The stars stretched above him, clear and countless, like tiny wounds in the dark sky. Below, the grass was soft and damp beneath his bare feet. A peaceful field. But it didn't feel safe.
Ashton stood alone. The wind didn't blow. The air held still, and time felt frozen. It wasn't peaceful. It was watching.
Then came the voices.
"You are a disappointment to the family."
A man's voice. Cold, commanding. The kind that never needed to raise itself to be heard.
"You are no son of mine."
Another voice, softer yet sharper. Like glass against skin. His mother.
He turned. A man and a woman stood together, graceful figures shrouded in distance. Unmoving. Watching.
"Brother? Why are you my brother?"
A child's voice. Small and uncertain. A little girl stood at the edge of the field, clutching a bunny doll. Her eyes held quiet confusion before she stepped back into the dark.
Ashton reached out, but his arm moved slowly, as if through water. The stars above remained cold and silent.
"You shouldn't have been born, Arth."
That name pierced through him. He froze.
The voice was his older brother. The one he used to admire more than anyone else.
He clenched his fists.
"You are not worthy of the Manstrom Lineage. It was wasted on you."
An old voice now. Worn and tired. Not angry, just disappointed. That was always worse.
The stars began to dim, one by one. The grass below turned dry and stiff. Shadows rose from the edges of the field, forming into tall, faceless figures. They stood in a circle around him, silent and watching.
"What a Disappointment."
"You're no son of mine."
"Why, Brother?"
"Wasted Potential."
"Unworthy Brat."
His knees gave in. He collapsed. The voices grew louder. His ears rang. His breath became ragged. Ashton clenched his fists tighter.
The voices were becoming unbearable, pressing in from all sides, until suddenly, they stopped.
The scene shifted.
He stood before a magic research facility.
The same night sky loomed above, still and star-filled. The silence around him was the same, too heavy, expectant. In his chest, that same ache stirred. This was the place where everything had crumbled.
He moved to step forward, toward the door, toward a past he wished he could change. Maybe if he reached it, he could stop it. Maybe he could be someone useful, just once.
But before his foot touched the ground, the world erupted.
An explosion ripped through the silence, hurling him back.
And then, he woke up.
A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he jolted upright, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his skin. His heart pounded in his ears. His eyes darted wildly across the room until they settled on familiar walls.
He was in the inn.
In his room.
and still alone.
His hands trembled. Blood streaked his palm, he'd clenched them so tightly in his sleep, the skin had torn. Thin red lines ran across them, stinging in the cold air.
Then the pain came.
A wave of pressure surged through his skull, numb and crushing, like iron hands pressing in on his temples, clawing behind his eyes.
He groaned, gripping his head with one bloodied hand. The room tilted. Shapes bled into one another. Faces flickered in the shadows, whispers and voices returned, here and gone in an instant.
He staggered toward his cloak. Every step felt like walking through mud, slowly but surely. The floor rolled beneath his feet, and whispers followed him, barely audible but there they were, mocking him, laughing at him, and some were even screaming at him.
When he reached the chair, he fell to his knees, grabbing the chair and cloak with him. He fumbled through the folds of his cloak with shaking hands until his fingers found a tiny glass bottle.
Inside the glass bottle were blue pills, oval-shaped.
Without a second thought, he popped one into his mouth and swallowed it dry.
Seconds passed.
The shapes slowly faded, and the voices and whispers began to dim down. The world, though still cold, stopped spinning.
The pain lingered, distant now, like a fading bruise.
A minute later, it was gone.
Ashton, who had collapsed onto the floor, held onto his chest with his bloodied palms. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, wide, exhausted, and afraid.
"I... really think that I need some help," he whispered.
Sleep tugged at him again, slow and heavy.
And just before he drifted off, he caught one final sight.
A beautiful moon.
A single blooming blood flower.
And rain, tapping gently against the window behind it.
Time passed like a slow breath.
With the rhythmic tapping of rain and the moonlight shining through the window onto him, Ashton finally drifted off onto the floor and dreamt of nothing. A peaceful rest, at last
Until morning came.
The world outside had begun to stir. Hooves clacked faintly against cobbled stone. Wooden carts rolled by. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed. It was a gentle, unhurried morning.
Ashton woke slowly, the light tugging at the edges of his closed eyes. Dried blood cracked faintly on his palms as he sat up on the floorboards, his head heavy with dull dizziness.
Last night's memories lingered like smoke, but he said nothing. Instead, he rose to his feet, slow and unsteady, and began to tidy the room in silence.
As he moved through the room, each motion quiet and precise, his eyes fell on the blood flower by the windowsill. It was no longer blooming. Its petals had closed, folded in on themselves.
