When I opened my eyes, everything was dark. I couldn't see, smell, or touch—none of my senses worked. Everything felt like nothing, even myself and the world, as if it had been reversed. Then I started hearing a voice. The voice was… Faingh." But it was a woman's voice. She sounded tired, sad, desperate. She said, "Don't worry. Your time will come."
Suddenly, the nothingness that had been consuming me disappeared. I screamed and realized I had only been having a nightmare.
My father, Caelorn, and my mother, Lyra, bolted into my room. Caelorn panicked, "What happened? We heard you scream!"
I forced myself to calm down. "It was just a nightmare," I assured them.
Caelorn ran a hand through his hair and grunted. "Fine." Lyra's face was pale; she insisted we go to the church to pray.
"We'll go, Mom," I said, "but first, I have to finish my work for today."
Before I could explain what I meant, my father interrupted. He looked me up and down, eyes sharp. "Son—your body, your face, your height, your hair… You look like a noble." His voice held a mix of pride and calculation.
"I'm not like the Duke family," I snapped. "I don't see any difference. They're just like us, but with attitude."
Caelorn muttered something under his breath about getting me enrolled in a school. Then he looked at me and said, "Son, know this: whether a person is noble is decided by two things. First—bloodline. You must be related to the royal family. Second—awakening your own world."
I laughed, half-amused, half-bitter. He stood and said, "I'll tell you later, kiddo. Let's go chop wood." After Lyra kissed my forehead and said, "Take care," we left.
We were out at the edge of the forest, chopping wood, when I saw a group of kids dressed like they belonged to moneyed families—fine coats, polished boots, and smug faces. I approached, trying to be casual. "Heyyy," I said.
They looked at me with pure disgust. One of them grabbed a piece of bread and flung it at me. Others followed. "How could a low-class kid talk to us like that?" someone sneered.
I ducked under the forest barrier and ran to an alley to cry. My chest hurt. Tears blurred the world.
A boy around my age—dressed plainly like me—sat beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. "It's normal to be angry," he said softly, "but don't get too angry. It won't help."
Before I could answer, one kid in ragged clothes spoke up bitterly, "Ever since the archangel left, the world got corrupted—"
A knight who had been passing by didn't like the words. He grabbed the boy by the neck, hoisted him up, and beat him until a tooth flew out. Then the knight left as if nothing had happened.
We dragged the boy home. He was barely conscious—fading in and out—so we carried him on our backs to his house. His mother opened the door, furious, and slammed it shut in our faces. We could hear her scolding through the wood as we stood on the path, helpless.
After that, we just went home. I walked home with heavy steps, and the image of the beaten boy burned into my mind. His words replayed over and over — "Ever since the Archangel left, the world got corrupted…" — and anger knotted in my chest.
At the edge of the path, a shallow pool of rainwater caught my reflection. For a second, I froze. In the dim surface, my face stared back — and a flicker of purple light flashed across my eye before it vanished. I blinked. I didn't think much of it and kept walking.
When I opened the door, my father and mother were waiting for me in the hall. Caelorn's eyes were unreadable; Lyra reached for my hand, worry folded into every line on her face.
That night, when I finally lay down, sleep didn't come easily. Just as my eyes grew heavy, the darkness returned — silent and endless — and the voice came again: tired, desperate, familiar.
"Kairu… your time will come."
My eyes snapped open, drenched in sweat. The voice lingered, softer now, like wind through leaves.
"Soon."
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