Arke stepped out of the car with a feeling he hadn't known in months. For half a year, every arrival at school had meant a ramp and a wheelchair. Today, it was just him and his legs.
His mom was already at the door, watching him closely.
"Are you sure you're fine now?" she asked. "The wheelchair's in the trunk—maybe you should bring it, just in case."
"No, Mom. I'm fine," Arke said, steady—not for himself, but for her.
"Hey, Arthe! Wait for your brother!" she called, distracted by his younger sibling bolting toward the school gate. Then she turned back to Arke, her worry creeping in again.
"Okay. Call me if anything goes wrong," she said, her gaze lingering on the way he stood—like she still didn't quite believe it was real.
Arke nodded and started walking.
Behind him, his mom's expression softened into a smile as she watched him go.
"Hey, kid. ID," the guard said.
Arke held it up, and the guard leaned forward for a better look. His expression brightened.
"Hey! You're not in the wheelchair anymore!"
Arke gave a small smile and nodded before moving on.
As he walked into the stream of students, murmurs followed him. A few gasps. Some just stared. Those who knew him best were outright astonished.
Teachers, too, hesitated mid-step when they saw him.
"Hey, Arke…" one started, unsure how to react, then added with a faint smile, "Good to see you standing again."
It went on like that—greetings, double-takes, disbelief trailing him down the hall. Arke answered them all the same way: a calm nod, a small smile, and a simple "Thanks."
But it was in his classroom where the shock really hit.
The usual pre-class chatter—banter, laughter, the scrape of chairs—fell into an abrupt silence the moment Arke stepped through the door. Every head turned.
He walked to his seat under their wide-eyed stares and set his bag down before glancing around at them.
"What?" he said lightly. "Do I look like you've just seen a ghost?"
That broke the tension.
"Good to see you standing again, Arke," someone called.
"Not just standing," another added. "Walking."
Then the teacher rushed in, breathless, and froze when she saw him. "Arke… is what I heard from the faculty true?" she asked, almost disbelieving.
Arke stood and nodded once. "It's true."
Her face lit up as she clapped her hands together, quick and delighted. She ruffled his hair in passing and said simply, "Happy for you."
Then she moved to the front of the room. "So today," she declared, still beaming, "is a happy Monday."
Her voice carried on—something about announcements, about schedules—but Arke wasn't listening. His gaze drifted to an empty chair near the back.
Leev's seat.
And he wondered why it was still vacant.
The rest of the lesson blurred by. When the bell finally rang, Arke stepped into the hallway—and there were two track and field coaches waiting for him.
"So it's true," one of them said, grinning. "You're back!" He gave Arke a hearty slap on the shoulder.
"Do I need to do tryouts again?" Arke asked, half-joking.
Both coaches laughed.
"Maybe not," the other said, "but don't rush it. Make sure those legs are a hundred percent before you push yourself."
The coaches left him with a few words of encouragement, and after school, his mom drove him straight to the doctor. More scans, more tests—the kind Arke had grown used to over the past six months.
But this time, the doctor stared at the results with open disbelief.
"The damage is… gone," he said slowly. "Not just healed. Your nerves, your muscles—everything looks brand new."
Arke blinked. "Brand new?"
The doctor shook his head, still flipping through the scans. "I don't have a clear explanation for this. I'd like to run more tests, but…" He hesitated, then added, "Whatever happened, your body isn't just fine—it's perfect."
They scheduled more appointments, but the mystery remained.
A week passed, and after countless late-night talks and promises to be careful, Arke finally convinced his mom to let him return to the track and field team.
* * *
"Alright, everyone," one of the coaches called out, gathering the team's attention. "Let's welcome—well, welcome back—Arke Rowen."
The team broke into applause, some clapping harder than others, a few letting out cheers.
"For those of you who are new," the coach continued, "Arke's not just another runner. He was our representative at last year's track and field championship—the one who brought home the win for us."
A murmur of recognition rippled through the newer members.
