The sun rose gently that morning, as if smiling upon the earth after a long night. Its golden rays spilled over the vast fields, bathing them in a honeyed hue. The wheat swayed under a light breeze, like a sea of living gold. In the midst of this breathtaking beauty, a boy was running—no, he was gliding so lightly over the ground it was as if he was racing the wind itself.
His hair, the color of the wheat, flew with every step, making a viewer think he was part of the field, not a person. His face bore the marks of childhood, that innocence which precedes awareness of the world's weight, and his eyes... his eyes were a clear, serene blue, like a sky just born. Everything about him seemed woven from the same fabric as this morning: the boy, the light, the air, even the silence.
He carried in his arms an ancient book, bound in dark leather, from whose pages flew old leaves as if fleeing his memory. On the book's cover was drawn a massive tree, its roots coiling around the earth like the arms of a living being. Beneath it sat a man leaning against its trunk, his head tilted to one side, as if lost in a beautiful dream or a beautiful death.
The boy ran swiftly between the stalks, a small smile gracing his face. He didn't know why he was running, nor where, but he felt the wind knew—and the sun watched him tenderly, as if witnessing the start of an unforgettable tale.
Suddenly, as his steps cut through the golden waves of wheat, the scene around him began to change, as if reality itself was breathing after a long sleep. The air grew clearer, the light shed its warm golden glow for colder shades of white and blue. Gradually, the outlines of a great structure began to take shape on the horizon—first mere faint lines, then towering white walls gleaming under the sun as if made of celestial marble.
A gigantic, ancient-looking university unfolded before him, its towers stretching towards the sky as if trying to touch the clouds. At its highest point rose an immense spire from whose pinnacle a pure blue flame danced, flickering like an undying sacred spirit. The sight was so majestic it felt as if the place wasn't built on earth, but on the edge of a forgotten dream or legend.
On either side of the road leading to the great gate stood guards with wings extending from their backs, wings of silvery feathers gleaming with every movement, their eyes glowing with a cold blue light. They stood as still as statues, yet the aura of power emanating from them was enough to make any intruder acknowledge their weakness.
The boy continued his path without hesitation; he knew this road well, as if he had walked it a thousand times. As he neared the university gate, an elderly man appeared before him, with a long gray beard and a deep blue coat, leaning on a staff decorated with a glowing stone. The man was smiling, his eyes holding a glint of wisdom and mischief alike.
He chuckled lightly, saying in a voice quavering with warm sarcasm:
"You're late again, Mr. Scarlet..."
The boy stopped for a moment, panting from the run, then smiled a small smile and said:
"Hello, Master Bursan... Happy to see you again."
The air inside the university walls was different, carrying the scent of old paper and hot metal, as if thousands of stories hid behind its white walls. The moment Scarlet passed the first gate, he found himself in a vast garden resembling a living painting: trees arranged with geometric precision, their leaves shimmering in shades from green to gold, and a breeze carrying a faint, musical tune of unknown origin that brought a strange comfort to the soul.
He advanced towards the second gate, massive and tightly shut, with strange symbols carved on its surface that flashed with a cold blue light every so often. He didn't try to open it; he simply continued walking confidently, and when he touched it with his hand... the gate dissolved before him like glass flooded with light. His body disappeared into it in an instant, finding himself in a long corridor illuminated on both sides by floating crystals, in which light flowed as if they were breathing.
The corridor led to a huge inner courtyard, filled with the sounds of students and professors, where the scent of old ink mingled with a strange energy that made one feel on the verge of learning something beyond the limits of logic. As Scarlet walked towards his class, he heard behind him a sharp, clear voice, all too familiar to him.
"How many times must I tell you, Scarlet?!"
He turned to find a short woman with chestnut hair tied neatly and large, round glasses that almost hid her gray eyes. She held a pile of files under her arm and glared at him with a stern look.
"You mustn't always be late like this. Half the class is over, and this behavior is not welcome in the university, even if you are its son!"
She paused for a moment, then continued in a calmer but still sharp tone:
"Just because you are Scarlet, son of the great Shobla Darval, doesn't mean you can neglect your lessons as you please. Do you understand? Now go to your class... and don't repeat this again."
He lowered his head a little, scratching his hair with an embarrassed smile:
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Miloni... I won't do it again."
She raised an eyebrow with a hint of sarcasm, waving her hand as she said:
"I know you will. Go now before I change my mind."
He laughed softly, then continued his way with quick steps through the long corridors. Along the way, he passed transparent glass windows overlooking other halls.
In the first hall, a man with long hair spoke passionately, his booming voice filling the space:
"The fire element isn't just energy, it's will! Every spark in it represents a part of your soul, so beware of trying to control it before you understand it!"
His students repeated the gestures with their hands, tiny sparks flying in the air—some burning before they were born, others glowing for a moment then fading.
