Mirac jolted awake, a strangled scream tearing through his throat, as if the bites of those creatures were still imprinted in his flesh.
The darkness of the room enveloped him, but it wasn't the darkness of the fog or the forest: it was the suffocating silence of Blake's bedroom, broken only by his own cry.
His heart pounded in his chest, sweat trickled down his forehead, and his only hand trembled as if it were still seeking a grip in the damp ground of that distant world.
"Isaac!" Blake's voice sliced through the air, heavy with worry.
The bed beside him creaked as Blake shot up, his face illuminated only by the faint light of the full moon filtering through the window.
"Hey, calm down! What's wrong?" He approached, placing a hand on his shoulder, but Mirac kept screaming, his body wracked with spasms, as if he could still feel the creatures' teeth sinking into his skin—an echo of pain that wouldn't leave him.
Bam!
The door flew open with a thud, and Carmen burst into the room, her hair disheveled and her eyes wide with anxiety.
"Isaac!" she shouted, rushing toward the masked boy.
She knelt beside the mattress, her breath still ragged from the run.
"What happened?" Carmen asked urgently, her gaze turning to Blake, the only one who could give her an answer.
"I don't know! He suddenly started freaking out!" he yelled, raising his voice to be heard over Mirac's harrowing screams.
Carmen wasted no time and turned to Mirac, grabbing his head with both hands, her fingers firm but gentle, forcing him to look straight into her eyes.
"Isaac, I'm here! Look at me, breathe! It's over, you're here with us!" Her voice was a mix of urgency and warmth, an anchor trying to pull him back to reality.
Mirac, his breath ragged and broken, met Carmen's gaze.
His eyes, still filled with the terror of that dark world, clung to hers like a lighthouse in the storm.
Slowly, his scream faded into a gasp, his body relaxing under Carmen's touch.
The trembling eased, though his heart continued to beat like a mad drum.
Between breaths, Mirac's convulsive rhythm began to slow, as if Carmen's voice had managed to break the nightmare that held him captive.
"S-Sorry…" he finally murmured, his voice hoarse and cracked, lowering his gaze. "I… sorry."
Blake, still standing beside the bed, ran a hand through his hair, his face tense.
"What the hell happened?" His voice betrayed a worry he tried to mask with a brusque tone.
Mirac hesitated, his lips moving without sound.
"N-Nothing, it was nothing… Just a bad nightmare…" he said at last, the words coming out with effort, as if speaking the truth were too heavy.
He rubbed his face with his right hand, trying to chase away the echo of those creatures and the negative numbers etched into their skin.
"A bad nightmare, you say?" Carmen repeated, still kneeling beside him.
Then she stood up slowly, letting her hands slide away from Mirac's face almost reluctantly, as if she feared the contact was the only thread keeping him anchored to reality.
The woman's dark eyes, however, remained fixed on him: full of lingering concern, but also veiled by a shadow of suspicion, as if she sensed there was more.
"Yes," Mirac replied, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine now, really. No need to worry anymore. Go back to sleep." His voice was calm, but the tremor in his fingers still betrayed the echo of horror.
Carmen watched him for a long moment, her lips pressed tight, as if she wanted to insist but held back.
Finally, she nodded, a slow and reluctant gesture.
"Alright," she murmured, turning toward the door. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."
With that, she left the room, the sound of her footsteps fading as she closed the door behind her.
Blake, on the other hand, lingered for a moment longer, scrutinizing the masked boy, his face rigid, marked by a tension he couldn't fully release.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked at last, his voice low and soft.
Mirac nodded weakly. "Yeah, don't worry. Sorry for waking you up like that…"
"Don't be stupid!" Blake replied, his tone mixing reproach and affection. "No need to apologize for something like this..."
A hint of a smile softened his face, more to comfort his friend than out of conviction.
Then, with a brief sigh to himself, Blake went back to bed.
He lay down, but his eyes remained open, vigilant, tainted with worry. 'A bad nightmare, huh?'
