Xavier remained motionless, his thoughts unsettled.
Memories rose unbidden, fractured yet vivid enough to gnaw at him. A family such as House Xylaria—one that ruled with iron severity and demanded loyalty without question—turning upon its own bloodline…
It didnt align.
Even cruelty had boundaries.
But this just transgressed them.
His gaze drifted across the chamber, searching for something tangible to anchor his spiraling mind. That was when he noticed it.
At the edge of the table, staining the wooden floor beneath, lay a Liquid—crimson , and stubbornly clinging to the grain.
It was not immediately striking. Not fresh but not bright. carrying a grotesque depth—blackened at its center, rimmed with a dull crimson edge that seemed unwilling to fade.
Like wine left too long in shadow.
Or blood.
Xavier's breath slowed.
He stepped closer.
The stain stretched wider than he had first imagined, spreading in uneven rivulets, as though it had once flowed before surrendering to stillness.
It was not paint.
It could not be mistaken.
It was blood.
His hand moved instinctively. He tugged at his sleeve, exposing the bandaged wound at his side. The cloth was damp, its center stained through.
His eyes lingered.
"…Poor kid much have been assassinated" he murmured, voice low.
Turning back toward the desk, his movements grew deliberate, almost ritualistic. His fingers brushed the surface, then found a drawer. He opened it without knowing why.
Inside lay a knife.
The blade was dulled, its edge crusted with a darkened red.
Xavier froze.
"…Where did this come from?"
His grip tightened as he lifted it.
Then—
His eyes shifted.
To his hand.
Across his fingers and palm, faint but undeniable, were traces of the same red. Not splattered. Pressed. A partial imprint, as though he had once gripped something wet… and held on.
His breathing grew shallow.
Slowly, unwillingly, his gaze returned to the knife.
At the handle—
A smear.
The outline of a hand. His hand.
Silence pressed in. Piece by piece, the fragments began to align.
"…He …"
The thought faltered.
"… He stabbed himself?"
Then the door burst open.
The sudden force sent a sharp echo through the chamber.
A tall man entered—broad-shouldered, posture composed despite the urgency of his stride. His white hair lay neatly beneath a dark top hat, a trimmed mustache framing a face marked by discipline.
Yet in that moment, composure shattered.
"Young master—!"
Winston crossed the distance in an instant, abandoning all formality as he seized Xavier in a firm embrace.
"You are alive… thank Aurora… you're alive."
Relief bled through his voice, raw and unguarded.
Xavier stiffened, then allowed himself to relax.
"…Winston."
The name came naturally.
"Calm yourself. I am unharmed."
Winston pulled back, though his hands lingered on Xavier's shoulders, as if to confirm his presence.
"I feared the worst. How do you expect me to calm myself?" he said, steadier now, though his eyes betrayed lingering panic and tears. " I come back from the market only to find you bleeding out!. I'm glad you're ok. You must be Thirsty. Allow me to prepare tea at once."
Xavier exhaled softly.
"No need," he replied. "I drank water out of the round glass bottle on the desk, so I'm ok."
"A bottle?" He repeated.
"Yes." Xavier turned slightly, lifting a hand gesture toward the desk behind him." That round one on the table."
Winston's expression changed immediately from confused to wary. He looked at Xavier again, this time with intensity."
"Are you ok? are you feeling anything, dizziness, fatigue?
Xavier Shrugged
" No not really Im..."
His voice cut off and out of nowhere, his legs gave up, dropping him to his knees. His vision blurred, and quickly, his world around him tilted off balance.
Winston noticeably became paler. Something was happening, and he knew what; it had something to do with that bottle.
Hurriedly, he picked Xavier up and laid him down on a sofa.
The practice of awakening through the Spellworld Potion traced its origins to the arrival of the Travelers—beings said to have fallen from the sky and reshaped the foundations of the world.
Among the knowledge they left behind was the method of entering the Spellworld, a parallel domain where Races could obtain power through.
Simple but came with severe consequences.
A potion, brewed from rare plants and the remains of dangerous creatures, was consumed. Soon after, the body would weaken—dizziness, fatigue, and an overwhelming heaviness setting in—before the individual fell into a deep, unnatural sleep. From that point onward, their consciousness would be drawn into the Spellworld.
There, a trial awaited. 14 trails await newly awakened if they ever want to get stronger each one harder than the next. Most ended their growth at the 5th stage.
