his eyes, gasping. Sweat dripped down his face as he sat upright in bed. He clutched his chest, muttering to himself.
"Again… the same dream."
He remembered his father's words—words spoken when he was only a child:
"When you turn seventeen, you will begin to see strange dreams. Endure them. For when you turn eighteen, I will tell you the truth… why these dreams come to you."
The boy stared at the ceiling, fists clenched.
His seventeenth year had begun.
And the dreams had already arrived.