Rio stood in the palace courtyard, still panting, the heavy shadow of X swirling in his mind like a plague. But he tried to pull himself together. He squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and held his back firm, as if this stance could hide the trembling within. His silver eyes were fixed on William, but his thoughts kept drifting to that white, faceless god. Still, he didn't want to show weakness—not in front of his father, not now.
William, tall and resolute, stood before him like a mountain of fire and stone. His red hair swayed gently in the morning breeze, and his red eyes, as if harboring dormant flames, gazed at Rio with a cold, impenetrable majesty. The dark armor he wore gleamed under the newly risen sun, and his cloak danced in the wind with every movement, like a stream of blood. He began to circle Rio with slow, measured steps, like a predator sizing up its prey, but with the dignity only a leader and master could possess.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, like a rumble rising from the depths of the earth: "A warrior has only two ways to face the dangers before him: weapon or magic."
He paused, his gaze briefly fixed on the horizon, then returned to Rio. "Few in this world master both. That's why they're exceptional. Not because they're chosen, no. They're the ones who, through their own effort, reach that point."
His steps halted, and now he stood directly in front of Rio, his towering, majestic presence seeming to cast a shadow that filled the entire courtyard.
"I want to make you such a person—not as your father, but as your master. Do you have a problem with that?"
Rio fell silent for a moment. His heartbeat quickened, and a vague anxiety twisted within him. He swallowed hard, the sound audible only to himself. His mind drifted to X—that deadly threat, that ambiguous mission. He didn't know its nature, but one thing was clear as day: anything coming from a god couldn't be simple. He, who had come from a civilized world, a world of comfort far from violence, had never been at ease with pain or battle. But now? Now he had no choice. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to protect his family, he had to become strong—stronger than he could even imagine.
He took a deep breath and locked eyes with his father. Suppressing the tremor in his voice, he spoke with a resolve born from fear: "If this is the best way to become strong, I have no problem with it, Father."
William stared at him for a moment, as if searching for something deep within him. Then he nodded slowly, not with a smile, but with a look that blended satisfaction with heavy expectation. His imposing shadow still loomed over Rio, but in that moment, Rio felt he had taken his first step—toward something greater, something that might one day free him from X's grasp, or perhaps plunge him deeper into that nightmare.
William paused, his red eyes gleaming like twin orbs of fire, and cast a penetrating look at Rio, as if testing the depths of his resolve. Then, with a voice like the low growl of a storm, he continued:
"A warrior's success in battle depends on two things: skill and decision-making. If you're skilled enough to bring your enemy down but too weak to decide to kill them, you're a loser, Rio. Or if you're determined to destroy your enemy but lack the skill to do so, you'll still fail."
His steps circled Rio again, each one landing firmly on the cobblestones, amplifying his commanding presence.
"For this, Elian will teach you swordsmanship. You might have talent with a spear or archery, but I want you to learn the sword. Even if you lack the talent, even if every bone in your body breaks under this training, you must learn. Understood?"
Anxiety surged in Rio like a cold wave, rising to the heavens. William's expectations weighed on his shoulders like a colossal mountain. He, who came from a peaceful world, now had to face violence and pain he couldn't even fathom. But if he was to survive, if he was to protect his family, he had to move forward, even if the path crushed him. He swallowed hard, locked eyes with his father, and with a voice that tried to conceal its tremor, said:
"Understood, Father. If this will make me strong, I have no problem with it."
William stared at him for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction. With a swift motion, he raised his hand. One of the palace soldiers, a burly man with an expressionless face, emerged from the shadows and placed a wide, brown box respectfully on the ground. Rio stared at it in surprise. It was a simple box, but something about it stirred an odd feeling in him. William calmly approached it, opened the lid, and drew out a relatively long staff. A magical staff, as if plucked from legend. Its handle was made of gleaming metal, and at its tip, a ball glowed yellow and black, like a sun trapped in the darkness of night. A little lower, a metal dragon was intricately coiled around the handle, its eyes seemingly alive and fixed on Rio.
William held the staff with controlled strength, as if he had wielded it for years. His stature seemed taller in that moment, like an ancient ruler who held nature in his grasp. With a voice both calm and commanding, he said:
"But for magic, you need a strong will and the right tool."
Then, without warning, he began to spin the staff. His movements were swift and fluid, like a deadly dance that made the air tremble. Suddenly, his lips moved, and strange, otherworldly words spilled from his mouth like a whisper from another realm:
"O threads of creation, from your vast depths grant me power to unleash a raging storm that shakes the earth and makes the heavens roar."
