The land of Eukeia comprised of four distinct nations: Fotia (southwest), Akasa (northeast), Blutenheim (northwest), and Verdetierra (southeast).
Kisatsu’s hometown lay in Blutenheim, the first territory to fall under seige by invaders from beyond the barrier.
Each nation was governed by its own autarch, with four in total actively ruling.
* * *
A blinding, violet light struck him.
It was the same place—the void he’d forgotten the last time he woke—in his dream, or in this case, his nightmare.
His eyelids, squeezed shut, twitched subtly as if he were still refusing to stir.
Cold air hit his face.
No, not that kind of cold—not the kind of cold that kissed him on a wintry morning at his home, his land.
Quiet.
Then the screams followed, the white quatzecoatl bearing down on him with a vicious, piercing gaze before fading.
The mattress under him felt soft, velvety—too soft, as if the world hadn’t just dragged him through an ordeal, an introduction to hell.
Kisatsu had regained consciousness.
He lay on a pale white bed, half of his body covered by a duvet, eyes opening softly, vision blurry.
The wooden ceiling stared down at him, awaiting his wake.
A fleeting sense of unfamiliarity pressed in.
This wasn’t home.
He sat upright almost immediately—only for a spike of pain to course through him from his bandaged bruises, making him wince.
“You’re awake,” a woman said, voice gentle, unfamiliar.
Kisatsu turned toward the doorway.
She stood framed in the entrnce, dressed in a simple white tea gown with delicate embroidery along the hem.
Her face was pale, almost wan, and her brown hair fell in loose waves past her shoulder.
“W…
Who are you?” he asked, voice quivering slightly.
“Please don’t move about too much.
You’ve only just woken.” She ambled toward him in gentle, deliberate steps.
“Where…
am I?”
“You’re in our home,” she said softly.
“My name is Anneliese.” She sat down on a slipper chair before him.
“Your name is Kisatsu, isn’t it?”
Something was missing.
His face scrunched up as he remembered what happened before he’d lost consciousness.
“That’s right!
What about Mom and Dad?” he asked hopefully.
“Ryurei?”
But he was only met with her somber expression.
“You’re the only one sent here,” she murmured, a hint of sorrow in her voice.
“Sent?
Who sent me here?”
“Only my husband knows.”
A brief hesitation.
The grogginess still hadn’t left him.
Then he spoke, voice wary: “How do you know my name?”
“Your father is a close friend of ours.
This is the first time we’ve seen another son of his.”
“You know my father?
Then, why are those priests after him?
One of them told us he was a wanted criminal—and they even took Ryurei with them!
They…
They…” A sudden urge to retch climbed up his throat, and he barely managed to swallow it back.
“Is…
there a bathroom in here?”
The sound of bile splashing into the sink rolled through the room.
He couldn’t stop imagining it—the way every strand of flesh had stretched between his brother’s skin like a taut, viscid string of carmine flashed vividly through his mind.
Every detail haunted him like the echo of a scream—a nightmare he knew would wake with him again and again.
“There, there.” Anneliese’s voice broke through the horror—if it was ever gone to begin with.
“If there’s anything you want to tell me, I’m here for you,” she cooed softly, hand gently patting his back.
“Is my father…
dead?” he asked.
She didn’t answer immediately, but she didn’t hesitate for too long either.
“We don’t know yet.
He may have summoned someone to bring you here.
Once we find out he’s alive, we’ll help you find him,” she said, making her voice as reassuring as she could.
“Don’t worry—we know him well.”
Though her words might have seemed to mend wounds on the surface—or at least, that was their intention—they didn’t fix anything.
Kisatsu already knew the truth; he’d forced the realization on himself.
This was reality, not a nightmare kids his age feared, but something he had to accept.
Regardless, he wept against her body like a boy who had lost something he knew he’d never retrieve—in his case, everything.
She comforted him as if he were a child of her own, and though she knew there was no way to ease his pain, she still hoped it would at least make him feel better.
My father is dead.
I know that.
There’s no way he could’ve survived against them.
He and Mom are both gone.
And Ryurei…
I swear I’ll find you one day—and take you back from the claws of those priests.
They were at the dining table.
The scent of strawberry pie filled the dining area—smaller than what Kisatsu was used to, but enough to make him feel closer to home.
They both sat across from each other, a humble strawberry pie resting on a small plate before him, but he didn’t touch it.
