A cold wind slipped through the half-open window of the room, gently stirring the white curtains. The sharp scent of disinfectant lingered in the air, filling the heavy silence of the space.
Arthur slowly opened his eyes, weighed down by fatigue. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, falling across his face, making the world appear blurred and muddled at first. A vague sense of exhaustion washed over his body, but after a few moments, his vision cleared.
In the chair beside the bed sat Professor Charles. His calm and dignified figure, bathed in the golden sunlight, seemed almost sacred. He held a thick, leather-bound book in his hands, and the soft rustle of turning pages was the only sound.
When he saw Arthur's eyes open, a faint smile crossed the professor's lips. He gently closed the book and tilted his head slightly to the left.
"I've never really been good at talking to patients… I'm not sure what to say."
Arthur, with a faint smile of his own, chuckled softly at the remark. The professor laughed too, though there was a subtle sadness hidden in his smile.
In a softer tone, like a voice echoing from afar, the professor said:
"I heard you've contracted the Crimson Death... I'm truly sorry, Arthur."
Arthur struggled to lift himself from the bed, adjusting the pillow behind him as he sat upright. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but his voice was quiet and resolute:
"There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Professor. I just have to accept the truth and try to get better."
Professor Charles nodded.
"I'm glad you understand. Instead of complaining, you've accepted reality. That's a sign of true growth. Most people just look for someone to blame — not a solution."
Arthur glanced toward the window. The cold breeze sneaking in through the crack stirred the hair on his forehead.
"In the end, I had to do it. Better to accept it from the start… than to get stuck in place."
Professor Charles gently took Arthur's cold hands in his own warm ones.
"Arthur… we — I and all your friends — will walk this path with you. We won't let you suffer alone. We'll do everything we can."
Arthur looked deep into the professor's eyes.
"I know I can trust you. I hope I can repay you one day."
The professor laughed, as if he could already see a bright future ahead for his student.
"You've got plenty of time. You're going to do amazing things. A disease can't take your future away."
Arthur looked out the window. The sky was gray, and the clouds drifted slowly.
"It's hard to say what truly lies ahead. Crimson Death still has no cure. Most people who catch it… die. Only a few have survived…"
The professor cut him off sharply.
"Don't say that! I know you'll get better. You just have to keep fighting — don't give up."
Arthur didn't reply, just nodded. A brief silence passed between them. The professor stood, straightening his long brown coat and brushing a hand through his gray hair.
"Well, I should go. I just came to see how you were doing."
"Thank you for coming, Professor. Really… thank you."
"Don't mention it. I'll definitely visit again."
They paused for a moment. The glance they exchanged spoke more than any words could.
The professor said,
"Well then… goodbye."
As Professor Charles walked toward the door, Arthur spoke softly,
"Can I ask you something?"
The professor turned back,
"Of course."
Arthur looked straight into his eyes.
— "You knew I'd catch this disease, didn't you?"
The teacher replied calmly, without surprise.
— "Only a hunch."
Arthur scoffed.
— "Don't lie… You knew. And you could've done something. But you just watched. A spectator of the play you wrote yourself."
The teacher turned away, silent.
— "What did you expect would happen?"
With his back still turned, the teacher answered:
— "I just wanted to see what would unfold."
And then he left.
Arthur stared into a distant, invisible point on the horizon.
(Thought) *"Regret doesn't fix anything. Blaming others won't help. I need to understand where I stand... and get stronger."*
(Murmuring) "These past few months... have I even achieved anything?"
(Thinking) *"I've got one elite skill, a unique one. I know the four elemental magics at an average level. Swordsmanship, martial arts... maybe rank B at best. Last I checked, my mana power was around 8,000... what about now?"*
He activated his skill: *Truth Sight.*
— "Seventy-six thousand? In just five months?"
He looked down at his own hands.
— "That's too much for a kid's body... no wonder I'm falling apart. If this keeps up, I might become bedridden."
(Muttering) "How the hell can I get stronger?"
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind:
— "Notice! You can now use your unique skill 'Truth Sight' to copy the abilities of people you know well."
Arthur was stunned.
— "Who are you?"
— "I am the spirit of the 'Truth Sight' skill. I help you understand your abilities."
— "Why haven't you said anything until now?"
— "Because there was no need. But now\... the time has come."
— "I thought I already understood this ability… lie detection, reading target data, memory copying… is there more I don't know?"
