Then—
kclakk… kclakk… kclakk…
Kael's steps slowly began to falter. Not from exhaustion, but because a single door had finally revealed itself—like a world holding its breath, waiting for a witness to its opening.
< Gate of Withheld Fire >
And the moment Kael came to a halt...
KREEEEKKKK…
A door that had long remained silent began to open on its own.
Yet it was nothing like the other doors. Not teakwood. Not polished steel. It was ancient iron—cracked and rusted, wrapped in moss like scar tissue that even time itself had refused to cleanse.
Kael stood frozen, his gaze unmoving.
And at that very moment—
White mist poured out from the cracks. It did not glow. It did not invite. It did not even wish to be remembered. It flowed outward like water, spreading through the space of Limbus Reveria—silent, heavy.
This door was not nostalgia.
It was born from embers suppressed for too long, from anger forced into silence, from wounds that refused to be forgotten.
Kael's hand trembled faintly, yet his eyes remained sharp.
"This door… is it really…?" he murmured.
Slowly, Kael approached it.
One step… two steps… then the next.
Opening the memories of his past—and finally, entering them.
The moment his body crossed the threshold, the door closed by itself—as if locking away a soul still unforgiven by its past.
Inside, the white mist immediately swallowed his vision. There was no ground. No direction. Only a thick emptiness, as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.
Then, from within the silence… a faint echo emerged.
A hoarse laugh. The voice of an old man—achingly familiar.
"Move forward, you weak child!"
"You'll never be better than anyone if you keep being a coward like this!"
"Use all your strength!"
Kael froze.
His body went rigid. His eyes widened—not from fear, but because his heart dropped instantly. Fell into a place he had not touched for hundreds of years.
His breath caught.
His feet felt unbearably heavy as they pressed forward. His lips trembled, and a faint murmur slipped from his throat.
"…Is that voice… Father…?"
"Father…!"
"I—I…"
Resonance surged violently within his soul, as though that life still lived on—like fragments of memory long sealed, now prying themselves open, forcing their way out through the mist.
He wanted to scream, but he knew this fog could swallow every word—even leaving him with nothing but the sound of his own unsteady footsteps.
So Kael began to walk. Searching.Yet with every step, his chest grew tighter.
The mist thickened—like tears that refused to fall, yet still blurred his vision.
Kael stared into the emptiness—no shape, no path. Only dense haze greeting him like an embrace from the past: cold, rigid, suffocating… like love that had been denied.
"No…" His voice cracked, low.
"Why did the voice disappear?"
"Don't…!"
"Father…"
His expression grew restless, pupils darting without direction. His jaw tightened, brows furrowing in frustration.
"Damn it… my vision is completely restricted here!"
"No. I can't give in. I have to find him until the truth is laid bare. I don't care how thick you try to blind me—I'll keep moving until I find his trace!"
Kael broke into a run toward twelve o'clock.
There was no opening. The mist rejected every step, turning this place into something not meant for searching… but for remembering the wounds of his past.
He kept colliding with shapeless emptiness, as if even his own breaths became echoes that never returned.
His face was taut, cold sweat sliding down his temples. But he kept moving, kept chasing that voice without pause.
And at last—
Faintly, from the direction of three o'clock, another sound arose. No longer hoarse laughter, but the gentle conversation of a father with his child.
"Come on, Kael. Strike harder. Swing your sword with more edge!"
Hearing that, Kael's steps halted. He turned sharply toward three o'clock.
The sound of running feet followed—small, eager steps.
"Hyyaaahhhhhhh!!!!"
TAK!
Wood collided with wood.
TAK! TUNG! TAK!
Two wooden swords clashed—attack and defense. The sound was dull, yet its rhythm was clear. Not a deadly battle, but training. Training that had always been there. Training he had once hated.
The grown Kael stood still, his body tensing. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with certainty… because he knew. He knew exactly what would emerge from beyond that mist.
"Good… your stance is getting cleaner."
"Hold it!"
TAK! TUNG! TAK!
