Haruma's breathing was labored.
The 2 books lay next to each other, side by side. The scripture of the First Light, ancient and pristine, and the outlawed book, dark and raging.
Both claimed to be true.
But one of them was lying.
His fingers shook as he reread the inconsistent passages.
The Holy Writ of the First Light:
"The Abyss is a place of corruption, where the fallen go to suffer for eternity. It is the only appropriate punishment for those who challenge the First Light."
The Forbidden Book:
"The abyss was not the enemy. It was the rest of the world, the part that was dismissed by people who wanted to control the light. The First Prophets sealed it out of fear of what payment they could not comprehend."
Haruma clenched his jaw.
It was too perfect. Too crafted.
This wasn't history.
This was a war of belief.
Then—the whisper came.
"You are clean."
Haruma's head snapped up.
The fire flickered. The atmosphere inside the cabin seemed thick.
Then—the memory came
His vision fractured.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the cabin anymore.
He stood in a bombed-out street, his hands dripping with blood.
Bodies lay around him. Some wear white armor, others dark robes.
The stench of burnt flesh filled the air.
Then—a voice.
"We have to go!"
Haruma turned.
A man was standing in front of him, his face obscured by the smoke.
He wore black and crimson robes, an insignia of seven overlapping lines etched into his chest plate.
And a sigil Haruma didn't know.
And yet—
His body did.
A flood of feelings that weren't his own overwhelmed him.
Recognition. Disgust. Fear. Hate.
The man reached out.
"Brother, we must move—"
Haruma found his voice rising —
"I am not your brother."
Then—blinding pain.
A blade rammed into his side.
The world dipped, his vision going red—
Then—
Darkness.
Back in the Cabin
He grunted as Haruma's body lurched violently forward.
He wheezed as his hands pressed into the table.
The vision was lost but the pain remained.
He pressed a trembling hand against his ribs.
There was no wound.
But it had felt real.
Too real.
His stomach twisted.
Those people in the vision — the ones wearing black and crimson robes.
They weren't from the Church.
They were someone else.
And somehow, they related to this body.
Haruma's hands balled into fists.
He needed to think.
His heart still pounding, he glanced down at the forbidden book.
It wasn't just dangerous.
It was wrong.
And suddenly—he understood.
This book—it wasn't a lost history.
It was not some lost truth covered up by the Church.
It was propaganda.
The language, the tone — it wasn't written like a historical record.
It was written like an indoctrination.
Like a belief.
Like a war cry.
The realization settled in, and his breathing slowed.
Yes, the Church was manipulative. They expunged things, suppressed faith, and revised history to their liking.
But this book?
This wasn't exposing them.
It was twisting the truth.
The actual scripture—the one he had taken out of the library—had felt tranquil, orderly, ancient.
This book? It was angry.
Vengeful.
And the worst part?
He didn't know who wrote it.
But his body did.
And whoever they were, they had died for it.
...
Haruma was silent for some time.
The Black Virtues.
It was the only name that sprang to mind.
He didn't know why.
He didn't know how.
But beneath it all, something inside him whispered — this book was their doing.
And that meant he had erred.
….
His cloak was pulled tightly around him as he walked through the dimly lit village streets.
He had made his decision.
The book had to be destroyed.
He'd be killed as a heretic if the Church got to him first.
But it gets worse — if any of the people who wrote it found him, they might mistake him for one of their own."
And that was a more dangerous thing to do.
The Black Virtues.
He didn't know much about them yet, but his body knew.
His memories might be gone, but the body he once inhabited had stood against them.
And they had murdered him for it.
Now they knew he was alive.
And they were watching.
….
He took the quieter streets and ignored the main roads.
But that sense of being watched never left even as he walked.
His heartbeat quickened.
Then—a shadow moved.
Haruma hardly had time to react before something lunged at him from the alleyway.
He had spun around just in time to see a hooded figure step into the light.
A man.
Draped in black, with scarlet lining.
Haruma's stomach twisted.
Same colors as the vision.
His body knew before his brain did.
Black Virtues.
"You should never her read that book."
The man's voice was soft, but it was heavy.
"I've been looking for you."
Haruma didn't move.
The alley was too narrow. He had nowhere to run.
"You stole that book, didn't you?" The man took a step closer. "Tell me. Did you enjoy what you read?"
Haruma clenched his fists.
"I know what you are," he told her.
The man laughed, shaking his head.
"No. You don't."
Then—his hands moved.
A flicker of dark red light.
It was a feeling that Haruma's instincts were screaming at him.
Magic.
The air around the man twisted; a sickly red light formed around his fingers.
…..
The earth beneath Haruma's feet split apart before he had time to react.
Haruma threw himself backward just as the cobblestone shattered, a spike of blackened stone ripping upward in the space where he'd just been standing.
Too fast.
The man wasn't hesitating.
A second spike shot at him.
Haruma's ribs screamed protests as he rolled sideways.
His body was still weak.
His swordplay practice with Elya was insufficient.
But his instincts?
They saved him.
The next spell came too fast.
A whip of scarlet light cracked toward him—
Just then, Haruma picked up a plank that had rotted and had broken off the ground.
The magic burned right through it, but the delay gave him an opening.
He moved.
Not thinking—just acting.
He closed the distance, seized the man's wrist, and drove his knee into his gut.
The man gagged, reeling backward.
But he wasn't done.
Haruma could see it in his eyes.
This wasn't a fight that was meant to scare him.
This was a fight to kill him.
A Desperate Gamble
Haruma's mind raced.
He couldn't win.
Not against magic.
But everything he could do to end this now.
The man lifted his hand for a second spell—
Haruma fell forward, snatching his wrist and twisting it sharply.
A sickening snap.
The man shouted — his casting hand collapsing in Haruma's clench.
Then, before he had time to recover —
Haruma snatched the flaming lantern from the alley wall and smashed it over his head.
Glass shattered.
Flames burst outward.
The man fell ; his cloak burst into flames.
Haruma didn't stay to watch.
He ran.
...
By the time he reached the outskirts of the village, Haruma's lungs were burning.
But his mind was clear.
Not only was this book dangerous to have.
It was marking him for death.
He ripped the pages out, tossing them into the fire.
The ink curled the parchment blackening.
The words that had almost dragged him into something much worse than the Church—
Gone.
Then, as the last embers flickered and died, something lifted from Haruma's shoulders.
But the impact of what he had just learned lingered.
The Church was not his only enemy.
Things were waiting in the dark that were much worse than them.
And he just had himself made their next target.