...

  “Knock-knock”

  “Crrk… crrk… crrk… Raaang”

  Huh?

  Where am I?

  Didn’t I… die?

  I tried to open my eyes, but it was as if they didn’t exist yet.

  I couldn’t move and was floating in some kind of warm liquid.

  It was comfortable.

  “What’s wrong, love? You look a bit pale.”

  What voice is that? Who’s there?!

  I felt a small tremor and the sound of springs tightening. Like a bed.

  “Leonardo… I need to tell you something.”

  Mom?

  “But I need you to promise you won’t freak out.”

  “Marisa, you’re scaring me—”

  “Please, Leo, just promise.” She cut him off.

  “Alright, alright! I promise.”

  There was another small tremor.

  “Well… you know I’ve been really sick these past few days. Tiredness, vomiting, fever… You came to see me. You saw it.”

  “Yes, but you said you were feeling better, right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the point…”

  I could feel her hesitation, even without seeing her.

  “My… my period didn’t come and I…”

  Her voice trembled, growing quieter, like it was about to collapse.

  I felt another movement — she was picking something up.

  “Look… I bought three tests at the pharmacy and all of them… all of them came back positive.” She sobbed for a moment. She was already crying.

  “Just… please, listen to me. I swear to God I didn’t break our promise! I would never cheat on you. Never. NEVER!”

  “I… I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what to do… I’m scared…”

  “But don’t leave me, please. I couldn’t handle it…”

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  “Leo? Where are you going?”

  “Leo, come back. Leo! LEO!”

  Then it became hard to breathe.

  The warm liquid was gone.

  I felt buried.

  Suffocating.

  I clawed upward desperately until I saw light and—

  Micah gasped as if he’d been holding his breath for days. Even so, breathing was hard, like his lungs were “stuck,” slowly peeling open as he gulped for air.

  When he finally managed to draw enough breath, he noticed his surroundings.

  He had emerged from a hole in the ground, naked and caked in dirt and mud.

  For a moment, Micah just stayed there on his knees, hands dug into the damp soil, as if the world hadn’t yet decided whether to allow his presence. The air felt too heavy, too thick, and every breath came with a faint burning sensation — like his lungs were being used for the first time, and didn’t appreciate it.

  He coughed.

  The sound came out rough and thick, closer to a reflex than a conscious act. He spat something dark onto the ground — earth mixed with phlegm — and only then realized his chest hurt, not like a wound, but like a recent absence. Something was missing there. Not an organ. A habit.

  Micah tried to stand.

  His legs obeyed with delay, trembling, as if they were still remembering how to support weight. He staggered forward and nearly fell again, needing to brace a hand on the ground to keep from collapsing. The contact with the soil sent a strange shiver up his arm — not cold, not hot.

  Too intimate.

  He looked at his hands.

  His skin had a strange, grayish tone, with subtle darker veins beneath the surface, like freshly molded clay. Where the burns should have been, there were no scars — only pale discolorations like birthmarks, as if his wounds had become part of him. Tiny fissures traced his knuckles, cracks too fine to be injuries. They didn’t bleed. They didn’t hurt.

  Micah ran his thumb across his left palm.

  At the center, the skin was lighter. Sensitive. A vague discomfort bloomed there, with no memory attached — as if that spot had been pressed against something hard for too long… in another life. He frowned and closed his hand, pushing the thought away.

  — What the fuck… — he muttered, but his own voice sounded wrong.

  Deeper. Hollower. Like it had crossed too much empty space before reaching his ears.

  That was when he noticed the silence.

  Not a natural silence — but a vacuum. No insects. No birds. No real wind. Just the distant sound of leaves shifting, too late to be responsible for any of it. As if the place itself had held its breath along with him.

  Micah finally managed to stand upright.

  The first thing he felt was shame — instinctive, human. He was naked. Vulnerable. Exposed. He crossed his arms over his body, trying to cover himself, and that’s when his fingers brushed his abdomen.

  He froze.

  Something was wrong.

  Micah looked down.

  Where his navel should have been… there was nothing.

  No scar. No mark. No sign of any prior connection. Just smooth skin, broken only by an almost imperceptible line running up the center of his abdomen, so subtle it was only visible when the light hit it from the side.

  He touched the spot carefully.

  Nothing.

  No pain. No heightened sensitivity. Just the strange sensation that this point had never been used for anything.

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  — No… — he whispered, more to himself than to the world.

