Crimson Threads of the Forgotten

The wind was colder now.

Sunny walked through the forest path with tired eyes and a heavier heart. The words of the cloaked man echoed in his ears.

"Bring me the head of Lysander."

He didn't know who that man was — or how he knew Ren. But the name Lysander wasn't unfamiliar. It carried weight… like a shadow that had always been behind him, just outside the edge of memory.

And now, Sunny had a goal. One he didn't fully understand.

He reached a small ruined outpost — abandoned long ago, its stone walls broken and half-swallowed by vines. This would be his shelter for the night.

But as he settled down, a strange sensation pricked the edge of his awareness. The air grew heavier. Not dangerous… but ancient.

He touched the hilt of his blade and focused.

A whisper.

A memory not his.

The outpost wasn't always ruined. Long ago, it was a watchtower — guarding the edge of something called The Crimson Line, a border that no one dared to cross. And in that time, Lysander had stood there too… younger, gentler, smiling.

---

Suddenly, Sunny was pulled deeper — not by choice.

Another fragment of the ability activated.

This time, it was his own past.

---

He saw a boy standing beside a man — a scholar in white robes — holding a book and speaking softly.

"You're special, Sunny. But not because of power. Because you'll be the one to remember when others forget."

The boy nodded.

Then, pain. Blood. Screams.

A scar — carved across Sunny's chest, and the words of the scholar as he fell dying:

"They'll call you a monster… because monsters are what people fear most when they can't understand."

---

Sunny jolted awake, soaked in sweat.

The seal was breaking.

Not all at once, but piece by piece.

And what lay beneath it… wasn't just strength.

It was history.

His.

The world's.

And someone was watching from afar — a figure standing atop the cliffside near the ruins.

German Sparow.