Mirac let himself fall back onto the pillow, his body still shaken by slight tremors.
He tried to close his eyes, to slip back into sleep, but his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, a torrent of questions keeping him awake.
'What the hell just happened?!' he exclaimed to himself, his inner voice laden with a mix of fear and horror. 'What kind of creatures were those? Zombies?! Math didn't warn me about horrors like that in the Realm of Numbers! Could it not have known? No, impossible: judging by its name, that world seems tied to Math in some way! Is it its creation? A parallel world? Likely, but why bring to life a chaotic world like that? What does it mean that the "Second Head" has awakened? Why were those kids running away? Why did Math call me its Son? And above all… why do I have the feeling that it's not the first time I've seen those monsters…?'
* * *
{ MEANWHILE… }
Kingdom of Ardorya, at the Port of Shuper in the capital Magam.
The sky above the Port of Shuper was a black mantle studded with stars, broken by frayed clouds that obscured the full moon, casting the dock into a dense and uneasy darkness.
The air smelled of salt and wet wood, mixed with the clanging of ships' chains and the muffled chatter of sailors, their sounds lost in the deep night.
King Arthur descended the gangway of a majestic warship, his crimson cloak fluttering slightly under the sea breeze.
The servants and royal guards, lined up along the dock, bowed in unison, their armor gleaming faintly under the dim light.
"Your Majesty!" exclaimed Reginar, the Chief of the Guards of the capital Magam, a man with a booming voice. "We thought you would return two days ago. Were there any mishaps during the journey?"
King Arthur raised a hand, a sharp gesture that halted the bows.
"No, everything went fine," replied the sovereign, his voice deep and controlled. "I stayed a couple of days longer for some private matters. Nothing to worry about."
Without adding more, he turned and headed toward the royal carriage.
As he made his way through the servants and guards, parting the crowd with his mere presence, he noticed a familiar figure among the throng: his private messenger, a slender man in a gray cloak that blended almost with the port's mist.
The messenger approached, bowing deeply. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice low and respectful, "I have a message from your daughter, Princess Michelle."
With that, the man pulled a letter from his jacket, its red wax seal bearing the royal emblem of Ardorya.
'A letter?' King Arthur appeared confused for a moment, but said nothing.
He took the envelope with a nod, his face impassive.
"Thank you," he murmured, dismissing the messenger with a measured gesture.
The man bowed again and vanished into the crowd, swift as a shadow.
Arthur tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his uniform, the fabric rustling slightly under his fingers.
He had decided not to open it there, under the curious eyes of the port.
He would wait for the quiet of the palace, the silence of his room, to face the message's contents.
Accompanied by Grand Knight Leonard, Arthur boarded the royal carriage, while the Seven Infernal Knights—silent figures wrapped in crimson cloaks and black-and-red uniforms—took their places in another carriage.
The wheels creaked on the cobblestones, and the two carriages moved toward the Royal Palace of the capital Magam.
During the journey, Arthur remained silent, his face rigid, his gaze lost beyond the carriage's curtains.
A butler, seated opposite him in the royal carriage, cleared his throat with a nervous sound.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice low so as not to disturb Grand Knight Leonard or the King himself, "during your absence, a sudden fire broke out south of the walls surrounding the Royal Palace. From the report received, it seems the flames flared up due to a torch flame—carried by a sentinel—accidentally coming into contact with some vines covering the walls. Fortunately, the fire was promptly extinguished by the guards in charge of surveilling that section of the walls."
Arthur arched an eyebrow, a flash of suspicion crossing his eyes.
'Could this be why Michelle wrote to me?' he wondered to himself.
Thinking better of it, however, he concluded that the Princess certainly wouldn't have sent a private letter solely to report that incident—of which he would have learned anyway upon his return to the kingdom.
When the butler finished the report, King Arthur said nothing, limiting himself to a curt nod, as the carriage continued to creak on the damp cobblestones.
Upon arriving at his royal palace in the capital Magam, Arthur took a shower, the hot water sliding over his skin, washing away the dust of the journey and the weight of the sea.