A deep, eerie voice resonated through his mind, each word sending a shiver through his bones:
— "Notice! You can now copy the abilities of those you know well."
Arthur froze. His mind instinctively drifted back to when he first tried to use this power.
(Whispers) *"Right... I tried it on Anos and Julius before, but it didn't work. I thought I knew them best…"*
The familiar voice replied, more assertive now:
— "Back then, your understanding of them wasn't deep enough. But now, you qualify. You can copy their skills."
Arthur's eyes widened. His mind raced, processing this sudden surge of information. A flicker of hope sparked within.
— "Really? I can take their skills now? But... if I have to spend five months getting to know each person, it's kind of useless. That takes way too long to be worth it."
The voice responded in a calm, almost teacher-like tone:
— "Notice! The essence of 'Truth Sight' is to reveal the truths of the world, not merely to copy skills. But if your understanding of someone is complete, copying is possible. Divine or godly skills cannot be copied — their nature is too transcendent. And unique abilities can only be copied if they align with your soul's structure. Otherwise, it won't work."
Arthur placed a hand over his chest. His heart was racing. He finally understood the full weight of one of his most powerful abilities.
— "I see… so right now, I can only copy Julius and Anos's skills?"
— "Correct."
— "So I need to find them and use Truth Sight on them?"
— "Notice! The abilities of the mentioned individuals have already been assessed."
Arthur was speechless. It felt like he'd missed something crucial.
— "How? I don't remember doing that!"
— "I did. Using the 'Magic Sense' skill, which grants you a 360-degree view with a range of at least 30 kilometers, paired with 'Truth Sight', I evaluated everyone within range. If you know them well enough, you can copy their skills."
Arthur suddenly felt a heavy weight inside. Realizing the true extent of his abilities brought with it a strange and terrifying responsibility.
— "I didn't think it was this OP… Wait! So I can see and evaluate everyone within 30 kilometers? I can even identify suspicious individuals near me, right?"
— "Correct. But warning! You are not yet a fully evolved being. Receiving this volume of information could cause you to fall into a coma or suffer severe mental damage. It is strongly advised not to use this function until you are fully ready!"
Arthur let out a heavy breath, half in fear, half in understanding.
— "Alright... I won't use it yet. Can you tell me what skills I've copied?"
The voice answered immediately:
— "Basic skill 'Explosive Energy Control': allows you to adjust the intensity of mana explosions, significantly reducing mana consumption for large-scale blasts.
Second skill, 'Reinforcement Shield': generates transparent, invisible barriers that absorb physical damage. However, it has no effect against mental or spiritual attacks."
Arthur smiled with admiration.
— "Wow… these are actually really useful."
He paused for a moment, then spoke softly:
— "They're practical… Can I talk to you whenever I want?"
The voice hesitated, then replied, gently but firmly:
— "No. I only activate under specific circumstances. This time, I spoke to you because you were unaware of your potential. From now on, I will only appear in moments of emergency."
— "Why? Why can't I just talk to you and ask for advice?"
— "Because I'm not a support skill. Like any unique skill, I have a will. A personality. I choose when to speak. Only when it's truly necessary."
Arthur whispered, warmly and quietly:
— "Alright… thank you. You've helped me a lot."
And the voice… faded away.
Arthur stood in silence for a moment, then whispered to himself:
— "Just knowing what I can do now… that's already a big step forward."
---
At that very moment, in the academy's grand hall, two boys in formal uniforms walked side by side — Julius and Anos.
Julius, looking bored, asked:
— "So with classes canceled for a few days, what should we do?"
Anos smiled cryptically.
— "How about we go out for a day?"
Julius looked surprised.
— "Go out?"
Anos extended his hand slowly, as if painting a vision in Julius's mind:
— "Yeah. Classes are on hold — it's the perfect time to relax. We all need it. Especially Arthur. He's going through a lot right now."
Julius paused, then nodded.
— "That's a good idea… Got a place in mind?"
Anos smirked.
— "You're underestimating me? Of course I do. Outside the capital, there's a meadow filled with wildflowers. It's a special place… I went there once with my mother, before I lost her."
For a fleeting moment, sadness clouded Julius's eyes, but he said nothing.
Meanwhile, in a corner of the hall, a muscular boy with golden hair stood quietly — William. His gaze locked onto Julius, filled with silent hatred.