In an instant, the ground beneath Rio quaked, as if a giant had awakened from slumber. Pebbles around him tore free and floated in the air, like stars freed from gravity's law. A fierce wind began to blow, and the sky roared. Rio looked up in terror. The clouds swirled like a massive vortex, black and heavy, streaked with lightning that gleamed like veins of blood. The sky seemed alive, furious and merciless, and the earth beneath his feet threatened to swallow him with every tremor.
Rio's eyes widened, his breath caught in his chest. This power, this magic, was beyond his imagination—terrifying, awe-inspiring, and yet mesmerizing. William stood at the center of this storm, wielding the staff with absolute mastery, his face like a rock against the waves, calm yet majestic. His hair danced in the wind, and his eyes flashed with every bolt in the sky. He was not just a father or a master, but a force that seemed to have bent nature to his will.
Fear and admiration mingled within him. Was this the power he had to attain?
William stood in the center of the courtyard, spinning the staff with mesmerizing power, as if he were part of the storm he had conjured. Suddenly, with a swift, decisive motion, he released it. The staff hovered in the air, like a bird with outstretched wings, and William raised his other hand with unmatched authority. In an instant, from the absolute void of his palm, a roaring, searing fire erupted. The flames, red and gold, shot toward the storm's center with ferocious power, like a spear of light and heat that tore through the sky. The fire was so mighty that it shattered the black vortex of clouds, and with a deafening roar, the storm collapsed. Moments later, the sun shone again on the tribe, as if that terrifying darkness had never existed.
Rio, rooted to the spot, stood with his mouth agape, words lost in his throat. His heart raced, and his silver eyes still traced the remnants of that colossal fire in the sky. With the calm only a true master could possess, William took the staff, now returned to his hand, and held it toward Rio, saying:
"This staff belonged to your uncle. One of the greatest masters crafted it. The yellow and black crystal at its tip can merge with all four elements and summon their power from the threads of creation."
He paused, twirling the staff carefully, and continued:
"But this is only part of its abilities. The rest you must discover yourself. The day you master the thread tied to your being, that's the day I'll allow you to wield it."
Rio, still reeling from that otherworldly display, could only nod. His mind was filled with images of that fire and storm, and his father's words echoed like a heavy poem in his ears. William returned the staff to the brown box with reverence, closed the lid, and with a voice now less cold, said:
"Now, it's time to begin training."
Five months later, Rio's life had become an unrelenting cycle of effort and exhaustion. Every day, before sunrise, he awoke at William's command and ran through the palace courtyard. The long distances his father set for him left him breathless and trembling. At first, it was just a few laps around the palace, but soon William forced him to climb the surrounding hills, navigate through rocks, and even continue running on rainy days with muddy, soaked feet. Every breath burned like fire in his chest, but he knew this endurance was what would transform him from a weak boy into a warrior.
In the courtyard, wooden dummies stood like silent soldiers awaiting him. William had ordered him to strike them a hundred times daily, not with a real sword, but with heavy wooden ones that seemed designed to test his will. Rio spent hours hitting the dummies, his hands blistered from the effort. Sometimes the wood broke under the strain, and he had to continue barehanded. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his muscles screamed in pain, but William's cold, commanding gaze from afar urged him to press on.
Swordsmanship with Elian was another matter entirely. Elian, with his black armor and fiery red eyes, stood before him like a swift, merciless shadow. The wooden swords given to Rio for sparring with Elian were fragile and light, as if deliberately designed to challenge him. Every day, Elian trained with him, his strikes swift and precise, knocking Rio to the ground repeatedly. "Plant your feet, master Rio!" Elian would shout, his voice ringing like a bell. "Lose your balance in battle, and you're dead!"
Rio fell countless times, his knees bruised, his hands trembling from the strain of the wood, but each time he rose, teeth gritted, with a resolve slowly taking root within him.
William sometimes watched from a distance, his imposing face and piercing gaze seeming to see into Rio's very soul. One day, when Rio collapsed to his knees after hours of training with the wooden sword, William approached and said, "A warrior grows strong through pain. If you want to wield that staff, you must strive harder than this."
Beyond this, Rio devised his own exercises. At night, when everyone slept, he went to a corner of the courtyard and trained with heavy stones, lifting and throwing them to strengthen his arms. Sometimes, with his eyes closed, he tried to sense the sound of the wind or Elian's movements, knowing one day he'd have to fight without sight. Once, in a moment of exhaustion-fueled boldness, he asked Elian to strike harder, and Elian, with a grin, said, "You asked for it, master Rio."
