The city of Vaikun was a paradox—an ever-churning machine of ambition and progress, yet haunted by echoes of something ancient, something forgotten. Towering structures of glass and steel clawed at the sky, reflecting a thousand flickering neon signs, but beneath the surface, in its shadowed alleys and quiet bookstores, history whispered through dust-covered tomes and fading murals.
Amidst this controlled chaos lived Arin, a man neither extraordinary nor insignificant. He was the kind of person who left an impression but never lingered in memory, a wanderer in his own life. At 26, he had built a comfortable existence—an unremarkable yet enviable equilibrium of intelligence and detachment. His mind, sharp as a well-honed blade, could slice through the complexities of data and systems with ease, yet he wore his intellect lightly, wielding it only when necessity dictated.
To his colleagues, he was an enigma. A consultant who solved intricate problems with an almost effortless intuition, yet refused to chase promotions, prestige, or power. His peers strategized their way up the corporate ladder, but Arin preferred to drift along the edges, observing the game rather than playing it. Some called it laziness, others indifference. The truth was simpler—he had never found a battle worth fighting.
But battles have a way of finding those who least expect them.
---
That evening, a persistent drizzle painted the city streets in a muted shimmer. Arin, having finished his work early, wandered aimlessly, hands tucked into his pockets, his feet leading him to a place he did not consciously choose.
It was a bookstore. Not one of the bright, air-conditioned giants filled with bestsellers and café chatter, but an old, forgotten relic wedged between two modern high-rises. The kind of place that smelled of ink and time, where books leaned against each other like weary travelers with stories waiting to be told.
Arin didn't remember stepping inside, yet here he was, his fingers trailing along the spines of nameless tomes, their gilded titles worn away by years of neglect. Then, as if pulled by an unseen force, his hand stopped.
The book before him was unlike the others. Its cover, bound in deep, cracked leather, bore an inscription in a language he did not recognize, yet it felt strangely familiar. The moment he touched it, a shiver ran through his spine—not of fear, but of inevitability.
"The Song of the Forgotten Kings."
The name echoed in his mind, heavy with unspoken significance. The shopkeeper, an old man with eyes like dying embers, watched him with an expression that was neither curiosity nor expectation—only knowing.
"You have found it," the old man murmured, his voice as brittle as parchment.
Arin hesitated. "I wasn't looking for anything."
A slow smile crept across the shopkeeper's lips. "That is precisely when the right things find us."
---
That night, long after the city had quieted and the rain had faded into memory, Arin sat in his dimly lit apartment, the book resting on his desk like a relic waiting to be awakened. The ink on its pages seemed to shift when he wasn't looking, the words breathing as if alive.
As his eyelids grew heavy, his mind blurred the line between wakefulness and slumber. The room around him flickered, as though reality itself was unraveling at the edges.
Then came the voice—deep, resonant, ancient.
"Arin, you stand at the threshold. Will you cross?"
Before he could answer, the world shattered.
The ceiling fractured into an expanse of endless sky, swirling with constellations he did not recognize. The ground beneath him disintegrated, and he plummeted—not in terror, but in weightless surrender.
For the first time in his life, Arin wasn't an observer.
He was falling into the unknown.
And for the first time, he felt truly awake.