The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and pale lavender. In Merrin Village, the day stirred to life with the faint rustle of leaves and the calls of distant birds. Yet, for Haruto, the quiet morning felt heavier than usual, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
He sat on the edge of his small bed, staring out of the window at the swaying grasses and fields beyond. The familiar scene that once brought comfort now felt foreign, as if it belonged to another life. A breeze drifted through the room, carrying the scent of dew-drenched earth, but it did little to ease the restlessness within him.
The memory of the voice returned, unbidden.
"I am the king of darkness."
It wasn't just a memory. The words seemed to reverberate in the silence of the room, crawling under his skin. There had been no face, no form—just that voice, as vast and inescapable as the night itself.
Haruto exhaled sharply, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "It was just a dream," he murmured, trying to convince himself. Yet the faint pulse of mana coursing through him betrayed the truth.
The Village Awakes
He dressed and stepped outside, the morning sun warming his face as he made his way toward the well in the village square. Merrin was awake now, the air alive with the sounds of daily life—children chasing each other through the streets, merchants setting up their stalls, and the steady clink of tools in the smithy.
Haruto greeted his neighbors with nods and faint smiles, but his heart wasn't in it. Everything felt off-kilter. The villagers, wrapped in their routines, seemed oblivious to the subtle tension that lingered in the air. Haruto envied them—their ability to carry on, unburdened by the strange weight pressing down on him.
The voice, the shadows, the lingering sense of something watching—it wasn't something he could explain, let alone share with others. How could they understand what even he couldn't grasp?
"Morning, Haruto!" called an older villager, her arms laden with baskets of herbs.
He forced a polite smile and nodded. "Morning."
The words felt hollow.
Beneath the Oak
By mid-afternoon, Haruto had finished his chores. He wandered to the edge of the village, drawn to the large oak tree that stood alone in a field. Its sprawling branches offered a canopy of shade, a place where he could escape the prying eyes of the villagers.
Haruto settled against the trunk, his back pressing into the rough bark. The breeze whispered through the leaves above, and for a brief moment, the weight on his chest seemed to lighten.
He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the village fade into the background. But even in the stillness, the unease remained—a faint hum beneath the surface of his thoughts.
And then it came again.
That feeling.
It was subtle at first, like a ripple in the air. But it grew stronger, a prickling at the back of his neck that made him sit up and look around.
The field was empty, the village distant, yet Haruto couldn't shake the sensation that he was being watched.
He scanned the shadows beneath the oak, his heart quickening. The branches above seemed darker than they should have been, the shapes twisting unnaturally.
A sharp gust of wind sent the leaves into a frenzy, and for an instant, Haruto thought he saw something move within the shadows—a flicker, a shifting presence just beyond the edges of his perception.
He leapt to his feet, his breathing shallow. But when he blinked, the shadows were still.
It's nothing, he told himself. Just your imagination.
But even as he turned and walked back toward the village, the feeling clung to him like a second skin.
That night, Haruto lay in bed, staring at the wooden beams of his ceiling. Sleep came reluctantly, dragging him into a restless haze of dreams.
The visions were fragmented, slipping through his grasp like water. He saw a battlefield drenched in blood, the cries of soldiers ringing in his ears. Swords clashed, the metallic tang of death hanging in the air.
And then came the eyes.
They burned like molten fire, piercing through the smoke and chaos. Haruto tried to turn away, but they held him captive, pulling him deeper into the vision.
The voice returned, louder this time, filling every corner of his mind.
"I am the monarch of darkness."
Haruto's chest tightened, his breath caught in his throat. The name came next, spoken with a clarity that made it impossible to ignore.
"Lilith."
Haruto woke with a start, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was dark, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the window. Yet the shadows seemed alive, shifting and coiling as if they carried secrets of their own.
He sat up, running a hand over his face. The dream—if it was even a dream—had left a mark. The name lingered, a whisper in the corners of his mind. Lilith.
What did it mean?
Haruto swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. He sat there for a long time, staring into the darkness, the silence of the night pressing in on him.
Somewhere, deep within, the mana that had always felt so natural now pulsed erratically. It was as if something within him was stirring, reaching out, testing the limits of its confines.
"All shall be revealed in time."
In the days that followed, Haruto tried to lose himself in the rhythm of village life, but the unease never left. The shadows seemed to linger longer, the air heavier. Even the villagers began to notice the change in him—his distracted gaze, the way he hesitated before answering questions.
But what could he say? That he felt as though the world around him was unraveling? That he wasn't even sure of his place in it anymore?
One evening, as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, Haruto stood alone in the village square. The breeze carried with it a sense of finality, as if the day itself were holding its breath.
He closed his eyes, letting the cool air wash over him. The mana within him surged, restless and wild, like a storm waiting to break.
The shadows at his feet stretched unnaturally, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something move within them.
When he opened his eyes, the square was still.