That day, Rio returned to his room battered but with a heart full of determination.
Ten months had passed, and Rio was no longer the weak boy of that first day. His body was stronger, his hands calloused, his gaze sharper. But deep within, every night, he thought of the brown box, his heart racing—not just from curiosity, but from a burgeoning desire.
Rio poured his all into surpassing his father's expectations, but his mind was like a broken boat in a stormy sea, teetering on the edge of sinking. He came from a modern, orderly world where violence was a distant shadow, and life flowed with calm and law. But now, every day, he sent his body to the battlefield—his legs trembled from relentless running, his hands bled and calloused from striking wooden dummies, and every breath stabbed like an icy dagger in his chest. These hardships forged his body, but they turned his mind into a dark, terrified cage, its walls closing in tighter each moment.
Every night, when the tribe fell silent, Rio stood before the small mirror in his room. The dim candlelight cast trembling shadows on the walls, like hands reaching from the darkness to choke him. His silver eyes, now sunken with exhaustion and fear, ringed with dark circles, stared back at him. But what he saw wasn't just himself—it was Christopher Ryde, the ghost of his past, with eyes like icy wells swallowing him and a smile colder than death. Memories of his old life stormed his mind like furious spirits, fear flooding him like a black, sticky deluge—what if he failed? What if he lost everything again?
His mind filled with nightmarish visions: William lying in a pool of blood, his red eyes extinguished; his family burning in a colossal fire; and X, that white, faceless god, standing above it all. These images clawed at his brain like sharp talons, and voices whispered in his ears:
"You're not enough. You've always been weak. You'll lose everything."
Sometimes the voices grew so loud that Rio clutched his head, yanking his white hair violently, as if he could rip the monsters from his mind. His nails scratched his scalp, blood warming beneath his fingers, but even this pain couldn't save him from that madness.
He whispered to himself, "Be strong! You have to be better! You have to adapt to this world!"
But every blow he took in training, every fresh bruise, every bone trembling under strain, turned those words into a hollow scream in his mind. At night, alone, he paced his room like a madman, clenching his fists and punching the walls to drown out his mind with physical pain. Sometimes he sank to his knees, clutching his head, moaning:
"I can't… I can't take it…"
And sometimes his screams were muffled in his pillow, like an animal trapped in an iron cage with no escape. His mind was filled with shadows mocking him, voices coiling around his throat like chains:
"You're a mistake. This world isn't for you. You'll destroy everything."
These nightmares were so vivid that sometimes he couldn't tell if he was awake or still dreaming.
Alongside swordsmanship with Elian, Rio had secret sessions with William—training to control the threads and magic, hidden from all eyes, at the edge of the floating island. On the first day of this training, William stood like a pillar of fire and stone against the horizon. His dark red cloak billowed in the wind like a raging flame, and his red hair danced in the breeze, as if setting the sky ablaze. His eyes, two burning red orbs, gazed at Rio with a majesty that stole breath. His voice, deep and grand, like thunder before a storm, echoed:
"Before I teach you to control magic, there's something important you need to know, Rio."
Rio, with anxiety gripping his heart like an icy claw, stared at his father with doubt and remained silent. William stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the ground, enveloping Rio like a massive wall.
"You need to know that your power is unique—just as you are."
Rio, surprised, asked in a trembling voice, "What do you mean, Father?"
William glanced at the horizon, as if speaking to a distant past, then turned back to Rio. His eyes sharpened, his voice heavier, like a stone hurled from a great peak:
"You won't find a single dragon in this world that can wield frost—not with a magical staff, not with anything. A dragon can never harness cold, because it contradicts our nature. We are born of fire, strangers to ice."
He paused, his stature seeming taller, and continued: "That's why an ice dragon is so special. You're the only dragon who can wield the power of cold. I'll teach you to control this power—not to use it, but to refrain from using it. The day you use your power before other dragons is the day they'll know your true identity."
Rio felt the ground tremble beneath him at these words. His face paled, his breath locked in his chest. William continued: "So promise me, my son, that you'll never use it in front of any dragon and always rely on your magical staff."
Rio, his voice broken with fear and weakness, whispered, "But Father, the tribe knows about me…"
William stepped closer with firm strides, placing his large, powerful hands on Rio's shoulders. His gaze was like a warm, burning flame, his voice filled with authority and assurance:
"They're loyal to us, Rio. None of them will ever speak. So promise me."
