Chapter One: The Visitor

PHASE I

Nothing in the castle surprised him anymore. Even the shadows, once whispering with the voices of the dead who perished in his name, had fallen silent as he passed. They no longer screamed. They no longer echoed. They simply watched. As if, like him, they had forgotten why they existed.

He walked slowly through one of the upper corridors, where the ceiling had partially collapsed and was covered by creeping roots. The broken bones scattered on the floor stirred nothing in him. The old blood that once marked his glory now faded into a land that no longer acknowledged color.

His sword accompanied him—not as a weapon, but as a heavy memory. With every step, he heard its voice again. Not guiding… but questioning.

"Who are you?"

A question repeated until it became a hum. A hum that pierced the skull and lodged in his chest.

Who am I? A king? A killer? A ghost? A shadow that walks among forgotten names? A priest of the Crystal, or a slave to memories he wasn't sure were even his?

In one of the ruined hallways, a soldier attacked him. Armored, carrying an ancient banner of a division he might've founded—or so they said. But he couldn't remember the name. Nor the face. Nor the scream.

A strike. Another. Then emptiness.

The body vanished—like everything else had.

"A fight without memory... A fight without purpose."

He muttered with a lifeless voice, then turned away.

He passed through the great hall, Then descended to the cellar, Where the stench of rot was stronger than memory, Then climbed to the rooftop, Where the sky was but a shadow of a star that would never return, Then moved through the garden, And stood before the sealed gate.

He did not try to open it. He did not ask why it would not open. He knew it wouldn't open—because he did not know who he was.

And finally… He returned to the throne room.

His usual place. His forgotten place. The one that made him feel like a stranger to himself.

He stood amidst the ruins, sword in hand, Then whispered: "I'm tired..." "Tired of these repeating days... of meaningless battles... of questions no one answers..."

But he didn't finish. Because the ground trembled.

From the depths of the rubble, something massive emerged. It moved like a beast, roaring, dragging a twin-bladed sword the length of two men. But its steps weren't wild. Nor were they savage.

It was a knight. Wearing a deep green cloak embroidered with faded golden thread. An ancient emblem upon its chest, armor dulled by time, But still carrying the weight of a bygone age.

It stopped. Kalidor stared at it. He saw... something. A resemblance. A memory... not yet formed.

But the knight didn't wait. It charged.

PHASE II

The castle watched. As if it had been waiting for this moment.

From the heart of ruin, the figure approached. Its steps were heavy but precise. The dragging sword didn't make a sound—but it tore the air around it. Every stone it passed trembled, as if it remembered him.

It was not a beast. But its body bore enough brutality to unsettle the gaze. Dark, cracked armor. A broken mask covering half its face. And one glowing eye gleaming through the shadows.

Yet what stunned the hero wasn't its form— It was the cloak.

Dark green, soaked in night, Laced with golden engravings that didn't shine—but breathed. Like a story sewn by time itself.

He didn't know why it pulled at him. But something inside him shuddered.

The knight didn't speak. Made no sound. Just attacked.

With unnatural force.

The first blow shook the tiles beneath his feet. The second knocked his sword away. The third made his chest seize—like reliving his first death.

He... wasn't ready. Not because the knight was stronger, But because he was already broken. From battle. From questions. From surviving without meaning.

Every blow seemed to say: "You are nothing."

But he resisted. Not by will—but by instinct.

He raised his sword again, Stepped back, then lunged forward, Strike... parry... evade... retreat.

Sweat poured. Breath faltered. His eyes saw nothing but mist.

Then it happened. One second. A slip in the knight's stance. A small gap at its side.

And in that moment… He didn't move. His body did.

As if it remembered something he did not. As if it reclaimed an image stored in his marrow.

His foot slid sideways. The sword rose at a strange angle. His wrist twisted like it had trained for this countless times before.

A slanted stab. Silent. Swift. Fatal.

The knight's body shuddered— Then fell. Without sound.

Stillness. Everything froze. Even the echo of battle stopped.

But his body... did not. His knees lowered slowly. His hands reached for the fallen cloak.

With a touch not of caution, but of ancient familiarity, he lifted it. Its scent was strange. Its weight heavier than fabric—like memory itself.