After tidying the room, Ashton knelt and began to chant quietly. A small bowl of cold water formed in front of him, floating gently in the air.
He dipped his hands into it and washed his face, wiping away the dried blood and the weight of the night. The cold helped clear his mind. Each movement was slow and careful.
When he was done, a little water remained.
He walked over to the windowsill and poured it into the soil of the blood flower. At first, nothing seemed to happen.
Then he paused, closed his eyes, and took a slow breath. When he opened them again, his deep blue eyes had changed to a soft light blue with a purple iris.
With those eyes, he could see it. A faint trace of mana shimmered in the flower, gentle and warm. The water had pleased it.
A small smile touched Ashton's lips.
Ashton closed his eyes again, and when he opened them, they had returned to their usual dark blue.
He began chanting another spell, aiming for something simple. But this time, it didn't go as smoothly.
Mid-chant, a sharp pain hit him. His nose started to bleed.
He stopped the spell at once and pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it gently against his nose.
"Tch, that one got me good…" he muttered, wiping the blood away. At this rate, my mana circuits will burn out before I do."
He sighed and shook his head. "Either way, it's probably better to just shower than risk burning my mana circuit again."
With that, Ashton stepped out of his room and locked the door behind him. Just as he turned, he nearly bumped into someone coming down the hallway.
It was Milanda, one of the guests from the third floor.
They both stopped.
Gareth followed her gaze, looked back at her, then back again, and grinned.
"Oooh, do you have a crush on him, sis?" he teased, nudging her with his elbow. "Didn't know your type was the myste-"
Before he could finish, Milanda punched him in the stomach.
"Shut up, you dumbass," she snapped.
Her tone dropped as she continued, more serious now.
"It's not that. I think we should be careful around him. I didn't feel his presence at all."
"Wait, what… how?" Gareth asked, frowning.
"I don't know either," Milanda said, rubbing the back of her neck. "It was like… his presence wasn't there. Like his body was here, but everythingelse wasn't."
Gareth glanced down the stairs after Ashton, then back to his sister. He shrugged, the grin returning halfway.
"Well, that's weird," he said. "I'll tell the others, just in case."
Meanwhile, Ashton was already speaking with Ronald near the front desk on the first floor.
"So, I need to pay extra just to take a shower?" Ashton asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ronald nodded. "Yeah. It's four copper coins for thirty minutes of shower time."
Ashton leaned slightly on the counter. "Don't you think that's a bit steep?" he said with a small grin. "I'll be using it three times, for thirty minutes each. Maybe I could get a little discount?"
Ronald stared at Ashton's smiling face for a moment, then let out a long sigh.
"Hahh… sure, why not," he said, shaking his head. "Let's call it one silver coin, then."
"Great. Glad to do business with you," Ashton said with a smile, rummaging through the folds of his cloak. "Here you go."
He handed over a single silver coin.
Ronald took it, glanced at it, then weighed it in his hand. After a small nod of confirmation, he reached under the counter and handed Ashton a small brass key.
"Here you go," Ronald said. "Head left, then follow the hall. The men's washroom is at the end."
With a smile, Ashton replied, "Thank you," and took the small brass key.
Ashton then turned from the counter and made his way down the hall, boots thudding softly against the wooden floor.
The Hallway was quiet, dimly lit by flickering lanterns hung at even intervals. The faint scent of soap and warm water lingered in the air were clean, but not sterile. A welcome change from the tavern's usual mix of ale and sweat.
Reaching the end of the hall, he stopped in front of a thick wooden door. A small iron plaque above it read Men's Washroom. He inserted the brass key into the lock, and with a soft click, the door creaked open.
As he stepped in, Ashton saw that the washroom was simple with stone floors, a mirror, and a single enchanted pipe that released warm water with a small mana stone on the faucet. A small hourglass rested nearby, already filled with fine white sand. Thirty minutes.
He hung his cloak and shirt on a hook, then he turned on the faucet and stepped under the stream. The warmth hit him like a blanket. His shoulders sagged. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the water run down his face, through his hair, over his aching limbs.
Steam filled the room. The sound of water drowned out the noise in his head.
Ashton looked down. Thin red lines crisscrossed his palms. Faint bruises marked his torso and legs, a diagonal scar at his heart, and finally, the delicate mana circuit patterns pulsed faintly across his body, glowing with a subtle, barely noticeable blue hue.
His body was a map of scars and pain, small and scattered reminders of a life he hadn't asked for.
He reached for the soapstone and began to scrub, slow and methodical.
Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. The pills were starting to wear off. The whispering voices hadn't returned, not yet, but the weight was creeping back in. A dull pressure behind the eyes. He ignored it.
He leaned against the wall, water cascading over him.
"You shouldn't have been born, Arth."
He clenched his jaw. Water streamed from his dark purple hair.