Rio looked into his father's eyes. In that moment, all his nightmares and madness faded under William's immense shadow. He would sacrifice anything to protect his family—even himself, With great hesitation. He nodded and, with a voice born from fear, said:
"I promise, Father."
William lifted his hands and stepped back. His shadow still loomed over Rio like a vast wall, but in Rio's heart, that promise wrapped around his power like an icy chain—a chain he didn't know would one day save him from this madness or drown him in it forever. His mind still wandered in that dark, terrifying cage, with mocking voices whispering in his ears, but now he had something else: a promise made under that immense majesty, and a fear he didn't know how far it would take him.
William nodded, accepting Rio's promise, and thus began his magical training. At the edge of the floating island, where the wind roared through the cliffs and the horizon stretched like an endless sea, William stood resolute. His dark red cloak danced like a living flame, his red eyes piercing Rio with breathtaking majesty. With a deep, grand voice that seemed to rise from the earth, he explained:
"The threads are drawn to a person for various reasons. Sometimes it's affinity, sometimes sustenance. Most often, using magic is a bargain between the sorceress and the threads. But it's always mortals who pay the price."
Rio listened intently, though anxiety lurked like a shadow in his heart. William continued:
"You can use crystals or objects the threads are drawn to, but there's still a physical cost. For most mages, this cost is their energy and life force. But for those like the chosen, the threads grant immense power and demand greater things in return—a heavy price ordinary people could never comprehend."
His voice grew heavier, like a weight crashing onto Rio's shoulders.
As William explained the nature of magic, he taught Rio how to control the threads. He quickly realized that Rio's threads were tied to his emotions—powerful ones like anger or fear. "To use them, you need to harness a strong emotion, Rio. Anger, fear, anything that sets you ablaze."
Rio hesitated at first. He didn't want to touch that darkness within, but when he began, it was as if a floodgate opened. He was filled with anger and fear—fear of X, anger at his own weakness, and the terror that stalked him nightly like a shadow. These emotions awakened a wave of frost in him, a wave he tried to expand each day. In solitude, under William's sharp gaze, ice would spill from his fingers, coating the ground, but each time, his heart raced with fear that this power might become uncontrollable.
But amidst these grueling exercises, Rio tried to hold onto a piece of himself. At night, when his body trembled with exhaustion and his energy was spent, he looked at the stars. With bruised, wounded hands, he'd pick up paper and pen, sketching them, noting their coordinates, and gazing at the sky in silence. He didn't want to lose himself in this passion—he feared that dwelling too much on himself would distance him from his family—but when he began drawing, the world faded. His mind quieted, leaving only lines and dots.
One night, as he drew with tired eyes and trembling hands, Maria, his mother, entered his room silently. Rio was so absorbed he didn't notice her until her warm, soft hands rested on his shoulders. He jumped, the pen falling from his hand, and with a trembling voice said:
"Mother?!"
He hurriedly tried to gather his papers and distract her, but Maria looked at him with concern. She brushed her hand across his face, caressing his cold, pale skin, and with a voice full of love, said:
"My son, you've pushed yourself so hard these past months. If you want, you can rest. You don't need to strain yourself so much."
Rio's heart trembled. Her words hit him like a warm wave, and his eyes filled with tears. He wanted to cry, to scream how scared he was, how weak he felt, but tears were weakness to him. He had to stay strong. He had to put his family above everything. He swallowed his tears and, with a voice trying to sound firm, said:
"It's fine, Mother. I enjoy it. I want to become a great sorceress."
Maria looked at him sadly. She knew her son was lying but said nothing. She kissed his forehead and, after a brief conversation, headed for the door. But halfway, her eyes caught the golden compass on his desk—the one Rio still kept. With surprise and a smile, she said:
"My son, you still have your uncle's compass? Have you managed to use it? Do its needles move?"
Those words struck Rio's mind like lightning. A vague, terrifying memory surfaced—something he didn't want to recall, his mother's face, something he tried to deny. Fear and logic seized him in an instant, and with a voice trembling with dread, he said:
"No, Mother, I think it's really broken."
Maria nodded, her smile fading, and left the room.
When the door closed, Rio staggered toward the compass. He picked it up and whispered to himself, "What's so special about you?"
Questions buzzed in his mind like bees, but there were no answers. On the other side of the palace, Maria walked through the dark corridors. Her face was now expressionless, her hands clenched, and anger burned like a silent flame in her eyes. She muttered under her breath:
"Damn you, brother. Damn you."
