They say all magic was granted by the gods of the land, sky, and sea. But to ensure their creations would not misuse such power, the gods established rules and restrictions. To perform Seals, one had to forge a contract with nature—offering a piece of their soul in exchange.
For a time, creation thrived under these gifts. But over generations, greed crept in. Humans forged a forbidden contract with an entity from the Null, and began the slow unraveling of the rules that governed the world. In anger, the gods retaliated—bestowing twenty divine gifts upon their remaining loyal creations.
Though James had never known it, he bore one of those gifts.
The Eyes That Saw Heaven, they were called.
And now, as he watched his grandfather on the verge of death, the latent power surged—awakened for the second time in his life.
One eye turned a deep, burning gold. A dark, star-shaped sigil flickered within it. His other eye glowed blue—deeper than any ocean—with a ring of white at the top of his pupil, like a reflection of the sky itself. A mirror of the heavens.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
James saw it—floating script, glowing golden, etched into the very air around him. It shimmered in the ground beneath his feet, in the fire bursting from nearby explosions, in the sky's trembling light. He could read it all. He could understand it all.
Then, as though a sealed door had been unlocked, his memories returned—fragments of Doddington, the school, the pain, the runes…
The glyphs on his hand pulsed to life.
And then he heard it—voices. Everything in the world had a voice.
"Blow them away," James whispered.
With a thunderous gust, Ronin and Draco were hurled across the chamber, crashing into the far wall.
Sapphire watched it all unfold, eyes solemn and knowing.
"I'm sorry you had to awaken this way," she murmured under her breath. "But there was no other way."
She had expected this.
She knew.
James waved his hand through the air, as if scribbling something only he could see. Within moments, he vanished from where he stood and reappeared beside Alexandre—his grandfather, lying still, his life slowly ebbing away.
James's mind was clear. No fear. No rage. Only purpose. His mission: to save him.
He reached for the blade strapped across his back, then began tracing symbols with his finger across Alexandre's body. The wound on his back began to seal slowly, responding to James's will. But then James turned to the dagger still embedded in his grandfather. He didn't pull it out. Instead, he just stared at it—puzzled.
He took a deep breath and stepped toward it.
"Wait! Don't!" Sapphire's voice rang out, echoing through the plaza as she sprinted toward him.
"It's a trap—don't touch it!" she cried again.
James turned and looked at her. His stare was unnatural—too still, too deep. It wasn't the gaze of a boy anymore.
He's looking through me, Sapphire thought, her heart pounding. Through my soul. It feels like I'm naked in front of him. She fumbled in her satchel and pulled out a cloth—violet, laced with the pattern of blue roses. It smelled sweet, almost hypnotic.
"You knew this was going to happen," James said coldly, his eyes still locked on hers as she carefully wrapped the cloth around her hand and pulled the dagger from Alexandre's chest.
His words made Sapphire flinch. She wanted to hide. She wanted to disappear.
"This wouldn't have happened if you'd told him what you saw in your visions."
His voice wasn't angry. It was blank—eerily calm. And that made it worse.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, trembling. "Truly. There was no other way…"
"How greedy," James replied, voice still flat. "There's a saying: not all that glitters is gold. You may have thought you were digging for treasure… but you've awakened a sleeping volcano instead."
He no longer felt like a child. He spoke like someone far older—like someone who had seen too much.
James turned back to his grandfather. "No… His Sar is leaking. At this rate, he'll… he'll die," he muttered under his breath.
He whispered an incantation, and in an instant, both he and Alexandre vanished from the plaza—reappearing atop one of the twin peaks: Mount Agith.
James began again. Sigils formed mid-air as he traced them with glowing fingers, each one melting into Alexandre's body. But no matter how many he wrote, the wound would not close.
"Damn it… damn it… damn it!" James's voice cracked as he fought back tears. Every attempt failed. His newfound power, raw and unstable, was beginning to strain him. He had skipped too many Sar refinement levels. It was catching up to him.
Tears streamed down his face. He was losing hope. Then—an idea sparked.
If we offer our Sar to nature to form a contract… would nature return Sar if the contract were reversed? Our bodies have laws. What if…
Suddenly, the wind howled around him.
A violent gust formed where he stood, swirling madly. Plants around them withered—trees, grass, even the stones cracked and dimmed—as a white light enveloped them. The light poured into Alexandre's wound, glowing brighter and brighter.
Then everything faded.
James's vision blurred.
And he collapsed.
From the far end of the mountain path, a figure approached—dressed in a violet suit beneath a long, dark coat, a staff in one hand, and a top hat balanced neatly atop his dark, slicked-back hair. He whistled an eerie tune as he walked, the sound drifting unnaturally across the windswept peaks.
"Oh… truly, there is no greater love than a mother's," the man murmured as he drew closer, his voice low, slithering like smoke. "Sapphire created all this chaos—just to give her daughter a chance at healing. She may not realize it yet… but the mess they've made? It's considerable."
He clicked his tongue in mock pity, then added with a smirk, "Wake up, boy. This is no time for sleeping—not after the catastrophe you've conjured."
James and his grandfather had been unconscious for an entire day. The sun had since risen, casting its golden light over the once-beautiful fields. But the beauty was gone. Only ruin remained—a shattered landscape of scorched grass and blackened soil, the aftermath of what looked like a war.
Alexandre stirred first. His eyes shot open—and instinct took over. With a quick motion, he raised his hand and sent a blade of wind slicing toward the figure. It missed, but cleanly knocked the top hat from his head.
Henry.
"Henry," Alexandre growled, recognizing the face beneath the hat. "What are you doing here?"
Henry sighed, brushing off his coat as he bent to pick up the hat. "Still so dramatic, even in your weakened state."
"You've no right coming near him," Alexandre snapped, trying to push himself up, but his muscles refused him. "The Saints have done nothing all this time, and now you come for my grandson?"
"You've strained your body too far, old man," Henry said calmly. "Sit down. I'm not here to fight—I'm here to talk."
He tossed a folded newspaper onto the ground beside Alexandre. The front page headline stared back at them in bold, damning letters:
LORD OF NORTHERN FIEF, ALEXANDRE ARCTURUS, IMPLICATED IN REFLEMUIR MASSACRE
Henry looked down at James and added, almost conversationally, "You've stirred the hornet's nest, boy. The world is watching now."