Aethelgard Royal Palace. September 1st, 546.
The ten-year-old boy, Lumian, sat cross-legged on the floor of a dark room lined with tall bookshelves. Before him, an aged book lay open to a page titled, 'How to Use the Matrix: The Initial Stage of Spiritual Harmonization.'
Every page he turned was accompanied by flashes of lightning piercing through the stone window. Then, he stopped turning pages—having reached a conclusion.
In short… All souls reside in the spiritual world—an abstract realm situated beneath the subconscious. A dimension where all souls gather, invisible and intangible. Yet, as living beings, we can sense its existence.
First, I must feel my own existence there. Only then can I access spiritual power. Second, and most importantly, this process is an exchange. Souls and Spiritual Power will not come freely. Borrowing their power is akin to borrowing a part of my own soul, and every loan must be repaid with an equivalent sacrifice. The strength of the spiritual energy also dependson how valuable one's sacrifice is.
Finally, he closed the book, leaving behind one line of guiding text.
The key lies in one thing: feeling the existence of the spiritual world itself… and uttering an incantation as a catalyst.
A spark of conviction ignited within him.
"Alright!"
His eyes shifted to the wooden soldier doll he had placed beside him. Holding his breath, he raised both palms towards it.
"O, 'The Seraphin'... Master of Law. Nothing is achieved without equivalent sacrifice."
A glowing blue line appeared beneath the doll, slowly rotating to form a perfect circle. Then, new lines branched inward, filling the space with intricate geometric patterns. Ancient script bloomed in every crevice.
So this is the Matrix? The initial stage of magic! His grey eyes shone with triumph. The roaring thunder and howling wind outside faded into insignificance, silenced by the palpable sense of success hanging in the air.
"Success!"
Then, without warning, the Matrix flared with a blinding blue light, growing brighter and brighter. Before he could react, the light swallowed him, whitening his entire vision.
I can't see! Panic seized him.
He shook his head wildly, hoping to clear the whiteness shadowing his sight.
Foosh–! The sound emerged suddenly as his vision began to return. Then, a stinging pain assaulted his little finger—as if something had ripped off his fingernail by force.
Fresh blood gushed from the tip of his finger, dripping down. My nail is completely gone… My sacrifice is accepted…
Kreek!
The sound of creaking wood diverted his gaze. It came from his wooden soldier doll.
The doll's eyelids slowly opened, revealing eyes shining with a bright blue light, greyish smoke wafting from them. Its head turned with a stiff motion, its piercing gaze now fixed directly on Lumian.
The doll blinked several times, as if trying to recognize the one who had given it life.
A wave of pure joy flooded Lumian's chest. It's alive? I succeeded?
"I have to show Father!" He snatched the animated doll and tried to stand. His small body darted through the narrow gaps between the bookshelves until he finally found the exit from the dim room.
The door was left ajar as he burst out into the corridor. The corridor was illuminated by golden lanterns, a red carpet cushioning his enthusiastic steps. The walls were adorned with artistic carvings of various symbols, exuding an air of elegant luxury.
Unbeknownst to him, blood continued to drip from his little finger, leaving dark, wet stains on the red carpet. But his excitement overpowered the pain.
A triumphant smile was stuck on his face. He glanced at the doll in his hand—trying to confirm it was truly alive!
When he looked ahead again, his smile faded slightly, replaced by confusion.
Huh?
The corridor he was traversing had now become a single, seemingly endless path.
He didn't slow down; instead, he narrowed his eyes, trying to see the end of the pitch-black darkness at the corridor's end.
Crash!
His foot caught on something hard. Thud! He fell, a sharp pain immediately shooting up from his toes.
"Ouch…"
He pushed himself up, then looked back.
The obstacle that had tripped him turned out to be a steel war helmet, the kind worn by the royal guards. The helmet was dented, rusted, and most terrifyingly, stained with dark, dried blood smears on its cheek guard, reminding him of something frightening he had once seen.
"Why is this here?" He clutched the wooden doll to his chest, then brushed the dust off his clothes.
I can't meet Father like this… After deeming himself presentable enough, he turned around.
He took one running step, but froze on the spot the moment he realized the corridor had darkened. The only illumination was a blood-red light piercing through a series of high windows on the left—windows that hadn't been there before.
