Silence.
An endless ocean of black fog stretched in every direction—thick, heavy, and alive, as if something inside it breathed. No light. No warmth. No sky. Only the cold ground beneath, and the faint echo of whispers that did not belong to the living.
In the midst of this void lay a child.
Small. Fragile. Barely six years old.
His white hair clung to his forehead, damp from the icy mist. His golden eyes fluttered open, trembling with confusion and fear. His clothes were dirty, torn at the edges, as though he had wandered far before collapsing here—wherever "here" was.
Lucas inhaled sharply. The air was freezing, enough to sting his chest. The voices drifting around him were faint, like distant cries swallowed by the fog.
They were not human.
He pushed himself up with shaking hands. His legs barely obeyed him, but he stood. The ground felt like frozen stone. He hugged his arms around himself, trying to stop the violent trembling.
"W-Where… am I…?" he whispered, though his voice was devoured instantly by the fog.
He took a step forward.
The fog pulsed.
A wind—if it could be called that—rushed past him, colder than winter. His breath caught. His knees almost buckled. It felt as if the wind was trying to freeze his very soul.
Lucas tried to scream, but—
The ground shook.
The void trembled.
The fog tore upward as if ripped open by invisible claws. Lucas fell to his knees, covering his head as the earth cracked beneath him.
Through the rift, something enormous rose.
A citadel—ancient, broken, and towering like the skeleton of a forgotten god. Its stone walls were shattered. Its towers bent. Chains of rusted metal hung from the ruins, swaying though there was no wind.
This place did not feel dead.
It felt cursed.
Lucas stared, breathless, drawn to it by some instinct he did not understand. His feet began to move on their own.
But—
"Don't take another step, kid."
The voice was dry. Weak. Tired.
Lucas froze.
He turned slowly and saw a man sitting on what looked like a throne—white, cracked, and half-buried in the ground. The throne had carvings of eyes along its pillars, each one shut tight as if in sleep.
The man upon it appeared ancient and young at the same time. Long white hair fell over his shoulders. His face was blurred, unfocused, as if the fog refused to let Lucas see him clearly. An owl perched silently on his shoulder, its feathers glowing faintly in the darkness.
Lucas swallowed hard.
"Who… who are you?"
The man did not answer immediately. His breathing was shallow, as if every word cost him strength.
Instead, he lifted a trembling hand toward the citadel.
"What you see… is the Sacred Citadel of the Fate Lord," he said quietly. "And before you run into it blindly… look at its path."
Lucas hesitated, then slowly approached the edge of the broken ground.
The fog parted—and his heart stopped.
A long path led toward the citadel gates… but it was not a road.
It was made of bodies.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Some old, some recent, their faces twisted in fear. Many wore masks. Others had eyes wide open, frozen in their final moment.
And at the very center of the path sat a figure.
A man dressed in tattered black robes, sitting on a smooth black stone as if it were a throne of his own. His clothing absorbed all light, darker than the fog around him. A mask—white, expressionless, and cracked—covered his face.
He was staring directly at Lucas.
Lucas stumbled backward, nearly falling. His breath grew quick and uneven.
"A path full of pain, isn't it, Lucas?" the throne-bound man murmured. "It is not meant for a child… yet here you stand."
"H-How do you know my name?" Lucas whispered.
The man stood, the owl flapping once before settling again. His steps echoed strangely, as if time itself paused for him.
"Your fate is not stable," he said. "Not fixed. Not written like everyone else's."
Twenty figures formed behind him—blurring into existence as if emerging from forgotten memories. Each had white hair, strange markings under their eyes, and expressions that mixed sorrow and pride. They stood tall, silent, gazing at Lucas with an unnerving familiarity.
"You," the man continued, "are the only one among us who can change what cannot be changed in this world."
Lucas stepped back, overwhelmed.
The man approached until he stood directly before him.
Finally, Lucas could see his face clearly.
Young.
Strong.
Marked beneath the eyes.
A face Lucas felt he had seen before, though he couldn't remember where.
The man placed a gentle hand on Lucas's head.
"Make me proud…" he whispered.
Lucas's eyes widened.
"Grandson."
Lucas gasped.
He shot upright in his bed, sweat running down his forehead. The darkness of his room replaced the endless fog. His breath was fast. His hands were shaking.
It was a dream.
A dream…
But he could still feel the cold.
He could still hear the whisper of the masked man.
And he could still see the twenty figures smiling at him.
Something inside him whispered—
It wasn't just a dream.