Chapter One: The Chains

"These damned chains… Get the fuck off me!"

His anguished shout echoed through the ruined corridors.

Zarou sat shackled to the cold stone wall of the abandoned castle, wrists chafed raw from the iron cuffs that bound him. The once-grand structure was now a crumbling relic, overtaken by creeping vines and the weight of forgotten years.

The air was damp and musty, carrying the stale scent of decay and neglect. Through broken windows, the last rays of daylight struggled in, casting long, jagged shadows across the dusty floor.

He stared at the fading light, eyes tinged with both resignation and confusion. He couldn't remember how long he'd been here or why he'd been imprisoned in this forsaken place. His memories felt like fog, with fleeting flashes of unfamiliar faces and disembodied voices—none of them he could truly grasp.

All he knew was that he had been held here for as long as he could recall, with only the drip of water and his own ragged breathing to keep him company.

Shifting his weight, Zarou let out a hiss as the chains clinked and tugged against his raw skin. His limbs ached constantly, a grim reminder of his captivity. His clothes were worn and threadbare, barely serving to keep out the chill. A single battered cup of water stood by his side—drawn from a stagnant puddle in the corner—offering a fleeting reprieve from his thirst.

He exhaled a shaky breath, setting the cup down.

"Why am I here?" he asked the silence for what felt like the thousandth time.

His voice's echo mocked him, bouncing off stone walls before fading into nothingness.

He was well past the age of eleven, yet no mana organs had ever formed. In a world that prized magic and power, Zarou's apparent lack of both rendered him an anomaly—and made his imprisonment all the more puzzling.

Suddenly, a faint creaking noise and the sound of footsteps broke through the silence.

"Is someone there!?" he rasped, the effort tearing at his throat.

A mingling of fear and fragile hope swirled in his chest. "HELP!? SOMEONE!" His plea, too weak and too late, felt like a pebble sinking into a bottomless lake.

The door to his chamber groaned open, revealing a tall figure silhouetted against dim corridor light. She stepped forward, a stern-faced woman clad in a plain robe, clutching an orb of radiant glow that radiated false warmth. Despite its outward glow, Zarou sensed danger in it. Two others stood behind her, their expressions inscrutable.

Her silver hair gleamed in the moonlight as she approached, eyes scanning Zarou with a cautious curiosity. She set the lantern on a nearby table, glancing briefly at the chains binding him.

"There's a person here? Is it an enigma?" Her voice echoed in the hushed expanse of the chamber.

Zarou cleared his throat painfully

.

"Wh-what…" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why…why am I here?"

The woman sighed, crossing her arms in mild disgust.

"You're an enigma."

"What's that?" he asked, each syllable laced with desperation.

"You have mana but no power. Simply put, you're useless." She spoke with a pitying tone.

Zarou's gaze fell to the floor, his brow knitting in confusion.

"I don't understand. I don't know who put me here or why. Just—just get me out!"

The woman muttered under her breath.

"There's no artifact here, let alone a shard of ʜ҉༙྇ Ɉ҉༙྇ i҉༙྇ n҉༙྇ ɘ҉༙྇ z҉༙྇," she growled. "Gabriel's gonna get it!"

Her anger flared, then she waved a hand at the two figures behind her. They moved closer, the light revealing a woman with sapphire-blue hair and a man in a sleek black suit.

They bent down to unlock his chains—or so Zarou thought—when a jarring urge echoed in his mind to fight.

A sharp pain lanced through Zarou's body, and before he knew it, the two figures vanished from his line of sight. In a blink, he was pinned in place, his muscles screaming in protest. He tried to push back with what meager strength he had, but nothing happened.

"I'm too weak…" he murmured, despair coating each word.

"You don't understand, I haven't done anything!" His ragged plea filled the room, born of desperation.

"Even if I were fed and rested, these two—" he swallowed "—they're inhuman."

His choked cry for mercy came out jumbled. "Why're j'you attackin' me!? Sh-stop!"

Blood trickled across the floor, seeping into the cracks like veins as his jaw scraped the cold stone. No answer came.

Their grip tightened on his frail body, and the iron chains that once held him clattered to the floor. His wrists were rubbed raw, and he blacked out from the pain.

The woman shook her head.

"Alkai, Saphie, leave him with the Centurions. They'll know how to handle him."

She threw a contemptuous glance his way. "Useless. Instead of finding a shard or artifact, we ended up with this liability."

"Your wishes are our command, Mistress Kelaris," the pair replied, their loyalty evident in their vicious efficiency.

The light in the chamber faded.

When Zarou opened his eyes again, agony flared through his body.

"It hurts… so much…" he muttered.

His jaw clenched; his entire frame trembled. Now he found himself in a pale white room, a small window high on the wall that revealed nothing but a smear of light.

"Yagh! Well, I guess it's still better than where I was," he said with forced levity, voice raspy.

"Who the hell were they? I had nothing… and they still pummeled me into the ground," he whispered, scanning the cramped cell.

Ice-cold metal bars loomed inches from his reach.

"Lucky me, I got an upgrade," he added bitterly. "At least there's a bench here."

Shifting his jaw, he realized the pain was gone but the chains remained, attached to his arms as though fused with his skin.

"You'd think they'd at least take 'em off if they bothered to heal me," Zarou muttered.

Footsteps and mocking laughter echoed toward his cell.

"Seriously? This guy's got no mana organs? Hahaha, that's hilarious," a voice jeered.