The sounds grew clearer. Kael's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. He realized then—the other voice was his own, from when he was only seven years old.
From that direction, the mist slowly began to part—like a heavy curtain forced to yield to the light.
"Hold on!"
"Maintain your defensive stance!"
TUNG! TAKK! TUNG! TAKK!
The younger Kael sounded overwhelmed. Blow after blow rained down on him from his father—hard, relentless, without mercy.
"Don't let your eyes lose focus!"
His father's voice rang clear and sharp, unbroken by pause—like a cold whip that never allowed hesitation.
TUNG! TAKK! TUNG!
And finally....
TUNG!
"Kyaghh…!"
The small body was flung backward.
BRUK! BRUK! BRUK!
The wooden sword slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the dusty ground. The child rolled, slammed hard, his face twisting in pain.
And at that moment, the mist began to fracture—to thin, as though drawing its first breath. The sound had not come from three o'clock after all, but straight ahead—twelve o'clock.
Kael slowly turned.
And there… he saw it.
Himself. Smaller. No more than nine years old. Messy black hair. A pale face. Red, wet eyes brimming with fear. Both palms pressed against the ground, his body trembling as he endured the pain, teeth clenched as he stared up at his father.
Standing before him—his father.
Tall. Broad. Unyielding. He looked down at his son with disappointment etched into his gaze. The sword in his hand was drawn, cold—like an angel without mercy.
Ezra Patroviche.
Supreme leader of The Silent Oath—an assassin order that had survived wars, famine, and the collapse of civilization itself.
In dark legend, he was remembered as The Abyssal Walker: the man who walked between voids, cutting through the night without leaving a trace.
His hair had turned white—white as snow in a dying winter. His thick beard was not merely a mark of age, but a seal of honor. His eyes, steel-blue and piercing, could see through anything—even the lies of his own child.
Ezra's body remained firm, standing tall as if time itself had no right to claim his strength. Old scars were merely records of war, never weaknesses. He radiated a terrifying calm—one that demanded respect, demanded obedience, demanded perfection—without ever needing to speak.
And when his sword rose, the world understood: it was a signal. There would be no mercy for those who betrayed the Silent Oath.
From afar, the grown Kael watched the scene. His face slackened slowly, his eyes trembling. The memory lived again—but he could not interfere. He was no longer part of it.
He was only a witness.
A witness to a wound he had never forgiven.
Yet something felt wrong.
Kael's step wavered. Distortion rippled outward from his body. Not just his footing—his entire existence seemed split, two colors colliding, refusing to merge with the past.
His form pulsed like fragmented data. Not from injury, but from rejection—warm rejection from the past itself, as though he were nothing more than a stranger intruding from the future.
Kael lowered his gaze.
And when he saw it—his palms were no longer colored.
Black and white.
His skin. His clothes. His entire body—slowly fading into monochrome.
His expression froze. His eyes widened, lips trembling as a panicked whisper slipped from his heart.
"Eh… uh…"
"Wait… what's happening to me?"
"Why am I… black and white? That's impossible!"
"Is it because… I was never meant to belong in this memory?" Kael murmured, lifting his gaze back toward the scene of his past.
Because the world before him was overflowing with color.
Ahead lay an open training yard. Solid, dark-brown earth, clean and packed, surrounded by ancient trees and gray stone walls. And beyond that indescribable night sky, the world seemed to already hint at the year 2060.
Yet this old place still stood—a trace of ancestry, stubbornly resisting the passage of time.
Kael didn't fully understand what all of this meant.
But one thought anchored itself firmly in his mind:
He had to face this wound.
Not to win.
But to accept it.
And try… to forgive it.
His father's voice sounded again. Flat. Neither raised nor gentle.
"Pick up your sword."
The young Kael was still grinding his teeth, his face rigid with anger.
"Kael Vieron… pick up your sword."
The tone was not as sharp as before, but the gaze hardened—piercing straight into the child's heart.
The younger Kael slowly rose. His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, then reached down to retrieve the fallen wooden sword.
