Sollivan looked at the person in front of him with a relaxed expression. It was none other than a child who had not yet reached adolescence.
The child’s body was somewhat thin and slightly tall for his age. However, his small face lacked the usual softness or innocent gaze of a child. Instead, it was pale, carrying a fixed expression and a somewhat harsh look, as if an adult were trapped in a child’s body.
This was not unusual for children in the poor neighborhoods, where most were orphans and impoverished, having lost their parents to war. This forced them to seek work to support themselves and help what remained of their families.
As for the child standing before Sollivan, his name was Devlin. His parents had died several years ago after being struck by an explosive catapult projectile during the siege of the city by the forces of the Cold Sun.
Devlin quickly stepped forward, a faint look of respect on his face, and began pushing Sollivan’s wheelchair. Sollivan, in turn, relaxed in his seat and caught his breath.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the door of the house. When Sollivan opened the door, he asked, "Can you manage through this winter?"
Devlin pushed the wheelchair inside and answered gratefully, "Yes, I’ve saved enough to rent a room and buy what I need."
"Good. Fill the water jars, but light the hearth first."
Sollivan grabbed the wheels of his chair and pushed himself lightly toward the table cluttered with books and manuscripts. Without turning to Devlin, he secured his chair, placed his bag aside, and began examining the manuscripts with suspicious eyes, trying to recall where he had seen that strange language before.
Meanwhile, Devlin headed to the hearth, lit a fire that began to warm the room, then picked up a half-melted candle nearby, lit it, and placed it beside Sollivan. He then went to a corner of the room, picked up a few jars, and left, heading toward the shared well in the neighborhood.
Sollivan raised his head and looked at the door, which remained ajar, letting in cold drafts that made the candlelight flicker, revealing his confused expression.
Devlin was no stranger to him; in fact, he could be considered an unofficial servant, helping Sollivan with tasks he found difficult to accomplish alone—fetching water from the well, buying necessities on stormy or rainy days, and other chores. In return, Sollivan gave him some money at the end of each week.
Their relationship had begun five years ago when the forces of the Cold Sun suddenly besieged the city and rained down explosive projectiles. As a result, a large part of the poor district was destroyed, and hundreds of people lost their lives. Fortunately, Sollivan had been away from home that day and miraculously survived. When the siege ended and he returned home, he learned of Devlin’s tragedy—the boy had lost his parents, and his home, which had been partially destroyed, was taken over by some homeless people.
At first, Sollivan didn’t care, but as the days passed and winter approached, his hardened heart began to pity the child who had nearly died of cold and hunger.
He saw himself in that small child. Both had lost loved ones, had their lives stolen from them, and were left to rot outside. However, Sollivan’s circumstances were better... even if only slightly.
In the end, Sollivan decided to shelter Devlin in his home until winter passed. At first, both were wary of each other, dealing with suspicion and caution. But as time went on, Devlin’s heart softened, and Sollivan’s wariness lessened, allowing their relationship to improve.
Devlin began to feel deep gratitude toward Sollivan for saving him from ruin, and in return, Sollivan’s loneliness eased, and his winter became more manageable. However, Sollivan had no intention of sheltering him for long. After teaching and training him until he grew stronger, Sollivan sent him away to find work for himself.
...
Sollivan pulled a thick book from his collection and opened it slowly, revealing a small square cavity inside. At the center of the cavity lay four gold coins.
He thought aimlessly, ’The time is near.’
When children reached the age of thirteen, their main vein would fully develop, allowing them to cultivate Auraxis energy within their bodies. But first, they had to take the "Vein-Opening Pill," a special pill that would help them transcend their human limits after reaching or surpassing the fifth level of body strengthening. However, the failure rate was high, so Sollivan decided to wait until Devlin grew stronger.
Each pill cost one gold coin—a hefty sum that most poor people couldn’t afford. This was why few Arcane masters emerged from the poor neighborhoods, especially as the situation worsened in recent years.
