The massive bonfire at the city center had been burning all night long, still radiating warmth in the cold of the early morning.
Before the first ray of sunlight, before the city could grow lively with festivities, the gates opened. The drawbridge lowered ahead of the curfew in the darkness—three carriages crested with the insignia of the Magi Order rolled out with the escort of a dozen knights of the Erwen Family, their cloaks fluttering in the wind as the steeds broke into a trot.
Serin moved the curtains aside and peered his head out of the carriage window, sharply sucking in the cold morning air, refreshing himself and shaking off the remnants of drowsiness.
The Count's convoy of knights and soldiers waiting outside the city immediately scattered and took formation, securing the carriages at the center with ample space in between to maneuver.
The hooves of the horses kicked up dust into the wind and the convoy quickly picked up its pace, forcing Serin to pull his head back into the carriage as the frigid wind began to feel sharp as knives.
Even though it was rather dark outside, the carriage itself was bathed in a bright yellowish-white glow stemming from the flameless magical lamps hung on all four sides. It was as though three fireflies pierced across the official road in the shadows before sunrise.
Serin looked around the carriage and clicked his tongue in wonder once again. The reason why the Count and Serin hadn't gone with a carriage to Waham was that it would have slowed them down. However, the new carriages of the Magi Order, unseen before, had no such trouble.
Incredible! Is the carriage equipped with a suspension system?
Serin opened his mouth in awe as he settled comfortably into the fully cushioned seat. No matter how luxurious ordinary carriages seemed from the inside out, they were really not very pleasant to ride in over long distances. However, the special carriages of the Magi Order not only could keep pace with the horses, strangely enough, but they were extremely smooth to ride in, as though completely weightless and immune to bumps and cracks.
“This is what true luxury looks like!” Count Hainar, sitting opposite Serin, remarked, similarly clicking his tongue in wonder.
“Uncle, can we get one of these?” Serin asked, placing his hand against the silky armrest, his eyes gleaming.
Count Hainar was thoughtful for a moment as his gaze swept over the interior of the carriage. After a while, he looked at Serin and nodded. “I had only heard rumors of it until now.” The Count smiled ironically and said, “Not only us, but every noble and rich merchant will soon have these. It should sell at a high price…”
Serin immediately widened his eyes in realization. “Does the Magi Order sell a lot of goods?”
“They were barred from doing business in the Empire until the previous Emperor lifted the restrictions. There are indeed some useful goods that they sell.” Count Hainar said as he turned his head toward the window, his gaze distant while his expression grew unusually solemn.
Serin noticed the change in demeanor instantly and asked hesitantly, “Is that not good?”
The Count looked at Serin once again, this time with a hint of warning in his gaze, and leaned closer, his voice eerily quiet. “Don't look into it too much… What I will tell you is that the rift between Imperial Power and Divine Power began when the previous Emperor decided to lift the restrictions on the Magi.”
Serin frowned but did not speak again. Unknowingly, the convoy had already left the city far behind and only empty open plains stretched as far as the eye could see.
A ray of sunlight gently landed on Serin's face, bringing with it a hint of spring-like warmth. Looking out, the sun had begun to rise, signaling the arrival of a new day, as well as the beginning of the five-day-long Spring Festival.
Serin glanced at the Count, who seemed to be meditating, his eyes closed and face relaxed.
Letting out a sigh, Serin smiled gently and brought a book out of the bag beside him on the seat. It was that same thick, long, and arcane book called Chronicles of the Known and Unknown World.
Serin caressed the cover of the book again, feeling its texture intimately, strangely experiencing a pang of nostalgia for no reason.
Looking at the book, Serin couldn't help but recall his interaction with Princess Leia at the library, his gaze drifting—willingly or unwillingly—toward the other carriage of the Magi.
It was a surprise for Serin too when he saw Princess Leia with her female attendant when it was time to leave. The Princess had decided to come along, as it was not common to witness a real-life large-scale battle involving the Magi. Apparently, it would be very instructive for her to see the Magi in action on the battlefield more than anything else.
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Serin was confused. On one hand, his cousin Ellis, who was just a little younger than Princess Leia, was very constrained and restricted, while the Duke's daughter was much freer-spirited and seemed to have a lot of autonomy of her own.
Could it be because she is an Acolyte?
Serin shook his head and pushed the thought into some corner of his mind for later musing. He turned the page of the book in his hand, once again becoming enamored by the portrait of Orren Valecant, the author of the book.
The Magi carriage was also equipped with noise suppression, so although the outside was quite noisy due to the rattling of wheels, clanking of metal, and the tapping of hooves—the inside of the carriage was relatively quiet.
Due to this, Serin fell into a trance as he began reading. It was the same kind of trance he had experienced while playing classical, long-form chess. During tournaments, he would stare at the board in thought for hours upon hours—then suddenly “waking up” and feeling as though only minutes had passed, completely losing track of time.