Every thread pulsed—as if it recognized him.

He wore it. The cloak draped over his shoulders. Part of his face vanished beneath its shadow, As though the place itself no longer wished to see him whole.

Then… He raised his sword slowly. In reverse. Tip toward the ground.

He stepped forward, And plunged the blade into the knight's chest.

Then stood.

A silent stance. Hands resting on the hilt. Forehead bowed toward the fallen. The cloak fluttering gently, though no wind stirred.

It was not a stance of victory. Nor farewell. Nor regret.

It was... the memory of a body. The pose of a hollow man with no name— But something inside him whispered:

"I've seen this before... and it was me who stood like this."

PHASE III

A few hours earlier… Before the unknown knight met the forgotten hero, Before the body moved on its own to stab the past, There was another light... And the sound of waves—not swords.

They were on the ship.

The mist kissed its surface like it was reading their intentions. The water below was unnaturally calm. But inside... it was far more restless.

"I swear I didn't come here to die." Said Sylv, pressing his side and staring into the grey horizon. "Nor to follow someone who doesn't know where we're headed."

"But you came, philosopher of battle." Said Jarn, leaning against the wall with a smirk. "And you know this ship doesn't sail back."

Raela laughed as she cleaned her spear: "Jarn talks too much when he's scared, and goes mute when it's time to fight."

"And here we see who threatens in silence." Said Lius, always calm, checking his old armor. "Raela... without you, this group would be painfully dull."

Dal said nothing. He never did. He sat in the corner, polishing a curved blade, Eyes on the ground, But ears on everything.

At the front, He stood. Red cloak on his shoulders, Silence on his face. The leader.

He hadn't spoken yet, But his presence was felt— As one born between volcanoes: the past and silence.

"Sir, we're nearing the shore." Said a soldier from the upper deck.

Everyone looked up, And through the distant mist, A tower tip shimmered between the mountains.

Not clearly. But enough to tell them:

"There... the place no one speaks of."

"This is madness." Muttered Sylv. "To leave the ship and follow someone who tells us nothing?"

"He didn't force us." Lius said firmly. "We know who we are. We know who he is." "Not a noble. But do we need a title to follow someone who's never betrayed us?"

The leader finally turned to them. He said quietly: "I'm going. Whoever wants to follow, do so. Whoever fears—stay and guard the ship. I won't repeat myself."

Silence. But not threatening silence. A final statement. No debate. No explanation.

"Five." Said Lius as he stood. "I'm with you."

"Me too." Said Raela. "I didn't leave a battlefield for a stroll."

"Damn you all—every time!" Jarn laughed as he prepared himself. "I'll die and you'll be the last thing I see?!"

"…I'll go." Said Sylv quietly. "Not because I want to... but because I don't trust what's behind us."

Dal just nodded. No words.

"Move out." Said the leader. "The land of Lumania waits for no one."

PHASE IV

They disembarked from the ship as if stepping out of another era. The air shifted. The humidity vanished. And sound… seemed to lose its place.

They stood on the shore, Their feet on solid ground coated with a thin layer of frost, Behind them, the ship loomed against the fog, A final guardian reluctant to depart.

No one spoke at first. Until Jarn glanced around and said: "Is this land... or a grave half-dug?"

The place was silent—but alive. Trees stood—but dead. No birds, no animals, no sound… Only long shadows stretching despite the absent sun.

Sylv observed their surroundings: "This region... it's not on any modern map."

Lius replied calmly: "Because it's not part of the modern world. This shore belongs to the previous cycle. The northern border of the kingdom… Vampyr territory."

Silence. Only Raela whispered: "No human has walked here since the last war—the one in the records… Where even the dead were never named."

The leader moved forward slowly. His red cloak swaying, as if resisting this soil. He stopped at the edge of a cliff, And stared at the stone pathway leading into the mountain.

Then said quietly: "This is the way. From here… everything begins."

Dal, at the back, said nothing. But stepped forward to stand beside him. The leader didn't speak. Neither did Dal.

Yet between them… There was a silent language. A glance. An unspoken agreement. They understood each other beyond words.