He donned a simple robe, the soft fabric following the lines of his relaxed body.
He then headed to the dark mahogany desk, where he had placed Michelle's letter, while the red wax seal seemed to pulse under the flickering light of the fireplace beside it.
With a slow but gentle movement, he broke the seal and opened the envelope.
Inside was a white sheet, on which a single sentence was scrawled in his daughter's elegant but hasty handwriting:
"Father: cell number 31 is empty!"
King Arthur's eyes widened, his breath catching for an instant.
"WHAT?!" he exclaimed, his voice a mix of disbelief and repressed fury. "Impossible!"
The meaning of those words struck him like a punch: cell 31, sealed with the Fire Runes he himself had supervised, was empty.
That meant only one thing: Mirac had managed to escape!
Arthur's face hardened, his jaws clenched as if they could contain the storm building inside him.
The rage exploded, silent but devastating.
He gripped the letter so tightly that the paper crumpled, its edges folding under the pressure of his fingers.
The fireplace in the room roared suddenly, the flames flaring with an unnatural fury, licking the hearth's edges as if responding to his inner turmoil.
His hair and beard, graying but still proud, partially transformed into tongues of fire, flickering and crackling, an echo of the power coursing through his veins.
"How did he escape?!" he growled, his voice trembling with anger. "Were his powers able to bypass the Fire Runes etched into the door?!"
Suddenly, a thought struck him like a spark.
The fire south of the walls, which the butler had mentioned during the journey…
'A sudden fire… right during my absence?'
Arthur's calculating mind realized he could no longer consider it a mere accident!
In light of the letter received, the truth appeared clear to him like a flame in the darkness.
"Mirac…" he hissed, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. "It was him. That damned boy must have used some trick to start the fire as a diversion for his escape!"
Arthur's rage exploded, silent but devastating.
With a sudden crackle, the letter burst into flames in his hands, the fire devouring it in moments, leaving only ash that slowly dispersed in the air.
Arthur stared at the void where the letter had been, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.
"Damn it! I underestimated him too much! Now that he's escaped, he risks ruining all my plans!" he murmured, his voice lowering to a cold, calculating tone. "No… I won't let that happen!"
A flash of resolve crossed his gaze. "I must absolutely recapture him!"
With that in mind, he closed his eyes for an instant, forcing himself to calm down.
The flames in the fireplace subsided, reducing to a steady glow, and his hair and beard returned to their normal appearance, as if the fire had retreated inside him.
'However, I cannot simply order the resumption of the search for the Prince,' he reflected to himself, his tone laced with bitterness. 'Only a week ago I decreed their suspension, proclaiming that the matter was definitively closed. Moreover, under the pretext of his "flight," which took place just weeks before the succession ceremony, tomorrow I intended to publicly announce Mirac's disownment, declaring that he is no longer part of the Strongold family, nor worthy of bearing its name. Therefore, changing my mind now, showing a sudden renewed interest in finding him, would contradict my firmness and risk arousing suspicions. And, as if that weren't enough, I still need to identify and eliminate whoever sent that letter to warn me that Mirac was a Chaotic. After all, who else, besides me, already knew this truth?! When and how did they acquire such information? I have always believed I was the only one to know... yet, it seems that was not the case!'
King Arthur crossed his arms, his gaze fixed in the void, as he pondered the matter:
'It's highly unlikely they determined Mirac's magical nature using an Artifact. It could therefore be a Chaotic with special powers. In any case, it's certainly someone who managed to infiltrate the Royal Palace posing as a servant. But who? Definitely not a Purifier sent undercover, since they wouldn't have simply warned us that Mirac was a Chaotic, but would have immediately called for reinforcements to proceed with our capture. Therefore, it's more logical to think it's a spy in the service of a secret organization, sent with the purpose of gathering sensitive information. But even so, why warn us that Mirac was a Chaotic? Why not exploit this truth against us to gain wealth or fame? What on earth was the person who sent us the letter thinking?!'
