Alex — Gehenna
Darkness peeled away slowly.
Not the void from before—this was heavier, warmer, alive.
Alex tried to move.
Nothing.
His body felt like it didn't belong to him anymore—numb, distant, as if his nerves had been wrapped in ash. Panic tried to rise, but even that felt muted, dulled by exhaustion far deeper than sleep.
His eyes shifted.
Dim firelight danced across stone walls stained black by soot and age. The air smelled of iron, smoke, and something bitter—like burnt offerings that never truly stopped burning.
Then he noticed her.
Vilomah sat beside him on a low wooden chair, slumped forward, both hands wrapped tightly around his. Her head rested against the edge of the bed, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She was asleep—but not peacefully. Her brows were drawn tight, fingers clenched as if afraid he might vanish the moment she let go.
Alex's chest tightened.
She's alive…
Confusion flooded him. The last thing he remembered was pain—too much pain—then voices, ancestors, light, darkness—
He swallowed, throat dry.
Carefully, weakly, he let his head sink back into the rough bedding, eyes never leaving her hands around his. For the first time since everything began, silence pressed in.
Then—
"You are awake, huh?"
The voice was calm.
Too calm.
Alex's instincts screamed.
He turned his head.
An old man sat in the shadows to his left, so still Alex hadn't noticed him before. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet the space around him felt… wrong. Like the air itself bowed away.
He wore dark robes threaded with symbols Alex didn't recognize, their edges faintly glowing like dying embers. His hair was white, not with age alone, but with something deeper—something that had seen too much and survived it all.
The man leaned forward slightly.
Awkward silence stretched between them.
Then he spoke again.
"Welcome to Gehenna."
His eyes opened fully.
They burned.
Not with fire—but with judgment.
"My name," the old man continued, voice steady, "is Andrea Naraka."
As he said the name, the room seemed to sink, like the world itself acknowledged it.
"It seems," Andrea went on, almost thoughtfully, "the ancestors have abandoned us."
Alex said nothing.
He only watched.
"And chosen you instead."
Something snapped inside Alex.
Not fear.
Anger.
A deep, suffocating rage clawed its way up his spine. His body—weak, unresponsive, broken—infuriated him more than the old man's words. He hated the helplessness. Hated being laid out like a corpse. Hated being chosen without being asked.
Without realizing it—
His eyes ignited.
Deep, flaming purple—violent and ancient.
The air vibrated.
Vilomah stirred in her sleep but did not wake.
Andrea Naraka noticed.
And smiled.
Not a kind smile.
Not a cruel one either.
It was the smile of someone who had just confirmed a theory.
"So it's true," he murmured. "Even restrained… even broken… you burn."
He raised one finger and pointed it casually toward Alex.
The pressure was immediate.
Crushing.
Absolute.
Alex tried to move. Tried to roar. Tried to fight—
Darkness slammed into him like a falling mountain.
The last thing he saw was Andrea's glowing eyes and the faint echo of his voice:
"Rest, child of ruin."
"You will need your strength."
And Alex fell back into unconsciousness as Gehenna watched in silence.Alphonso — The Library's Shadow
The library was never truly silent.
Even in its darkest corners, it breathed—pages settling, old wood creaking, magic humming faintly through shelves older than kingdoms. But here, beneath a collapsed arch and behind rows of forgotten tomes, the silence felt hostile.
Alphonso dragged himself across the stone floor.
Each movement sent pain flashing through his ribs and back. Bruises bloomed purple beneath torn robes, and dried blood stained his sleeve where someone's ring had cut too deep. He clenched his teeth and refused to cry out.
He had learned long ago that pain was private.
His name was Alphonso.
No second name.
No house.
No crest.
Despite being A-class, blessed with overwhelming magical capacity, he had no noble sponsor to protect him—no lineage to hide behind. That alone made him prey.
He reached the shadow of a bookshelf and sank down, back pressed against cold stone. His breathing was shallow, controlled. The echoes of laughter still rang in his ears—classmates who called him a fraud, a peasant mistake that had slipped through the academy's cracks.
His vision blurred.
Then—
"Alphonso…"
A whisper.
Soft.
Close.
His head snapped up.
"W-who's there?" he croaked, fingers twitching as he reached instinctively for his mana.
No footsteps.
No presence.
Only shadows and shelves.
His heart pounded. For a moment he was certain they had followed him—certain the beating wasn't over. But nothing came. The darkness remained still, indifferent.
"…I'm losing it," he muttered.
Exhaustion won.
With trembling hands, Alphonso traced a summoning sigil into the air. Blue-white light flared weakly, then folded in on itself.
A wyvern emerged.
Small—barely larger than a horse—its wings still thin and its scales dull rather than hardened. But its eyes were sharp, intelligent, and immediately fixed on Alphonso.
It let out a low, worried rumble.
"I'm fine," Alphonso lied, forcing a smile as he leaned against its warm side. The wyvern lowered itself, curling protectively around him, its wings forming a living shield.
Alphonso exhaled.
For the first time that day, he felt safe.
Sleep claimed him quickly.
And that was when it happened.
From the highest shelf above him, a book began to shake.
At first, only a tremor—dust drifting down like ash.
Then the chains binding it rattled violently, ancient runes along its spine igniting one by one with a dull crimson glow. The air thickened, heavy with pressure that bent light and shadow alike.
The wyvern's eyes snapped open.
It growled—low and fearful.
The book pulled itself free.
Chains snapped like brittle bone.
It fell.
Not to the floor.
But toward Alphonso.
The whisper returned, no longer faint.
Clear.
Certain.
"Found you at last."
The library watched.
And something old smiled from between the pages.