They began walking. At first, their steps were close. Each trying to break the silence with breath. Jarn shared an old tale, Raela teased, Sylv asked about the compass. Lius merely observed the path.

But the leader said nothing. And Dal never needed to.

After half an hour, The frost thickened. The air grew heavier. The light dimmed—as if the sun itself hesitated to shine.

Then it appeared. The first sign.

Carvings on the stone wall. Symbols unlike any human writing. Circular, twisting—like veins or nerves. They shimmered faintly—as if breathing.

Sylv approached. He touched one with his finger.

The wall opened. A scream. A shadow. Then… Sylv vanished.

Everyone froze. "Sylv?!" Jarn called. "Sylv!" No answer. Only the wall closing slowly… As if it had never opened.

The air changed. The place changed. Their bond changed.

Danger was no longer an idea—it was a missing number.

The leader looked at the others. His eyes steady, But something in his face broke.

Dal stepped forward beside him. Then the leader said, quietly: "From this moment… every step has meaning."

PHASE V

Each step toward the castle… cost them one less.

There were no sounds. No clear signs of threat. But the ground… Was swallowing memories one by one.

Their first puzzle was carved into a stone wall. Symbols etched with cold flame, not illuminating—but warning:

"One among you bears the smile, One among you bears the blade, One among you must not cross."

They exchanged glances.

"Don't overthink it!" Jarn said, smiling. "I'm the smile. Everyone knows that."

"Don't be hasty." Lius warned.

"I'm not hasty. I'm precisely quick!" Jarn laughed and stepped forward. "If I die now, remember—I wanted to leave something sweet behind… even if just a smile."

He pressed one of the symbols.

The door opened… But blades shot out from the walls, Striking Jarn in the chest.

He fell—but laughed. Laughed until blood spilled from his lips.

"Hey, captain…" He whispered. "At least… you smiled at me once."

Then his body stilled, And the passage opened.

The leader said nothing. But something in him had begun to change.

The second trial was inside a corridor carved from bone. At its end, four statues each held a key. Above them, words were carved:

"He who speaks loses the path. He who is silent earns passage. He who chooses is tested. He who turns back is erased."

Dal, forever silent, Stepped forward. He looked at the leader, Then at the keys. He said nothing. But he chose.

The door began to open.

Then… A heavy iron ceiling dropped upon him.

The others tried to save him—but it was too late.

In the echoing stillness, Dal finally spoke: "...Continue." "Continue from where… I cannot."

Then died.

The leader staggered slightly. He still held together, But his vision of the path dimmed.

In the next chamber, A vast wall engraved with hundreds of names. Each name glowed when touched by a human hand.

Raela accidentally touched one. It lit up. The ground shook.

From the debris, A figure rose—like a breathing statue.

"Blood Guardian."

A five-meter-tall beast, Armor made of jawbones, Eyes like pits bleeding fire.

The fight was brutal. Lius was wounded. The leader took a blow that shattered his shoulder.

As the beast raised its weapon for a final strike… Raela leapt.

She screamed: "Not yet."

She fought—bleeding. Her spear trembled—but she didn't retreat.

Every step challenged fate. Every strike wrote a line in an unknown tale.

The leader was struck in the face, And collapsed.

Raela crawled to him, Lifted his head, And whispered: "I… wasn't who you thought I was." "I only wanted to be near you… not save you."

She smiled, And drove her spear into the monster's heart.

Before it struck her in return.

She fell. Still smiling.

The leader… Collapsed to his knees. Hand over his wound, Eyes locked in the void.

He rose slowly. Then… carried her.

He looked at no one. Spoke to no one. He walked toward the castle gate.

Behind him… The graves awaited.

He stood before one, Just a raw stone—with no name.

He laid Raela on it. Covered her with his cloak.

And whispered: "You fought… for me." "Those who trust me… I won't leave them without a shroud." "If I had a heart, I would've buried you in it."

Lius spoke behind him, His voice heavy and hoarse: "We must go in… Their spirits won't forgive us if we stop now."

The leader didn't respond. But… He rose.

He looked toward the graves.

And whispered: "These are the graves of those who never crossed… Let my entry among them… be an apology—not a triumph."