He ran a hand over his face, then over his still-damp hair, as a renewed surge of anger rose within him.
"Tsk, damn it! In any case, I have no other choice…" he concluded, his eyes hardening with fierce determination. "To find Mirac, I will have to ask for his help…"
* * *
{ MEANWHILE… }
In the streets of Raerno, still bustling with a few night owls dragging themselves toward inns to drown the night in mugs of beer, a man wrapped in a dark cloak advanced along Courage Avenue.
His worn leather shoes trod the damp cobblestones, the sound of his steps muffled by the distant hum of laughter and the clinking of glasses. The torches along the street cast long, flickering shadows that danced on the stone facades of the houses.
Reaching the corner of a narrow alley, the man stopped, his hood concealing his face except for a flash of alert eyes.
A figure wrapped in shadow awaited him, motionless against the wall, the outline of its cloak blending with the darkness.
"So?" asked the figure, its voice low and sharp, with an accent that betrayed authority.
The man in the dark cloak took a step closer, lowering his hood slightly to be recognized.
"I followed the duo of swordsmen as you requested, my Lady," he replied, his tone flat but respectful. "But after lunch they split up, and I followed your orders by prioritizing the masked boy. With his friend, he took a stroll around the city, probably to familiarize himself with the districts. Around 4 P.M., he stumbled upon the Secret Archive on the -1 floor of the Central Library by chance. He didn't linger on any particular section, but explored the various shelves in a rather vague way, which led me to think he had no premeditated intention of going there: otherwise, he would have followed a precise route, heading without hesitation toward what he was looking for. At one point, however, I let my guard down and our eyes met for a moment. But I don't think he paid much attention to it, immediately resuming browsing the dossiers on the Association's wanted individuals. After that, they took a stroll in the Prosperous District, then in the Iron District. The friend led him to old Derek's workshop, where they bought new swords. At sunset, they returned home, and throughout the day the masked boy showed no suspicious behavior, my Lady."
The woman wrapped in shadow listened in silence, her face hidden by the hood, but her breathing was slow, as if weighing every word.
Then she nodded, a sharp and decisive gesture. "Very well," she said, her voice cold but controlled. "Keep an eye on them for the rest of the week as you did today, and report to me immediately if you notice anything suspicious. Otherwise, we will meet here again next Sunday."
With a fluid movement, she pulled a canvas sack from under her cloak that jingled with coins.
"Here's your payment, as agreed," she added, handing it to him. "I've included an extra to cover part of the week's work still to be done."
The man took the sack, the weight of the coins stretching the fabric between his fingers.
He bowed at the waist, his hood swaying slightly.
"At your service," he murmured, before turning and vanishing into the darkness, his steps dissolving into the shadow.
The woman remained alone, her cloak swaying slightly under the night breeze.
She raised her gaze to the full moon, its glow filtering through the frayed clouds, illuminating the outline of her wrinkled face for an instant.
* * *
{ MEANWHILE… }
After the traumatic nightmare, and having convinced Carmen and Blake not to worry and to go back to sleep, Mirac let himself fall back onto the pillow, his body still trembling, seeking in vain the comfort of the soft covers.
He tried to slip back into sleep, but every time he closed his eyelids, the echo of the bites—Crack! Crunch!—and the searing pain of torn flesh returned to torment him.
His mind was a battlefield, fragments of the Realm of Numbers mixing with the frantic beat of his heart.
That night was not easy for Mirac.
Whenever he finally managed to sink into a light sleep, it lasted less than an hour: each time he jolted awake, breathless and with his cold hand clutching the sheet.
The night passed like that, in a continuous alternation of tormented sleep and anxious wakefulness.
Every now and then he tossed in bed, while the silence of the room amplified the memories of the creatures, and every creak of the floor or whisper of the wind outside the window echoed like an omen.
Around nine in the morning, Mirac gave up on the idea of sleeping and got up for the umpteenth time, his body heavy as if he had run for hours.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, breathing deeply, trying to calm the nightmare's memories and root himself in the present.
