Kael wandered the castle's outer corridors, each step heavy with the echo of a truth he hadn't chosen. The golden glow of the summoning hall had long faded behind him, and in its place, shadows curled like smoke around his boots. He didn't know where he was going—only that he couldn't stay where he had been forgotten.
He had died. That much he knew. But death had recoiled from him.
As he passed a tall, cracked mirror, his reflection flickered. Not just from the dim torchlight—but as if reality itself struggled to acknowledge him. For a heartbeat, his eyes were not his own. Deep within, something ancient looked back.
"Protocol Thanatós…" he muttered. "What the hell are you?"
But the silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full—buzzing with a static he felt more than heard. And then, a voice answered.
"You are not a hero. You are a correction."
Kael spun, but no one stood behind him. The corridor remained empty, save for the air that felt suddenly heavier, charged. He clutched his chest, expecting pain. Instead, he felt... cold clarity. His heartbeat was steady. Too steady.
Below the castle, hidden from the light of the ritual, a forbidden archive lay buried beneath centuries of rubble and silence. And somehow, Kael's feet found the path.
The air grew colder with each step. The torches failed to light, but Kael saw. Not with his eyes—but with the awareness of something else.
Stone doors loomed ahead, engraved with runes too old for language. And there, carved in the center, was a symbol that pulsed with a faint, silver glow.
A black rose.
The moment his fingers brushed it, the doors creaked open.
And inside…
Rows upon rows of glass caskets.
Each holding a figure suspended in sleep. Warriors. Kings. Monsters. All forgotten by time.
And in the center, a pedestal.
Resting atop it was a black book bound in leather and bone.
Kael didn't know what he was becoming.
But something inside him whispered with hunger.
You are the gardener now.
And these… are your seeds.