That night, the village appeared peaceful from the outside. But beneath its surface, two forces lurked.
Veyrn wasted no time. As soon as the sun had set, he began to search the village. Not with troops, not with flashy magic—but with influence. He approached each villager's house one by one, offering "protection," asking gentle but piercing questions:
"Who's different in this village?"
"Who's too calm when everyone else is panicking?"
"Who shouldn't be so strong?"
Zeo's name began to come up. Slowly. Not outright. But in whispers.
Zeo knew.
He sensed it in the changing gazes of the villagers. In the too-silent silence as he passed. But he didn't fight back. Not yet. Instead, he welcomed the game.
The next night, he made his first move.
He placed a forbidden spellbook—a fake—in the attic of the village elder's house. The symbols were striking, the contents half-truthed. But it was enough to catch Veyrn's attention.
Sure enough, the next day, the house was burned down. The elder was arrested. Accused of harboring dark magic.
Zeo watched from afar, smiling faintly.
"The first move is mine."
But Veyrn was no fool. Examining the book, he knew: this was too easy. Too clean. This did not belong to an elder.
That night, he placed a raven feather—an artifact that detected dark magic—in front of Zeo's house. Not to trap him, but to send a message:
"I know you're here."
Zeo found it at dawn. He picked it up gently, stared at it, and kissed the tip like a flower.
"Good, Veyrn. I hate easy games, too."
And the silent war continued—two hunters stalking each other, baiting each other, without a single shot being fired.
Not yet.
Rivan had never liked being the center of attention. But lately, he could feel it—eyes watching him from behind the crowd, from behind the windows, from the shadows.
Veyrn.
The man began to approach him. Not to interrogate him outright. Just… talking. Asking. Inviting him to "think together."
"You said you like to read old archives?"
"People like you usually know more than they say."
"Don't worry. I don't suspect you. I respect you."
But to Rivan, those words weren't compliments. They were politely disguised threats.
And he knew one thing: Veyrn was looking for something, or someone. And he knew Rivan might hold a clue.
That afternoon, Rivan returned to the library. But when he opened the door, he found that the place had been touched by someone else. The books he had hidden earlier—old magic notes, Leira's history, and the strange death notes—were gone.
There was only one message, written on a small piece of paper, neatly placed on the table:
"Stop digging, or you'll be buried with what you're digging."
Signature: the symbol of three drops of blood.
That night, Rivan sat behind his house. Looking at the dark sky, his heart was heavy. But he couldn't stop. Too many questions. Too many things that didn't make sense. Too much about Zeo felt… wrong.
And as if in answer, footsteps were heard.
Zeo emerged from the shadows, silently, sitting next to him. As usual—calm, relaxed, but cold.
"He's watching you, huh?" Zeo asked, his flat tone piercing.
Rivan didn't answer directly. But his gaze was clear enough.
"If you want to live," Zeo continued, "from now on, you have to learn to play two faces. One for him… and one for yourself."
Rivan stared at Zeo. "And you?"
Zeo smiled slightly. "Me? I've been wearing a mask since before you were born."
Then he stood up, just walking away.
Rivan knew one thing: he had gone too deep. And now, two monsters were watching him.
The only question left was who would he trick first?