She had wiped the table three times already that morning—without even noticing.
Not because it was dirty.
No crumbs, no stains.
No sign that anyone had ever been there.
But Elira kept scrubbing it, running the cloth along the wood grain with meticulous care.
Her hands moved on their own. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Sunlight filtered through the window, catching strands of her unbound hair. Morning had dragged itself into noon, but her thoughts were still trapped in last night.
"Why did he act like that last night...?"
Her lips stayed flat, fighting not to curve downward. But anyone looking into her eyes would know:
She wouldn't call it worry. Not aloud. But her fingers had gone pale around the cloth.
She wiped the table's edge for the fourth time. Then stopped.
Her hand hovered midair. Still. Like a statue mid-carve.
The window was open. Morning air carried the sound of the market—chickens squawking, vendors shouting, pots clanging. The kind of noise that usually made her grumble about how loud the world was.
But this morning… the world felt too quiet.
Not even the clamor of the world could drown out one name in her mind.
Kael.
That strange man.
Who said little, but left the room feeling too full.
Who made this kitchen feel too empty whenever he wasn't in it.
"Not my problem if he just disappears," she muttered to herself. Her voice was sharp, like it was trying to slice through her own feelings.
"He's not a child. Besides... he's not anyone important..."
But Even as the words left her lips, she knew each one was a lie wrapped in logic.
Her hand clenched the cloth. Her knuckles went pale.
"Still..." she whispered, this time softly, without anger. "...at least leave a note or something."
"Hmph." She crossed her arms and turned away.
Elira drew in a deep breath, holding the air in her chest—as if trying to keep something unspoken inside.
"Idiot..." she whispered, not sure if she meant him or herself.
But somewhere else, someone else was also drawing in a breath—Not from longing, but from a weight coiled deep inside—unfamiliar and tight.
Something we call anxiety.
People stared at Kael like he wasn't one of them.
Adventurers had formed a half-circle around him. Some curious. Some afraid. Some... Far too calm to be trusted
"Who the hell are you?!"
shouted a broad man with a graying beard. He stood like a boulder ready to be hurled, face flushed red, neck veins bulging.
"A regular person doesn't break a calibration device worth five hundred gold!" he bellowed again.
Kael didn't move. He just stood—silent, unreadable, untouched.
Straight posture. Blank stare. No fear. No anger.
Not even guilt.
As if everything around him had gone... quiet.
"They were threatening me. Yelling. I knew this was a 'confrontation.' But something beneath their voices… was scraping against my awareness."
From the crowd, another voice emerged. Softer, but laced with venom.
"He's probably a sorcerer in disguise."
"Or a noble—look at his hair, white as frost. And his face… doesn't look like some backwater peasant."
Theories floated through the air like dust in a sealed room.
But Kael just listened—without truly listening.
And amid it all, Nella spoke.
Her face held a smile, sly and sharp.
"Five hundred gold? This thing's not even worth one."
"There's nothing special about it—just a cheap tool that breaks easily,"
she said, her tone light, almost playful.
But Kael caught it—that slight tremor in her voice, like someone trying to hide nerves behind a joke.
His eyes met Nella's.
And for a moment, he thought:
A cheap tool...
Then why is she looking at me like I'm the broken thing here.
The crowd slowly quieted down. Some still whispered.
Kael didn't understand them.
But in the middle of all the noise,
Someone watched him from the shadow of a stone pillar—their gaze unmoving.
After the commotion faded, Nella approached him in private.
No more smiles. No small talk.
"Come back tomorrow," she said. "Same time."
Her voice was flat. But her tone…
It felt like tossing a coin into a wishing well—unsure if they wanted the wish to come true.
Kael nodded.
He didn't know why.
But he knew something had shifted.
And as he walked out of the hall, the evening wind brushed against his face.
His steps dragged, as if each one carried weight he couldn't see.
And as he passed the corridor toward the main road, candlelight flickered from an old window and reflected off the stone wall.
There—at the end of the narrow alley—a shadow stood still.
It didn't move.
But its eyes flickered for a moment—dim red, like coals about to die out.
Then… vanished.
Kael stopped.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
No answer. Only the wind.
And somewhere deep behind his eyes—
Something began to crack.
The streets had grown quiet as Kael walked home.
The cracked cobblestones glinted with the amber glow of the setting sun. The last wooden cart had just turned the corner, leaving behind a trail of dust and the faint scent of dried grass. The world looked ordinary.
Calm. But beneath the slow-burning sky, there was something... off. A strange presence shadowed his steps.
Kael didn't pick up his pace. He simply walked, as he always did. Yet something in the air that day made every breath feel heavier. It wasn't fatigue... more like the world was holding onto him a bit too tightly, as if to whisper: You don't belong here. Not yet.
And as he crossed a narrow gutter near the old houses, he saw it.
A puddle. Thin and still, trapped between the cracks of stone.
He leaned down.
His reflection rested on the water's surface. His face.
But the reflection was smiling.
Kael wasn't.
His heart skipped a beat.
He stared into his own eyes in the water—eyes that had never revealed anything—and the shadow of a mouth curved slightly, almost mocking, as if it knew something the world hadn't said yet.
He blinked.
The reflection returned to stillness. Neutral. Just like him.
No. That couldn't be.
But he knew. Something was different today. Something had moved. Not out there... but inside.
And he didn't know how to stop it.
By the time he resumed walking, the market had already closed. Oil lamps were being lit. A few children ran by with leftover fish, laughing like the world had never known pain. Someone was closing a window, humming an old tune.
Only one sound didn't belong.
Metal.
A clang.
Kael turned.
Someone was raising an iron rod.
And the moment the rod sliced through the air—
Everything slowed.
Specks of dust hung like stars in the dim light.
A bird in the sky hovered, frozen in place.
Even his own breath stalled in his throat.
Even his heartbeat… slowed.
And in that silence,
…he heard a whisper not meant for the ears:
"Don't wake him."
Then time resumed. Kael nearly flinched—almost reacted.
But his body was human. Too slow.
For a fraction of a second, Kael knew exactly where he was standing. I know the weight of his steps. I know the shadow in his eyes. But this body... this body is slow. Humans are slow.
Clang!
The iron struck.
Kael didn't move in time.
He was thrown sideways, his shoulder crashing into the cobblestones, knocking the air from his lungs. There was no blood. No scream. Only silence—and the strange stillness in the attacker's eyes.
But the attacker—a man wielding an iron bar—stumbled back two steps. Eyes wide. Mouth open in silence.
Fear.
He didn't understand what had just happened.
Kael tried to get up. But his body wouldn't respond. His vision was blurring.
He lost consciousness.
And there—where his hand had touched the ground—
The surface of the earth darkened, as if soaking in the light, forming faint lines like the etching of an unfinished circle.
But Kael was already out cold. And the mark
It appeared only for a moment.
His left hand touched the ground.
And beneath it, the hard surface… blackened.
Faint lines emerged from his touch—circular, intricate, like ancient carvings left undone.
Like something left incomplete by whoever—or whatever—had once shaped it.
Like symbols that had no language.
The lines lasted for only a heartbeat.
Then vanished.
And Kael remained unconscious.
Far away, at the western edge of an old forest, a black bird perched on a brittle branch.
Its eyes flashed red for a single second.
No fire. No magic. Just… recognition.
The bird turned its gaze north.
Toward the city.
Toward the place where the earth had just been touched by something that should never have awakened.
And in a language not born of mankind—in a voice never taught in this world—the bird whispered:
"He has touched the earth."
Then it spread its wings.
And flew.
Leaving its nest behind.