  A slow nausea rose in his stomach. Not disgust — displacement. Like something fundamental was out of place, but no one had told him.

  Micah brought a hand to his chest.

  His heart was beating.

  Strong. Steady. Too loud.

  Each pulse reverberated through his entire body, echoing in his ears, his skull, his teeth. It didn’t feel like a discreet organ doing its job — it felt like a hammer, insistently announcing its presence.

  “I’m alive…”

  The realization brought no relief.

  It brought suspicion.

  He ran a hand over his face, feeling the texture of skin crusted with dried mud. When he touched the left side of his torso, just below the ribs, a sharp discomfort made his fingers recoil instinctively. There was no wound there — only a deep, dull ache, like the memory of something that had never happened… but that his body insisted on keeping.

  Micah took a deep breath. The air went in easier this time.

  Still, something felt wrong in the way the world reacted to him.

  When he stepped out of the hole, he noticed his shadow lag behind — a minimal delay, barely perceptible. A blink. Maybe imagination. He stopped.

  The shadow stopped.

  He took another step.

  It followed.

  Micah frowned, his heart racing again. He shook his head, trying to push away the paranoia.

  “Easy. You just… whatever this was. Don’t lose it now.”

  That was when he noticed the smell.

  Wet earth. Crushed roots. Something metallic in the distance, like old blood… but not rotten. There was no smell of death. None. Just the scent of a field after rain.

  As if something had been planted.

  And harvested too early.

  Micah looked back.

  The hole he’d come from was already collapsing on its own. Earth slowly slid inward, sealing itself, erasing any trace that something — or someone — had emerged from there.

  No gravestone.

  No marker.

  Just intact ground.

  Something tight twisted in his chest. Not fear. Not relief.

  Closer to guilt — though he couldn’t say why.

  Like he had returned when he shouldn’t have.

  He placed a hand over his chest and remembered the lamb he had seen in his Core.

  “This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  Micah hugged himself, feeling the strange warmth of his own skin, and took his first step away from that place — still not knowing where to go, only carrying the unsettling certainty that… death had done its part.

  And now,

  the debt was his.

  Wheat stalks bent beneath his feet with every step. He was on a farm — not very large, but well cared for, with diverse crops, unlike the other farms on the high margin, which were strictly monocultures of wheat or corn.

  The city where he’d been lynched wasn’t far. Twenty minutes on foot, at most.

  Micah felt a drop hit his head.

  It was late afternoon, but the sky was darker than usual.

  It didn’t take long for a storm to break. The sky seemed to scream through thunder. The wind, combined with the waterfall pouring from the heavens, lashed Micah’s naked body.

  He ran toward a nearby barn.

  Locked.

  Another.

  Also locked.

  Until the third, which was open just enough for him to slip through the door and inside.

  There were pigs and cows inside, startled by every thunderclap, but he didn’t care — it was dry and warm.

  Shivering, Micah lay down on a pile of hay and tried to curl into himself.

  The storm showed no sign of stopping, and he drifted into thought.

  “What now? I don’t know where to go…”

  “Shit… I still can’t believe this is happening to me. I just want to go home…”

  “But… wait. Why do I want to go home, anyway?”

  “There’s no one waiting for me. No family anymore. No friends. No girlfriend.”

  “Why go back? To that hellish job? To neighbors who don’t let me sleep? To those ‘coworkers’ who never leave me alone?”

  “But… I don’t want to stay here either.”

  “I can’t even die now.”

  He stared at a calf lying on the ground. It leaned against its mother, trembling in fear, whining softly with each thunderclap.

  “I wonder how my mom is… since… I left her?”

  “…”

  “Maybe what I need to do now is… find a way to die.”

  “A way to end this hell once and for all.”

  Micah sighed, staring at the ceiling as his eyelids grew heavy.

  Despite the noise of the animals, everything that had happened in the past few days was so exhausting that he passed out from sheer fatigue, sinking into deep sleep.

  ...

  “Hey…”

  “HEY!”

  — WAKE UP, SON OF A HOE!

  Micah blinked, groaning in protest as his shoulders were shaken.

  As soon as he lifted his head, the smell of sweet alcohol and old wood flooded his nostrils.

  A man with obsessively combed brown hair and intense blue eyes was holding him. He wore a black Luther uniform — a soldier.

  His eyes widened when he saw Micah’s exhausted face.

