The world was not young, yet not old either.
Above it blazed the sun Orion, steady and proud, a golden flame that painted oceans in light and carved shadows beneath mountains. It was not the only celestial presence to keep watch. Three moons traced their eternal dance across the heavens: Luna, pale and solemn; Sylpha, delicate and restless as though carried by unseen winds; and Riya, darker than the others, its surface etched in faint crimson veils. Together they shaped tides, dreams, and stories, for every child of this world grew up beneath their glow.
The age was known as Era 192. On the surface, it was a time of modern marvels and familiar comforts. Towering steel bridges spanned rivers, electric lights burned through the nights of great cities, and the engines of machines roared across plains that once belonged only to horses. Newspapers printed daily from vast presses, broadcasting stories of triumph, tragedy, and intrigue. Radios hummed with music and voices that carried across oceans.
And yet, beneath the ordinary rhythms of progress, there was something more—something that had shaped this world long before engines and ink. It shimmered unseen in the air, soaked into the rivers, slumbered within stone and soil. The people called it Rim.
To most, it was a whisper felt only at the edge of awareness. A shiver in the spine when a storm broke, a fleeting glow at the corner of one's eye in the silence of midnight. But for a rare few, Rim was not only a whisper. It was a force. It flowed through them like a second bloodstream, invisible yet undeniable. They could bend it, shape it, wield it as though it belonged to their will.
These individuals were known simply as Rimers.
No one agreed on where Rim had come from. Scholars wrote that it was a natural particle carried by Orion's light, diffused into the world since the first dawn. Priests declared it a gift from Luna, Sylpha, and Riya, blessings from the heavens woven into mortal flesh. The fearful whispered that it was a curse—an echo of ancient calamities buried in forgotten centuries. But the debates of scholars and zealots mattered little. What mattered was reality: Rim existed, Rim could be used, and Rim had become inseparable from the shape of civilization.
Still, it was not something freely explained in taverns or classrooms. The workings of Rim were cloaked, guarded, and dangerous. Most children grew up only with distant glimpses: the faint shimmer when a Rimer passed by, or the hushed stories of what Rim could do when stirred by desperate will.
The world of Era 192 was not united. Its vast lands were divided across five continents, each carrying its own history, ambition, and scars.
To the east lay Aurelia, a continent of glittering metropolises and ceaseless industry. Its skylines bristled with iron and glass, its factories drank smoke into the sky. Aurelia was the heart of invention, the birthplace of machines that made life easier—and wars more deadly. Yet beneath its progress, cities grew restless. Strikes, protests, and quiet clashes marked the streets, for not all prospered in Aurelia's relentless march forward.
Southward stretched Nhemar, a land of deserts and oases, where ancient kingdoms had risen and fallen beneath burning skies. Rim here was spoken of with reverence, woven into rituals and traditions passed down for centuries. In Nhemar's sprawling bazaars, spices mingled with strange artifacts said to carry the pulse of Rim itself. Its people endured with pride, hardened by sands and history alike.
To the west stood Drosven, a continent carved by mountains and cloaked in forests. Villages clung to valleys, and castles overlooked rivers that had seen countless wars. Drosven was fractured, ruled by shifting alliances of nobles and city-states, but its people were fierce, their songs filled with old legends of Rim-wielding warriors who once defended their homelands from invaders.
Far to the north lay Ysera, a frozen realm of tundra and fractured seas. Here, survival was a daily trial, and Rim was often the difference between life and death. Hunters whispered of beasts warped by Rim, prowling the icy wastes. Isolated as it was, Ysera had given birth to some of the world's most formidable Rimers, hardened by frost and silence.
Finally, across the southern oceans lay Kaelis, a continent lush and vast, where jungles stretched endlessly and ruins slumbered beneath green canopies. Kaelis was less touched by modern engines than the others, its mysteries preserved in vines and stone. Explorers spoke of Rim pulsing like veins through the land itself, alive and waiting, but few returned from their expeditions whole.
Five continents, one world. Bound together by trade and conflict, separated by pride and suspicion. The newspapers wrote of peace, but everyone knew the world teetered on a fragile edge.
The Rim hung over it all—both blessing and shadow.