His spine stiffened, the hairs on his neck standing on end. "Father? Mother? Brother? Eva?" he called out, but in the suffocating silence, his voice only echoed back to his ears.
Crashh…! His foot touched the helmet again.
This is so strange… What is really happening? Stay calm…. Stay calm… But it was no use; his breath hitched, his chest rising and falling irregularly. A deep, piercing cold seeped into his bones. With fear-filled curiosity, he slowly, stiffly turned his head, trying to see the source of the red light.
His eyes widened.
The red light came from a moon hanging in the sky like a ball of blood, emitting such a dense crimson hue that it tinted the surrounding clouds reddish.
He gasped, his heart pounding. Without a second thought, Lumian turned and ran along the increasingly dark and threatening corridor. His steps were panicked, his breath ragged.
Must find… Must find…
Yet, the corridor seemed alive, twisting and turning. Lumian felt as if he were running in place, or even upside down. The red hue deepened, making his vision dizzy and his stomach nauseous.
The echo of his footsteps and his ragged breath were the only sounds in the silent corridor.
Then, his eyes caught something at the end of the corridor: a large door, ornately carved from iron and gold.
Lumian quickened his pace. "Father must be there," he muttered between ragged breaths.
He stood before the door, drawing a relieved breath and trying to steady himself.
Hesitantly, he pushed the door open a crack. Loud, angry voices erupted from behind it. Two voices, hurling sharp words at each other, startled him slightly.
Father? Uncle? He recognized both voices.
Through the crack, he saw his father, King Askeld, standing facing a man on the steps to the throne—Uncle William.
Lumian slipped in quietly. Fear urged him to scream, but the oppressive atmosphere seemed to crush his voice and weigh down his legs. Everything was muted, wrapped in an unnatural silence.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Each beat echoed inside his skull, vibrating through his entire field of vision, as if the room itself was pulsating with his terror.
They're arguing?
Father and his uncle appeared locked in a fierce argument, but strangely, he couldn't hear a single word coming out; he could only see their mouths moving soundlessly.
Lumian forced his own mouth open. "Father…" The voice was choked, barely audible.
Finally, the two fell silent, as if the argument had reached its peak. Then, Uncle William opened his mouth again.
"…"
No sound was heard…
The blood-red light illuminated half of his face, making his smile appear terrifying, caught between human and demon.
Witnessing his uncle's increasingly frightening face, a powerful wave of nausea washed over him. His knees felt weak.
Suddenly, Uncle William's terrifying gaze shifted—and landed directly on him. That gaze felt like it carried a wave of pure energy that rooted Lumian to the spot.
Then, his father followed that gaze. His eyes widened in panic.
"RUN, LUMI!" Those were the only words that exploded through the silence, clear and piercing like shattering glass.
Lumian took a stumbling step backward, confused. "Run?" he whispered to himself, his body refusing to obey his father's command, trembling.
At that moment, a glowing red Matrix appeared beneath his father's feet, emitting tendrils of red smoke that crept across the floor.
KRAAK!
Red energy tentacles burst from the circle, wrapping around his Father's body. His face turned purple, the veins on his neck bulging.
"FATHER!" He screamed, his voice finally erupting, hoarse with horror.
Behind his struggling father, Uncle William—smiled with satisfaction…
"RUN!" Askeld roared again, struggling against his bindings.
Another wave of red energy radiated from the Matrix, causing the tentacles to swell and pulse. The energy spread rapidly, seeping into his Father's body through every pore.
"ARGGHHHH!!"
His eyes blazed with a fiery red light, and his skin began to crack,emitting a magma-like glow from within. His agonizing scream was met with Uncle William's loud laughter, as if he were watching a grand performance.
The tentacles lowered his father, who was no longer recognizable as human. His eyes were pools of fire, his skin hardened into volcanic rock, cracks emitting molten energy.
"Father…?" Lumian whimpered. He was paralyzed, his gaze empty as the dreadful creature that was once his father stepped forward, energy claws shimmering at its fingertips.
His father continued to approach with a terrifying, unnatural speed—
Swoosh—! —it charged straight towards him.
---
Brak!!!
The table shook as Lumian jolted awake. His breath was ragged, his heart pounding wildly. Cold sweat drenched his body. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at his own hands, which trembled violently. The phantom sensations from the dream—the searing energy claws, the hellish red light—all felt like they had just happened.