  — Holy shit, man… That old hag wasn’t kidding? The guy’s alive!

  The redhead wasn’t about to tempt fate again. The moment he understood the situation, he bolted.

  He ran as fast as he could, but in the middle of the sprint, he realized the two soldiers weren’t chasing him — just walking calmly. Completely in control.

  Someone started playing a guitar in the distance.

  A calm melody. Slow. Almost melancholic.

  At first the effect was imperceptible — until it became impossible to ignore.

  Micah felt sluggish. Each step covered less ground, even though he kept the same running rhythm.

  Then he stopped moving altogether.

  He strained, trying to go faster, but stayed in place, like he was on a treadmill.

  The guitar drew closer.

  His body finally gave out, and he dropped to his knees.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  And the melody stopped.

  — Tired of running already, ginger?

  The same man who’d woken him knelt in front of him, strapping the old guitar to his back like someone sheathing a sword.

  — How about you come with us now, hm?

  ...

  The walk to the Citadel was mostly silent.

  Micah walked between the blue-eyed soldier — wearing the same half-split eye armband he’d seen in Eastmund, but black — and his companion, whom he soon recognized as Gunther, the same man he’d seen at the gate to Central Island.

  The island rose ahead like a slab of stone carved against the heavy sky, connected to the rest of the city by narrow, guarded bridges. The rain had stopped, but the ground still returned cold with every step.

  The Citadel didn’t look built to welcome people.

  It was functional. Geometric. Too old to need justification.

  At the main gate, no questions were asked. A simple gesture from the musician and the Luther symbol stitched into his uniform was enough for the spears to part in silence.

  They ascended.

  The first floor was lower than Micah expected. Wide corridors, dim lighting, walls marked with inscriptions worn by time. Not verses or prayers — records. Dates. Names. Lines repeating with small variations. Accompanied by portraits of men in golden mantles, pearl-adorned crowns, or even full armor.

  The soldier with the instrument stopped before a dark wooden door reinforced with dull metal.

  Without knocking, he pushed it open.

  The Office of Vigil was larger inside than it appeared from the outside.

  A single tall window let in the timid light of dawn, splitting the room in two. On one side, shelves packed with books, scrolls, and sealed boxes. On the other, a wide desk covered in maps, reports, and strange instruments — glass disks etched with spiral patterns, small cubes resembling bismuth, pieces Micah didn’t recognize.

  A strange machine sat at the corner of the desk. It resembled a gramophone, but with a dark bronze body, a Living Silver horn, and two adjacent needles on its base.

  Behind the desk sat the same man who had killed the flaming monster three days earlier.

  He looked older than Micah remembered. Not by much — just enough for fatigue to show, but not dominate. Perhaps it was stress. Instead of armor, he wore a silvered gambeson without excessive ornamentation, precisely fitted, and on his left arm was that same armband with the eye, this time silver. His light hair was tied back as always, and his eyes… his eyes already seemed to know.

  — Captain-Paladin? — the blue-eyed soldier called.

  He didn’t speak immediately.

  His gaze passed over the soldier, then Gunther, and finally settled on Micah.

  It lingered.

  Micah felt the same discomfort as before — that sense of delay, as if something were being measured outside normal time.

  — So… — the Captain-Paladin finally said, his voice low and steady. — It’s true.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Dennisorfeu took a deep breath and nodded once.

  — I saw him burn with my own eyes, Captain.

  The man closed his eyes briefly. Not in disbelief — in calculation.

  — Gunther, turn on the Aurophone.

  At the order, Gunther opened one of the drawers and removed a clear glass disk, placing it on the machine’s base. He aimed the horn toward Micah, dropped one of the metal cubes into the center, and began turning the crank.

  Unexpectedly, the cube began to float.

  A low hum vibrated the air around it as the disk spun, reminding Micah of the sound of a generator running.

  — Name. — he said, turning back to Micah.

  — Micah. — he replied, his voice still hoarse.

  — Surname?

  Micah hesitated.

  — Does it matter?

  The man watched him a moment longer, as if testing the answer.

  — Less than it should. — he concluded. — Step closer.

  Micah took two steps forward. The air felt denser near the desk.

  The Captain didn’t touch him. Didn’t get too close. He merely tilted his head slightly, attentive to details Micah couldn’t perceive.

  — Do you remember dying? — he asked.

  Micah swallowed.

  — Yes.

  — And do you remember being born?