Her words echoed like a sinister whisper in the darkness, and Rio, in his room, didn't know what secret the compass held—a secret that might one day change everything.
The morning after, Rio sat in the shade of the large tree in the palace courtyard, his body still aching from sword training with Elian, his breaths heavy. A cool breeze made the leaves dance, but his mind was restless. He held the golden compass, turning it curiously in his hands. Its needles remained still until he pointed it around. Suddenly, when he aimed it at a distant soldier, the needles quivered and moved. Rio narrowed his eyes and tried again—each time he pointed it at a living being, the needles came alive. His heart raced. This compass wasn't for orientation; it reacted to living creatures.
The discovery sparked something in his weary mind. For the first time in weeks, something other than fear and the pressure of training filled his thoughts. With childlike excitement, he began experimenting, pointing the compass at birds on branches, patrolling soldiers, even ants on the ground, and each time the needles stirred. A faint smile crept onto his lips—perhaps this little distraction could keep his nightmares at bay.
Just then, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Setia, his sister, was approaching from a distance. Her long white hair gleamed in the sunlight, her light dress swaying in the breeze. Still engrossed in his discovery, Rio decided to test it again. He aimed the compass at Setia. As expected, the needles moved, but then something unexpected happened. With a metallic click, the compass began to transform. Four new dials, like tree branches, sprouted from its center, each with its own needle and mysterious inscriptions. Rio stared in shock, his breath caught, his hands trembling.
He tried to make sense of it, but except for the central dial, the others were covered in vampire script—a language he didn't understand. The central dial was half in vampire script, half in other tongues. Its needle spun wildly, stopping on a red vampire word, then pointing to words for water, fire, earth, and air before returning to its starting point. Rio looked at the other dials in horror. One had stopped on an Elf word he understood:
"Absolute Void."
The word echoed in his mind like an alarm, but before he could think further, a shadow fell over him.
He looked up, and his heart stopped for a moment. Setia stood above him, but this wasn't the playful, kind sister he knew. Her face… it was something out of a nightmare. Her eyes, once full of laughter, were now like two endless black pits staring at him, their pupils trembling with rage. Her skin was deathly pale, like a corpse freshly risen, and her lips twisted unnaturally—not a smile, but something like a monster's silent snarl. For a moment, Rio thought it resembled their mother's face—that strange, terrifying anger he'd seen in Maria—but this time, he was certain it wasn't an illusion. This was real. Setia, the sister who always hugged him and teased him, now looked at him like a creature from the underworld.
Rio couldn't breathe. His body froze, his tongue locked in his mouth. His heartbeat pounded so loudly it filled his ears, but amidst it, he heard another sound—Setia's heartbeat, fast and furious, like a war drum. She made no effort to hide it. Her eyes stared downward—not at Rio, but at the compass, as if the small object had consumed her entire being.
Suddenly, Setia knelt on one knee. Her face shifted in an instant—back to her usual kind, playful smile—but to Rio, the change was even more terrifying. It was as if the monster had put on a mask. In a voice too sweet, she said,
"Little brother, I see you've fixed Uncle's broken compass?"
Her smile deepened, but behind it, Rio saw something—rage, no, an endless hatred that could swallow him whole in a moment.
Before he could respond, Adrina's voice, their older sister, thundered across the courtyard:
"What are you two doing out there? It's time for lunch!"
Rio shot up, as if her voice had saved him, but Setia suddenly grabbed his hand. Her fingers were cold as ice, her grip too tight. She smiled again, but this time it only filled Rio with dread. In a voice that seemed to echo from a deep well, she asked,
"Did the needles move, little brother? Do the compass's needles move?"
Paralyzed with fear, Rio's mouth went dry, words stuck in his throat. He could only shake his head and whisper in a trembling, hoarse voice,
"No…"
Setia stared at him for a moment, then laughed—a laugh too cheerful—and hugged him, saying, "Is that so!"
Then, as if nothing had happened, she took his hand and led him toward the palace.
Still in shock, Rio glanced at the golden compass in his hand. It had returned to normal, as if the four strange new disc had never existed. But a deep fear had taken root within him—a fear he didn't know the source or destination of. Why did his mother, and now Setia, care so much about this compass? Why did their gazes, when they looked at it, seem to fix on something deadly? His heart raced, his mind swirling with questions, but one thing he was certain of: this compass wasn't just an object. It held a secret, one that had turned Setia and Maria into terrifying monsters, and he didn't know if he had the courage to uncover it.