In the second hall, a woman was explaining before a board covered in symbols:
"The water element, contrary to belief, isn't just about calmness. It is memory; it carries what was and returns it when it wills. Water does not forget; remember that always!"
In the third hall, a silver-haired person was asleep at his desk, amidst students chatting among themselves.
Scarlet paused a moment before a slightly darkened hall; there was no sound except a low hum. Inside, an old man was staring at his students:
"As for the fourth element... Earth... it is patience. It isn't born strong, but it always triumphs in the end. Because it alone knows the meaning of steadfastness."
And the old man was Master Bursan.
Scarlet smiled lightly, as if recalling distant memories, then continued on his way to his class, his steps tinged with a mix of eagerness and apprehension.
He finally reached the classroom door, which was immediately opened for him by a tall professor with a stern gaze and a sarcastic smile, as if his lateness was expected.
"Look who finally decided to join us!" he said in a resonant voice that filled the room. "Mr. Scarlet, go straight to the Headmistress's office, she's expecting you here to justify your lateness yet again."
Scarlet headed towards the door with calm steps, as if this scene had repeated hundreds of times before. There was no confusion on his face, only that usual sardonic smile—no one knew whether it mocked the situation or himself.
He knew perfectly well that the Headmistress couldn't stand him, for a reason unknown to him, but she never missed a chance to remind him he was no exception in this place.
He thought to himself, chuckling softly:
"Lovely... Late on the first day. A great start, Scarlet."
He continued down the long corridor leading to the Headmistress's office, the high walls echoing his footsteps, when he heard a warm, familiar voice calling him from afar:
"Scarlet! Dear Scarlet!"
He turned to see Mama Viola—a somewhat plump woman with a round face radiating kindness and a smile that never left her, no matter how difficult the day. She waved at him, hurrying towards him with light steps despite her full figure.
Scarlet approached her and said with a small smile:
"Mama Viola, you seem happy today. Did something good happen?"
She laughed spontaneously and replied:
"You remember my son I told you about? He's been accepted into this sacred university! Oh my god, I'm prouder of him than you can imagine!"
Scarlet smiled sincerely and said:
"I'm truly happy for you, he deserves it."
She reached out and playfully tousled a lock of his hair in a motherly, affectionate way, joking:
"I hope you'll befriend him, young sir, he needs someone to teach him some courage."
Scarlet laughed and said in a playful tone:
"I will, I promise."
Then she asked, tilting her head slightly:
"But where were you off to in such a hurry?"
He answered jokingly:
"Don't worry, I was just going to jump over the wall to go to my usual spot."
Mama Viola nudged him lightly with her elbow, smiling slyly:
"Is it the Headmistress again?"
Then she whispered, looking around cautiously:
"Between you and me, boy... I don't like her either! Still, I must thank her for allowing me to work in a place like this. Maybe she hides her kindness behind that sternness."
Scarlet chuckled lightly, replying:
"Don't be fooled by her; that chameleon changes its skin every hour."
Mama Viola laughed heartily, shaking her head:
"You little rascal, your tongue will get you in trouble one day!"
Then she took a warm piece of pie from her small basket, saying:
"Want some pie? I made it this morning!"
He raised his eyebrows with a hesitant smile and said:
"That's an irresistible offer... but unfortunately, I must go. I'm late enough as it is."
She patted his shoulder affectionately and said:
"Alright then, boy, off you go. But come back later; I'll save you a piece."
He waved to her as he walked away:
"See you soon, Mama Viola!"
She laughed, waving back:
"Take care of yourself, you reckless boy!"
And the next moment, instead of taking the usual route, Scarlet nimbly leaped out of a side window, taking a shortcut towards the Headmistress's wing—though he had no real intention of going there at all—leaving behind the echo of a light laugh and the fading scent of warm pie in the corridor.
The corridor was long, silent, filled with the scent of old wood, and flanked on both sides by huge paintings brimming with life. Each painting was a small world breathing within its frame, as if a prisoner of an unfulfilled time.
Scarlet walked slowly, his fingers sliding over the wall, touching each painting with a caution akin to someone afraid of waking a sleeping dream.
He stopped at a painting.
It stood there, like the last breath of a dying world.
At its center was a girl's face, her features half-extinguished, half-surrendered, as if aware that the moment she lived wasn't an end… but a slow extinguishing of an ember she'd carried for a long time.
Her eyes, weary to the point of breaking, stared at something or someone outside the frame, a gaze full of a sorrow that couldn't find its way into words.
Around her, fragments flew… not of stone or glass, but something resembling petals of memory breaking apart.
They fell around her as if her heart had exploded, leaving nothing but this crimson debris,
Debris dancing in the air without music, without weight, as if the world itself had lost its ability to hold onto them.
Her light, tilted hat over her disheveled hair, her shirt soiled with blood that didn't seem hostile…
More like a message written on the body, a message saying:
"I have lived more than I could bear."