It also helped that the convoy was traveling quickly and unimpeded. Serin was so lost in his reading that he didn't even notice the Count watching him quietly at some point. Perhaps, he wouldn't have cared anyway. After so long, Serin no longer felt so distant or apprehensive of his uncle.
Lost within the pages of the book, Serin began feeling a bit drowsy. Fatigue came over him suddenly—who knew how long it had been since he began reading?
However, he pushed himself to read more, just a bit more. There was still so much to learn, so many unique and interesting stories. So, just a bit more, and then he'd take a nap, Serin thought.
His eyelids felt heavy, yawns threatening to spill out from his mouth only to be suppressed. Serin decided to read the footnote at the end of the chapter, and only then would he allow his eyes to close.
And thus he read…
Footnote — From the private annotations of Orren, appended to Chapter XII of Chronicles of the Known and Unknown World.
It must be stated that the occult forces catalogued within this volume — whether manifested through ritual, invocation, symbol, or blood — are not powers that arise from emptiness. Power does not bloom in a vacuum. It answers to something.
Throughout my travels, I have encountered rites that share no language, no lineage, no doctrine — yet respond in identical patterns. Sigils carved in desert stone echo those whispered in the North, at some blood-sacrifice ritual of the damned, savage barbarians. The same tremor in the air precedes the same distortion of will.
Scholars attribute such convergences to coincidence, or to some forgotten common source. I am less inclined toward comfort.
There are references — scattered, fragmented, violently suppressed — to a Presence unnamed in formal theology. Not a god in the conventional sense, or perhaps not even a God—who knows?—for it is described only as ‘He’ who has been forgotten.
I shall not speculate further in this edition. The prudent scholar knows when inquiry approaches a boundary best observed rather than crossed.
— Orren Valecant.
Serin read the last words in his mind—the name of the author—and finally couldn't hold back the unstoppable urge to close his eyes. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, his vision dimming slowly as he put the book aside and turned the cushioned bench in the carriage into his bed, lying down.
The sun had long passed and risen directly above one's head in the sky; now it was making its journey toward twilight, slowly but surely heading toward the horizon—perhaps in some hours it would reach its destination.
The Count had been surprised by Serin's unbroken focus. Not wanting to disturb him, he had instead chosen to ride his horse; it did not matter to him in any case.
It felt much like when Serin would find himself dozing off and then entering the Divine Arena, but in that case, he would always feel something calling out to him, an unknown force reaching… this time, it seemed that simple fatigue had caught up with him.
Serin loosened his muscles and let go of his consciousness, closing his eyes fully and falling into deep sleep.
---
Serin did not know when the dream began, only that he was suddenly standing before Helsby Castle, watching it burn.
The walls were broken, shattered as if struck by some monstrous force. Towers had collapsed, the banners of House Hainar torn and soaked dark. Blood streaked down the stone steps and pooled across the courtyard, thick and glistening under a bruised sky. The air was heavy with smoke and something far worse.
Serin covered his ears violently, his forehead creasing with dark lines as loud, murky, illusive voices echoed directly into his ears, as though coming from everywhere all at once.
Screams, wails, desperate pleas overlapped into a single unbearable noise. Serin tried to move, but his legs felt sluggish, as if he were wading through invisible mire.
Then suddenly, without warning, the scenery changed. Reality shattered and he found himself somewhere else. In front of him lay the ruins of a city—the one he had known for more than a year, the one he had grown familiar with.
“What… What the hell…” Serin muttered in half horror, half sorrow, feeling a strange sensation in his heart as though it were being stabbed repeatedly.
Was this a scene of the apocalypse? Has the world ended? he thought.
Brinescar was gone.
The harbor lay in ruins, ships splintered and half-submerged. Buildings had crumbled into jagged silhouettes. Ash drifted through the air in slow spirals. There was no life—only devastation.
The dark, pungent fog receded, making Serin scream in horror—yet no voice came out of his throat.
Figures stood scattered through the broken streets.
Pale human silhouettes, translucent and horrifying, twisted and malevolent.
Ghosts… or were they evil spirits? Serin did not know.
Their faces were blurred yet disturbingly familiar. Some seemed to be staring at him with accusation, others with silent grief. The cries returned, louder this time, pressing against his skull.
Something gleamed near his feet.
A ring.
Simple. Covered entirely in blood.
His heart lurched. It was familiar—yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember whose it was.
The air began to distort. The sky twisted unnaturally, bending as if reality itself were being wrung out. The ghosts started moving, drifting closer and closer, their hollow eyes locked onto him.
The cries intensified until they became a shrill, overwhelming roar.
Serin tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go.
The world collapsed inward—
He woke abruptly, drenched in sweat, his breath ragged and uneven, his heart pounding against his chest, threatening to shatter his ribs.
The carriage was dim. The sky was orange.
It was evening.