The ages have advanced, moving ever forward in their ubiquitous majesty that seemed entrenched into the depths of the River of Time. Yet few can even perceive the shallowness of their place, much less the true depths hidden beneath the layer of knowledge and history, flowing onward in an unceasing current that seemed both ancient and new. No matter how one moulds the riverbed, the flow continues unabated. There is a glaring misconception that Time is relative. No…, 'we' are relative. Time is the ever constant flow of Existence, a motion dating back far beyond our conception.
On a quaint little blue planet called Earth, civilisations rose and fell. Tribes formed into cities, then kingdoms, only to be razed down by others. From the ashes are born empires that span the horizon. And even they fall, becoming foundations for new civilisations. The currents of war are unchanging, dragging with them the threads of life and death. A rebirth awaited the ashes, like a phoenix born from snuffed out embers. War never changes. It blankets the world in the dread of doom, the very same darkness the world was reborn from. Unaware of their origin, the world marches on to the Paradox of Existence.
A man put down his pen, ending the short and silent tirade he inscribed upon the pages of a notebook. With the world's level of technology, it was a rare thing to even find people writing on paper. Generally, people just type on their personal tablets, portable little gadgets with half the power of supercomputers. It connected the world in a level that far surpassed the Internet Era. And yet, this man kept with him a good library of physical books made of paper. He was a true scholar, not much like his appearance suggests. Short black and navy hair contrasting with his fair almost alabaster skin. He wore a black vest with platinum accents over a white dress shirt, sleek black pants and black oxford shoes. A pair of glasses sat on his nose, giving his deep cerulean eyes a more contained aura. Without them, his eyes would seem like endless depths of Infinity stretching on for Eternity. Evidently, the glasses were not meant to aid his vision, but rather to suppress his natural intimidating air.
The man stood up, putting on his black coat and leaving the silent office with his notebook in hand. It was his hobby to write down stray thoughts onto this journal of sorts. Most of his entries in it were elusive thoughts with strange and unique perspectives of the world. There were once a few people who found his notebook and read the entries only to find themselves utterly confused, unable to understand what the man meant by his words. It was understandable. His perspective was entirely forged and moulded by dreams he could not even begin to explain. They were a surreal experience that were both delusional and true. At least, he knew they were true. It was an inexplicable feeling that he had kept to himself, a hint of madness to others' eyes.
He walked in silence through the bustling halls. Students from all the different walks of life moved about, mingling with each other or just hurrying to their next classes. The man was no different, except he was no student despite being about the same age as most of them. He was nearing his twenty-fifth year of life in this world, but unlike most of his age, he was already a tenured professor at the best university in the continent. His field was World History, but people rarely ever call him a historian. He was not well-respected for his knowledge on history. Instead, he was more infamous for his strange and sometimes fantastical lectures. Among the circle of historians, he is more commonly known as the Fictionologist. A derogatory title for sure, but he never cared for it. Even when others complained about his lectures and the lies he spread, nothing ever happened to him. Almost everyone believed it was nepotism at play, but who truly knew?
The man finally stood in front of a classroom. Taking a moment to check his old analog wristwatch, he synchronised his breathing with every tick of the second hand. Breathing in on one tick, exhaling on the next, and then repeating. It was a ritual he liked to do to focus his mind away from the thoughts that often plague him wantonly, the same thoughts that he filters and writes down into his notebook. When his mind was finally sharp, he opened the door and walked in. His presence must have been like a living monument as he attracted the attention of everyone present. Granted there were not many students in any of his classes, only twenty at most. It was still quite a feat to suddenly halt their boisterous rowdiness and replace it with a discipline that could only be beaten by the military. This was the effect of the presence of Sylvain Grace.
He walked up to the desk at the head of the room and sat down on it rather than on the chair behind it. His notebook still held in his left hand, he put his weight against the desk as he stared at each of his students. There was a reason why there were very few students willing to come to his lectures. It was the very same reason that historians always try to find ways to take him down. His 'lies' and 'fictions' were the only things he ever taught in his classes. In fact, the designation for his classes were not 'History 101' or anything of the sort. They were just called 'Fables'. No number designating a higher course level. It was just the one. So why was there still anyone willing to come to his lectures? Or better yet, why was Orvidian University even still allowing this rather than firing him?
Believe it or not, his class was actually treated as one of the more important electives to be taken. And still, not many would choose to take it. The less than twenty students present in the room were the daring ones. And to others, they may look like fools listening to the mad ravings of a delusional sociopath, but to Sylvain, they were not. To the rear was a group of men and women with sharp gazes and fiery auras matching their hair and eye colours. Near the windows were another group of pale-skinned beauties with long hairs of colours ranging from gold to white to green. If one looked closely enough, they would see the slightly pointed ears hidden beneath their hair. In the middle of the room were seated a few of the more normal people, mostly men with not much unique flares to them other than a strange maturity in their eyes. And seated at the very front was a pair that was more evidently different than the rest.
They were both very beautiful women each with their own unique and eye-catching traits. One was a girl with a perpetual sleepy expression. Her half-open eyelids barely hid her enchanting violet eyes that glimmered with a hint of starlight. Gazing into her eyes was like observing an entire galaxy through a telescope. Her long black hair flowed down to her waist, faintly glowing with a mystical light that wafted off like mist clinging to her gorgeous body. She wore a dark blue dress and a cream cardigan. Although she seemed lazy and about to fall asleep, she was very much awake and attentive, waiting eagerly for Sylvain's words.
The other girl beside her exuded an air of cold elegance, as though her status was too lofty to even bother with the mundane trifles of most people. Her long braided hair was a mixture of different shades of green and gold. Her attire was a sleeveless white dress that hung loosely on her body, although it still could not hide her blessed curves. Her pale skin seemed delicate to the touch, but if one were to look closely, they would notice a strangeness to it. It was as though she had goosebumps that never disappeared. On her forehead were two crystalline protrusions, emerald horns that resembled corals or tree branches rather than the pointed horns of some animals. Her emerald eyes gazed intently at Sylvain as her supple lips curved into a small smile. To others, that smile might have seemed cold and emotionless, but both the girl beside her and Sylvain knew that she was barely keeping herself from grinning.
Sylvain glanced at the two girls no longer than he glanced at the other students, but all three of them knew how different his treatment of them was. Svetlana Morrigan and Long Xiu Mei, they were Sylvain's childhood friends who grew up with him like siblings. The two girls knew him like the back of their hands. Which meant that they knew that the subtle flash of cerulean in his eyes as he looked at them carried delight and possessiveness. Neither of the women minded, however. After all, they were the ones who decided on this relationship. Not even their families could force them to break it.