Chapter 1 – Prologue

Curtis was born into this world bearing the memories of a life once lived on Earth.

Though those recollections belonged to an unremarkable, ordinary man, even such humble knowledge proved invaluable here—in a realm where civilization lagged far behind Earth’s, save for the strange and mighty presence of magic. What was mere common sense in one world often became rare wisdom or even undiscovered lore in this one.

An orphan who had never known his parents’ faces, Curtis  was denied the privilege of formal education. Yet, armed with the cunning of a past life, he quickly made his intellect known. From a young age, he was summoned from place to place, never once left to starve.

Fortune, ever the fickle mistress, smiled upon him. He found himself taken in as a servant by a noble house of great renown. And by some greater stroke of luck, he caught the eye of the youngest heir—thus rising above his station to serve as a personal attendant.

Unlike the lowly servants who scrubbed floors and hauled burdens, a personal attendant was more akin to a trusted squire or secretary. By the standards of the common folk, Curtis  had ascended.

The young heir, being of noble blood, was constantly preoccupied with affairs both trivial and grand, demanding tireless service. Yet there was comfort in the protection his status offered—no hand dared raise itself against him.

All in all, Curtis  believed himself to have carved out a life of unexpected prosperity.

At least…until he heard the coachman’s strangled cry pierce the air like a death knell.

“Khak!”

The sound was so sudden, so surreal, it almost seemed imagined. But reality struck the moment after.

“Ack!”

An arrow had found its mark—embedding itself in the driver’s chest. As he collapsed, the reins jerked, sending the carriage lurching violently. Curtis  nearly tumbled from his seat.

It was only the discipline of the well-trained steeds that kept the vehicle from capsizing entirely. The horses came to a trembling halt.

“W-what’s going on?”

The young master, Zerion, startled awake from his doze across from Curtis , blinking groggily at the chaos beyond the windows.

Before Curtis  could offer an answer, voices rang out from outside, sharp as blades:

“Ambush!”

“Lord Zerion! We’re under attack!”

The first cry came from the hired mercenaries accompanying them. The second—from the loyal guards of House Pelagius.

Zerion’s sleep-addled eyes cleared in an instant, fire igniting within them. His youthful, handsome face contorted with indignation.

“What? Who dares?!”

He leapt to his feet, fury overtaking caution—but Curtis  grasped his arm in alarm.

“Master, please, be calm!”

“Unhand me, Curtis !”

“Your guards will handle it! You don’t need to expose yourself to danger!”

“Danger?” Zerion scoffed. “Do you take me for some trembling coward who fears petty assassins?”

He shrugged Curtis  off and threw open the carriage door with theatrical defiance.

“Fools! To raise their blades against me—they mistake me for prey. I shall show them the wrath of Pelagius!”

“Master, wait!”

“Silence! Stay inside and keep your head low—lest a stray arrow find it!”

With those final words, he leapt from the carriage and slammed the door behind him.

Curtis  hesitated. Should he feign bravery and follow? No—he chose to obey, clutching the shadows. He was no warrior. Charging into a storm of blades would make him nothing but meat for the slaughter.

His body was safe, but unease festered in his heart.

This isn’t the place where he can fight at his best…

House Pelagius was a lineage of ancient power—renowned throughout the land for their mastery over water magic. When rivers or seas stood nearby, they were near unstoppable.

But here, amid dry, dusty roads, far from any flowing waters, that legacy weakened.

Zerion, though undeniably talented, was not yet a master of battlefield cunning. Curtis  feared he was far too reckless.

We’re only half a day from the city. Bandits wouldn’t dare strike this close. This has to be a planned ambush… They must have known who they were targeting.

Zerion may have been but twenty summers old, yet he was a scion of a house whose name carried weight across kingdoms. No one would attack him lightly.

Then again… perhaps that’s why he had to fight. Among us, he’s the strongest. If he doesn’t stand, no one else can.

But if their enemies had calculated that—and brought strength to match or surpass his—then all hope may already be lost.

All Curtis  could do was pray Zerion had some secret ace hidden even from his enemies.

“Hold the line! Don’t let them through!”

“You curs! You lack even the spine to show your faces—begone!”

“Aaargh!”

The clangor of steel, the barked orders of mercenaries, and the tormented screams of the wounded blended into a gruesome cacophony.

Through it all, Curtis  heard Zerion’s commanding voice—stern, resolute. He was still alive. Still fighting.

The carriage window was too narrow to see much, and Curtis  dared not move closer. He could only wait, anxiety clawing at his chest.

…Is it over?

The battle, though brief, felt like eternity. And then—at last—the noise began to fade.

Curtis  reached for the door, heart trembling, when—

“Gasp!”

A shadow fell across the window. Curtis  recoiled as a pair of crazed, bloodshot eyes locked onto his.

Bang!

The carriage door burst open.

A masked warrior, blade slick with gore, snarled at him with unhinged malice.

“At least I’ll kill you—!”

He never finished the sentence.

His head snapped forward with a sickening crack as the back of his skull caved inward, blood and bone cascading down like rain.

He collapsed, lifeless, to the floor.

And there—standing a dozen paces behind—was Zerion.

One hand pointed toward the fallen enemy, his fingers still pulsing with magical might.

“…That was the last of them,” he whispered.

As the specter of death withdrew its claws from his throat, Curtis  gasped for breath—his lungs heaving, as though remembering too late that they were meant to breathe.

“Th-Thank y—”

He barely managed to speak, but his words were cut short. His eyes widened in horror.

Without thinking, he sprang from the carriage.