He noticed that Blake's bed, across the room, was empty, the covers disheveled, a sign that he had already woken up.
'I hope I didn't ruin his rest…' Mirac thought.
After a moment, he got up slowly and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
In front of the mirror, he removed his mask with a slow, almost hesitant gesture, letting the cool air caress his face marked by exhaustion.
The reflection showed him a pale face, eyes ringed with dark shadows, as if the terror of the Realm of Numbers had imprinted itself on his skin.
He washed his face, the cold water stinging his cheeks, trying to chase away the memories of that night.
'It's not the nightmare haunting me, but the echo of death…' he thought to himself, his inner voice trembling.
He dried his face, put his scarred black mask back on to hide his identity, and went downstairs.
There he found Carmen and Blake already seated at the kitchen table, having breakfast.
Blake looked up, a piece of bread in hand, and gave him a cautious smile.
"Oh, you're awake. How is it, feeling better?" he asked, his voice betraying concern hidden under the light tone.
Mirac took his place at the table, the wood creaking under his weight.
"Yes, feeling better," he replied, forcing a nod of assent, trying to appear more confident than he really was.
Carmen, without a word, handed him a cup of hot milk and a slice of bread spread with cherry jam.
She knew that, though it wasn't anything extravagant, that breakfast was his favorite, so she had prepared it in advance.
Mirac looked at her, a sincere smile brushing his lips.
"Thank you," he murmured, and Carmen responded with a slight nod, her red hair falling over one shoulder.
During the meal, none of the three mentioned the nightmare, as if they had made a tacit agreement not to talk about it.
The silence of breakfast grew heavy, broken only by the clinking of cups and the sound of bites.
Carmen, setting down her spoon, looked up and spoke:
"After breakfast, we'll go to the Association to see if there are any updates on the Rogthars issue," she said, her tone practical but warm. "After that, we had in mind to take part in a mission. A short one, that won't keep us busy for more than an afternoon."
She then turned to Blake, asking: "Do you want to join us?"
Blake finished swallowing a bite, a smile lighting up his lean face.
"Uh… yeah, why not. With you two by my side, I've got nothing to fear," he replied, his tone playful but with a note of sincerity that warmed the atmosphere.
Meanwhile, however, Mirac still felt his mind shaken, a distant echo of those bites and the final crunch tightening his stomach.
The monstrous sensation of being eaten alive was not something that could be shaken off with a simple cup of hot milk.
For a moment, he felt trapped again between the bites of those decomposing creatures, unable to free himself as they devoured him.
'Tsk!'
Without being noticed by the others, Mirac shook his head slightly, as if to tear that image away.
'I can't keep going like this,' he told himself. 'As difficult as it is, I have to try to move forward and leave that nightmare behind… or at least for now…'
For the first time that morning, the thought sounded almost convincing.
So, after a deep breath, he forced himself to focus on the present: on the sweet taste of the jam, the warmth of the cup in his hand, the familiar voices of Carmen and Blake, and the day ahead of them.
Little by little, the silence among the three melted into light chatter, and the initial tension of the morning seemed to ease.
Breakfast finished, the trio got ready.
Carmen and Mirac donned dark, light clothing, practical for moving without hindrance.
Mirac grabbed his new sword, the metal glinting slightly as he slid it into the sheath tied to his belt.
Carmen, instead, carried two daggers at her hips: her own, sharp and balanced, and the one that once belonged to Mirac, with the intention of adopting a dual-blade fighting style from that moment on.
Blake stood out with dark pants, a white shirt, and a beige leather vest, with his sword tucked into his belt on the left hip, the metal clinking lightly against his thigh with every step.
On his right hip, a keychain jingled next to a tied sack, whose contents seemed like a pile of stones.
After making sure they had their documents and badges with them, the trio wasted no time and left the house.
The fresh morning air greeted them with a slight bite as they headed toward the Headquarters of the Intercontinental Association Against Dangers.