  The silence stretched.

  — …Not as a child. — Micah answered. — But… yes.

  — How did you cross the Eighth Fold?

  — What?

  The disk cracked. Gunther jumped in shock.

  The Paladin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  — I—I aligned the needles perfectly! I swear! I don’t know what happened—

  The Captain straightened.

  — That’s enough.

  He walked to the window, resting one hand on the cold stone. He stayed there for a few seconds, watching the city below as people stepped out to work one by one and carts filled the streets as the gates opened.

  — Dennisorfeu. — he said, without turning. — This is not something my rank can resolve alone.

  — I figured. — the bard replied, serious, without a trace of humor.

  The Captain returned to the desk, took the wax that had already melted and a dark metal seal, pressing them into one of the scrolls he had just written.

  He barely waited for the wax to set before picking it up.

  — This needs to go up. — he said. — And now.

  He looked at Dennisorfeu and handed him the scroll.

  — Deliver this to Duke Wanderson or Margrave Lanselm. Whichever you find first.

  The bard saluted and left the room with the message.

  — And if what you said… — the Captain said quietly, looking back at Micah — …really happened,

  There was a brief, deliberate pause.

  — Then you’ve just incurred a debt with something far beyond any human understanding.

  — And I sincerely hope that debt isn’t passed on to us.

  And for the first time since waking in the wet earth,

  Micah was certain that staying alive might be the most dangerous part of all.

  — Gunther, take him to a basement cell for now. And see if you can get him something decent to wear this time.

  ...

  A few hours later, the sound of keys announced the cell door opening.

  Micah hurriedly pulled on the tunic. The rough fabric still scratched against his skin — as if insisting on reminding him that he wasn’t welcome anywhere.

  — Come. The Duke wants to see you.

  The voice came from the Captain at the door. Dennisorfeu stood just behind him, far too serious for someone who usually smiled so much.

  They climbed in silence to the third floor and stopped before a door far too elegant for that stone corridor.

  The Captain placed a hand on the handle.

  — Uh, Captain… are you sure that—

  — Mmm~ That’s it… right there… don’t stop, sweetheart…

  The door opened.

  Micah froze.

  A man lay face-down on a divan, hips covered only by a loose towel, while a half-naked woman massaged his back without any subtlety.

  — A-Ah! — she yelped, darting to hide behind the desk.

  — Huh? Why’d you stop, love?

  The man turned his head. His eyes widened.

  — Aha! It’s you, Reblis!

  — Brother!? — the woman snapped from behind the desk. — Ever heard of knocking, you bastard?!

  Micah noticed it instantly: same eyes, same hair. The resemblance to the Captain-Paladin was unmistakable.

  The Duke stood, still wearing only the towel, and hugged Reblis with excessive enthusiasm, giving him a friendly slap on the back.

  Micah had expected a seasoned leader, someone marked by the weight of power.

  Instead, he found someone too young, too handsome, too careless. His hair was almost entirely white, save for a few honey-colored tips. When he smiled, Micah noticed gold canines.

  — What’s up, big guy? Brought what I asked for?

  Reblis sighed, suppressing his irritation with effort.

  — Yes. But couldn’t you have postponed this… session?

  — No chance, brother-in-law. I need your sister’s magic hands to start my day.

  Then the Duke turned to Micah, sizing him up like a tool.

  — So you’re the undead from another world… — he said, with a crooked smile. — Well, one thing I know: you’re not Soulless. If you were, I’d already be faceless. Haha!

  Micah looked away. The scent of sweet incense was overwhelming, almost suffocating. Everything about the man demanded attention.

  — I’ll be blunt — Wanderson continued, placing a hand on Micah’s shoulder with forced intimacy. — You caused me a hefty loss with that little monstrosity of yours. Buuuut…

  He leaned in closer.

  — The truce with Kaelor is hanging by a thread. We’ll need every Awakened we can get. And you got a very useful Image.

  Wanderson raised two fingers.

  — Option one: you join Reblis’s division and serve the Forces of Luther until the war ends.

  He lowered one finger.

  — Option two: Ezra finds another way to make use of your Image.

  The smile never left his face.

  — So?

  Micah bit his lip, feeling backed into a corner.

  Both options were bad. But going back to Ezra…

  He looked at Reblis. Took a deep breath.

  — I’d rather not go back to being a lab rat.

  The Duke’s smile widened, his golden canines gleaming.