"Young Master, did you have a nightmare again?"
A hoarse, inhuman voice pierced through the remnants of his panic. Lumian looked up. It was his wooden soldier doll—Barnaby. The same doll from his dream, unable to move due to its limbs being connected only by threads, it simply leaned against the windowsill.
Several seconds passed before his awareness fully returned.
A dream. It was just a dream his heart whispered, trying to calm his still-racing self. I'm here. In my dark, stuffy, and musty-smelling room.
His gaze slowly swept the surroundings, tracing every corner so familiar to him. I'm sitting on the old wooden chair, the worn desk and the window without glass are in front of me. This was his ritual—a habit he always performed whenever gripped by a nightmare. By naming and recognizing every object around him, he tried to anchor his runaway mind back to reality, convincing himself the horror was over.
January 1st, 554… his mind reminded him, grasping for certainty from that string of numbers. A new day had begun.
Lumian leaned his head back against the chair, staring at the cracked wooden ceiling. His hands still trembled as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. The remnants of the dream clung to the edges of his mind like stubborn, toxic mist.
"Young Master, you should drink some water."
Lumian nodded slowly. With a heavy breath, he reached for the metal cup on the table and drank it all. The cold liquid soothed his dry throat and helped quell the fear still churning in his stomach. This is real. I'm awake. I'm here, in my new life, he repeated to himself.
His gaze then fell upon the table, where a teddy bear with button eyes and a patched, ragged body lay—the doll he had knitted all night for his little sister. Only a few stitches on its back remained to finish it.
He picked up the bear. For some reason, the sight of it seemed to calm his pounding heart.
I'll finish it…
He took his needle with hands already full of puncture wounds. With stiff, slightly trembling movements, he pushed and pulled the thread; each stitch felt like an anchor, pulling him firmly back to the present.
Then he finished the final stitch, pulled it tight, and bit the thread to break it.
"Finally done," he murmured, a faint, genuine smile finally spreading across his face.
"Barnaby," he called to the wooden doll perched on the windowsill, "Do you think Eva will like it?"
Barnaby blinked as his blue eyes scanned the teddy bear. "Of course. The Young Master made it himself. Princess Eva will love it."
Hearing that answer, his smile warmed further.
At that very moment… The morning sunlight now touched his face, its gentle warmth driving the last of the nightmare's chill from his pale skin.
"Okay," he said, standing up. "I should get ready now."
He walked to the small washbasin in the corner of his room. Then, clenching his fist over his chest, a blue Matrix circle materialized in the air before him without a single spoken word.
He had learned to summon the Matrix by will alone; he only needed to visualize it and set its purpose. If he wanted to avoid sacrificing body parts, he could expend spiritual energy, which would replenish with rest.
Droplets of water began to drip from the center of the Matrix, then flowed down like rain. Lumian bent over, letting the cold water drench his face and hair.
"Young Master, isn't that a waste of Spiritual Energy?" Barnaby interjected from his perch. "Exhaustion could make you faint, like that time."
"No," Lumian refuted, water still streaming down his face.
"No… that's not what I meant," Barnaby continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I can sense your spiritual energy is turbulent from the nightmare. You must have expended a lot of spiritual energy already."
"I only used a little, for this," Lumian stated. "Besides, it helps me… feel clearer."
The circle vanished, along with the pouring water. He stood upright, wiping the water dripping from his chin. He took a rough cloth and dried his hair.
"And the spiritual energy you absorbed earlier—keep it for now. Until I tell you to wake up." Lumian stretched his body. "I will definitely need you later."
He then walked to the half-cracked mirror on the wall, bringing his face closer. The dark circles under his eyes and the fine lines of stress on his forehead were becoming increasingly clear.
Seems like I should pay more attention to my appearance now…
After ensuring there was no dirt on his face, he picked up the emerald pendant and put it around his neck, then gently took the knitted teddy bear from the table.
I hope Eva will like it. That simple hope ignited a small, warm light in his chest, slowly burning away the last remnants of the nightmare's cold horror.
He headed for the door. His hand gripped the worn, cold wooden doorknob. The aroma of warm soup and bread wafted from the other side, a promise of normal, ordinary life. As he turned the knob and pulled the door open, he found someone standing right in his path—as if they had been waiting for him. Or more precisely…