Entwined with the Atlantic at its back, Aethelnia was a proud coastal kingdom, France pressing from the east and Spain stretching along its southern border. Yet for centuries it had been a crossroads of war and wealth, a trilingual land where cultures collided and blended into something stubbornly its own. Amid its inland heart stood Veridianne, a city of canals and factories, where medieval guildhalls stood beside steelworks and glass towers, and the air seemed to hum with ambition. Defiant even in its money, the Aethelnian Franc, clung to independence while its neighbors bowed to the Euro.
But in the industrial city of Veridianne, the stench of stale instant noodle cups clung to Kaito Sugiura's cramped apartment, mingling with the faint bitterness of unrealized dreams. A cracked mug sat abandoned on the desk, its tea long congealed, while his laptop hummed a weary drone, the blinking cursor of an overdue economics paper mocking him, two weeks late and counting.
At 23, Kaito felt heavier than his years. Not from age, but from the weight of unmet expectations, missed chances, and the quiet shame of fading into mediocrity. His college grades teetered on academic probation, his professors had stopped calling on him, and his life- jobless, loveless, directionless- felt like a script he'd failed to revise. I'm just… here, he thought, staring at the peeling wallpaper. No job, no plan, no nothing. That morning, a classmate's offhand mention of landing a tech internship had hit like a punch, a reminder of how far he'd fallen behind. As a kid, he'd burned through fantasy novels like they were oxygen, dog-earing pages where beggars became kings and ordinary doors led to untold fortune. He'd traced the maps with his fingertips, whispering promises to himself: One day this will be me.
Now, at twenty-three, the only thing he traced was the route from his apartment to the convenience store, shoulders hunched against the weight of Veridianne's indifference.
But tonight, something stirred. Not hope, exactly. More like a stubborn spark of defiance, or maybe desperation to feel something other than stuck. What's the point of sitting here, rotting? he thought, rubbing his eyes. I need… something. Anything.
His phone buzzed, slicing through the apartment's stale silence. The screen lit up with two notifications stacked vertically:
StorageAuc.ah: "Last-minute listing: abandoned storage lot, central Sambre. All contents to winner. Bidding starts at 400 AEF."
AEF-eye: 1 AEF = 0.85 Euro || 1 AEF = 0.92 USD
Kaito's eyes darted between the numbers. The conversion app had been running in the background since morning, constantly updating like a nervous tick. so a hundred Franc is almost Ninety-two dollars. Eighty-five euros. For that price, he could own everything in some dead man's storage locker. Or another month's worth of food. Or a few textbooks he'd never read.
Kaito snorted, the sound dry and hollow. Who the hell bids on someone else's trash? he muttered to himself. But the idea clung to him, like a half-forgotten dream. 400 Franc. That's about a night out in this expensive city. Maybe there's something worth selling. Or maybe I'm just desperate enough to throw money at nothing. He checked his bank app: 2137.86 Franc left, barely enough for rent and food. Still, the listing glowed on his screen like a dare, tugging at a memory of childhood stories of hidden pirate treasures, secret stashes. Screw it. What do I have to lose? Before he could overthink it, he grabbed his wallet and headed out, heart thudding with a mix of dread and reckless curiosity.
Twenty minutes later, he was on the Veridianne Metro, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in but silent. Am I really doing this? he thought, glancing at the office workers dozing through their exhaustion and high schoolers swiping at their devices. Bidding on junk like some scavenger? The city's pulse dulled his doubts just enough to keep him moving, the train's rhythm carrying him to central Sambre, a small neighborhood in Veridianne. Just see it through, Kaito. For once, don't back out. I will limit myself to 600 Franc.
The storage facility was a relic from the middle of the previous century—rusted chain-link fences, a vending machine coughing out canned coffee, a sign saying "Cash only", and a faint whiff of mildew that made Kaito wrinkle his nose. This place looks like it's been forgotten longer than I have, he thought. The auction crowd was thin, maybe ten people, clustered under a flickering sodium light. An old man in a fishing hat chewed on a toothpick, muttering to himself. A young couple in matching jackets whispering to each other, casting skeptical glances at the facility. A guy in a wrinkled suit tapped his foot impatiently, checking his watch. Who are these people? Kaito wondered. Collectors? Hustlers? Or just bored like me?
The manager, a middle-aged man with a bored drawl and a clipboard, stood by the gate. "Three units tonight," he announced, scratching his stubble. "Cash only, no refunds, no touching or going inside till you win. There is an ATM inside you can withdraw cash from. Let's get this over with.". When the manager said, "cash only," Kaito's fingers twitched toward his wallet. The ATM inside charged a 2.5 Franc withdrawal fee, another drop of blood from his dying bank account.
The first unit, A-7, was a medium-sized locker stuffed with cardboard boxes and old furniture. The manager opened it just enough to show a glimpse of dusty lamps and a warped bookshelf. "Starting at 500 Franc," he said.
