[North Precinct. . .]
Charles Vaughan stood by his doorway, the rustling wind piercing him. For days, he had not been able to go inside. He had not been able to eat much. He hadn't been able to bathe. Not even to relax.
Slowly, his will to live a happy life diminished.
And this was all because his son, Emory, had vanished. Gone without a trace.
The day Emory disappeared, when the military folk came to perform a psycho-analysis, Charles felt an urge throttling him to go back inside.
He excused himself from the party and ran to his master bedroom. There, he dug into one of the drawers and gazed at a picture of his wife, Isabelle.
Trickles of unfamiliar scenes seeped into his mind. He remembered a time before Isabelle's death, when they sat in her hospital room. Charles kept hearing her voice shout, "Don't let him know!"
But he never knew who she was talking about or what they shouldn't know. So, the only plausible choice was to disregard it.
After a while, an inexplicable drowsiness took over. Charles couldn't hold it in anymore and slept. He now knows it was the worst decision of his life. He woke up to the blonde-haired military man at his front door bearing horrible news.
Emory had been kidnapped!
The same feeling as when Isabelle died revisited Charles. He almost didn't believe it.
". . ."
That was six days ago.
As he stood watching the view, a voice whispered in his ear. It told him that maybe Emory wouldn't come back. Telling him to live happily, forgetting his son.
Charles rubbed his eyes, which were dark at the edges.
"Emory. . . Come back to me, my son. Please."
. . . .
[Silvester School. . .]
Simonis Rebane sat alone in a bustling classroom. Usually, the one next to her would be Emory, the boy she liked. They would either talk, play a small game, or just stare into the distance together. She never cared which it was, as long as he was with her.
But he hadn't shown up in days. Simonis wondered if it was time to visit him at home.
"Emory. . ."
. . . .
[Saint Precinct. . .]
General Alanus and General Lluvia paced around the former's office. "Six days, Lluvia. It's been six days." Alanus started to worry that Aulus Caesar wasn't placing much precedence on the matter.
Lluvia sighed. "I don't know what to do anymore. None of the commanders have power over Sir Aulus. It's out of our control." She recalled how shocked Commander Alvaron was to hear that Aulus had appeared. He told them to listen to whatever the terrifyingly large man said.
Alanus massaged his forehead. "Abolition Mandate. . ." He stood up. "I know they said not to interfere, but I can't leave the boy like that."
Alanus put on his yellow cape and fixed his hair. "I promised him I'd save him. And that look on his face when the woman closed in on him. Fear, fatigue, utter hopelessness. I have to save him."
Lluvia immediately understood and connected her sheathed sword to her hip. "Roger."
Alanus rummaged through some papers. "The attackers were from the Abolition Mandate, which, from my experience, has control over illusions and the dead."
He narrowed his eyes. "We'll find a member and interrogate them to no end. If they refuse, we'll kill them and start over. We'll go through as many users as need be."
Lluvia nodded. "Where are we going to find an Abolition user?"
"That's simple," Alanus said, "to a place with more dead people than we can count."
". . ."
"The cemetery."
. . . .
[The Phantom and his Mourners' castle, first floor. . .]
Fifth Mourner Elocien floated on his throne and exhaled. He still couldn't shake off the terror he had experienced when the Second Servant of Contrivance, Sylphossia Telantes, appeared.
Her gaze had compressed everything in the room so much that even Behedet couldn't muster his usual attitude in her presence. "I haven't even met the First Servant, or Contrivance itself, yet. . ."
His thoughts then turned to the young boy, the Hierarch-in-coming, Emory Vaughan.
"That child. . . He's far too special. No wonder Almighty Contrivance has his eye on him." Elocien summoned his deathly scythe and left the room.
"I'll go see how the Phantom, Tyrant Lucius, feels about this."
Off he went to the Latent World, homeplace of the Tyrants and looming Entities.
. . . .
[Siole, Emory, and Francine's dormitory. . .]
"Ugh. . ." Francine yawned and stretched her arms. Her night's sleep had been peaceful, for the most part. Though halfway through, she had made out a thud and footsteps. She assumed it was Siole who had to relieve himself.
Brushing her pale gray hair out of the way, she fixed her long gown and stood up. It was time to wake her roommates.
With half-sleepy eyes, Francine went to Siole's bed and shook the boy. "Day has come, young Siole!" she whisper-yelled, her voice not yet adjusted to the morning.
The white-eyed boy groaned and turned the other way, but shivered when Francine pulled his blanket. "I told you to stop doing that. . ." he muttered. "Every time. . ."
Francine giggled and smacked his chest. "Wake up, my prince!" She blew him a heart-kiss.
Siole shooed it away and reluctantly got up.
The pair turned to their final roommate. "Wake up, E–" Francine paused. Siole opened his eyes wide and stared at Emory's bed.
It was vacant.
The blanket was neatly folded and a letter lay on the pillow. Francine slowly walked toward it and gasped.
"I can't really say much, but something happened, and so I had to leave. Don't worry, the Mourners know about this. Thanks for the bearable nights we spent together.
"Your roommate: Emory Vaughan."
. . . .
[Unknown. . .]
Standing alone on a small hill, seventeen-year-old Emory Vaughan scanned the vicinity with his blood-colored eyes.
His body had grown to six feet, with bits of muscle on his arms, legs, and chest. His hair curled slightly, covering part of his forehead.
His face was colder, his eyes narrower, his cheeks set higher. He was handsome, but alone. He wore a black turtleneck sweater under a black suit jacket.
Emory held a pocket watch, checking it occasionally.
Before he left the dream-like landscape, Sylphossia Telantes had conjured for him a replica of the bone-key.
Emory nicknamed it Visionary's Key.
He used it to imagine his clothing and piles of cash. The only caveat was that if he imagined something too grand, the key could backfire and bring forth immense disaster.
Most of its unique power had been expended on the aging wish.
He had to tread lightly.
Walking solemnly through an open field, Emory took a beige paper from his pocket. It should appear soon, but reciting this will make it come faster.
He began to recite in a deep voice:
"He who bears witness to the Mourner's glory pledges allegiance to the Phantom, and to the greater power, Contrivance. He who acts under the precept of the Mourners, and the Phantom, must do so using the abilities gifted.
"He who succumbs to the Crown shall be stripped from his abilities and killed without mercy! He who wishes for power from the Phantom, but does not repay them with Authority in abundance shall face a punishment worse than death!
"He shall garner unearthly abilities subsequent to the first recitation.
"Those departed from existence who sense his power shall follow with him certainty. The mask of skin shall be warped to his will entirely. Illusions and actuality know no differences to him, and he shall bend them to his behest. Barriers become fallacy, and he convalesces with reservations.
"Verily, he will understand: The Phantom is ruler, but Contrivance is Almighty."
The world around Emory shook violently. He took several steps back, reeling from the pain and agony streaking through his head.
Then, through flood of all screams, a voice called out, 'You have finally awoken me.'
The male voice rang in his ears. Emory channeled all his energy to calm himself. Are you. . .
'Yes,'the voice said.
'I am your Specter. Welcome to the Hierarchy World, Emory Vaughan.'