Chapter 2 : Prologue 

Swift reflexes were all that spared him. He caught Zerion just as the young noble staggered, bloodied legs folding beneath him.

It was then that Curtis  truly saw—the heir’s back was soaked crimson, so drenched in blood that the fabric’s original color was beyond recognition.

“Help! Someone—! The young master is—!”

But his voice faltered. For now he saw what he had missed before.

Not a soul was left standing.

The battlefield, strewn with corpses, was a grim tapestry of slaughter. The guards of House Pelagius, the hired swords, even the masked assassins—all lay dead.

Dozens of bodies, twisted and broken, carpeted the earth.

“I… told you…” Zerion’s voice, a brittle whisper, held the weight of bitter irony. “That was… the last of them…”

“Please, do not speak,” Curtis  urged, his voice low and steady.

With care, he hoisted the wounded heir over his shoulders and stumbled back toward the carriage. He kicked aside the limp form of a fallen enemy and laid Zerion gently on the floorboards within.

Among the many lessons drilled into Curtis  during his service, emergency treatment had been one. He rummaged through their supplies and retrieved a worn satchel.

Rolling Zerion onto his side, Curtis  drew a pair of shears and began cutting through the blood-heavy fabric. The wound was not across the back, but lower—slashed viciously across his side.

“This will sting,” he warned.

“No use… it’s—gah!”

Even in his dying state, pain wrung a groan from Zerion’s lips as Curtis  cleaned the wound with a fresh cloth.

Hopeless.

The thought struck Curtis  as the blood cleared enough to reveal the truth.

The gash was deep—so deep that bone glimmered beneath shredded flesh. Worse still, the edges had blackened with venom. No field dressing could mend this. No herb could draw out the poison.

But doing something was better than nothing.

He pressed clean cloth against the wound and bound it tightly with bandages, his fingers shaking.

“W…water…”

“Yes, of course!”

Curtis  reached quickly for the flask, tipping it gently to Zerion’s parched lips. The young master sputtered and coughed, but managed to swallow a few sips.

His breath, for a moment, seemed to calm.

But it was not a sign of recovery.

Only the final flicker of a candle just before it dies.

“Damn… never thought this place… would be my grave…”

“Don’t give up. You mustn’t give up!”

“It’s not just the blood…” Zerion gasped. “The poison… it’s already spreading… Only a high priest could…”

His voice faded to broken fragments, lips twisting into a sorrowful smile.

With great effort, he moved his trembling hand to his chest and fumbled within.

At last, he pulled out a small book—its cover dark and worn, marked with the crest of House Pelagius.

“Curtis …”

“Yes, my lord.”

“This is… our family’s Tome of Secrets…”

“…What?”

“Deliver it… to the house. And if you cannot… burn it…”

His fingers slipped. The book tumbled to the floor, forgotten in the shadow of his fading breath.

Still, Zerion moved.

Fighting against death, he reached into his robes once more.

He tried to speak.

“And… this… too… give… to…”

No more words came.

No more breath followed.

His hand, reaching outward, fell still.

And thus, the life of a young man—only twenty summers old—was quietly extinguished, as gently as a flame devoured by wind.

Curtis  said nothing.

He remained frozen in the silence, lips parted, eyes wide.

Master and servant they may have been, but in this cruel world, no one had spent more time with him than Zerion. To watch him perish—so young, so proud—was to lose a piece of himself.

But grief would have to wait.

He bit down on his lip, the sting anchoring his mind in cold reality.

This isn’t the time for mourning…

Though the assassins had fallen, who was to say there weren’t more?

He could not linger here.

The city was close. Within its walls, he might find safety, allies, and the long arm of the Pelagius name.

Running would only stoke suspicion. Disappear, and they might brand him a traitor. Even if he bore no guilt, perception would make him guilty.

House Pelagius might be powerful, but they were not monsters. No noble house would put the blame for this massacre on a powerless attendant.

They might cast him out. But better to be shunned than hunted.

Still—one thing tugged at him.

The Tome.

He had heard rumors of it, but had never seen it—not even after years at Zerion’s side.

It must contain the essence of their house’s magic, passed down through generations—like the martial scrolls of ancient masters, filled with techniques unknown to the world.

A sacred heirloom.

No… a curse.

If the attackers had come for the tome—if they failed, and learned it had survived—who would they chase next?

The only survivor.

Would it be safer to leave it behind? Let them believe it lost? If their goal was something else, it would be meaningless. But if not…

Too many thoughts.

He tucked the matter away for now and packed his things.

He was, after all, the servant of a noble house—his pack held everything they might need to survive, from coin to rations.

It would suffice.

The ring…

Without it, no one would believe he had served a son of House Pelagius. He reached for Zerion’s cold hand and carefully retrieved the signet ring.

As he did, something else came with it—a small box, still clutched in death’s grip.

“…”

Curtis ’s heart faltered.

He knew what was inside.

He had helped Zerion choose it—an elegant pair of earrings, meant for his sister.

A gift that now would never be given.

The final unspoken wish of a dying brother.

“…”

Wordless, Curtis  took the box and tucked it gently into his coat, alongside the ring.

He stared at the Tome.

“…To hell with it.”

A rare curse escaped his lips.

If he was going to honor a dying man’s last words, he would do it fully. The ring, the box, the Tome—he would carry them all.

Zerion had saved his life.

He would not repay that with cowardice.

Whatever price it cost him—he would bear it.

As his fingers brushed the Tome’s worn leather…

[Waterflow Manipulation]
[Progress to First Acquisition: 1%]

Strange words shimmered into being before his eyes.