In the stillness of the night, Charles' footsteps echoed against the marble tiles of the mansion's entrance.
A magnificent manor, its white walls and sculpted columns crowned by a lapis-hued roof, shimmered in the moonlight like a majestic temple shrouded in mist.
The turning of a key in the lock blended with the soft rustle of wind drifting through the garden.
Just before Charles could reach for the door, it slowly opened on its own. An elderly man appeared in the doorway—his uniform that of a proper house servant, his long hair white as snow, and his eyes the deep blue of sapphires. His face was calm, and his voice warm and assured.
Sebastian:
"Welcome back, sir. I hope your night was a pleasant one."
Charles paused briefly. His gaze settled on the familiar, tranquil face of the old man. A faint but deep smile touched his lips.
Charles:
"One of the most memorable nights of my life, Sebastian."
He stepped inside.
A grand hall awaited—towering chandeliers cast golden light across polished floors and Eastern rugs. The air was thick with order, silence, and dignity.
Sebastian, taking his master's coat in a silent motion, cast a sharp, subtle glance and spoke in a quiet but probing tone:
Sebastian:
"You returned on foot, sir? And declined His Majesty's official banquet as well. Was there another destination, if I may ask?"
Charles' eyes wandered to the gentle flames dancing in the fireplace. Without haste, he answered. His voice, as ever, was poised and measured.
Charles:
"Sometimes, thinking is better than watching. And walking… it's the only way to truly hear the city without a filter. I didn't go anywhere planned. Just… where presence was needed."
They entered the drawing room: elegantly furnished with classical pieces, surreal paintings on the walls, and a hint of jasmine in the air. Charles sank into one of the velvet chairs, crossed a leg over the other, and glanced at the fire.
A middle-aged maid, neatly dressed and with eyes like ripe pomegranates, placed a cup of lemon tea on the table before him.
Sebastian, still standing, gave a soft smile.
Sebastian:
"It may be strange to say this, but seeing contentment on your face brings me joy. May I ask, sir—what happened tonight that left you so satisfied?"
Charles picked up the cup, turned it gently in his hand, and spoke in a deep but light tone:
Charles:
"I spent the evening with Arthur and his companions. We talked, we laughed, we sang, we even jumped over the fire. But more than anything… I listened. I listened to their thoughts. That's what keeps me alive—not the shallow joy of celebration, but those moments when you feel connected to something greater than the mundane."
He paused. Then, turning his gaze to Sebastian, he continued with a softer yet clearer tone:
Charles:
"You know, Sebastian… sometimes, in the simplicity of small moments, the biggest answers are hidden. You just need to know how to look."
Sebastian, eyes half-closed, gave a knowing smile.
Sebastian:
"As always, your perspective sets you apart from the rest, sir."
Charles set down the half-warm tea with a slow gesture, stood, and turned toward the staircase.
In his usual calm tone, he said:
Charles:
"I'll go to my room. I've some reading to do. You can rest now. Good night."
Sebastian bowed slightly. His voice, soft as a shadow, followed him:
Sebastian:
"Of course, sir. Good night. If you need anything, just call… we're always at your service."
Charles ascended the stairs without a sound. His leather shoes made no noise on the wood—almost as if he didn't want to disturb even the silence. He opened the wooden door with delicate care. The room, as always, was orderly: tall shelves filled with leather-bound volumes, the soft amber glow of a desk lamp, and a wooden desk scarred with the lines of years of precise, relentless use.
He walked steadily to a particular shelf and drew out a leather-bound journal. Heavy and familiar. Its worn spine and frayed edges marked years in service to a restless mind.
He sat. The lamp cast its gentle light on a blank page. His fingers opened the journal. The previous pages still there—detailed sketches of Elizabeth's lifeless body, each wound documented, Kyle's unmoving form, and the heavy shadows that death had left behind.
But tonight, something else stirred in his mind.
He picked up his scalpel—not to cut, but to sharpen his pencil. The tip needed to be as sharp as his thoughts. After a few turns, the pencil was ready. Charles opened to a new page.
A line. Then another. With care and precision, a bird began to take shape. Small… but not weak.
A swallow… but not an ordinary one.
He drew eyes—deep, heavy with knowledge beyond the bird's years.
Wings, wide but veined with the marks of fracture.
A slim body—tense and compact.
And a beak shut—not silent, but waiting… waiting to break open.
The scratch of pencil filled the silence. Time slipped away. Hours passed unnoticed. Outside, the celebration had faded. The lamp's light rose and fell like weary breaths.
Charles paused. He stared into the swallow's eyes. It was as if the image wanted to step off the page.
Under his breath, in a tone worn but heavy with unspoken depth, he murmured:
Charles:
"Arthur…
You don't know yet that flight hurts.
You think freedom is just about leaping into the air…
But one day, you'll understand that to fly, you must give up your wings.
And when you realize you tore them off yourself just to escape the cage…
That's when you'll see that freedom is just a golden prison.