Her face, however, was what made a viewer pause long…
That final look before collapse wasn't one of fear, but of someone
Who had only wished for one more moment… one more word… a hand to hold onto before they shattered.
He continued walking to another painting showing a blue sea, its waves crashing against black rocks, and in the distance a small boat carrying a girl, half-doll, half-human, holding a rock inscribed with 'my freedom.'
"Waves think they're running towards freedom... but they always return to the same shore."
Then he passed a third painting, where a girl in a white dress looked at the moon with tearful eyes.
He gently stretched his hand over the painting's surface and said in an absent tone:
"Strange... how the moon lights her sorrow but doesn't warm it."
He paused before a fourth painting: a girl burning because of a sun, while a person beside her, half-frozen in ice, extends a hand; blood on the ice where he shattered his arm transforming it, extended it towards her… guiding her.
He smiled a light, sad smile.
He continued walking slowly, touching each painting as if conversing with old friends who had departed, his voice echoing in the corridor as if the walls preserved his words to whisper them to future nights.
"Every painting here sleeps in its silence, and everyone who paints tries to create a life they don't dare to live."
There was a strange tone in his voice, more mature than suited a boy his age—as if his words didn't come from him, but from something older dwelling deep within him.
When he reached the end of the corridor, his eyes were still lost in those painted worlds, his hand clinging to the wall as if wishing to stay there forever.
Finally, he said, staring at a painting left unfinished, half shadow, half light:
"How beautiful incomplete things are... They're the only ones that truly resemble us."
Then Scarlet took a deep breath, like someone preparing to face his fate, and continued his walk towards the Headmistress's door. He muttered sarcastically, staring at the brass handle:
"What am I doing here? Did my feet lead me to that annoying chameleon again? Alright... fine, I'll listen to her eternal lecture about laziness and irresponsibility... then get kicked out, as usual."
He raised his head to the decorated ceiling and whispered in a weary tone:
"How I wish the paradise in the paintings were real…"
Slowly, he reached out his hand towards the door, opened it, and a wave of dense darkness rushed out, swallowing everything around him in an instant.
The corridor, the walls, the light… everything disappeared.
He said in a trembling voice, its echo reverberating in the void:
"Is anyone here?"
Only the echo of his own voice answered, seemingly mocking him.
He began to advance with cautious steps, but the air grew heavy, cold as an open grave.
When he turned to go back, he couldn't find the door he'd entered through.
He froze in place, panic seeping into his bones.
Then, suddenly… the darkness split open.
Eight white eyes, suspended in the void, glowing with a deadly coldness.
Scarlet fell into the void.
An unbearable cold crept into his bones until he breathed as if swallowing ashes.
Nothing remained of the world… except the eyes. Eight white eyes floating in the void, looking at him as death looks at life.
He took a step forward, and the step broke in the air. Gravity vanished, and his body floated like an idea not yet born.
Then the voice came.
It wasn't one voice, but thousands of voices spoken in a single moment, overlapping until they were hard to distinguish.
Every word spoken slowly, as if being written on the flesh of his soul.
"Were you searching for the light… or were you fleeing from your own shadow?"
"O you who are made from the fabric of dreams, do you think existence grants you meaning?"
"All paths lead to me, because the beginning loves to die in the end."
"You weren't created to live, but to remember what you haven't yet lived."
"You are an echo… and I am the silence created before you."
The tone changed, as if the voices were smiling, or crying, or breathing dust between the letters.
Scarlet placed his hand on his chest, hearing his heart beat with a strange, non-human rhythm.
"You will forget this moment, boy…
But I… will not forget you."
Then everything disappeared.
The light returned suddenly, and the corridor was as it was—its walls decorated, its paintings still—but the floor was slowly getting wet, as if the darkness had left behind black tears evaporating with time.
Scarlet took a step back, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just emerged from a long drowning.
He raised his hand before his face; his fingers were visibly trembling.
He whispered in a faint, hoarse voice:
"Why... am I trembling?"
He felt an unfamiliar pulse knocking inside his skull, a vague pain, as if something was trying to tear his memory apart from within.
He put a hand to his head and said in a quavering voice:
"Ah... my head... it hurts..."
He bent slightly, fighting dizziness, then raised his head and looked around—everything looked the same, but nothing felt as it was.
There were gaps in his memory, small black holes swallowing something he couldn't recall.
He frowned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and whispered to himself in a faint, distracted voice:
"What... was I doing here?"
He was silent for a moment. His gaze was distant, towards the long corridor, as if seeing it for the first time.
Then he shook his head, laughing a light, artificial laugh as if trying to dispel a mysterious heaviness from within:
"I wonder... Have I gone mad?"
He contemplated the paintings around him again, but they no longer whispered to him as before.
They were still... dead... or perhaps he was the one who could no longer hear them.
He clenched his fist, then took a deep breath, and said as he stepped forward towards the Headmistress's office:
"Alright, it seems I really am late... Fine, let's get this strange day over with."