Not from a will to fight—
But from anger.
From the feeling of worthlessness that had been festering in his chest for far too long.
Young Kael spread his legs, setting his stance. Yet his gaze stayed lowered, as though he were holding back something far heavier than fear alone.
"One more time. Show me the results of your training this past month."
"This is only the beginning. Your life is still long, my son. Never disappoint me!"
Ezra stepped forward. His movements were firm, leaving no space for hesitation.
Young Kael remained silent. His lips were tightly pressed together, his breath uneven. Only his grip grew tighter around the hilt.
"I know, my son…"
Ezra's voice dropped—deep, steady, filled with conviction.
"You have many talents. But talent without resolve is nothing more than weakness."
His eyes fixed straight ahead, sharp and unyielding, yet his tone carried a sincere belief—a belief that this child of his blood could surpass anyone, even himself, the last father still standing in a broken world.
"As your father… I will not allow you to waste that potential."
Young Kael listened in silence, then drew a short breath.
"Intelligence is not the only thing you can be proud of. On the battlefield, only the sword decides whether you survive—against fear… and against death."
Ezra's brows knit tightly. His shoulders stiffened, his sword rising.
"Now—"
"Hold your sword properly!"
The shout shattered the stillness, shaking the boy to his core.
"Have you forgotten the resolve I've always spoken of?! Kael… look at your father!"
Yet young Kael stayed silent. Completely silent. His teeth bit into his lip, blood nearly spilling. His hand did hold the sword—but his mind drifted far away, piercing through every sense of inadequacy he had kept buried.
"No…" he muttered, his voice breaking.
"…Father…"
The faintness of that voice made Ezra freeze.
"What is it?" he asked quickly, his expression wavering as he looked at his son in confusion.
"Do you really think… this world would care if you were hurt…?"
There was no answer. Young Kael still stared at the ground.
His shoulders trembled.
"No, my son," Ezra finally said, his tone closing in like a lid. "The world will never care about what you feel."
But that was not the answer anyone needed.
Young Kael tightened his grip even more. His breathing shook—not from exhaustion, but from anger spreading wildly through his chest. His teeth clenched hard.
Ezra stepped halfway forward, uncertainty deepening on his face. "My son…?"
Young Kael looked up, his eyes glassy with tears. His voice cracked.
"Father… that's enough."
The words were weak, his lips trembling.
"I… I'm sick of all this."
The confession spilled out, sharp and unrestrained. And then—tears finally fell, his face still locked in anger, as though all the wounds he had hidden could no longer be contained.
"Every day… every morning… you always tell me I'm not enough!"
"Why…? Am I weak? Useless? Unworthy?"
Young Kael's voice shattered, heavy with wounds long buried.
Ezra did not comfort him. Instead, he reinforced his stance, his tone grave.
"My son… that is the bitter truth. Because indeed… you are still not enough for me to leave you on your own."
Ezra drew a long breath. His sword slowly lowered—not in surrender, but as a sign of turmoil he could not suppress. Seeing his son so fragile… his own heart trembled.
"Remember this, Kael…" His voice was deep, echoing across the empty courtyard.
"We are a family of assassins in the shadows. Chosen to stand as protectors amid the world's ruin."
Silence swallowed his words.
Ezra straightened himself once more, though his eyes wavered. He stood firm in his harsh resolve—even as his heart had already cracked the moment he saw young Kael's tears fall.
"Our duty is immense. We are an unseen wall, not only to correct… but to protect what is right."
His voice rose, trembling slightly, as if to drown out his own doubts.
"Because you are my only son! And therefore, this is the only way to make you grow stronger!"
Ezra stared at him sharply. His blue eyes glinted, restraining the pain that still lingered—like steel heated until it glowed red, yet refusing to break.
"Do you think all of this will always end in peace?!"
"No! No, my son!" Ezra's voice exploded, tearing through the silence around them.
"Darkness… chaos… even power itself will always devour everything—and erase anyone who is weak."