Its shape is different… but it's still a cage."
He smiled. Not from joy. Not from triumph. A cold smile—like a gentle hand tightening around a throat.
With one last stroke, he finished the swallow. Shaded the wings. In the corner of the page, he wrote, in small, clean letters:
Corvus Libertatem.
He laid the pencil down. As if the drawing had lifted a burden no one knew he carried.
Charles stood. Walked to the window. Drew back the heavy curtain.
The night had settled over the capital. House lights sparkled like earthbound stars. Laughter had dimmed. The streets were quieter…
But in this hush, Charles had found peace.
Peace he once hated, but now… had become his refuge.
He glanced up at the sky, whispering:
Charles:
"A child who's spent his whole life in darkness…
Can never find comfort in the light."
And he drew the curtain closed again. Silence reclaimed the room.
And the black swallow… still waited, on a white page, for a future yet to come.
Night had cast its shadows over the tall towers of the Royal Academy.
The moon glowed in a clear sky, and a gentle breeze crept through the half-open windows of the dormitories. In one of the student rooms, Arthur, Julius, and Anos lay on their beds. The soft yellow glow of the wall lamp stretched tall shadows across the walls.
A warm, sincere laugh broke the night's quiet.
Julius, with a laugh from the depths of his chest:
"Man, today was incredible! I'll never forget it… especially that moment we leaped over the fire and all started singing at the top of our lungs!"
Anos, still grinning:
"Yeah… I can still see it. The firelight, the laughter, the scent of burning wood… it felt like a dream come to life."
Arthur, in silence, held the group photo resting beside his bed. The lamp's light fell on their smiling faces. His eyes locked onto theirs, and in a voice softer than the night's hush, he said:
Arthur:
"It's beautiful… having people who stand beside you…"
A silence fell between them—not heavy, but full of contentment. Their smiles lingered—not from fleeting joy, but from something deeper. A feeling called belonging.
For a moment, each of them drifted toward the future… a hazy, uncertain future. Full of challenges. Perhaps darkness. But these moments—these memories—would shine like lanterns along the way.
The next morning, the Academy slowly returned to its usual rhythm.
Despite recent events, classes resumed. The halls, libraries, and training grounds buzzed once more with life. Yet whispers of fear and doubt still fluttered among the students. Some, even those who loved the Academy dearly, had left—believing safety more valuable than honor.
But today, in Professor Charles' class, the air was different.
A spring breeze danced through the tall windows, playing with white sheer curtains. Birdsong filtered in from the gardens, and distant student laughter gently contradicted the seriousness of the classroom.
Charles entered, dressed in his long gray coat, and surveyed the class with a gaze both deep and knowing. A faint, meaningful smile touched his lips.
Charles:
"I hope you all enjoyed last night's celebration. For me, it was one of the most unique nights I've experienced in recent memory."
His gaze lingered briefly on Arthur. There was something in it—more than a teacher's glance. Perhaps the look of a man seeing a shadow of his own past in someone younger.
He turned to the board and, with careful precision, wrote:
"Magical Technology"
He faced the class again, speaking with his usual calm, deliberate tone:
Charles:
"Alright then—who can give us a short explanation of today's topic?"
A pause. Silence hung briefly. Then Sophia raised her hand—calm, but confident.
Sophia:
"Magical technology, as the name suggests, is the integration of physical science and tools with magical energy. For example, devices that only operate using spells."
Charles smiled.
Charles:
"Correct. As accurate as ever, Sophia."
He began to pace slowly between the desks.
Charles:
"Magical technology has revolutionized our world over the past hundred years. Just think of something simple—like magical cameras. Their casing might be wood, but image capturing is done through the magic of light and illusion. The moment you take a picture, it appears on a transparent screen."
He paused. Watching the intrigued faces.
Charles:
"Now here's a question: those lamps in your homes—how do you think they actually work?"
Silence. Even Julius, always eager to answer, only raised an eyebrow this time.
Charles turned to Sophia once more:
Charles:
"Sophia, do you know?"
Sophia shook her head to say *no*. The professor nodded thoughtfully and said,
"That's perfectly fine. It's actually good you don't know—because soon, you will.
Beneath the heart of every city or village, mana generators lie buried. These generators collect the surrounding magical energy and distribute it throughout the urban area. Inside every lamp, there's a mana receptor that absorbs this energy and converts it into light…"
He paused, his voice lowering slightly as he continued,
"But here's the important part… not all mana is the same. Wealthy cities—like the district of the capital we're in right now—use refined mana: pure light, heatless, stable. But in poorer villages, they use raw mana. The result? The lamps might emit yellow or blue light… or, in rare cases, explode."
A few students in the class gasped softly in surprise.
Professor Charles turned toward the class, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Magical technology isn't just about invention. It's about access. About classification. About who gets to use what kind of magic."
The room fell silent. Not from boredom, but from thought. Minds engaged, hearts stirred… and a spark of realization flickered in the eyes of Arthur, Julius, Anos, and perhaps many others.