He stayed like that for several minutes, eyes closed, forehead resting against the stone. No movement except for the rise and fall of his chest.
Eventually, the sand in the hourglass had almost run out.
Ashton washed the last of the blood from his palms and turned off the faucet with a light push. The stream slowed, then finally stopped.
He stood in silence.
Then he dried himself with the rough towel provided, whilst doing that, he glanced at the mirror and there he saw his reflection. He was pale and tired, a face filled with worry and regret.
He then examined his face slowly, the pale skin, the eyebags that can't be rid of, and finally he saw his eyes that are still dark blue, still human, still full of..
Resolve.
He slipped his shirt and cloak back on, adjusted his hood, and left the washroom quietly, steam trailing behind him like fading ghosts.
As Ashton stepped out of the hallway and back into the tavern. The scent of ale and roasted meat clung to the air like old conversation. He adjusted his cloak, hand brushing the inner pocket in search of something.
A voice echoed in his head, cold, commanding.
"We have wasted our fortunes on you, Arth—"
He stopped. His expression didn't change, but his fingers found a small vial of white pills. He popped one into his mouth, swallowed dry, and resumed walking. The voice died like a candle snuffed.
"Finally," he muttered. "Some peace of mind." A breath. Then, under his breath, "I really need to take care of the dream matter first."
He crossed the room and slid onto a chair at the bar table.
Ronald didn't look up right away. "You're back. Shower treat you well?"
"Like a sermon in silence," Ashton said, voice dry. "Now, what's on the menu?"
"Grilled Ausur with vegetables."
Ashton leaned an elbow on the counter. "Sounds fancy. What's the damage?"
"Six copper."
Ashton blinked. "Six? You trying to sell me the whole beast?"
Ronald raised a brow. "It's cooked, isn't it? You want it raw, I can knock off a copper."
"Oh, you wound me. And here I thought regulars got perks."
Ronald snorted. "Regular? You've been here two nights and spent most of it brooding."
"Brooding adds charm," Ashton said, smirking. "Tell you what.. three copper, and I'll even say something friendly tomorrow."
"That a threat or a promise?"
"Depends on how good the Ausur is."
Ronald exhaled through his nose, amused. "Four. And I'll even pretend you smiled."
"Done." Ashton slid the coins across the counter. "Pleasure doing business, Ronald."
Ronald picked up the coins and shook his head. "You're going to be a handful, aren't you?"
"Not if you keep feeding me."
With a sigh, Ronald walked off to prepare the meal. Ashton sat in silence, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the wooden table. The morning clamor of the tavern hummed around him, boots scuffing floorboards, low conversation, metal on wood, but something else tugged at his attention.
At a corner table, three young men were seated. Plates of grilled Ausur and boiled vegetables lay steaming in front of them. Their armor was light, ceremonial rather than battle-worn, but the emblem on their chests caught Ashton's eye.
A sunburst crest, identical to the one he had seen the night before with the three drunk paladins.
The Church of Golah.
So these were trainees. Paladin initiates, probably fresh from the outer sanctums.
Boredom giving way to curiosity, Ashton drew up his hood, casting his face into shadow. He wove mana into his ears, sharpening his hearing until the background din dulled into a haze. He focused.
The youngest of the three leaned forward, his voice low and uncertain. "Is it true… there's a demon inside the dungeon?"
The older one beside him let out a quiet sigh. "Joliah, I told you not to talk about that here."
"I know," Joliah replied, glancing nervously around. "But… last night… I saw him. In my dream."
The third paladin, about the same age as Joliah, frowned. "Your dream? What do you mean?"
"I.. I don't know," Joliah said, his voice unsteady. "They say he can get inside people'sdreams. That he speaks through them."
Silence followed. Tense, uneasy.
The older paladin's tone shifted, colder, clipped. "Joliah. That's enough. This isn't supposed to get out. What do you think happens if someone's listening? With magic?"
Ashton tilted his head slightly.
Busted.
Joliah's face paled. He ducked his head and turned back to his food in silence.
"Inside other people's dreams, huh…" Ashton mused. "A demon that can invade dreams... I think I just found my next destination."
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft clink of a plate being placed in front of him.
"Grilled Aurus with vegetables," Ronald said. "Enjoy."
Ashton leaned forward, inhaling the rich aroma. A smile tugged at his lips. "Oh my, I think I will enjoy it." He paused, then glanced up. "But… where's the drink?"
Ronald raised a brow, a smirk creeping into the corners of his mouth. "Did I say anything about a drink being included?"
Ashton blinked, a beat of silence passing. "Now, how much is a drink?"
"Two copper," Ronald replied, grinning now.
Ashton let out a soft laugh and shook his head. "You sly old man."