"But," the coach said, his tone softening, "he was in an accident during the Crimson Hour and had to step away from the team."
He glanced at Arke, a small smile forming. "And now he's back. Welcome back, Arke."
They began with stretches and warm-up drills. After a few minutes, one of the coaches called out.
"Alright, Arke. Let's see those legs in action. Just a single lap."
Arke nodded.
The coach turned toward the rest of the team. "Yarih, Cole—you're up too."
Arke recognized them immediately. Cole was the one who had mocked him as a "mascot on wheels" the day he revisited the track. Yarih had been the one to shut him up.
"You three will run a 400-meter sprint," the coach said.
Cole walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, man… about last time. I'm sorry."
Arke smiled faintly. "Forget it."
Yarih shot Cole a look. "You're only apologizing now so when you come in last, we won't bash you for it."
Cole's brows pulled together, but he couldn't think of a comeback.
The three of them took their positions on the starting line.
"On your marks," the coach called.
"Set."
A sharp whistle cut the air.
Arke exploded forward. His feet struck the track like they'd been waiting for this moment, each stride pulling him faster, stronger. This wasn't just speed—it was power, effortless and alive. The doctors had said his legs were "brand new," but this felt like more than that. Twice the strength. Twice the speed.
Behind him, Yarih and Cole were already fading, their footsteps growing distant as cheers rose from the other runners and coaches.
A grin spread across his face. This was where he belonged. This was what he loved. He was back.
Then, a few meters from the finish line, the world shifted.
The bright track dulled to gray. The air felt heavy, lifeless. His grin faltered as his sprint slowed to a jog, then to a stop. He turned his head around. Everything was still there, but drained of color. The glass doors at the end of the field reflected no sunlight, only a dim, murky glow.
And just as suddenly as it came, it was gone.
Another whistle blew.
Arke blinked, disoriented, and looked toward the finish line. Yarih was already there, staring back at him with a puzzled expression. Cole jogged past him, breathing hard but triumphant.
Arke made his way toward them, his pulse still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with running.
"Did you guys… see that?" he asked.
"See what?" Cole said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"The place…" Arke began, then shook his head. "Never mind."
"Something wrong, Arke?" one of the coaches asked as they jog back to the group. "Why'd you stop like that?"
Arke forced a small smile. "Thought I saw something. Must've been nothing."
The other coach clapped him lightly on the back. "Whatever it was, your speed was incredible. Maybe you're just shaking off the rust."
Training carried on for a few more hours. Arke went through the motions—drills, sprints, cooldowns—but his focus kept slipping. Every so often, he'd catch himself glancing at the track, half-expecting the world to drain of color again.
As training wrapped up, Arke grabbed his bag from the bench—then froze.
On his left forearm, a few inches above the wrist, a dark red mark had appeared. About the size of a thumbprint, sharp against his skin like ink pressed too deep.
He rubbed at it, even scratched hardly, but it didn't fade. It wasn't on his skin. It was in it.
His pulse quickened. That dream—the one before he'd found himself on his feet—flashed through his mind: the dagger turning to smoke, the red mist burning its way up his arm, leaving those marks behind. Marks almost identical to the one now etched into his forearm.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked quickly toward the exit.
Just outside the school gate, someone was waiting.
Leev.
Hands in his pockets, jacket zipped halfway over his uniform, his expression unreadable.
"Can I talk to you?" he said.
"Me?" Arke blinked, caught off guard.
Leev tilted his head toward a shaded corner. "Yeah. Over there."
They moved away from the flow of students spilling out of the school gates. Leev's eyes swept the area, checking that no one was within earshot.
Then he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket.
On his forearm were several dark red marks, the same deep color as Arke's but arranged differently—where Arke had only one, Leev's formed a small pattern.
"You have something like this?" Leev asked.
"Why?" Arke said cautiously.
"Do you?" Leev pressed, voice sharper now.
Arke hesitated, then angled his arm so Leev could see the mark on his forearm.
Leev's gaze locked on it, and his expression hardened.
"You're a Redbearer."