Julius met his eyes briefly but walked past without flinching, without even blinking. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor, his casual conversation with Anos hitting William like a slap in the face.
But William didn't move — didn't speak.
He simply clenched his fists behind his back, and inside his mind… a fire began to burn.
**(William's Inner Monologue):**
"It's been a month...
A month since that cursed day.
The day he utterly humiliated me in front of everyone.
Everyone thinks I just want revenge — and honestly, they're not wrong.
But they *are* mistaken.
I'm not just some fool blinded by bloodlust...
I want proof. A comeback.
Not just to where I was — but beyond it.
To a place even Julius could never *dream* of reaching."
(His eyes narrow, as if trying to push away intrusive thoughts)
"But more than anything...
That damn smile of his,
That calmness,
That confidence — like the world was built to serve *him* —
It drives me mad.
How can someone from such a lowly background
Hold himself so high?"
(His gaze lingers on Anos, walking beside Julius, laughing)
"That kid... Anos...
He's from a noble family, like me.
Same blood runs through him.
But he's close with someone like Julius.
Not for power. Not for appearances.
Why then?
'Friendship'?
Damn it…
Does real friendship even exist?
All my so-called friends were only there while my family held power.
If it's all taken from me tomorrow,
Not a single one would stick around.
But Anos…
He finds joy even among commoners.
I *should* hate him...
But why… why deep down in my heart…
Do I envy him?"
(William takes a deep breath. His lips tremble. And for the first time in a long while, doubt—like a bitter poison—flows through his veins.)
"My father always says:
'Stay noble. Don't mix with the lowborn. Don't taint your blood.'
But that voice... that small voice... from a dark corner of my mind...
It whispers that maybe he's wrong.
Maybe being 'worthy' has nothing to do with blood or rank.
No… I mustn't think this way.
I *mustn't*.
We were better. We've *always* been better...
Haven't we?"
(William freezes. As if time itself had stopped. Only him… and the silent battle within his mind.)
---
Professor Charles exited the infirmary, hands clasped behind his back, walking slowly toward his office. His face looked tired — not with bodily fatigue, but with the weight of heavy thoughts clouding his mind.
At that moment, Sophia came rushing through the corridor and bumped into him, not noticing where she was going. Her belongings scattered across the floor.
Flustered and slightly embarrassed, Sophia said, "I'm so sorry, Professor! I wasn't paying attention!"
Professor Charles offered a calm, kind smile. Even in such troubling times, that smile never seemed to fade. As he knelt to help her, he replied, "It's alright, Sophia. I was distracted too. Let me help."
A short silence followed as they gathered her things. Then, with that same soft smile, he asked, "You seemed to be looking for someone. Headed somewhere?"
Sophia averted her gaze for a moment, then replied softly, "Actually... yes, I wanted to talk to you."
The professor nodded. "That's good. Let's go to my office. We can talk more comfortably there."
They both entered. The office had a warm, welcoming atmosphere. The scent of aged wood from the shelves blended with the subtle aroma of ink and paper. Professor Charles motioned to a chair. "Please, have a seat."
Sophia hesitated slightly, then sat down. She clasped her hands together, took a deep breath, and said, "Professor… I wanted to talk about the events from the past few days. I don't know why, but… I'm really worried."
The professor paused for a moment, then sat across from her. "I understand completely. I feel the same. These past few days... it's like the capital itself is cracking from within."
Sophia slowly nodded. "Do you have any idea who's behind these attacks? The ones killing people and then… crucifying them like that?"
His face grew more serious. "No group has officially claimed responsibility yet, but there's mounting evidence pointing toward demonic cults. Though… it's always possible that's just a smokescreen."
He continued, his tone thoughtful and calm, "In just 24 hours, over five hundred people were murdered. Not just civilians — judges, priests, teachers... even children. That tells us this isn't just blind rage. It's deliberate. Carefully planned."
Sophia leaned in, more engaged now. "But… what's their goal? Why do this?"
The professor leaned back slightly, closed his eyes for a moment, then said softly, "If their goal was to spread fear, they've succeeded. But I don't think that's all. Maybe they're trying to destabilize the kingdom. Or maybe... perform certain rituals. Anything's possible."
Sophia paused, then said: "But… the king hasn't made any official statement yet."