It was in Era 192 that the people began to whisper of change. Strange eclipses painted Orion's light in unnatural shades. Luna, Sylpha, and Riya crossed paths more often, their alignments stirring unease in the hearts of astrologers and common folk alike. The flow of Rim, too, seemed heavier in the air, pressing down like an unseen weight. Children were born with strange eyes or voices that echoed with unearthly tones. Crops flourished wildly one season, only to wither black the next.
And in every corner of the world, Rimers moved quietly—some in service of their nations, others in pursuit of their own mysteries.
The ordinary people did not understand. Perhaps they never would. For them, life went on: factories roared, markets bustled, carriages rattled down cobblestone streets, radios crackled with voices of authority. But beneath the hum of progress was always that lingering truth: this was not merely Earth. It was a world touched, altered, and forever bound to the Rim.
Few could predict how long the fragile balance would last. Fewer still knew that somewhere, hidden in the crowd of billions, lived those who would either break the balance—or become the last guardians of it.
And among them, a boy named Kaito would someday rise.
But for now, the world simply breathed, unaware of the storm that slept within its own heart.
The first light of dawn crept through the cracks of the curtains, spilling across the wooden floor in pale ribbons. The small house stirred as the northern winds whispered outside, brushing past the frosted glass windows of Viace, a city that had learned to endure cold mornings and long winters.
Kaito Hiroshi awoke before the alarm.
His eyes opened to the ceiling, the faint hum of silence filling the room. He lay still for a moment, listening to the distant clatter of someone already moving in the kitchen. His black hair clung slightly against his forehead, mussed from restless dreams. But it was his eyes—deep crimson, unyielding—that set him apart. They caught the faint light and reflected it back like shards of cooled fire.
He sat up slowly, pushing aside the quilt. His body moved with the quiet precision of habit: neither sluggish nor hurried, simply efficient. He stood, 165 centimeters in height, his frame slight yet sturdy, and began the small rituals of morning. The wash of cold water against his face. The brush through his dark hair. The silent glance at the mirror that revealed the same boy as yesterday, as every day. A boy who looked, for all the world, like he cared about nothing at all.
By the time he stepped into the narrow hallway, the smell of breakfast lingered in the air—warm rice, miso broth, the faint sweetness of fried egg. He padded into the kitchen, where his mother, Mika Hiroshi, moved between stove and counter.
"Good morning," Kaito said quietly.
His voice was calm, unhurried. It carried neither joy nor annoyance, simply acknowledgment.
Mika turned, her smile lighting her face with a warmth that filled the room. Her hair, tied loosely, had begun to silver at the edges, though her movements retained youthful energy. "Good morning, Kaito. You're up early again."
Across the table, already seated, was his younger sister, Ayaka Hiroshi. Seventeen, with long dark hair tied in a ribbon, she glanced up from her notes and offered a cheerful grin. "Morning, nii-san."
Kaito gave her a small nod in return. He did not smile, but Ayaka was long accustomed to his way.
Their mother placed steaming bowls onto the table. "Your father's already gone. Sui left before sunrise—there was a sudden call at the station."
Kaito lowered himself onto the cushion, folding his legs beneath the table. "I see."
The clatter of chopsticks began, the quiet music of a family meal. Mika spoke lightly of neighbors, of errands that needed tending. Ayaka chattered about a lesson she had to present at school. Kaito listened, his face unreadable, his movements steady as he lifted rice to his mouth. He offered no interruptions, no additions—yet he did not ignore them either. His silence was not distance, but a kind of watchfulness, as though he absorbed everything without revealing what he thought.
When the meal was halfway through, Ayaka reached for the small black remote on the table and pressed a button. The screen mounted against the wall flickered alive.
A news anchor's voice filled the room, polished and urgent. The camera panned to an image of the sky, overlaid with charts and circles.
"…and as of today, the twelfth of August, the Astronomical Bureau has confirmed the sequence of eclipses to occur in less than two months. On October third, the first solar eclipse will darken the skies. Following closely, a second eclipse will occur on the fourth—this time lunar. The eighth will bring another solar eclipse, and the nineteenth, yet another lunar alignment. Four eclipses in the span of seventeen days—an event without precedent in recorded history."
