The day Lucian Lysander obtained his first story was the day he understood the world for what it truly was.
And that was the day he died.
A long dagger, dipped in the blood of eight humans, slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. His right arm hung twisted unnaturally. Bone cracked, tissue torn. Where his heart once rested, there was now a gaping hole, blood spreading out in bubbling pools. In his bloody left hand, Lucian held his heart. Still beating. Still alive outside his body.
The grand auditorium had once carried the scent of old dust and dry air. Now it reeked of a thick metallic scent of blood. Instead of a cheering crowd, its empty hall was drenched in red stains and shredded flesh. Yet the music still played.
At the center of the stage, Lucian knelt, blood flowing freely from his head. The crimson droplets fell upon his hair, white as unmarked parchment. They slid down those soft, silken strands but never reached the pale face beneath, a face that seemed to bear the quiet ache of all the world.
Unaware of how his eyes, eyes like the clear sky of the Lysanders, gleamed even in the dim light. Eyes that held the warmth of a summer dawn, and a darkness deeper than the most violent storms.
And those eyes were watching something.
Not the seven corpses behind him, those he had dispatched with desperate precision in that ruthless survival game.
Not even the dying body of the Unread lying before him, a creature that had once embodied terror itself, now shrunken and frail, like a withered lotus abandoned by both grace and beauty. It had crumbled to dust, yet remained in place, untouched only because there was no breeze in the sealed hall to carry it away.
Lucian spared it only a passing glance. It was nothing more than an empty shell now, its essence residing within the Codex.
He released his heart. It no longer beats.
From his left palm, something stirred.
Now hovering above his hand was his Codex, its black leather cover weathered and cracked, as though discarded and forgotten long ago.
The once-empty, yellowed pages of the ancient grimoire no longer lay blank. Across the first sheet, dark ink bled into intricate letters. He could read them clearly now:
Chapter One: A Song of Love and Sorrow
As he stared at the words, Lucian understood what he had become.
"How pathetic," he murmured. "We were meant to be masters of these puppets, yet we are no different. Vessels without souls. Humans without faces. Names without identities. Characters without a story. Soulless, destinyless."
His voice trembled, half with awe, half with despair.
"Even so," he whispered, "no matter how cruel our existence is, we must never forget,
the moment we accept these stories, we will gain a soul… that is not our own."
*****
Three days ago
Ring-ring! Ring-ring!
The alarm clock rattled on the bedside table, its mechanical ringing cutting through the silence of the room. But the reason for its existence seemed pointless, because the black-haired boy had barely blinked throughout the night.
"What do you think? Am I really going crazy?" he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes. "Damn it, every time I sleep, I dream of a burning house… no, more like a palace. People dying, a ghost, seven shadows… and so much pain."
He let the alarm blare for another minute until its shrill tone became more irritating than his own thoughts. Finally, he slammed it off, waking up another occupant of the room, a golden-furred dog sprawled tightly beside him.
"So, tell me, Prologue," he said with a crooked grin. "Am I really crazy?"
"Woof!"
"Wait… did you just say yes?"
The boy looked down at the dog, now lazily rolling against his arm.
"You stupid mutt. Have you forgotten who kept you fat and fluffy all this time?"
The boy, somewhere between fifteen and sixteen, lay on the bed without a shirt. A thin stain of crimson blood trailed from his stomach, now dried, but its path still visible, seeping slowly into the bedsheet. Judging by the wound, it looked like the work of a knife.
His dog, a lazy companion with sleepy eyes, stared at the wound for a while before leaning in to lick it, as if to comfort his roommate. But before the animal could touch him, the boy raised a hand to stop him.
"What are you doing? I don't need an infection on top of the pain. And you're a dog, idiot, not a cat."
The dog continued to stare, unmoved.
"What? I need to keep training, don't I? Now get up."
Letting Prologue off the bed, he straightened the messy sheets before heading to the bathroom for a shower. Of course, after some struggle with a needle and bandages.
A few minutes later, he emerged, wearing black trousers and buttoning up a crisp white shirt. He lit the stove and set a small pot of water to boil. Then added tea leaves, a spoon of sugar, and that was his breakfast for today, a cup of tea.
