The rain poured relentlessly, soaking Amon to the bone.
His robes clung to his body, heavy and dripping, while his worn-out, unkempt, and slightly balding hair shriveled under the downpour's chill.
Water traced icy paths down his skin, but his mind raced faster than the storm above.
'I changed the moment I tried to imitate Old Man Don—swinging the sword like him. If I act like myself again… will I return to normal?'
The thought flickered through his mind like lightning. He was curious but had no way to test his theory except by acting on it.
He took a slow breath, recalling his usual posture, expressions, and patterns of movement. Bit by bit, he let his mind settle into the rhythms of his own self. His thoughts decelerated. His emotions, reactions, and even his internal sense of identity gradually realigned with the version of Amon he had always known.
Something shifted. He felt it.
Raising a trembling hand to his face, he touched the familiar texture of the mask that concealed his grotesque features. The cool surface sent a subtle shiver across his palm.
'Everything's back to normal,' Amon thought. Still mimicking Old Man Don's behavior, he shifted seamlessly back into the old man's form.
'What a useful ability… Faceless. I have no face—I can be anyone, or no one. All that matters is how well I perform.'
A strange understanding settled over him. For the first time, he felt he truly grasped the scope of what he could do.
A small smile tugged at his lips beneath the mask. The corners curled not with joy, but with a sense of wonder and anticipation.
'No need to dwell too much. In time, I'll uncover the full extent of this power.'
He turned toward the distant road. Without wasting another second, he sprinted toward home. By now, his sister had likely arrived.
…
Rainwater continued to drip from him as Amon reached his doorstep, his frame trembling slightly from the cold. He paused before the door, letting the sting of the rain fuel his decision to finally knock.
Moments passed in silence. Then, a metallic click broke the quiet as the door creaked open.
Amon stepped inside. The soft squelch of his soaked boots brushing the wooden floor echoed through the dimly lit room.
Lifting his head, his gaze met that of a curvy, middle-aged woman.
Her expression was firm, yet not unkind. Beneath the sternness in her eyes lingered a quiet warmth. Her deep golden hair shimmered faintly in the glow of the scattered lanterns, and her equally golden eyes locked onto Amon with intensity, as if seeing straight through him.
"Mother," he greeted gently, offering a faint smile. "Sorry I came late."
Though she wasn't his biological mother, Amon had grown up calling her that.
Angel's eyes ran over him, from the drenched mask obscuring his face to the clothes already soaking the floor beneath him. Her expression soured slightly.
"Go and change your clothes," she said. "Then come down for dinner."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned gracefully and walked into the nearby kitchen. Yet, her gaze lingered momentarily, a flicker of suspicion dancing behind her calm demeanor.
Amon gave a wry smile and made his way toward the upper room.
Just as he reached for the door, it flew open beside him. Out stepped Aurora, dressed in only a snug pair of shorts that emphasized her delicate curves and a loose, slightly oversized top that hugged her frame in all the right places.
She glared at him, her expression filled with irritation.
Amon blinked in feigned surprise. "Sister, you're back already? I didn't see you, so I went out looking."
The lie flowed effortlessly, his voice calm, his posture unreadable.
Aurora's expression softened almost immediately. Her anger faded as she looked at her brother, drenched and cold. Her imagination filled in the blanks—he must've been worried.
She smiled sweetly and patted his shoulder.
"You're making a mess," she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. "Do you want me to slip and break something?"
Though Amon's face was hidden behind the mask, Aurora could've sworn she heard a faint chuckle escape him.
Without another word, he turned and stepped into his room, locking the door behind him. The soft rustling of clothing being removed echoed through the wood.
Aurora let out a light-hearted laugh and whistled as she descended the stairs, bounding into the kitchen where she hugged Angel from behind.
"Mmm… something smells amazing tonight," she said cheerfully, unusually talkative.
Angel gave her daughter a sidelong glance, puzzled by the sudden burst of energy.
…
Soon, dinner was served. Amon emerged wearing a long-sleeved bronze shirt and a dark pair of thick, fur-lined trousers. The air was damp and chilly, and after being soaked, he needed the extra warmth.
He walked quietly to the table and sat down. His eyes moved across the room to his sister and mother, both waiting silently for him.
They joined hands for a quiet prayer, then began to eat.
Aurora acted as though nothing had happened. She laughed, chatted, and smiled as if the incident at the warehouse earlier was a mere figment of imagination.
Amon watched her closely, glancing at her now and then, his thoughts spinning.
'Why hasn't she said anything to Angel? She's usually a chatterbox. It's only a matter of time. If she does tell… I may need to play Old Man Don again. But can I fool mother with the act?'
His mind whirled with calculations and doubts.
Midway through the meal, Angel finally spoke, her tone casual.
"You two shouldn't stay out late for the next week or so. Make sure you're both home before six in the evening."
Then, as if she hadn't said anything serious, she continued eating.
Aurora rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, but said nothing. It wasn't a new rule. Still, she respected it.
Amon, on the other hand, sharpened his focus. His gaze grew intense.
'She knows something… something about the world I don't. There's more going on here than I realized. This warning—it's not ordinary. Could it be related to people with abilities? How much does she know? Where did she learn it? Is that why she always insists we return early?'
Questions surged through him, each more pressing than the last.
One thing, however, was certain. The words echoed clearly in his mind as he chewed slowly, nodding at Angel's warning.
'Tonight won't be the last time I wear the old man's face. This is only the beginning of Faceless.'
...
A/N: I hope you enjoy the opening of this novel. Support by adding to your library and giving a power stone or two. Thank you.