"Well, well… Finally! FINALLY! Hahahaha!
I see you, brother of the Master. I see you at last, you accursed traitor! Hahahaha!"
Don heard the laughter—strange, twisted, wrong.
A violent shiver tore through his body. It felt as though a thousand insects were crawling beneath his skin, burrowing deeper with every breath.
What the hell is that?
The sound was repulsive. Unnatural. Who—or what—laughs like that?
Don lived with his father in a modest house near the market, so he was no stranger to noise: children's laughter echoing through alleys, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, merchants barking their wares, and Mrs. Mira—always in her pink dress adorned with far too many flowers—gossiping endlessly with her circle of women.
But this… this was something new.
Something that didn't belong.
He hurried to his father's room, heart pounding. Did he hear it too?
Don knocked. "Hey, old man! You awake?"
The sun had already risen. His father usually left for the market by now.
He knocked again. And again. And again.
Silence.
Panic crept in. Did the stupid old man drink himself unconscious?
Don stepped back, planted his feet, and prepared to ram the door down. He charged forward—
The door swung open.
Don crashed face-first onto the floor with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through his nose. Blood dripped onto the wood. His head spun.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard it:
His father's booming laughter.
Don's face flushed crimson—half from embarrassment, half from rage.
"ALFRED!" he roared, staggering to his feet. "Why didn't you open the door if you were awake, you foolish old man?!"
Alfred laughed even harder, clutching his sides. "Which one of us is the fool, boy? Me—or the one kissing the ground?" He grinned wickedly. "I didn't know you'd reached this stage of maturity already! Hahahaha!"
Don glared at him, seething.
His father stood there as he always did: long silver hair cascading over his shoulders, white eyes so pale they made him look blind.
But Don knew better.
The cursed old man.
How can anyone call him weak? But who else is allowed to say it except me?
Alfred was sixty years old—yet somehow, Don felt like the ancient one.
Don wiped the blood from his nose and turned to his father, forcing himself to calm down. "Did you hear any laughter while you were asleep?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "How can I hear anything while I'm asleep, you idiot?" He waved dismissively. "Come on, no time to waste. Tomorrow's a packed day. Enjoy today however you want, but I'm going to work." He shooed Don toward the door. "Now get out so I can get ready."
Don left, fury still simmering beneath his skin.
As he stepped outside, the familiar sounds of the city washed over him—the hum of life, the rhythm of Al-Farid. He decided immediately: he would go to the training ground.
Who knows when I'll wield a sword again after today?
Tomorrow, the shackles would finally be removed. Tomorrow, he would touch The Source. Tomorrow, he would use magic—like everyone else.
Well… mostly like everyone else.
Not all humans loved magic. But everyone was connected to The Source. Everyone had seen it—once. Only once.
Each person claimed to see something different, but all agreed on one thing:
It was the most beautiful thing they would ever witness in their lives.
A one-time gift. A glimpse of eternity.
Back in the house, Alfred stood alone by the window, watching Don sprint toward the city gates.
Finally. Alone.
He sat heavily on the bed, staring down at his trembling hand.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Then from his eyes—slow, crimson tears trailing down his weathered face.
His voice was a broken whisper.
"I don't have much time left, Don."
His hand shook violently.
"Please… be ready."
He clenched his fist.
"They are coming."
His breath hitched.
"Your old father is truly sorry."
The blood mixed with his tears, staining his silver beard.
"I am sorry, my son."
Alfred looked up at the sky—and snapped his fingers.
The blood vanished.
His location changed.
He now stood in a vast, infinite expanse of white—a dimension so immense its size could not be comprehended. No walls. No ceiling. No floor. Only endless, blinding purity.
Floating before him was a White Sphere.
It pulsed with energy—pure, radiant, impossibly beautiful.
It was colossal. So massive it could swallow the universe whole and still have room for another… and another… and another.
But there was something wrong.
At its center, buried deep within the sphere's heart, was a red stain—a bloody, evil, disgusting red like rotted blood. It was the size of a sun, pulsing faintly, polluting the pure white around it.
If you didn't focus, you might not even notice it.
But Alfred saw it.
He always saw it.
"I know, my dear," he whispered softly. "Wait a little longer. Tomorrow, you will speak to him."
Then his voice hardened—filling the dimension with unshakable resolve.
"My beloved, our son will come to The Source tomorrow. He will come to YOU."
His fists clenched.
"Please… teach him. Protect him."
His voice cracked.
"I failed to do so."
His entire body trembled with rage.
"They arrived at a moment of my weakness. The barrier fell from the planet for a single second—but that accursed brother of mine polluted ME. Polluted YOU. Polluted this PLANET with his DEMONS!"
His voice rose to a roar.
"We found one of his followers coming to take him—TO TAKE OUR SON… TO TAKE MY WORLD JUST AS HE TOOK YOU!"
Alfred's scream shattered the fabric of the dimension.
For one terrible instant, the white space cracked—fissures of black chaos spreading like lightning—before snapping back together.
The sound of the fracture was like the death of a thousand suns.
It must not be heard.
If even a whisper of this sound leaked into the cosmos, the universe would perish.
Alfred exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm.
"I won't allow it," he said quietly, firmly. "He will kill me. He will consume my soul. But I will not let him touch our son."
He stared at the White Sphere, his voice softening.
"I know you hear me. He knows nothing yet. Please… guide him now."
He closed his eyes.
"I must go."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"They are here."
"My brother's followers have arrived."
He snapped his fingers—and vanished.
The dimension fell into a deathly silence.
Until…
A single droplet of water fell from the White Sphere.
It was the size of a galaxy.
It struck the floor of the dimension with no sound—dissolving into light.
A tear.
A tear of farewell.