The professor nodded. "So far, only the security measures have tightened. But... if what I suspect is true — that these cults have infiltrated the government — then the king's hands may be tied. Maybe even his closest advisors aren't trustworthy."
Sophia listened intently. Her expression now serious. The professor smiled faintly and asked: "You're a sharp one, Sophia. That's why I'd like to ask… have you heard anything about Arthur?"
Sophia took a deep breath. "Yes, professor… I know he's not well. He's withdrawn. Cold. I don't know why... but he's not like before."
The professor's eyes darkened slightly. "That boy has great potential. From the first day I met him, I knew his future was unique. But now… all we can do is stay close. Let him know he's not alone."
Sophia gave a small smile. "I won't let him be alone. I promise."
The professor nodded with satisfaction. "That means more than any spell or magic in this world."
Sophia stood. "Thank you, Professor… for your time. It really helped."
He smiled again. "If you ever feel the need to talk, don't hesitate. My door is always open."
She nodded respectfully and left the room.
Professor Charles stood silently for a few minutes, then turned to his desk and resumed reading. Hours passed...
---
By the end of the night, a sickly silence engulfed the room. Professor Charles sat behind his desk. The only sound was the quiet scraping of a scalpel sharpening a drafting pencil. The shavings dropped to the floor like decaying fragments of memories no one else would ever understand.
Once the pencil reached the perfect point, he pulled on a pair of thin white gloves and laid out a leather-bound sketchpad. His eyes half-open, yet his mind razor-sharp, reconstructing a scene he had replayed countless times before.
The pencil glided over the page like a scalpel slicing flesh.
Gradually, the lines formed a corpse. A lifeless body, riddled with deep wounds: a sword through the side, a spear through the shoulder, iron nails driven into both eyes. But this was no ordinary drawing — Charles *felt* it. He *heard* it. Even *saw* it — the silent cries escaping the corpse's closed mouth.
The strangest part, however, were the hands. Despite the mutilated body, its fingers stretched upward — toward a flickering, dim light from beyond the page.
To Charles, the light was more than light. It was the embodiment of an old longing. A desperate plea from within utter darkness. The corpse, with all its brutal suffering, *still wanted something*… help? Release? Or maybe… forgiveness.
He paused. Set the pencil down. Stared at the sketch. Then whispered under his breath, his voice low and steady:
"Light always arrives too late."
His smile was cold — the kind that may have first appeared years ago, when he learned how to give pain a shape. He didn't just *draw* death — he *understood* it. That was what set him apart.
He reached for his wine. The dark red shimmered in the candlelight. He took a slow sip and laid the scalpel beside the sketch.
His eyes remained locked on the unfinished drawing.
A girl's corpse, in academy uniform, lay on the ground. A sword pierced her side. A spear emerged from the back of her neck. Iron nails driven into her eyes like a merciless crucifixion.
Yet her hands, in defiance of her broken body, reached toward the light above — as if still, despite the agony, she pleaded for salvation.
A faint, chilling smile touched Charles' lips.
"Elizabeth…" he whispered softly.
A girl who truly existed. One of his own students. Arrogant, proud, and the daughter of a noble family. She had mocked other students in class many times—not out of ignorance, but with pleasure. With power. Just like others had once treated young Charles—with scorn, with laughter, with worthlessness.
As he stared at the sketch, he spoke inwardly:
*"They never understand how those little humiliations rot inside a child. Fester. Devour. Grow."*
Now, this piece was no mere drawing. No, it was a prelude. A rehearsal for justice.
Charles sighed, leaned back, and took a sip of his red wine. As if he'd found a peace that had long eluded him. In that moment, he felt that justice could be born from darkness—not through law, but through art and blood.
In the dim room, Charles listened to the wind howling through the dry branches. He brushed his fingers across his lips, tilted his head slightly, and whispered:
"In the forest, there's only one law… the strong devour the weak."
His eyes glinted. His voice, though soft, echoed with a chilling certainty.
"That's not nature's law. That's the pure law of life. No one can escape it. Not in the academy, not in the city, not in our minds."
He paused. Lifted his wine glass. Stared into its crimson hue, as if it were blood.
"And me… I am strong. Because I understand. Because I see. And them? They only breathe… nothing more."
He drank. The taste was bitter, just like his memories.
"When I kill, I feel in control… I feel alive. I feel like I am the god of this forest. And that… gives me peace."