"No need to think about that now."
He set the book aside and picked up a stack of manuscripts, carefully examining them. Each document and book he perused contained valuable and varied information, from rare herbal knowledge to legends of lost ancient treasures, and even the history of his continent.
Some were written in strange languages or were merely illustrations without explanations. Through his personal efforts, he had annotated and clarified many of them, gaining a broad understanding of various fields and learning a bit of every language he had encountered before. This was how he had recognized one of the characters in the book earlier.
Time passed slowly and quietly. Devlin finished his tasks and left for his home, while Sollivan remained seated, reading slowly, reviewing the records and notes he had carefully written.
The hour grew late, and the candle gradually burned down until only a small portion remained, surrounded by hardened droplets of wax.
Suddenly, Sollivan raised his head, causing the faint flames to flicker violently, casting a shifting glow on his eyes, which sparkled with rare excitement. In his hands, he held a large manuscript filled with strange symbols and dozens of explanatory notes and clarifications.
He set the manuscript aside and sighed in exhaustion and relief.
"I’ve been so immersed in my research that I forgot myself..."
His stomach growled with hunger, and without giving the manuscript another glance, he turned toward the hearth, where the fire was breathing its last, leaving behind some burnt charcoal.
Quickly, he threw in some dry sticks to reignite it, opened the metal pot, and looked at what remained of his breakfast. After reheating and eating his late dinner, he headed to his bed and fell asleep.
...
[Two Weeks Later]
As the days passed, the clear sky became covered with thick gray clouds, blocking the sun’s light and warmth, bringing with it a bitter cold and snow that blanketed the entire city.
Layers of snow piled up on the streets and rooftops, turning the bustling city into a desolate place, devoid of signs of life. Most shops closed, and passersby became rare. Even the stray dogs, which usually annoyed people with their constant barking, hid away from the harsh cold or sought warmer places.
Sollivan sat in his chair, staring at a large black book opened to its first page. On the table, dozens of papers filled with writing had accumulated—some torn or crumpled and carelessly tossed aside, while others were carefully preserved and placed next to the book.
Sollivan held a sophisticated pen that contrasted with his surroundings. The pen was made of a single black piece, perfectly fitted to his fingers, with a needle-like tip and an intricate mechanism inside that made writing easier and stored ink.
He wrote slowly, pausing occasionally to contemplate the first page of the black book, as if trying to decipher a complex code. After a long while, he raised his head, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled tiredly, then began massaging his wrist, which had grown weary from hours of continuous writing.
Despite his clear need for rest, he sat upright again, picked up the papers he had organized earlier, and placed them next to the sheet he had just finished. His expression turned serious, shedding any trace of fatigue or relaxation, and he began connecting the scattered words in his notes with what was written on the first page of the black book.
With deliberate calm, he pulled out a new sheet and began translating the page, using all the words he had previously deciphered. Unlike before, when his translation was slow and fragmented, the page quickly filled with words, as if something had finally opened up before him.
He raised his head, and a satisfied smile spread across his face. A faint sense of accomplishment crept into his heart, warming it, if only slightly. He stared at the lines written on the paper in his hands and, in a cautious voice full of anticipation, began to read slowly.
"Only blood seals the covenant, and only blood opens the gate."
He continued reading, as if the words he spoke were not from his world.
"With the essence of life, the veil will part... life for life, world for world, and the soul will see what eyes cannot, and reach where feet cannot tread. Every world has a door, behind which lies the unknown... if opened, horrors will rise... no light, no mercy, no return for the oblivious."
For a brief moment, the page of the black book pulsed faintly, in sync with the erratic beats of his heart, but the vibrations faded quickly before he could notice them. Finally, he reached the last line, his voice echoing in the room with a strange tone, whispering, almost like a sinister murmur.
"Drop but a single drop, and the threshold will open... let your blood flow, and your fate will be sealed."
