The smell of antiseptic pulled me from the dark.
White ceiling. The faint hum of mana machinery. The slow, rhythmic beeping of a monitor beside my bed. For a long moment, I couldn't move—my body was leaden, my mind thick with fog and memory.
Hospital.
So we survived.
I flexed my fingers. Pain rippled up my arm, dull but real. Someone had wrapped my chest in enchanted bindings, faintly blue and pulsing with warmth—healing runes working to knit the damage back together.
To my right, a thin curtain swayed in the soft breeze of the ventilation charm. Beyond it, a familiar mana signature pulsed—steady, cold, unmistakably hers.
Carmila Noctharyn lay in the next bed. Crimson hair spilled over white sheets like molten silk, and even in unconsciousness, she seemed untouchable. Her skin, pale and glasslike, caught the glow of runes along her bedside ward. She looked asleep, but power still coiled beneath her calm surface—like a flame pretending to rest.
Seeing her alive tugged something deep inside me. Relief, sharp and unwelcome, like a blade twisting behind my ribs.
Fragments of memory returned in disjointed flashes: the crumbling ritual chamber, Fredrick's laughter turned to screams, the air splitting apart under a light that wasn't light at all. And then—him.
"You are not ready yet."
The voice slithered through my skull like an echo from another life. Whoever that being was, he hadn't simply defeated Fredrick—he had erased him. Body. Soul. Concept. Gone without trace or residue.
And yet… he spared me.
The hum of mana conduits thrummed through the floor beneath me, faint but steady. I realized then that layers of containment wards wrapped the entire ward. The Academy didn't take chances—not after what happened underground.
A soft voice pulled me from my thoughts."Ah, you're awake."
A healer stood near the door, her robes marked with the insignia of the Arcanum Medical Corps. She gave me a small smile that didn't reach her tired eyes.
"You've been unconscious for three days," she said, adjusting the drip rune beside my bed. "Severe mana exhaustion, nerve backlash, and fractures from overexertion. It's a miracle your core didn't collapse."
My throat was dry. "Carmila?"
"She stabilized yesterday. Still sleeping." The nurse hesitated. "The Headmaster's envoy will want a report once you're strong enough to stand. Until then—rest."
She left quietly. The door sealed with a hiss, leaving only the steady rhythm of the monitors and the faint, sterile hum of mana lamps.
For a while, I just stared at the ceiling, the memory of that otherworldly presence pressing down on me. His words still burned behind my eyes.
"Defeat the Overlord, and you will remember."
My hand trembled slightly as I brought it to my chest. Something pulsed beneath the skin—faint, alien. It wasn't my heartbeat.
Was this the seal he spoke of?
Who am I?Adrian Kaelthorn Ravenshade—the fallen noble clawing his way toward redemption?Or the echo of another being, bound in borrowed flesh and false memory?
The questions gnawed at me until a quiet hum drew my attention. A crystal broadcast sphere flickered on near the far wall, projecting a faint image.
"—officials confirm the neutralization of the Ashbourne anomaly. The Academy has commended students Adrian Kaelthorn and Carmila Noctharyn for extraordinary valor…"
My name, spoken in the sterile tone of a reporter.
"...the cause remains under investigation. Sources suggest high-level demonic interference. Reconstruction of the Trade District has begun."
No mention of him. No mention of the power that unmade existence with a thought.
Of course there wouldn't be. To the world, this was a closed case. To me, it was the opening of something far larger—something that had been waiting.
The broadcast dimmed, leaving the room quiet once more. Only the faint hum of wards filled the silence, rhythmic and strangely human.
Then—a sound.
A rustle of sheets.
I turned.
Carmila stirred, lashes flickering. Her fingers twitched once before her crimson eyes opened—unfocused at first, then sharpening with wary clarity.
"You're awake," I murmured.
Her gaze found mine. For a heartbeat, nothing passed between us but silence thick with things unspoken. Then, softly—
"He's gone, isn't he?"
Her voice carried no fear, only certainty wrapped in exhaustion.
"He won't return," I said.
She studied me for a long moment. "You saw something," she said quietly. "I can tell."
The air felt heavier. For an instant, I thought about telling her—about that being, about the name carved into my soul—but the words died in my throat.
"I saw enough."
Carmila didn't press. Her eyes closed again, but not before a faint, knowing smile ghosted across her lips.
"Then that's enough," she whispered, drifting back into sleep.
Her trust—or maybe her resignation—cut deeper than accusation ever could.
I turned toward the window.
Beyond the glass, the city of Ashbourne stretched beneath a washed-out dawn. Repair runes climbed the sides of shattered towers, glowing faintly as they wove stone back into place. Mana cranes hovered like silent sentinels, lifting fragments of debris into the air. Far below, the soft drone of airships rolled through the fog—melancholy and distant, a song of tired survival.
The city was healing. Slowly, painfully, like me.
A quiet knock broke the moment. The door slid open, and a tall man stepped inside—silver uniform, precise movements, eyes sharp as blades. The sigil of an Academy Investigator gleamed on his chest.
"Adrian Kaelthorn," he said, consulting a hovering crystal tablet. "The Headmaster requests your presence in four hours for debriefing. You and Lady Noctharyn are both required."
His tone was flat, professional—but his gaze lingered on me a heartbeat too long, as if searching for something that shouldn't exist.
"I understand," I said.
He gave a curt nod and left. The door sealed behind him with a faint hiss.
Four hours.
Four hours to decide what truth to tell—and what lie to keep.
I leaned back against the pillows, the sterile air feeling heavier now. My reflection in the window stared back—pale, gaunt, eyes darker than I remembered. For a fleeting instant, another face overlapped mine: the faceless figure from the ritual chamber. His gaze was my gaze. His voice, my echo.
"Defeat the Overlord, and you will remember."
Was that his command? Or my own?
A tremor passed through me. Beneath my ribs, the alien pulse beat faster, resonating with the runes around me until they flickered faintly in response. The seal was changing—awakening.
Whatever was bound inside me wasn't meant to stay quiet for long.
I turned back to Carmila. She slept soundly, her breathing even, her face softened by dreams. A stray lock of crimson hair framed her cheek. She looked so human like this—so far removed from the blood magic and battlefield ferocity that defined her.
For a moment, I wanted to stay here. To let the world forget me, to drift in this fragile quiet where no gods or monsters could reach.
But peace was never meant for people like me.
Outside, a distant horn sounded as an airship vanished into the mist. The sound lingered—low, mournful, eternal.
I closed my eyes, the echo of that otherworldly voice whispering once more through the hollow of my thoughts.
"Defeat the Overlord… and you will remember."
A challenge.A promise.A warning.
My hand curled into a fist.
Whatever I was—reader, reborn, or relic of something forgotten—I would find the truth.
Even if I had to carve it from the heart of fate itself.