Professor Charles paused, staring briefly at the whiteboard, still holding the chalk. Then he slowly turned back to the students and said, in a quieter yet firmer tone:
"But… despite the incredible advances in magical technology, we have to admit—our world still lives in a primitive, even medieval state in many ways. Think about it… even in the heart of the capital, there are streets full of potholes that even magic hasn't fixed. Now imagine the villages, the borderlands…"
His voice dropped further, but now it carried weight.
"Healthcare is abysmal in most regions. Ordinary people don't even know how to treat a basic wound. Most of the population is still illiterate. Transportation? Carts and animals are still the norm. Teleportation gates? Reserved for nobility. Class divide? Most people don't even have surnames—only the noble-born or those from rooted families do. Slavery is still legal in some regions. Workers going unpaid for months? That's just business as usual…"
Silence gripped the classroom. The professor's words were bitter—but undeniable. The students stared, as though shaken awake from a dream.
Professor Charles drew a breath. His voice now softened, but held a somber note.
"So you see… despite all this technology, our society is still a backward one. Low-tier."
At that moment, something clicked in Arthur's mind. A thread of thought, long tangled, finally found its anchor. A vision from an old book in the Forbidden Wing of the library surfaced. A title, dusty but thunderous: *The Order Correction Event*.
He raised his hand, his face serious and focused.
Professor Charles looked at him, half surprised, half intrigued.
"Yes, Arthur, go ahead."
Arthur stood. His voice was calm but firm, like someone seeking the answer to a fundamental truth.
"Professor… if our world's history goes back thousands of years, why are we still at such a low level of civilization? Don't the records say that kingdoms existed more than a hundred thousand years ago?"
Whispers rippled through the classroom. It was a question many had likely pondered—but none had dared to speak aloud.
Professor Charles stared at Arthur, his gaze heavy, but not reproachful. A long silence passed. Then he replied, slowly:
"You're right. According to written records, the history of humanity—of intelligent beings—dates back tens, even hundreds of thousands of years. But… throughout history, cataclysms have occurred that brought civilizations to their knees. Every time we came close to reaching the peak… something, some disaster, erased it all. It's as if history keeps rewriting itself."
Arthur remained standing. He took a deep breath and asked, more quietly, but with greater depth,
"What is the Order Correction Event?"
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Even Julius—always ready with a joke—sat still, serious. The students looked at Arthur, then at one another, confused and murmuring.
"The Order what?"
"Never heard of that…"
"Is it dangerous?"
But Professor Charles… his expression shifted. First shocked, then hesitant, and finally… solemn and contemplative. He quietly placed the chalk on the desk, walked toward the window, and looked out. The curtains swayed gently in the evening breeze.
His voice, when it came, was cautious, almost whispering:
"You're not supposed to know about that yet. It was something meant for the later years… once your minds were more prepared."
He turned from the window and looked the students straight in the eye. His voice grew more serious.
"The Order Correction Event… is an apocalyptic disaster. Every 500 years, across all worlds—not just this planet, but parallel realms too—gates open. Portals to the Underworld… to Hell. Monsters, demons, entities beyond comprehension… pour into the worlds. Civilizations fall, cities burn, knowledge is lost, and every time… everything has to begin again, from scratch."
The students sat frozen, like statues.
The professor continued:
"It's called a 'Correction' because… this cycle seems to be part of a greater design. Perhaps even a cosmic law. Whenever the population, the technology, the power… exceeds a certain threshold, this happens. A kind of reset, for everything."
Sophia raised her hand, her expression thoughtful and troubled.
"Professor… has anyone ever tried to stop it? The angels? The gods? Heroes?"
Professor Charles paused. He glanced at their anxious faces, and with a mournful voice replied:
"The angels… only intervene when total annihilation is at stake. The gods? Maybe this cycle *is* their doing. Maybe it serves a purpose beyond our comprehension. As for heroes—yes. In every era, there have been those who resisted, who fought, who reduced the toll. But summoning a hero isn't easy. It takes massive energy. And even then—taking someone from their world and expecting them to save another… isn't exactly ethical."
He turned to the class.
"Any more questions?"
But no one spoke. Their eyes were full of thoughts, of fear, perhaps even of anger or doubt.
An hour passed. The bell rang. One by one, the students left the room, lost in thought. Arthur and Sophia walked toward the door, but the professor's voice stopped them.
"Arthur, can you stay? I need to speak with you."
Arthur looked at Sophia. She gave him a small smile and said,
"See you later, Arthur. Professor, thank you."
Arthur turned back toward the professor's desk. But now, Charles's gaze was no longer that of a teacher—it was the look of a watcher. Perhaps a custodian of destiny.
"Follow me, Arthur."
Without a word, Arthur followed him out of the classroom… down a quiet hallway where the golden light of sunset streamed through tall windows, and their footsteps echoed faintly across the stone floor.