A dull ache pulsed at the base of his skull as he slowly opened his eyes. Cold white light flooded his vision, forcing him to squint.
The ceiling above him was sterile, white, and unremarkable. He sat up, his joints stiff, and looked around.
He was in a small, spotless room. The walls were bare, bleached of any color or warmth. No windows. No decorations. Just the narrow bed beneath him, covered in crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of antiseptic.
'Where... where am I? What is this place?'
He clutched his head, trying to piece together how he ended up here. But everything was foggy. Like a broken film reel playing random, disconnected images in his mind.
He winced as fragments of memory flashed before him, his father's twisted face contorted in rage, a blinding white light, then... nothing.
Just nothing.
And yet, through the confusion, one thought rang clear and sharp in his mind.
'Wherever this is... it doesn't matter. I need to get out. I still have work to do.'
Driven by instinct, he threw off the sheets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold tile floor with a soft thud. He stood up quickly, ignoring the way his knees trembled, and made a beeline for the door.
But before his fingers could touch the handle, the door flung open.
Standing in the doorway was a man he had never seen before. Tall, rigid, and dressed in a stark black-and-white military uniform. His white gloves were pristine, contrasting with the polished black boots that thudded softly against the ground. A long cape, deep blue with silver clasps, hung from his shoulders, billowing slightly as if caught by a draft.
Mal's breath caught in his throat.
"...Who are you?"
The man didn't answer. He simply stared at him, eyes sharp, unreadable, his posture coldly composed.
Then, he spoke.
"Is your name, Malek?"
The question hit him like a slap. Mal instinctively took a step back, his mind racing.
"Yeah? And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Instead of answering, the man stepped inside the room and, without warning, slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed like a gunshot, causing Mal to flinch.
The man walked past him without a glance and sat down on the bed like he owned the place.
"You really don't know, do you?" the man said quietly, almost to himself.
Mal turned to face him, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
"That's why I'm asking," he snapped. "Where the hell am I? What is this place? And who are you?"
The man laced his fingers together and stared at the floor, as if contemplating whether or not Mal even deserved an answer.
"Do you even know what you did?"
His brows furrowed because of confusion. The weight of the question hit him harder than any punch.
He didn't answer. Not because he was hiding something, but because... he didn't know. His memory was a shattered mirror, every piece sharp but unclear.
"I don't know," he finally muttered. "That's the problem. I don't remember anything."
The man looked up at him then, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Judgment? Pity? Amusement?
"Then we've got a long way to go."
Mal's fists clenched as he tried to make sense of the man's words.
"My name is Seradin Vahl," he introduced himself. "Captain of the Magic Knights, Third Order, assigned by the Slain Principality to oversee arcane breaches. We detected a strong mana rupture at Aeros City."
The silence thickened between them, but Seradin didn't seem impatient. He simply watched. Unmoving. Assessing.
Mal took a shaky breath.
"What? I don't think that has anything to do with me."
Seradin slowly rose from the bed. His movements were deliberate, disciplined. He carried himself like a soldier, precise and unshaken. His cape fluttered slightly as he stepped forward, the emblem stitched onto his uniform catching the light, a silver sigil, shaped like a burning sword surrounded by seven stars.
"You were found at the center of a blast zone. The damage stretched for miles. The entire Aeros City was destroyed. That explosion killed hundreds of people"
Mal's blood ran cold.
Seradin continued, unaffected. "There were no signs of conventional weapons. No magical signatures matching any known runes. No survivors." His eyes narrowed. "Except for you."
Mal stared at him, heart pounding. "I don't remember anything."
"That's not surprising."
He turned his back to Mal, walking toward the far wall. A sigil on his glove shimmered faintly, and a display of translucent symbols flickered into view, holographic threads of text, arcane runes, and something that looked like a heat map.
"Memory fragmentation is common with raw exposure," Seradin said. "Still. That doesn't absolve you."
"You think I did this? That I caused all of that destruction?"
"I don't think," Seradin replied. "I report what I find. And what I found was a crater the size of a city district with your body at the epicenter. No burns, but your face was almost unrecognizable. Probably because someone beat you, and that may have triggered something within you."
"I didn't ask for this," Mal snapped, anger flaring in his chest. "Whatever happened, whatever I did, I didn't choose it."
"That won't matter to the Council."
Mal's voice caught in his throat.
"Council?"
"The Arcane Tribunal will determine your classification. Until then, you are to be transferred to Bastion Citadel for containment and observation."
The word hit like a slap on his face.
"Like a prisoner."
"You're not under arrest." Seradin's voice was calm. "But you're not free, either."
Mal took a step back. "What do you want from me?"
Seradin didn't answer right away. He folded his hands behind his back, posture as sharp as a blade.
"I want you to survive what's coming."
That caught Mal off guard.
"You should."
"I just want to go home. I still have work to do."
"You have no home to return to, Malek. But don't be nervous. My only job here is to ensure you get to the Slain Principality alive. That's it."
Mal looked at him closely now, trying to read something, behind the polished armor and cool expression.
"Why do I feel like you're not telling me everything?"
"I'm not," Seradin said without hesitation.
Mal blinked.
"You wouldn't understand it. Not yet."
Another beat of silence passed between them. Then Seradin tapped his ear, and a crackle of static buzzed to life.
"Team Six, extraction confirmed. Target conscious. Preparing transport."
He looked back at Mal. "You'll be escorted in standard Class III suppression protocol. Don't resist, and you'll remain unharmed."
Mal's stomach dropped. "What if I refuse?"
"You won't."
Seradin's tone wasn't threatening, it was absolute. As if he already knew Mal would comply.
And the truth was, Mal didn't have a choice. Not really. Whatever was waiting for him beyond this room might be worse than being contained... but here, he had no answers.
Just fragments. Flashes of light and violence. The sound of his father's voice yelling. The way the world had twisted around him.
"And if I go with you?"
Seradin looked at him steadily.
"Then you might live long enough to remember what you've done."
A heavy knock echoed at the door. Two figures entered, also armored, faces hidden behind helmed visors. They moved with practiced efficiency, stepping into flanking positions around Mal.
He didn't resist. He couldn't. His body felt heavy, like his own limbs no longer trusted him.
As the guards led him down the hallway, Seradin followed in silence. No words. No explanations. Just the low hum of magic-suppression runes etched into the corridor walls.
And as they turned the corner, Mal caught one last glimpse of the room behind him. A fitting place to wake up after destroying everything.
The corridor narrowed as they descended deeper beneath the facility. The walls changed from polished stone to a strange, dark alloy etched with runes that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath skin.
Eventually, they stopped in front of a sealed transport chamber.
Seradin stepped forward and touched a control rune. The chamber's door slowly open, revealing a metallic pod lined with glowing restraints.
'Is that... magic?'
The guards didn't push him. Seradin didn't speak.
He stepped inside on his own.
As the restraints clicked into place around his wrists and ankles, a low vibration began to hum beneath the floor.
Then something flickered in the corner of Mal's vision.
A shadow.
'What the hell is that? Is that one of their team or it's just my imagination?'
A shriek, too low for human ears, rippled through the chamber, and the runes lining the hallway blinked out one by one.
The lights failed.
Then Seradin whispered, almost too quietly to hear:
"Sh*t… they are here."