The anchor's tone swelled with awe. "Scientists remain uncertain about the causes of such rare celestial behavior. While eclipses are not unknown, this particular sequence is… extraordinary. Religious groups have already declared it an omen. Economists predict widespread attention and tourism. Governments urge calm."
The screen shifted to diagrams of Orion, Luna, Sylpha, and Riya, their orbits crossing in intricate spirals. The image glowed with celestial elegance: the golden sun eclipsed, the three moons aligning, their shadows falling across the world below.
Ayaka leaned forward, eyes wide. "Four eclipses? That's insane… It looks beautiful."
Mika frowned softly, folding her hands. "It feels unsettling. Too many strange things lately. First the reports of Rim surges, now this…"
Kaito paused, his chopsticks hovering above his bowl. He watched the screen with those scarlet eyes, unblinking. For the faintest second, something stirred—an awareness, perhaps, or recognition. His gaze held the shifting diagrams, the perfect geometry of shadow and light.
Then he returned to his food. His face remained calm, expressionless. Whatever thoughts passed behind those red eyes, he kept them locked within.
Only Ayaka noticed the way his hand tightened faintly around his chopsticks before he relaxed again.
The broadcast continued: interviews with astronomers, charts of projected shadow paths across continents, a segment about festivals already being planned in Aurelia. But to Kaito, it all blurred into background noise. He chewed, swallowed, set his bowl down with quiet finality.
Ayaka finally turned to him, curious. "Doesn't it excite you, nii-san? Four eclipses in one month—it feels like something out of a story."
He glanced at her briefly, then at the window where morning light spilled across Viace's frosted streets.
"…It's just the sky," he said evenly.
Ayaka pouted. "You're impossible sometimes."
Mika chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Your brother's steady. That's not a bad thing, Ayaka."
The warmth of family filled the silence, but Kaito's thoughts drifted elsewhere. Beyond the window, he could see faint particles in the sunlight—dust, or perhaps something more. The Rim always hung in the air of Viace, denser in the northern continent than anywhere else. Most people ignored it, pretending it was nothing but a trick of light. But Kaito knew better, even if he never spoke of it. He had felt it in moments too quiet to forget, seen it shimmer in the edges of his vision when no one else did.
He returned to his bowl, his motions calm.
Breakfast ended with the scrape of chairs and the clatter of dishes being gathered. Mika moved to the sink, humming softly as she rinsed bowls. Ayaka began packing her notes into a satchel, already rehearsing words under her breath.
Kaito rose, slipping into the small corridor that led to his room. The morning light caught him again, gleaming against hair black as coal, against eyes that glowed faintly red in the half-shadow. He paused only once, glancing again at the television where the anchor's voice still echoed:
"…and while the world prepares for these unprecedented eclipses, experts remind the public that celestial phenomena are natural. Yet for many, the question remains: what do four eclipses in one month truly mean?"
Kaito stood there, silent. His reflection in the blank glass of the screen stared back at him—calm, emotionless, unreadable. A boy who carried no smile, no frown.
He turned away.
Outside, Viace stretched beneath the pale morning sky. The city's rooftops glistened with frost, chimneys exhaled thin streams of smoke, and the streets filled slowly with the shuffle of students, merchants, and workers. The northern winds carried the faint shimmer of Rim through the air, unseen yet felt, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Kaito stepped quietly into the day.
And the story of his silence began.
The sun had just begun climbing above the horizon, stretching pale orange fingers across the rooftops of Viace. The cobblestone streets still held the coolness of night, and faint mist curled near the gutters. Kaito Hiroshi walked with measured steps, schoolbag slung over one shoulder. His short black hair caught the weak light, but it was his eyes—deep crimson, sharp and unyielding—that drew attention wherever he went.
Even here, among rows of modest homes and the small markets opening for business, he felt the weight of being Catherine.
His gaze stayed low, fixed on the uneven stones. Walking quickly, quietly, he hoped to reach the school gates before anyone noticed. But fate, as usual, had its own amusement.
"Oi, look who it is!"
The voice was mocking, sharp as a pebble tossed into still water. Kaito's shoulders stiffened. He recognized that tone before even lifting his head.