He grabbed a bag of dog food and filled two bowls, then picked another and filled it with water.
"Damn it, Prologue," he sighed. "You're the reason I've got zero savings after two years."
Setting the bowls down, and finishing his tea, he crouched to give the lazy dog a quick pat before leaving.
"Don't eat it all at once," he warned, putting down the teacup and grabbing his bag. "You'll be hungry the rest of the day."
"Woof!"
He chuckled, closed the door behind him, locked it, and checked twice before finally heading out.
He walked with a sluggish gait, his steps uneven and weary. Sleep had been a stranger for days. Whatever energy or excitement he once had had long abandoned him. But those damn dreams, they never left.
Now, they had begun to bleed into his waking hours.
'Damn it… what are those? My—my… No, it can't be true.'
A thought tried to take shape in his mind, only for him to crush it before it could form.
'Lucian… I am Lucian. But Lucian who?'
All he remembered of his life were the past three years and his name. Lucian. It meant light.
"Heh," he muttered under his breath, lips curling in bitter amusement. "Quite a name for someone living in darkness."
Everything before that was gone, buried behind a thick fog of mystery he couldn't pierce no matter how hard he tried.
Lost in his usual thoughts, Lucian didn't notice how his feet had already carried him through the narrow streets. The small town slowly stirred awake around him, greeting the same morning he had seen every day for the past three years.
The same hole-ridden Nether pipes breathed thin curls of blue smoke from their cracks, yet never once hummed. The same red-brick buildings leaned toward the dark, sunlit sky. The same streetlights flickering. The same group of workers marching toward their daily toil. The same restaurant by the corner pulled down its shutters. The same drunken office workers drifted home, supporting each other without caring who had the farthest to go.
The same newspaper boy darted over the cobblestones, his cry for the morning news echoing through the narrow lanes.
And as always, the clown was there.
He stood at the corner like part of the scenery, dressed in red-and-white striped pants and a matching top dotted with pale circles. His painted smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
When Lucian passed, the clown lifted a hand in greeting. Two balloons floated from his grasp. One black, another white.
Before long, he reached the market district, just a ten-minute walk from his tiny apartment.
He stood outside a café named "Morning Hue."
The café occupied a small section of the ground floor of a four-story building, its upper levels filled with apartments and small artisan workshops. Its entrance nestled beneath a large, ornate clock that jutted from the wall.
Brass and bronze gears caught the morning sun, scattering warm light across the cobblestones. The sunlight turned the clock's rings into a soft halo of copper and gold, casting long shadows on the stone wall. Sometimes, birds perched on its arms, adding a small touch of life to the still mechanical structure.
The café's door was simple wood, framed by tall windows that allowed warm morning light to spill inside.
Lucian pushed the door open. The bell chimed, and the rich aroma of coffee greeted him.
Inside, the café exuded a cozy charm with its bronze Nether pipes, nickel-gray walls, maroon chairs, polished brass fixtures, and shelves stacked with books on alchemy, biology, and the nature of the Unread, none of which explored the realms of imagination. It was also the most avoided corner of the entire café, despite the warm atmosphere everywhere else.
An old man sipped his coffee in an empty corner beneath the soft music playing from a gramophone. His deep blue hair contrasted with his wrinkled face and tired eyes.
"Am I late, boss?" Lucian asked.
"No, not at all," the old man replied, glancing at his wristwatch with a smile.
Lucian adjusted his apron, striped in classic patterns, and headed toward the back room to begin his work.
The day passed as it always had for the past three years. Morning Hue rarely saw many customers these days, with the dwindling population of a town that had never been large to begin with. Most of the residents he saw in the morning were almost everyone who lived here. Or at least that was all he ever saw. Not that he knew, he never talked to anyone. Just him and the café. But Lucian's salary remained steady. In that sense, life continued just as it always had.
"Hey, are you alright, Lucian?" a young woman asked, her gentle voice startling him out of his thoughts.
"Yes… why do you ask, Lily?"