Their laughter was like a needle stitching old wounds back together. Zarou squeezed his eyes shut, and memories battered him—shadows in torchlight, echoing taunts from behind iron masks, the suffocating fear that every breath might be his last. He could still smell the mildew-tainted air of the basement he'd been locked in, taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

He remembered the first time they shoved him down there. Maybe he had been smaller, or maybe the chains had seemed heavier. Flickering torchlight revealed silhouettes just out of reach. A sword's flat edge pressed beneath his chin, forcing him to crane upward until his neck screamed with pain. The masked figure said nothing—only drew out a slow, measured breath while metal rasped against leather. Someone else snickered, footsteps retreating, leaving him alone in that claustrophobic darkness with the stink of singed hair and hot iron.

Now, even here in this supposedly safer place, the mocking voices carried him back to that horror, ripping away any fragile sense of normalcy he'd tried to piece together. He shook his head in an attempt to scatter the memories.

The guards, clad in black uniforms, approached the bars. A gleaming badge bore the words CENTURIONS in gold.

"Listen, we're not sure what to do with you, but we patched up your injuries at least," one of them said.

The other guard snorted.

"Those hideous chains, though—what an eyesore. Are you into BDSM or something?"

Zarou's gaze flicked to the chains, half expecting them to slither off.

"No… They're just stuck. They won't come off," he muttered. If even the so-called powers of this world couldn't remove them, what hope did he have?

He squinted at the first guard's badge, trying to decipher its symbols.

"Eneya…? The Eneya from the old world?" he murmured, disbelief creeping into his voice. Could this really be connected to that distant empire he'd once heard of?

"Homeless, I'm guessing," the guard sneered. "Happens a lot to people without powers. Useless enigmas."

Zarou's brow furrowed.

"Didn't that lady with silver hair tell you I was chained up somewhere?"

"Listen, Zenlit or whatever your name is, nobody told us anything like that. Do you even know who you're talking about?" the guard snapped back.

"Zarou," the other corrected with a roll of his eyes.

The darker-haired guard groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"She's the most elite soldier in the Eneya Kingdom—the one who defends Minister Kelaris's throne."

Zarou let out a bitter laugh.

"I don't care about some dog of a dead empire," he said under his breath, though his dark eyes flicked warily over them both.

"We were told you were found on the streets," one of the guards retorted. "Probably the Zenir epidemic got to you. Another homeless wacko."

"Mark, do you always have to be an ass?" the darker-haired guard grumbled.

Zarou staggered against the bars, his legs barely supporting him.

"It feels like an eternity since I could stand," he muttered to himself.

One guard shrugged dismissively.

"We can't answer all your questions. You're free now—so get out."

Zarou blinked, staring at them in astonishment. His mind whirled with confusion and questions. Free? His body and soul were still bound by the weight of chains, both real and remembered. And yet, they expected him to leave as if nothing had happened.

Zarou nearly tripped over his own feet as he was ushered out of the cramped cell and into the corridor beyond. The Centurions said little more than a brusque, "Keep moving," punctuated by an occasional shove to his shoulder. The stark hall was lit by flickering lamps set in metal brackets, each sputtering flame casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. A faint smell of polish and old sweat hung in the air—more civilized than the rotting dungeon he had just come from, but still oppressive.

He could feel the weight of his shackles rattling around his wrists. Though he'd been forced out of that dingy cell, he wasn't truly free; iron links still clung to his forearms, their dull clank echoing with every step he took. Even so, he was relieved to be on his feet, no matter how shaky they felt beneath him.

A final pair of doors swung open to reveal a courtyard bathed in moonlight. Towering walls enclosed the space, and torches flickered along the perimeter. At the far end, beyond thick iron gates, the city of Alachi sprawled under the night sky—dark rooftops and winding streets hinting at a bustling metropolis that was simply asleep for now.

Before Zarou could take a single step further, one of the Centurions blocked his path. The soldier's black uniform bore the same golden badge that read "Centurions," gleaming under the torchlight.

"Don't even think about disappearing," the man growled. "If you try to skip town, we'll drag you back to that hole. You've got to register at Alachi's City Hall, or you'll be exiled… or worse."

"Register?" Zarou echoed, swallowing hard. "For what?"

The Centurion's gaze flicked down at his chains, then at Zarou's face.

"You've got mana, but no power to channel it. That makes you as good as manaless in our eyes—an 'enigma.' The city doesn't like enigmas running around untracked, especially not these days. So head to the Bureau of Awakened Affairs at City Hall and get a license. You've until dawn. Consider yourself warned."

Zarou's heart fluttered uneasily. He wanted to protest—he had mana, sure, but in his old homeland, raw mana alone was enough to be recognized. You could shape it through simple spells or enchantments, not require some specialized "power."

Where he came from, children learned to harness mana with minimal fuss, weaving it into wards or illusions. There'd been no notion of "channeling" as a separate power. But here, apparently, he was an anomaly.

The Centurion thrust a finger toward a tall spire rising in the distance, its apex glowing under a lantern-like orb. "That's City Hall. Don't get lost."

Another guard added, "Not that anyone with those chains clattering every step could sneak around quietly."

Zarou pressed his lips together, suppressing a retort. His wrists stung from the cold metal fused against his skin, and embarrassment warred with relief at finally being out of the dungeon. With no real choice, he nodded, forcing his weary legs forward. As he shuffled across the courtyard, the gates groaned open, revealing the quiet streets of Alachi—cobblestones gleaming faintly under lamplight, and store signs swaying gently in the night air.

There was only one path: onward to City Hall, to register, and to discover just how far his old-world understanding of magic clashed with this new reality.