Kael Veilheart didn't cry anymore.
He used to.
Quietly, behind locked doors. In the darkness of his old room. He used to muffle his grief into his pillows, let the pain leak out in waves as he clutched the memories of his parents. But now? The tears were gone. Dried up. Replaced by a silence so thick it almost felt alive.
Most people assumed time healed all wounds.
Kael had learned the truth: time didn't heal. It buried. It layered grief under so many distractions, schedules, expectations, that you forgot it was there—until something cracked the surface. And then it all came bleeding out again, worse than before.
And lately, Kael was cracking. Fast.
Since the visions began, nothing in his life felt real anymore.
He woke up in the same bed, same room, same luxury mansion that echoed with his parents' absence. But the walls felt thinner now. Like reality was wearing out, thread by thread. Shadows moved when they shouldn't. He heard footsteps in the hall when no one was home. The lights flickered when he walked past.
At first, he thought it was paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep.
But then came the voices.
Soft. Almost melodic.
It started when he was brushing his teeth. Just a faint sound behind the buzz of the electric toothbrush, so subtle he almost missed it.
"He's waking up."
He froze mid-brush. Foam slipped from his lips into the sink. His eyes flicked to the mirror.
Nothing there. Just him. Tired. Pale. Eyes ringed with sleeplessness.
He rinsed, spit, and forced himself to laugh. You're losing it.
But the next day, it happened again.
This time in the shower. As the water ran over his face, he heard it—clearer.
"The pact remembers you."
He turned off the faucet. Silence.
His phone buzzed from the sink, a text from Mace checking in on him.
Kael ignored it.
He didn't want to talk to anyone. Not even the crew. He didn't know how to explain what was happening. Didn't know how to say, "I think I'm hearing voices, but they feel more real than anything else."
Instead, he stayed in the house. All day. Every day.
He stopped answering emails from his internship. They were understanding at first. Then not so much. Eventually, they stopped emailing.
Kael stopped eating full meals. He'd grab a slice of toast or some instant ramen and call it enough. His sleep became erratic. He fell asleep at sunrise, woke up in the afternoon, but never felt rested.
He started recording the whispers on his phone.
None of them ever picked up.
The voice didn't want to be heard by others. Only him.
And then came the dreams.
They weren't dreams in the traditional sense. They were visits.
Each one dropped him into that same realm—the crimson fog curling through the air like dying breath, the sky shredded open like a wound, the land scorched black and littered with bones.
And in the center of it all: the Blade.
Tall. Ancient. Covered in runes he didn't understand but felt burning into his soul.
Every time he returned, the chains were looser. The whispers louder.
The first few times, he could still pull away. Wake up gasping. Cold sweat. Shaking.
But the fourth dream was different.
It didn't start in the otherworld.
It started in his own bed.
It was late—maybe 3 a.m. The house was silent. Kael was asleep on top of the covers, still dressed from earlier, curled in on himself like a broken thing.
And then he heard it.
Right in his ear.
"Kael."
His eyes snapped open.
The room was dark, but not normal dark.
It was wet darkness. Liquid. Smothering.
He tried to move—but his body wouldn't listen.
Then the ceiling tore open, and the sky above revealed the Underrealm. Just like before.
Only this time, the Blade wasn't in the distance.
It was in his room.
Right there. Standing between his desk and the closet, chains still clinging to it, but now twitching like the tail of a predator.
Kael stared at it, heart pounding, throat tight.
The shadows around the blade thickened, and from within them, something stepped forward.
Not a monster. Not a demon.
A man.
Or something shaped like one.
His face was covered by a mask of bone, carved with symbols that glowed faint red. His clothes looked like they were made of torn velvet and war. And his hands—his hands were bare. Burned. Covered in rings made of teeth.
"Do you know who I am?" the figure asked.
Kael couldn't answer. Couldn't speak.
The man stepped closer.
"I am Zeyrox. The Betrayed. The first to bleed the world dry."
The name.
The same one from the dream. The one that left scars in Kael's mind.
Zeyrox.
The Sovereign of Shadows. The one they chained. The one they erased.
"You carry my echo, boy," Zeyrox whispered. "You carry my grief."
Kael's mouth moved. "I don't want this."
"That's not your choice."
The Blade pulsed.
Kael could feel its heat against his skin now. Could feel the pull. Like gravity. Like instinct.
"This world cast me out. Bound me beneath ash and lies. But the pact… it remembers. You are not a mistake. You are the last key. The heir. The vessel."
"I'm nothing," Kael whispered. "I'm just a gamer. I'm no one."
Zeyrox tilted his head.
"Even nobodies can become gods, Kael Veilheart. If they bleed enough."
The world exploded in fire.
Kael sat bolt upright in bed, gasping, covered in sweat.
His phone buzzed again. A message from Rin.
[Rin]: You okay? You've been ghosting us. Again.
Kael stared at the screen.
His hand was shaking.
Because on his desk—
Right where the blade stood in the dream—
Lay a single black feather.
Cold to the touch.
Real.