"505," the old man in the fishing hat called, raising a gnarled hand.
"510," the couple countered, the woman nudging her partner with a grin. "Could be vintage stuff in there."
Kaito watched, hands in his pockets, feeling out of place. My first auction, and I'm already lost, he thought. Do I just… yell out numbers? The bidding climbed to 615 Franc before the old man won, grumbling about "better be some good books" as he shuffled forward to claim his key. Kaito's stomach twisted. That's more than my budget gone in minutes. What am I even doing here?
The second unit, C-3, was larger, with plastic bins and a bicycle frame visible through the half-open door and started at 550 Franc. The suit guy jumped in at 560 Franc, but the couple pushed it to 575 Franc, their voices sharp with excitement. "Gotta be tools or sports gear," the man said to his partner. "We could flip that." The suit guy dropped out at 670 Franc, muttering, "Not worth it." The couple high-fived, and Kaito felt a pang of envy. They've got a plan. I've got… what? A bad idea and a bank account on life support.
Finally, the manager gestured to Unit B-12. "Last one. Unclaimed for three years. Owner died, no heirs. Starts at 400 Franc."
Kaito's heart skipped. This is it. The one from the listing. He peered at the rusted door, imagining what might be inside—old clothes, broken appliances, or maybe something worth more than his dwindling savings. Come on, Kaito. You're here. Don't choke now.
"400 Franc," he said, raising his hand before he could stop himself. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet lot.
The old man glanced at him, smirking. "420 Franc," he called, spitting out his toothpick.
Shit, he's in, Kaito thought, pulse racing. He's done this before. I'm just some idiot kid. "425 Franc," he countered, his voice steadier than he felt.
The couple joined in. "450 Franc," the woman said, nudging her partner. "Might be collectibles."
"460 Franc," Kaito shot back, surprising himself. Am I crazy? That's a lot of cash. The old man raised to 490 Franc, and Kaito's palms sweated. I can't afford this. But I can't walk away empty-handed, either.
"495 Franc," Kaito heard himself say. The number hung in the air like a noose. That was a solid chunk of a month's rent on his cramped flat.
The crowd went quiet. The old man shrugged, waving him off. "Too rich for me, kid. You can have this one." The couple hesitated, then shook their heads. The manager nodded. "Sold, 495 Franc. Pay up front."
Kaito handed over the cash, his hands trembling as he counted out the bills. 495 Franc. I've got maybe 1642 Franc left for the month. What the hell did I just do? The manager tossed him the key, and Kaito clutched it like a lifeline, ignoring the old man's curious stare. I won. But at what cost?
Inside Unit B-12, dust swirled in slanted sunbeams slicing through cracked metal slats. The room was a maze of crates, shelves, and forgotten relics: stacks of yellowed books, rusted tools, a mannequin in a faded military coat. Junk, Kaito thought, his heart sinking. I blew my money on junk. But in one corner sat an oddity, a locked chest with brass trim, its Victorian style clashing with the unit's mundane clutter, like it had been plucked from another century.
What's this doing here? he wondered, crouching to inspect it. The chest's surface was etched with faint, swirling patterns, almost like the fantasy maps he'd traced as a kid. He pried at the latch, his fingers fumbling with anticipation. It resisted, then gave way with a soft click, revealing velvet-lined compartments cradling strange trinkets: a magnifying glass with three lenses, a compass etched with looping runes and swirling stars, and a sealed envelope bearing a red wax seal stamped with a crest: a coiled serpent around a crescent moon.
He reached for the compass, its brass cool yet oddly warm, like it had been held moments before. This can't be right, he thought, turning it over. The needle spun once, twice, then locked toward the unit's far wall. That can't be right, I don't think this is north.... A faint vibration pulsed through the brass, tingling in his fingertips like a whispered secret. Is it broken? Or… something else? He shook it, but the needle held firm, pointing to a bare concrete wall. The air around it seemed to hum, charged with an energy he couldn't name.
Kaito's pulse quickened like a drumbeat in his chest. This is insane. Compasses don't do this. He laughed, the sound sharp and nervous, echoing in the cramped unit. I'm losing it. Too many late nights, too much stress. Rational explanations piled up like courtroom evidence. But beneath them, that stubborn spark, the same one that made him bid 495 Franc he didn't afford, flared hotter. A memory surfaced, his younger self, sprawled on his bedroom floor, reading about heroes and hidden worlds. What if it's real? What if this is… something?
He pocketed the compass and envelope, his mind buzzing. I'll figure it out at home. No way I'm opening weird stuff here. The rest of the unit's contents, like the books, tools and the rest could wait. He had to know what the compass was.