Those who survived returned as Awakened, each granted a unique ability known as a Spell. Those who failed never woke again. Their bodies remained, but whatever sustained them was lost.
From early records, the outcome was understood to be uncertain—roughly equal between life and death.
Despite the risk, the rewards were undeniable.
Awakened individuals possessed the means to confront the creatures that plagued the land the biggest threat being the devils, elevating their status in both military and political spheres. As a result, awakening became more than a personal choice; it became an instrument of power.
Among noble and privileged families, children were often trained from a young age in preparation for the trial. Tutors were assigned to instruct them in combat, survival, and the limited knowledge available about the Spellworld. For some families, this preparation was a matter of legacy. For others, it was political—an investment in influence, security, and control.
Not all who trained were forced to undergo the trial, but they were made ready for the possibility.
In contrast, those of lesser means rarely had access to such preparation. Without guidance, entering the Spellworld was widely regarded as reckless. For many, it was not a path to power, but a gamble with death.
Even so they still took it.
Minutes later Xavier laid there succumbing to the potions effects while Winston frantically flipped through the books on the shelves.
He turned sharply, crossing the room in long strides before the panic could fully settle. His hands moved urgently, pulling books from the shelves, flipping through pages with speed. Paper rustled. Inked lines blurred beneath his gaze.
Then—he stopped.
His fingers froze on a page.
The fear in his expression eased, if only slightly. He found what he needed, an old wornout book with a faded crest and a title. SPELLWORLD. Xavier was already slipping.
His body swayed where he knelt, his breathing uneven, eyelids heavy as though weighed down by something unseen.
Winston stepped forward and caught him by the shoulder.
"My lord—listen to me. Carefully."
Xavier's gaze lifted, unfocused but present.
"You've taken a Spellworld Potion," Winston said, his voice low, steady, deliberate. "What you are experiencing now is the onset. In moments, your consciousness will be drawn into a domain known as the Spellworld."
Xavier didn't respond. His eyes struggled to stay open.
Winston tightened his grip.
"Sadly I cannot follow you there. Once you enter, you are alone." he said revealing a small, worn booklet, pressing it briefly against Xavier's chest before withdrawing it again.
"I had this prepared… in the event such a day would come. There is no time to read it now, so listen."
He leaned closer.
"In the Spellworld, you will face a trial. Survive it, and you awaken. Fail… and you do not return."
Xavier's breathing slowed. "Spellworld?" he thought "What is he saying, whats happening to my body?"
Winston continued faster time wasn't on his side.
"Your objective is simple—survive. There are monster there If you encounter some, avoid them. Hide. Run. You are not prepared for confrontation."
His voice hardened.
"If you encounter people—be even more cautious."
Xavier's brow shifted slightly, as though trying to process.
"Those who enter the Spellworld are not bound by law or reason. Many will kill without hesitation. To them, you are not an ally—you are an opportunity."
A loud silence rang out.
"Trust no one."
Xavier gave a weak nod.
"…Survive. Complete the trial… gain a Spell."
"Yes." Winston nodded once. "Exactly that."
But he did not step back.
"Listen further. This is important."
Xavier's head dipped slightly, his body threatening to give way again.
"In that world, not everything you see is real," Winston said. "Some entities are constructs—illusions formed by the trial itself. Others… are genuine. You can be thrown anywhere in the world, so keep your guard up"
"Another thing to note is this. Time does not differ between worlds. If you remain in that world for three days, then you have spent three days within the Spellworld."
Reaching into his coat he drew a small pendant—set with a faintly glowing core.
He pressed it into Xavier's hand.
"This crystal* will sustain your physical body—for a time."
Xavier's fingers weakly curled around it.
"Not indefinitely," Winston added. "At most—a month. After that, your body will begin to experience hunger and thirst.
His voice lowered.
"If your body dies here… you will not return."
A brief silence passed.
"And if you die there…" he continued, "…your body will remain. Empty."
Xavier swallowed.
"…Then I just have to come back," he said faintly.
Winston's eyes held his.
"No matter what."
A pause.
"…No matter what," Xavier echoed.
His strength gave out completely.
His body slackened, slipping forward—
Winston caught him, lowering him carefully.
"My the eyes of Saint Aurora guide you, my lord," he said quietly
Darkness took him. For a moment, there was nothing.
Then—
A single resonant tone rang out.
Like the toll of a distant cathedral bell.
Ding—
The sound echoed through the void, spreading outward. A voice followed
[ Welcome Prepare yourself for the first trial of the Spellworld.]