“You’ve been asleep for three whole days.
He must have struck you rather hard,” Anneliese said.
“Him?
I don’t know.
Back then, I was so scared I thought I’d faint.
If he hadn’t abducted me, maybe I’d be wandering around our hometown with no home left,” he replied, then a question came to mind.
“Right—um—what land am I in now?”
“You’re on the island of Akasa—just beside your homeland.”
“Is something happening in Blutenheim?” he asked, a subtle frown crossing his countenance.
“I’m not entirely sure, but I’ve heard more knights have been sent there these past few days—ever since you arrived.”
“I see…
I want to become a knight too.
No—I have to become one.” His voice came out firm, determined.
Now that Mom is gone, there’s no point in living a normal life—not after what happened.
The spoon stopped just before his mouth, his hand trembling with something he couldn’t quite shake off.
But…
did something like this really have to happen just to give me a reason to become a knight?
“That’s wonderful,” she said.
“Many of the knights I’ve met wanted to become one so they could protect someone dear to them.” A wistful smile ghosted over her lips—as if even a part of her didn’t want him to become a knight.
The door opened, and the cold breeze greeted them like a chilly blanket.
Footsteps followed, then a voice came, “Is the boy awake now, Liese?”
Stepping inside was a shirtless man, a straw hat slung behind his neck like an accessory.
His gaze flickered toward the awakened boy as he walked briskly over to them.
“How are you getting on, young lad?” he asked, voice rough from the cold but animated.
“Go and put a shirt on, it’s a bit nippy out there,” Anneliese chided gently, turning to Kisatsu.
“That is Dalsdair Vurgemond—my husband.
I apologise if he gave you a fright by barging in like that.”
“A bit of fresh air never did anyone any harm,” Dalsdair rejoindered, heading to the kitchen to take a glass of water.
“A stitch in time saves nine,” she quipped, shooting him a wry glance.
“Alright, alright.
I’ll put a shirt on—just a moment.” His voice was muffled as he sipped.
“He may seem a bit of a goof, but if you take the time to know him, you’ll see he has a sentimental side,” she said, turning back to Kisatsu, voice calm and gentle.
Kisatsu nodded, still watching Dalsdair with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
“I… I can see that,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the man’s back as he moved about the kitchen.
The faint clink of glass against wood punctuated the quiet of the room.
Anneliese gave a small, knowing smile.
“If he starts giving you far too many strawberries, just let me know.” She winked playfully, brushing a stray lock of white hair from Kisatsu’s face.
That familiar sense of motherly gesture settled in his chest—light, soothing—and for a moment, whatever danger he’d been plunged deep into felt very far away.
Not home, but a place where he felt he could always return to.
Dalsdair’s voice called from the kitche, rough, teasing, “Come on, lad!
Don’t let her pamper you into a spoilt little statue!”
Kisatsu allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to tug at his lips.
Perhaps, he thought, the world was not entirely as harsh as he had believed.
The next day, he stood in the front yard, the landscape stirring a familiar feeling within him.
The house was nestled within a strawberry farm.
He glanced around and saw Anneliese holding a basket of ripened, vibrant strawberries—strangely so, despite the overcast sky and brisk winds—as she helped Dalsdair pick them.
One day had passed, which meant the raid had occurred three days ago—yet it still felt like yesterday to him.
His fears hadn’t eased, and he doubted they would—at least not easily.
So far, he didn’t see Anneliese and Dalsdair as toadies.
They didn’t seem to hide anything from him.
Still, a persistent uneasiness still lingered, impossible to brush off.
The priest’s face suddenly intruded his thoughts, gripping them with an unsettling insistence.
Were these anxieties his doing, or had the priest planted them long ago, teaching him to trust no one easily?
But the priest was an outsider—Anneliese and Dalsdair weren’t.
That distinction mattered.
In an attempt to brush off the flurry of thoughts, his gaze raked deliberately over the two.
Am I the only one feeling cold here?
Kisatsu muttered to himself.
He was bundled in a thick, warm jacket—convenient, perhaps even excessive—yet Anneliese and Dalsdair moved comfortably in clothes far too thin for the ruthless cold.
Maybe he just wasn’t used to the place.
Anneliese turned around, gaze flickering to Kisatsu as she gave a gentle smile, then a wave.
The sun barely shone, and he figured it had always been that way because of the frigid weather.
With nothing else to look at, he stepped back inside.
