Aman exhaled sharply, his gaze locked on the final reward—the one he’d been both dreading and craving.
[Memory Fragment: The First Thread]
"All stories begin somewhere. This is yours."
"Consume when ready to remember what was forgotten."
His fingers twitched.
Answers. A glimpse into the hollow spaces of his mind, the missing pieces he’d carried like phantom limbs.
Or just more questions.
But he was done waiting.
With a mental command, he accepted the fragment.
For a heartbeat—nothing.
It lanced through his skull like a white-hot needle, splitting his thoughts open. A crack formed in the dark vault of his mind, and through it poured—
The world erupted in a cacophony of roars—deep, guttural, shaking the very air. The earth trembled beneath monstrous footsteps, each impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the broken ground.
A young man stood at the center of it all.
Tattered. Bloodied. Alone.
His breaths came ragged, his grip tightening on the sword in his hand. Around him, the corpses of monsters and allies alike littered the battlefield, a graveyard of the desperate.
Opposite him, reality itself seemed to fracture—spatial rifts splitting open, the ground heaving, air trembling as things poured forth.
Corrupted beasts. Titans. Abyssal horrors.
All surging toward him.
Toward the flickering portal at his back.
A shimmering barrier surrounded the gateway, deflecting the torrent of long-range attacks—energy blasts, venomous spines, attacks that twisted the air.
The young man exhaled, slow and steady, his grip tightening on his sword.
Just a little longer.
He was a Tier 5 Resonator. Strong, but not strong enough. Not for this.
He’d known from the start he wouldn’t survive.
But that didn’t matter.
A glance over his shoulder—through the barrier, the last of the fleeing figures vanished into the portal. Relief flickered in his chest, brief and bright.
His blade flashed, destroying the final spatial beacon at his side in one clean strike. The monsters screamed, their advance turning frantic, desperate.
A voice, raw with grief, tore through the chaos just before the portal sealed shut.
The young man didn’t answer.
Only whispered, "Sorry," before lunging forward.
Dark blue fire ignited in his left eye, his sword blazing with his white aura. For a moment, he was a storm—cutting, weaving, carving through the first wave like a scythe through wheat.
But they kept coming.
The tide was endless and angry.
A claw raked across his side. A barbed tail impaled his thigh. His left arm vanished in a spray of crimson, severed clean by jagged teeth.
His sword never faltered.
The real monsters arrived.
An abyssal titan, its form wreathed in smoke, loomed above him. The ground cracked under its weight. The young man staggered, his sword arm trembling.
But he wouldn’t let them take him. Wouldn’t let them use him.
With a final, shuddering breath, he slammed his sword into the earth—not to attack, but to anchor himself.
The dark fire in his eye erupted, spiraling down his body like a vortex. His remaining arm blackened, veins glowing with explosive energy. The monsters recoiled—too late.
"Burn with me," he rasped.
The world turned white.
The explosion tore outward, blue-white and blinding. Flesh and aura alike disintegrated, the shockwave ripping through the horde. Titans screamed as their forms dissolved; abyssal horrors writhed and collapsed into nothing.
For one heartbeat, the battlefield was silent.
Light blue eyes snapped open in the darkness.
The woman took deep, shuddering breaths, her hand clutching at her chest as if trying to hold her pounding heart in place.
Another nightmare—the same suffocating darkness, the same inexplicable grief clinging to her like frost.
Yet, as always, she couldn’t remember a single detail.
The space beside her was empty, the sheets long gone cold. A faint smile touched her lips despite the lingering unease. Her husband had been rising early these past days, checking on her the moment she showed even the slightest discomfort.
He worries too much, she thought, pushing herself upright.
But she couldn’t blame him.
Something was... off.
Whether it was the unusually harsh winter gripping their territory, the tensions brewing at their borders, or—
The name flickered through her mind unbidden.
Her fingers curled into the sheets.
No reply letter had come from him in weeks. That wasn’t entirely unusual—her son had always been terrible at correspondence—but combined with this persistent dread...
"He’s fine," she whispered to the empty room. "He has to be."
Still, she whispered a prayer under her breath before rising.
Please, let him be safe...
Time passed—ten minutes? Twenty? She didn’t know.
Then the knock and voice came.
Selvienne paused, her reflection staring back at her from the vanity mirror. The faintest shadows lingered beneath her eyes, but a careful touch of powder had masked the worst of it. She looked composed. Kind and regal.
Nothing like a woman haunted by dreams she couldn’t remember.
The door creaked open, revealing one of the younger maids—a girl with nervous hands and eyes that darted too often to the floor.
"The Lord requests your presence," the maid murmured. "Visitors have arrived from..." A hesitation. "From the academy Young Master Aman attends."
Selvienne’s breath caught.
"I-is..." Her voice trembled, just for a moment, before she steeled herself. "Is my son, Aman, with them?"
The maid hesitated, her fingers twisting in her apron, not daring to look her in the eye. "No, my Lady. It seems... the Young Master hasn’t returned with them."
"...I see." Selvienne’s hands, folded neatly in her lap, tightened until her knuckles turned white. "Inform my husband, I’ll join him shortly."
The maid curtsied and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Alone, Selvienne exhaled—long and slow—as if trying to expel the sudden weight pressing against her ribs.
Don’t worry. Everything is fine.
She repeated in her mind.
These are just visitors from his academy. You should welcome them properly.
Then she stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her clothes, and moved toward the door.
Please let him be safe.