Back in his apartment, Kaito sat at his desk, the compass before him, its needle still pointing, not north, but toward his closet. Still doing that trick? he thought, half-amused, half-unsettled. The rest of the haul was mostly junk: a cracked photo frame, a rusted sextant, a stack of fantasy novels with titles like "the heroes of Lamida" and "Bartering with Beasts". One cover caught his eye, a door framed in blue light, eerily like the image forming in his mind. Coincidence? he wondered, his fingers brushing the compass. Or did I just stumble into something bigger than me? A few corroded European coins might fetch 15 Franc online, but with only 1642 Franc left in his account, he felt the weight of his impulsive bid. I'm an idiot. This better be worth it.
The envelope sat heavy in Kaito's hands, its yellowed parchment brittle against his fingertips. The crimson wax seal glowed like a drop of blood in the dim lamplight, the serpent-and-moon crest slightly raised under his thumb. He turned it over - no address, no postmark, just the faint smell of cedar and something metallic.
Probably just some dead guy's love letter, he thought. Or worse - one of those fake inheritance scams. His thumb hovered at the seal's edge.
But then the compass on his desk pulsed warm, as if breathing.
"Damn it," he muttered, and cracked the wax with a snap that echoed too loud in his tiny apartment.
Inside, the paper felt strangely thick, more hide than pulp covered in precise, spiderweb-thin handwriting:
To thee who dost bear the Compass:
Seek not the northern star, for this needle turns to seams unseen,
where world and world are stitched by shadow's hand.
Stand thou where thou wilt, and a gate shall yield to thy command-
But only when the Compass is turned upon its face, as one turns a key in the lock.
The Compass is bound in fealty, sworn to thee until thy final breath,
And shall open for another only at thy word.
— Etched by the Hand That Dwelleth Between
Kaito's mind raced. T-the hell...? Is this a prank? Marketing for some game? But if not how old is this thing?! But the compass's warmth lingered in his memory, and the needle's unwavering pull, first to the wall, now to his closet—felt too deliberate. S-so what it's exactly mean, by seams unseen does he mean... d-doors or gates since he says it in the fourth line, between worlds. And what the hell is this fealty?! It's only a compass. hahahha. He laughed madly. But seriously, does it belong to the one who picks it up until they die, then am I the owner, or is the previous owner still alive?? How do I know? Also, it seems that it will not let anyone else other than the owner through without his permission, I think? It seems that I need to flip it around like key so it can work?? What kind of mechanism is this? He glanced at the novel with the door on its cover, its title whispering of thresholds and dangers. This is crazy. I should toss it and forget this ever happened. But then he remembered the auction, the internship, the years slipping away. I'm tired of being nothing. What if this is my shot? What if it's actually real?
As he held the compass, it vibrated in his palm like a living thing. Then—
A whisper.
Not from the room. Not from the street below. It curled directly into his ear, syllables dissolving before he could catch them, the breath of it colder than winter air. His free hand flew to his neck, fingers pressing against the sudden prickling there.
"The hell—?"
His voice sounded too loud in the empty apartment. The compass answered with another pulse of warmth, the needle twitching toward his closet again.
Kaito stood before his closet, the compass heavy in his hand. Its needle pointed straight ahead, unwavering, as if drawn by an invisible thread. This is stupid. I'm hallucinating. Or I've finally cracked, he thought, but his heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement.
Kaito pressed his palm flat against the closet door. Particle board. Laminate. Utterly ordinary.
Of course it's just a closet. What did you expect—
Then the compass turned ice-cold in his hand.
He jerked back, sucking in a sharp breath. Focus. Breathe. In four seconds. Hold seven. Out eight. The anxiety drills his campus counselor taught him. His exhale shook.
On the third breath, he flipped the compass upside-down and twisted
like turning a key in a lock he couldn't see.
The air congealed around him.
A razor-thin line of blue light split the darkness, sizzling like a live wire as it traced the closet's perimeter. The sound hit next—a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in his ears, in the hollow of his chest, in the spaces between his ribs.
Kaito stumbled back, sneakers squeaking against the floor. Nononono His thoughts short-circuited. The closet's dimensions warped, the back panel stretching into impossible depth, wood grain swirling like liquid.
Then—
A door.
Real as the heartbeat slamming in his throat.
Oak planks banded with black iron. A handle of tarnished silver. And carved dead-center—the serpent-and-moon crest, its grooves glowing faintly blue.
The compass burned in his hand.
The door waiting...
Only history and fate would know the true weight of what followed. The world—or rather, worlds—shivered in response. Across unseen horizons, threads of fate stirred, shivering in answer to his choice. His choice would not belong to him alone—it would ripple outward, shaping countless lives, kingdoms, and realms yet unknown. Some would rise, some would fall.Some would bless his name; others would curse it for generations.
If history itself could speak, it would murmur with a cold, unyielding voice:
This was one of the rare moments upon which all else would hinge. A single step. A single heartbeat. A single thread stretched across eternity—and if it snapped, so too would the course of countless lives.