Sollivan silently stared at the last sentence, his emotions a tangled mix of disappointment and confusion. The book’s introduction was vague, ambiguous, as if hiding something yet to be revealed.
His eyebrows furrowed for a moment, then he flipped to the second page, which was filled with writing. Relying on what he had learned from translating the first page, he began analyzing the text, but after just five minutes, his expression changed, and his eyebrows twitched noticeably.
He flipped to the next page, and after another two minutes, his features contorted, and he began flipping through the pages rapidly, staring at the words, trying to understand them. But something was wrong. After minutes of tense scrutiny, Sollivan slammed the book shut violently, producing a muffled sound.
"This is nonsense!"
He muttered angrily, his eyes darting nervously in all directions, trying to regain his composure.
After reviewing the second page and the following pages repeatedly, he realized he couldn’t translate a single character. It was as if the words had turned into obscure symbols, completely different from the first page. This wasn’t just a language difference; the characters themselves seemed meaningless, as if they were pure gibberish.
But he didn’t let anger take over. With calm and disappointment, he picked up the paper on which he had written the translation and stared at the last line with dull eyes.
"Drop but a single drop, and the threshold will open... let your blood flow, and your fate will be sealed."
He turned his gaze to the black book lying on the table and contemplated its intricately decorated cover with its strange design.
"A drop of blood... There are some secret books and manuscripts that can only be opened with a blood imprint."
He picked up the book and felt its cold cover with his fingers, while a strange look of anticipation spread across his face. He reached his left hand toward a small knife placed beside the table, contemplated its sharp, cold blade for a moment, and then, calmly and without hesitation, pricked his index finger with the tip of the knife.
A crimson drop of blood emerged, slowly flowing down the metal blade before he set the knife aside and pressed his bleeding finger against the symbol in the center of the cover.
He waited, his heart pounding with anticipation and apprehension. As the blood continued to seep, staining the strange engraving, nothing happened.
After the center of the cover was filled with the dark red liquid, which looked pale compared to the book’s pitch-black color, Sollivan sighed in disappointment.
’I shouldn’t have raised my hopes...’
He pulled his finger, but his expression twisted strangely, and his eyes widened in shock. His finger had stuck to the cover, as if it had become part of it, and he couldn’t pull it away.
"What’s happening?"
A shiver ran through his heart, a mix of fear and unease that made him flinch for a moment. But amidst this anxiety, other feelings crept in—a strange longing, suppressed excitement, and curiosity about what would happen next.
The sensation of sticking didn’t last long; it soon faded, and he was finally able to pull his finger away. But he no longer cared about that, as his eyes remained fixed on the book.
The blood that had stained the cover began to be drawn rapidly toward the engraved symbol at its center, as if it were feeding on it. Then, the book shook violently, and it seemed as if its weight had multiplied hundreds of times. It looked as though it would break the table and flatten it to the ground.
*Thump!*
The book shook again, like the heart of a raging beast awakening from slumber. At that moment, Sollivan was overcome with an inexplicable terror, and his heart raced madly. Despite the overwhelming chaos in his emotions, he couldn’t look away from the glowing crimson symbol at the center of the cover, which began to radiate an alluring crimson light, like deceptive flames luring moths closer.
A deafening thump!
The ground shook violently beneath his feet, and shadows rippled across the room as if they were creatures emerging from a dark slumber. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, sending out dancing sparks.
But Sollivan paid no attention to any of that. He didn’t care about the shaking or the dancing shadows around him. All his focus was on that glowing crimson symbol, which now looked like a bewitching gem, but it wasn’t just a beautiful ornament. It felt like an evil eye, creeping into the depths of his soul, uncovering his secrets, and whispering things he couldn’t comprehend.
And before he could grasp what was happening, a mysterious force swept through his being, plunging him into the depths of darkness. His body fell violently, his head hitting the table with a thud, and his consciousness faded.