Ahead, standing across the road, were three boys and two girls in Viace Public School uniforms. Their blue eyes glinted like shards of ice under the sunlight, marking them as Amerians. They leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, laughter already bubbling at his expense.
"Morning, red-eyed Catherine," one boy called, his smirk wide. "Didn't think you'd dare show your face today. You still crawl around with the rest of us, huh?"
The others chuckled, echoing him like a chorus of cruelty.
Kaito stopped a few paces away. His face was unreadable, calm to the point of coldness. He neither flinched nor scowled. Silence was his shield, and he had learned to wield it well.
Inside, though, his thoughts stirred.
Same routine. Same cheap words. They want me to react… they want me to snap. But if I do, what happens? A fight in the street? A report to the school board? My father dragged into another worthless apology before his Amerian superiors? No… better to keep walking.
He tried to move past them, but one of the girls stepped into his path, blocking him with a smile too sweet to be genuine.
"Don't ignore us. You Catherine types think you're still noble, don't you? Like you're above speaking to us Amerians."
Her voice dripped venom, though every word was delivered like casual conversation.
Kaito's jaw tightened. Above you? No. That was twenty years ago. Now, we're beneath you in every law, every street, every glance. And you like it that way.
Another boy—the tallest of the group—snatched at Kaito's bag, tugging it off his shoulder with mock politeness.
"Come on, red-eyes. Do your duty. Carry our bags for us. That's what you people are good for now, right?" He tossed his own schoolbag onto Kaito's chest. The others followed, piling theirs on top with exaggerated sighs of relief.
Soon Kaito's arms were burdened, his own bag buried beneath theirs. The laughter around him swelled.
He stared down at the pile, silent.
I could drop these right now. I could plant my fist into his smug face and watch the blue drain from his eyes. I could make them bleed, make them fear Catherine again. I have the strength. But… then what? Suspension. Police at my door. Father humiliated at the station. Mother's tears. Ayaka looking at me with that mix of pity and fear.
The thought stung worse than the insults.
So he adjusted his grip and kept walking, the laughter following him like shadows.
---
The road to school stretched long, lined with modest shops, bakeries, and old brick houses with cracked shutters. Vendors raised their heads as the group passed, but no one interfered. Most looked away quickly, pretending not to notice. Silence, complicity—it was the way of Viace now.
Each step felt heavier, not just from the bags but from the memories they stirred.
Twenty years. Just twenty years ago, Catherine were the rulers. We built cities, shaped laws, carried the legacy of centuries. Amerians bowed, bent their knees, hid their hatred in the dark. And then the Black Age Rebellion swept everything away. Fire, blood, betrayal… Catherine toppled in a single generation.
He glanced at his tormentors' bright blue eyes, brimming with arrogant ease.
Now they walk free with pride, while we—those of us with red eyes—walk chained by our own history. No law protects us. Teachers look away, officials shrug, even neighbors avoid us. If I went to the principal today, told him everything… what would he do? A warning, maybe. Or a smile that says, "Don't make trouble."
The smallest girl in the group giggled, watching him strain under the weight.
"Look at him. Doesn't even fight back. Guess Catherine really have learned their place."
The words dug deeper than knives, but Kaito's expression stayed calm.
No. Not learned. Endured. There's a difference. You think this silence is surrender. But silence can hide things too. Rage. Memory. Resolve.
The school building came into sight, its tall iron gates flanked by stone pillars. The chatter of students filled the air, groups of Amerians laughing freely in their circles. A handful of Catherine students mingled at the edges, their eyes lowered, their movements cautious.
Kaito's tormentors peeled away, retrieving their bags with mocking bows.
"Thanks for your service, red-eyes," one boy sneered. "You make a fine servant. Keep it up."
They disappeared into the crowd, leaving him alone at the gate.
Kaito exhaled slowly, the first real breath he had allowed himself since the encounter. He adjusted his own bag over his shoulder, his fingers tightening around the strap.
Someday… someday this balance will shift again. Catherine blood doesn't forget. Catherine eyes don't forgive. You think we're broken, but history moves like the moons. Always returning. Always circling back. When that day comes, I'll be ready.
The school bell rang, cutting through his thoughts.
Without a word, Kaito stepped inside.