"The blood of the shadows flows through your veins, Kael. You must keep climbing, become the strongest. This world will never wait for you to grow strong—you must be strong now!"
Ezra's tone faltered, as if despair itself had begun to crush his child before he ever reached adulthood.
"This universe is cruel. And you must learn every form of its evil."
Young Kael slammed his sword into the ground without resistance. His eyes burned red, shining with anger and fear.
"I… I can't!"
"Kael…?"
His shout echoed.
"I can't…!!"
"I can't do it, Father!"
Adult Kael stood frozen, his eyes wide, barely blinking. His heart felt tightly gripped, his throat dry.
Because he understood now… this was the source of every wound he had never healed.
Deep in the core of his heart:
That… was the beginning of my hatred. Me—the child who refused to be controlled. Selfish. Useless. Chasing nothing but freedom.
Father… forgive me—
Young Kael shouted, cutting through Adult Kael's whisper:
"I… I don't want to become like them!"
Adult Kael could do nothing. He couldn't even open his mouth to speak. He could only watch, sinking into guilt and the sorrow that had haunted him for so long.
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to protect. Protect Mother? You're still here, Father. There's Aunt Jean, Uncle Zeth."
"Even if I become an Assassin like them—everyone will still die! The fate of our ancestors has already written its history!"
"Being the chosen one? Inheriting that great power from a cursed module? No—I don't want that!"
Young Kael shook his head fiercely.
"I just want to live like an ordinary person. I just want… freedom, on my own path. Even if I do become an Assassin someday… I'll do it my way."
Tears streamed down mercilessly.
"Killing without a sound, living in the shadows, forever chased by death…"
"I-I… I'm scared. Weak… and useless."
Ezra stared at him for a long time, silent. The hand that had once pointed now fell limp. The hardness in his face faded; the light in his eyes dulled—tired, realizing his failure as a father.
"Kael… you—" His voice trembled, vibrating through his chest.
Young Kael cut him off forcefully, his voice shaking yet resolute.
His voice broke, quivering as if rejecting every burden placed upon his shoulders.
"Do you know…?! I'm tired…!" His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling, his wet eyes struggling to hold back tears he shouldn't have to show.
"I… I'm just a child!" he screamed again, his voice hoarse, nearly shattered. "Not a doll… not a tool you can command however you want, without caring whether I can endure it or not!"
Young Kael clenched his fists tightly, his fingers trembling, as if that were the only way to keep himself from collapsing in front of the person he hated—and loved—the most.
Then, in a lower voice, almost like a murmur forced out of a dry throat, he continued.
"In this universe… humans are all treated the same. Used… controlled… like chess pieces with no right to choose their own path. Our seven nations… for thirty years we've lived under the same gaze… the eyes of machines that never sleep… AIs that constantly watch, calculate, and decide our fate as if we weren't living beings!"
"Kael… it seems you already know that much—" Ezra looked momentarily stunned by the breadth of his understanding.
"I don't want… someone I care about to disappear again…"
Young Kael lowered his head briefly, reflecting on someone once taken by cruelty. Then he lifted his gaze—slowly—and looked at his father with burning eyes.
"That's why… from now on. I want to do this my way!"
"Why should we work with them, when in truth they're the ones who are wrong?!"
Ezra drew a heavy breath, trying to restrain his emotions.
"Kael… you don't even know how fragile the boundary of this universe truly is."
Young Kael replied softly.
"I know…"
"That's why we… the Shadows. We have to destroy them. Tyrak Megacorporation."
Then Young Kael glared at him sharply—before turning his face away. Tears still fell, his steps unsteady. He turned his back, closing the distance between them with movements filled with anger.
"Don't ever talk to me again…" Young Kael walked away.
"K-Kael… wait… don't go!"
Ezra reached out at once.
But… it was too late.
Young Kael walked on, carrying wounds that would never fade—even after the fog of memory thinned.
And from within that fog, something still waited—silent, watching, hiding among wounds that had never truly healed.
***