They walked down the side corridor toward the dimming garden. The small building in question appeared faint at the end of the stone path, lit by the emerging moonlight. Its walls were moss-covered in parts, and the wooden windows were weathered. In front of it, wild grass grew unchecked, and a garden lamp flickered weakly, nearly extinguished.
Al trailed behind Harun, walking along the long corridor. The butler's footsteps faded away, leaving silence.
He closed his eyes for a moment. A flash of the past surfaced—the cramped orphanage with its leaking roof, spoiled rice, children's laughter he protected, and an old woman's dying promise: "You will find your home one day…"
Now he was in that very home. But to Al, it felt colder than the orphanage.
When they arrived, Harun stopped before the old door and produced a heavy iron key. The click was weighted as he turned it.
"It's here," he said, without preamble, then slowly opened the door.
The interior was coated in dust and cobwebs. The wooden floor creaked. A damp smell lingered, mixed with traces of old camphor. Broken boards and boxes lay scattered in the corners. It looked more like a storage room than a living space.
Al took one step inside, then looked back at Harun. "I'd like to clean it myself. Where are the cleaning tools?"
Harun didn't reply right away. He watched Al calmly, his eyes betraying an emotional distance, though his lips remained politely upturned.
"They're in the storage behind the kitchen, near the service stairs. The staff knows where it is."
"Understood," Al replied briefly.
"Excuse me," Harun said softly, "I usually prepare everything for young masters… But since you said you wanted to do it yourself, I assumed you want to start becoming independent."
His tone was professional, but carried a subtle reluctance—barely harsh, yet noticeable.
Al just nodded. "No problem."
Harun bowed politely. "In that case, I'll take my leave. If you need help, just call a male servant. Not a female on. They'll come."
Al blinked, momentarily stunned, mouth slightly agape.
Letting rumors linger only ruins my image here. Huff, he thought.
After Harun left, Al paused at the threshold of the dark room, then fully entered. Dust drifted in the air, and a night breeze seeped through a slightly open window. Inside, he could sense the aura he'd noticed at noon—subtle, ancient… and undeniably unusual.
Al murmured softly. "A small dusty building… with something here."
His eyes narrowed—not from fear, but curiosity. He walked slowly to a corner, beginning to craft plans on how to deal with this house's strange occurrences, how to probe the aura's mystery… and how to one day uncover David and his dark magic.
Once Harun's presence was completely gone, his footsteps silent, Al gently shut the old door—the faint creak echoing in the hush.
He stood motionless in the center of the room. Moonlight filtered through a high window with rusty bars, illuminating floating specks of dust. The magical aura in the building felt clearer now.
Al closed his eyes briefly. Then he bowed forward, placing the palm of his hand on the cold, slightly damp wooden floor.
This resonance… it's not chaotic. It's not interference. It's embedded, he thought, sensing a faint stream beneath the ground.
The aura was ancient, deep, stable—as if something long dormant lay beneath the floor; not a creature, but an artifact. Perhaps a relic from a past generation… or someone from long ago who deliberately hid it here.
Al opened his eyes slowly, steady but not fearful.
"I don't know how important that object is," he murmured. "But for now… better to leave it be. They're not ready for this."
He stood and looked around. The room was reasonably spacious—enough for two or three people.
With a casual gesture, Al raised his right hand. A soft silvery-white light appeared over his palm—not too bright, but enough to illuminate the whole room. Then, in a lazy flick of his hand, he swept the air.
Instantly, a gentle magical wave rippled from his body, sweeping through the room. Dust floated up, cobwebs disappeared, dull wood gleamed slightly. The damp air turned fresh, and the musty odor was replaced by a neutral scent—like mountain morning air.
The floor was now clean. A large fur rug lay neatly in the center—perhaps originally for David's cat. No bed. No pillows. Just that carpet, the only comfort in the space.
Al placed his backpack on one side, then sat on the rug. He took a deep breath, lying down slowly, using one arm as a pillow.
The high window, curtainless, let in moonlight freely. The night sky outside was dark—and calm.
Al gazed at the pale light streaming through the rusted bars.
Finally… I'm home, he murmured, flat but edged with irony.
He didn't feel warmth. He didn't feel needed. But still—this was his home. His place of origin. And in his heart, he knew… this was the start of something huge. He didn't know what form it would take. But he was sure: it hadn't ended. It was just beginning.
He slowly closed his eyes.
---
Meanwhile, in David's chamber...
Far from the post-dinner hush, David's private room lay in chilling silence. Located on the second floor of the east wing of the Virellano main house, the room was spacious yet cold and alien—seeming to hide unseen truths.
Walls were lined in dark blue fabric and golden carvings, giving an elegant yet oppressive feel. A crystal chandelier burned dimly overhead, barely lighting the space. The only real light came from a slow-burning candle on the glossy black table in the corner.
At the center, David sat calmly on an obsidian leather chair. His nighttime attire—a black silk suit trimmed with silver—felt less like sleepwear and more like a command uniform for a delicate, intrigue-laden struggle.
His gaze was sharp, controlled. He stared at a dark corner of the room where light couldn't reach, and there stood a figure.
The man wore the Virellano household's formal servant uniform—black suit and white gloves. But his face... was completely masked in shadow. As if he didn't belong to this world, merely an illusion absorbing light and sound.
An antique clock ticked slowly, creating a tension-filled rhythm in the silence.
David crossed his legs, then spoke softly but firmly—in the tone of a young noble, not just a teenager:
"How do you find… that boy?"
The shadow remained silent.
David looked out the curtained window.
"He's not an ordinary orphan boy. Too silent, too composed. His gaze... like someone who knows more than he should. As if he's waiting."
He turned back to the shadow, his eyes cold.
"I don't like things I can't predict."
Then, in a low, authoritative voice:
"Watch him. Find his weakness. If needed… eliminate him."
The shadow nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Silent and lethal, like an entity from another realm.
David rose gently from his chair. His posture was upright, his motion smooth but decisive. He walked to the window, pulled back the heavy velvet curtain slightly, and looked toward the small garden building where Al now stayed.
"He's sleeping there tonight. The place I once filled with my dead cat…" he murmured softly, almost sentimentally—but his eyes showed no emotion.
"Sleep well tonight, my swapped brother…" A thin smile played on his lips. "For tomorrow… you begin to disappear from this world. Slowly. Silently. Like a shadow at dusk."
He closed the curtain. When he turned around, the shadow was gone—vanished as if never there.
David wasn't surprised. Only another, thinner smile appeared—colder than before.
"The game begins."