Aside from Lucian, seven people worked at the café. All of them shared the same striking blue hair, bound together by family ties. Lily, the owner's granddaughter, was the second youngest. She had a brother, her parents, and two distant relatives.
"You've got dark circles under your eyes," she observed.
Despite the five-year age difference, she treated him more like a friend than a subordinate.
"Wait a second," she said, disappearing briefly before returning with a small, round box.
"Here. Apply this every night before bed. And get eight hours of sleep, alright?"
"What is this?" Lucian began to refuse, but the look in her eyes silenced him, and he accepted it.
"Hey, could you bring a slice of cake for the old man?" Lily's brother called from the counter.
He was two years younger than Lily. Although Lucian wouldn't admit it, the guy was handsome and far better with customers. But for some reason Lucian always forgot his name.
Without a word, Lucian sliced a piece of cake, without even asking which one he placed it on a plate, and took it to their sole customer.
He set the plate down on the table in the corner near the gramophone, which played its usual soft melodies. An old man sat opposite the owner, a chessboard between them.
Lucian glanced at the old man's sweaty, intense expression and knew he was losing again. The owner, calm and unshaken, looked as if victory were inevitable.
The old man was the only regular Morning Hue had seen in a long time. His wife had passed away a year ago, and his son had left the town for better opportunities. Now alone, he spent most of his days here, enjoying chess and company.
"Ah… damn it." The old man looked at Lucian with pleading eyes. "Lucian, help me out."
"May I…?" He looked at his boss. After all, helping him meant neglecting his work in front of his employer.
"Sure. It's too easy without you," the owner said with a smile.
The match didn't last two minutes. The owner won again.
"Lucian, join me from the start next time," the old man muttered.
"No. Unlike you, he has work to do," the owner replied.
Frustrated by the loss, the old man switched on the radio for distraction.
The radio on the open windowsill, bathed in warm sunlight, played the same channel the entire town relied on.
"As we know, Sapphire Town was once a mining town. Many people died in those mines. Burned or buried underground," a male anchor said.
Sapphire Town lay five kilometers east of here, much larger than this place.
"Yes, and that is why most of the Unread there have fire abilities," a female anchor replied.
An Unread was a human turned monster most of them, anyway.
They were living manifestations of unresolved human stories, born from violent, unjust, or unnatural deaths. Each one reflected someone's life, regrets, or trauma. Their unfinished stories became monsters, their lives transformed into power.
"And this one seems to be the same," the male anchor continued.
"But how did it escape from the Librarians?"
"We don't have all the details, but it's said to burn people with a touch."
"How terrifying."
The old man set down his plate and turned off the radio.
"How terrifying. What are those Librarians even doing?" he grumbled.
"Hmm… be careful on your way home, Lucian," the owner said with concern.
Lucian returned to the back of the café, where Lily and her brother were sharing half a strawberry cake.
"Here's yours." She handed him a slice. "Did he ask for help again?"
Lucian took the cake and sat on the iron stool. "Yes. But we still lost."
"Grandpa's impossible to beat. I've never won. Have you?" she asked her brother.
"No. I don't like chess. People call it a strategy game, but that's just the fool's watered-down version of what a true strategy game created to teach."
Lucian almost frowned. Winning was already hard enough for his mind as it was. What kind of game could be harder than that?
'He looks tired lately,' Lucian thought as he took a bite.
"Oh, almost forgot. What's your plan for tomorrow?" Lily asked.
"For what?"
"Tomorrow is your birthday. Did you forget?"
"Oh…"
"So? What's the plan?"
"…"
Without replying he finished the cake, licking the last bit from the fork. He glanced past the window. Despite the feeling that time had passed, it wasn't even noon yet. As he looked, the world shimmered for a moment. Lily's brother nearly fell, catching himself against the wall.
"How much longer do we need to run this café?" he said, voice heavy and strained.
"Not much longer," the owner replied suddenly from behind him.
Lucian blinked and looked at the window again.
Night had fallen. Stars twinkled. A blood-red moon hanging.
The same clown in green and white star-patterned pants and a matching lined top smiled and waved at him. Two balloons floated from its other hand. One white. Another black.