After several minutes, Anneliese entered the house, carrying the basket of fresh, rubescent strawberries.
She placed it on the table with practiced elegance before heading to the kitchen to prepare a warm, hearty breakfast for the raw morning.
“The winter carnival is coming,” she said, slicing the strawberries thinly as she glanced at him across the dining table.
“Would you like to go someday?”
“Sure.
Where will the venue be?”
“Hamburn City, the nearest city.
It’s also a place where knightly regimes often take place,” she added, the cream swishing under her whisk.
“Would you like to try?
We’d be glad to help you enlist.”
“How far is the city from here?”
“Six hours away by horse-drawn carriage.”
“And the metropolis?”
“Vinhurd?
I’m afraid you’ll have to move to another region to get there.” Her smile softened ever so slightly.
Kisatsu exhaled quietly.
He knew he would have to take action.
Fear still clung to him, but it certainly wasn’t the reason he needed rest.
After all, he hadn’t considered his brother dead.
And if Ryurei had fallen, and Kisatsu did nothing, then the same fate would soon reach him.
Those manic priests surely wouldn’t waste time finding him.
The clatter of the trifle bowl striking the table jolted him as the sweet smell of strawberries filled his nostrils.
Anneliese sat across from him, hands folded delicately on the table.
“While we’re there, it’d be safer for you to use a different surname for the time being.
Your last name—Ashira—is widely known throughout Eukeia.” She paused, eyes softening with worry.
“If anyone finds out you’re the sole survivor, the news could even reach those who bear a grudge against that name.”
From then on, Kisatsu went by the name Kisatsu Vurgemond.
Though it felt strange and unfamiliar, he didn’t care too much—there was no one else with whom he could share the Ashira name.
He lived in their home for a month, and not a single day passed without him thinking of the invasion—the priests, Ryurei, or Xavior’s involvement with them.
He had only one thing in mind: to understand everything that had happened.
There was no going back—he was fully certain this was no longer a dream.
The climate here was harsher than he had expected.
Stepping outside brought an immediate shiver, day or night.
Even at the warmest hour, the air barely rose above eighteen degrees Celsius, brushing cold against his skin.
Nights were worst—restless both asleep and awake—and even a single droplet of water sent his body tingling.
To make matters worse, there wasn’t even a heater for the showers.
It was a cold hell, through and through.
The house was situated near a strawberry vineyard in Merryhaven, Satra region—southeast of Akasa.
Anneliese and Dalsdair were fond of Kisatsu, treating him as though he were their own child.
He’d asked them once why they didn’t have children of their own, and they answered that they had problems in doing so.
He didn’t pry any further, but he guessed it was some form of sterility.
Finally, the day arrived when they reached the city.
Kisatsu caught his first glimpse of Akasa’s architecture: shopping arcades crowned with cross gables and decorated finials, stone-sett paved streets, and a grey sky that seemed to merge seamlessly with the buildings—like a scene lifted from an old monochromatic film.
Inside the arcade, boisterous laughter danced like sparks from a bonfire.
Kisatsu was told to roam as he pleased while Dalsdair and Anneliese stayed at the library to look for books she wanted to read—though she’d most likely add them to her collection unread.
This place was enormous, in a way Kisatsu wasn’t used to.
Sash-windowed terraces, statuesque fountains, bustling circuses—he wandered as though playing hide-and-seek with the city itself.
The masonry fences stretched along the sidewalk where he sauntered, defaced with crude, messy graffiti—scribbled by bored delinquents, perhaps.
Without quite knowing why, he slowed at a small jotting that read Fortune favors the bold, just shy of stopping.
He stared at the chaotic writing for a second or two.
There was something behind the text he couldn’t quite name, despite it being just another scrap of forgotten vandalism.
He couldn’t help but wonder whether the words were meant for him.
Before he could fully stop, he started walking again, but the adage had already etched itself into his mind.
Then came the museum.
Everything was bathed in golden light, the ceilings and walls bearing the quiet dignity of age—perhaps a century old, or several.
His gaze flitted around until it landed on an emblem emblazoned on a man’s cape.
The symbol resembled a nonagram, an eye-like shape embedded at its center.
A weird-looking symbol—and of all shapes, why that one?
He stared at it for a moment—not long enough to draw attention.
A group of people walked past, briefly blocking his view, but when they cleared, the mantled man was no longer there.
Something inside him churned, restless and unbidden.