Somewhere in the flickering glow of a single candle, a boy sat hunched over a shelf twice his size. The smell of old parchment and ink hung heavy in the air, lending a sacred hush to the small, shadowed room. He read in silence, eyes flickering from line to line as if he feared the words might fade if he looked away. He loved reading—especially alone. In his hands was a book titled Tales of the Seven Virtues.
The Seven Virtues, defenders of Ozlin, whose strength held the world together against the Chaos Dragon, who tore through everything in his path.
Justice, Mercy, Valor… each title whispered of distant lands and forgotten battles, mysteries deeper than the boy could understand. But he felt something in them—a pulse of power, as if the Virtues themselves lingered in the room, bound within the very pages he held. The boy loved nothing more than to read their tales and dreamed of becoming just like them.
With quiet reverence, he closed the book and placed it back on the high shelf. For a moment, he lingered, letting the faint echoes of ancient stories fill his mind. Then, with a shiver of anticipation, he tucked the book into his leather bag, intending to read it again, and stepped out into the night.
The street was empty. A biting wind swept through the alley, rustling papers and stirring shadows that stretched and shifted as if alive. He hesitated, feeling a strange unease settle over him. Step by step, he ventured down the cobbled path, each footfall echoing in the silence.
Then, without warning, figures emerged from the darkness, their crimson robes flowing like blood under the moonlight. The boy froze. Faces obscured, they surrounded him, their presence an unnatural weight pressing down on him. Before he could cry out, rough hands clamped over his mouth, muffling his voice as the night swallowed him whole. The last thing he saw was the glint of a silver emblem on one of the robes—a crescent moon with an eye shining within it.
---
When the boy's eyes fluttered open, the world around him was a blur of shadow and crimson. His wrists and ankles were bound, the coarse ropes biting into his skin. Beside him were others—children, silent and terrified, their faces pale under the faint light. Their eyes met his, wide with horror, as if recognizing the same helplessness. He tried to scream, but it was useless; no one was there to hear.
A cold draft swept through the chamber, making the flame of a single torch dance on the stone walls. Three figures stood before them, each cloaked in the same blood-red robes as his captors, their faces obscured by heavy hoods. In one hand, each held a dagger, its blade glinting faintly, as if eager for blood.
Without a word, one of the figures stepped forward, producing a dark crimson stone from within his robe. He raised it high, letting its surface catch the dim light, then lowered it onto a rough stone altar. Chanting something low and guttural, he passed his hand over the stone, then sliced his palm, allowing blood to flow across its surface.
The room fell silent for a split second as the stone began to shine. It wasn't that the children didn't want to scream—they couldn't. Blood oozed from their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths.
The stone stopped glowing. For a moment, it seemed as if the ritual had ended and the children might survive.
Then, a sharp pain tore through the boy's stomach, and screams filled the chamber, their echoes mingling with his own as blood gushed from their bodies.
As the blood spread, it coalesced, gathering in thick, flowing streams that wound toward the altar. The stone drank it in hungrily, its glow intensifying until, at last, a dark rift tore open in the space above it—a portal of swirling, crimson light, as if formed from the blood itself.
The air crackled with dark energy, and the boy's breath caught. The last thing he saw was an angelic figure with white hair, descending like death.
---
Moments passed. Eden forced himself to breathe slowly, the air cold and sharp in his lungs. His mind finally cleared, and he pushed himself to his feet, casting a glance around the dim chamber. In the shadows, three figures in blood-red robes stood unmoving, their faces hidden, their hands stained with the remnants of their grim ritual. Their stillness seemed to mock him, as though even death could not strip away the malice they had wrought.
With trembling hands, Eden stepped forward, moving among the fallen bodies of the children bound alongside him. He knelt beside each one, his fingers fumbling with the ropes, releasing them from the cruel bonds that held them. One by one, he freed them, his heart growing heavier with each small, lifeless face he uncovered. It was the least he could do.
As he stumbled to his feet once more, his eyes caught the glint of something lying on the ground near the altar. It was a book, its cover blackened and worn, the title barely visible in the dim light: Tales of the Seven Virtues.
"I think… I've heard this name before. It's the same one the cat mentioned," Eden muttered.
Driven by curiosity, he decided to read the book—but first, he knew he had to leave this blood-soaked chamber.
He grabbed the torch hanging on the wall and followed a narrow path. Soon, he stepped out into the wildness beyond the chamber, the cool night air brushing against his skin.
As he made his way out, something caught his eye—a faint glimmer in the distance.
In front of him stood a stone tablet, its surface weathered but inscribed with words that seemed to hum with ancient power: Lazrous Temple. Though the words were foreign, he understood them instantly.
"Lazrous Temple…?" Eden murmured, turning around. Behind him, he saw a grand structure, softly illuminated by pale light. "So, this is the temple."
He glanced up and noticed something else—a sight both beautiful and unsettling. There were two moons in the sky. One was white, serene, but the other was shattered, a dim red light spilling from its fragments.
"Another spectacular scene," Eden muttered to himself.
Then, a realization struck him. He could feel the ground beneath his feet, the chill of the night air—everything. He was truly alive again.
To be sure, he pinched himself as hard as he could.
"Ouch."
A grin spread across his face. After so long, he could finally feel everything.
Eden glanced back at the chamber one last time, his mind reeling from the horror he had just witnessed. His fingers trembled around the torch as he stepped away, feeling the chill of the night air prickling against his skin.
The forest loomed in the distance, a wall of shadow and rustling leaves, and he didn't hesitate to run toward it. His feet struck the rough path, scattering pebbles in his way as he plunged deeper into the trees, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and the blood-soaked altar.
Branches clawed at his arms and face, sharp thorns catching on his clothes as he pushed forward, his breathing harsh and shallow. The sounds of the night filled his ears. Yet he didn't stopped and kept running.
After what felt like hours, he slowed, his legs burning, his lungs aching with each breath. The torch had long since sputtered out, leaving him in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight filtering through the branches. It was then he spotted it—a shadowed opening nestled among the rocks. A cave, hidden away beneath thick vines and scattered leaves.
Eden stumbled toward it, ducking into the narrow entrance. Inside, the cave was dark, cool, and oddly comforting. He pressed his back against the rough stone, sinking to the ground with a sigh as his body finally relaxed. For the first time since he'd so long, a sense of relief washed over him, as if the weight of everything he had seen and done had lifted, if only for a moment. He can't deny the past events, because even now he's not in his own world.
With his hands still shaking, he reached for the book he'd picked up in the chamber: Tales of the Seven Virtues. Its cover was worn, the lettering faded, yet the words were completely unfazed.
Eden took a deep breath, calming the tremor in his hands as he opened it, letting the first lines of the story fill his mind, and, for a brief moment, finding solace in the words that spoke of heroes long past, of valor and light in a world as dark as his own.