Yamin left his room and began walking toward the academy library. His body still ached slightly from the beating this morning, even though the healer had completely cured his wounds. She had advised him to rest for a while, but Yamin was now desperate to find the truth. For some unknown reason, his heart was racing. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he kept muttering to himself, trying to make sense of his thoughts. Something just wasn't clicking, as if a vital piece of a puzzle had completely gone missing.
Suddenly, a voice called out to him from behind. Someone was trying to get his attention, but Yamin did not bother to look back. His eyes were locked onto the library ahead, turning back now would only waste precious time. Ignoring the calls behind him, he quickened his pace.
As he stepped into the library, his eyes fell upon a girl sitting at a front table under the dim glow of a candle. She wore glasses that rested on the tip of her nose, and her curly hair fell softly across her face. Two or three open books lay scattered before her. The scratching sound of her pen echoed softly through the dead silence of the room. At the sudden intrusion of Yamin, the scratching noise abruptly stopped. The girl looked up and stared at Yamin for a moment. Without waiting for her to question his presence, Yamin spoke up first, asking where he could find the books on the Great War and the history of Hero Siyam.
Holding the pen in her hand, the girl simply pointed toward a specific direction. Yamin turned and walked away. The girl narrowed her eyes, watching him over her shoulder for a brief moment before turning back to her work.
Yamin continued to pull books from the shelves, one after another. In a corner of the library, he lit a small lamp and dumped seven or eight books onto the table with a heavy thud. Dust danced in the air before settling on the surface as he pulled up a chair.
The library, now cloaked in the darkness of night, held only the faint glow of his lamp, the sound of his heavy breathing, and the rhythmic flipping of pages. From somewhere in the distance, the soft scratching of a pen still echoed, the girl was still writing. Yamin closed his eyes, isolating himself from the sound for a moment, before diving back into the pages.
"What?" he whispered to himself. "There is no mention of that sword anywhere."
His eyes were glued to the text. "I didn't see it wrong. My father's sword... the carvings, the statue in front of the school, none of them match what I saw."
He kept swapping books, searching through every piece of history he knew, yet it felt like being trapped in a labyrinth. The more he searched, the more complex it became.
As dawn broke, colors from the mosaic windows flooded the room, transforming the dark cave-like library into a grand, sunlit hall. Yamin had fallen asleep amidst the mountain of books. Drool had escaped his mouth, staining the table, as he muttered in his sleep, "Everything is a lie... all of it..."
Arham and Rayan stood behind him, exchanging confused glances, debating who should wake him.
Arham rested his chin on his hand, whispering, "So, our hero rushed here last night just to sleep on a pile of books?"
Rayan scanned the table. "These are all history books." He looked at Arham, adding, "Don't you think it's strange? He came here to study, but he ended up like this."
"Only one way to find out," Arham said. He reached out and shook Yamin's shoulder.
Startled, Yamin opened his eyes, blinked, and sat up. He wiped the drool from his cheek, looking sleepily at the two boys. He flashed a tired smile and asked what time it was.
Arham sighed, "Classes start in ten minutes. You need to get ready, fast."
Yamin stood up, stretched his stiff limbs, and thanked them before heading toward his room. As he walked, still yawning and rubbing his sleepy eyes, he nearly collided with someone. He managed to dodge just in time, only to realize it was the same girl from the library the night before. She glanced at him, looking him up and down with an unreadable expression, then walked past him without a word.
"What a strange girl," Yamin muttered, scratching his head. "She didn't even let me apologize."
Without wasting another second, Yamin ran toward his room to get ready.
Barely managing to clean himself up, Yamin rushed into the classroom while adjusting his uniform. As his eyes scanned the room, Arham raised his hand, signaling him over. Yamin quickly slid into the seat beside them just as Sir Mahim walked through the door and commenced the lecture.
"Today's second class will focus on how our blessings function," the teacher announced, instructing everyone to open their textbooks as he began his explanation.
Yamin looked down at his book. The fingertips of his right hand still bore faint, faded scars of being severely burned. No, this hadn't happened because of his lightning affinity. It was the remnant of something far more terrifying that had occurred three years ago.
Slowly, the surrounding chatter of the classroom began to fade, and the text before his eyes blurred into a distant memory.
**Yamin's Past — Age 7**
He had only just begun to harness the power of his blessing back then. His mother had been an immense help in teaching him control, while his father guided him through the training steps. Although Siyam was strict during training hours, he was soft-hearted at core.
Whenever Yamin unleashed even a fraction of too much power, Siyam would panic, acting as though the stray sparks might actually hurt him. His father's overly protective nature always amused Yamin.
Once training concluded, his mother, Humayra, called him for a meal. Yamin immediately ditched Siyam and ran straight into her arms.
Humayra laughed, hugging him tightly before whispering in his ear, "So, you use my call as an excuse to escape your father's training, huh?"
Caught red-handed by his mother's knowing smile, Yamin could never think of a proper excuse. Still, Humayra kissed his forehead and led him to the dining table.
One day at the table, Yamin brought up the basement. Humayra paused, placing food onto his plate. "I know you are incredibly curious about it, Yamin, but do not ever step foot into that basement. You have permission to go anywhere else, but do not disobey me on this one thing."
Curiosity is humanity's greatest flaw. It burns wildest when a boundary is set. Small Yamin was no exception, despite his mother's strict warning, he eventually sneaked into the basement.
To his disappointment, the dark room held almost nothing worth hiding. There was only a plain, completely ordinary sword mounted on the wall. Yamin's confusion deepened. His mother had forbidden him from coming here just for a normal sword? Perhaps she was simply worried he might cut himself.
Dismissing any further hesitation, Yamin reached his hand out toward the blade.
Outside, Humayra had just finished hanging the laundry to dry when she noticed Yamin was missing. Searching the house, her eyes fell upon the open basement door. Without wasting a single second, she dashed down the stairs.
Her eyes widened in pure horror. Tears welled up instantly, and she let out a piercing, desperate shriek.
"YAMIN!"
Everything faded into absolute darkness.
Now, all Yamin could hear was the sound of someone weeping, sniffing repeatedly. But who was it? Who was crying out his name over and over? This voice... it was so familiar. It was his mother's voice. Why was she crying for him?
Yamin could see nothing but a void. He didn't understand why everything remained pitch black despite his eyes being open. Why were the sounds growing so faint, fading away from his ears? He tried to tell his mother to stop crying, yet no sound escaped his throat. His entire body felt so numb that he couldn't even tell if he was still alive.
Gradually, it felt as though someone was violently shaking his body. The world before him shifted into a faint glow, blurry lines sharpening into clear, solid shapes. With a final, sudden jolt, Yamin snapped awake, gasping for air as he frantically scanned his surroundings.
Arham was nudging him, gesturing with a questioning look that asked, "What's wrong with you?"
Looking around, Yamin finally realized he was back in the classroom. Sir Mahim's lecture had already ended. He had been so entirely consumed by his thoughts that the boundary between reality and memory had worn dangerously thin.
Wiping his eyes with two fingers, Yamin let out a low groan to signal he was fine.
"Where's Rayan?" Yamin asked, his voice still heavy.
Arham looked at the empty seat beside him. "He said he was going to the restroom, but..."
Neither of them needed an explanation for the delay. Standing up abruptly, Arham and Yamin bolted out of the classroom. As they burst into the restroom, their suspicions were confirmed, Nabil was bullying Rayan yet again. Sensing their arrival, Nabil turned around, offering a smug, mocking smirk. Without uttering a word, he brushed past them and walked away.
The moment Nabil left, they rushed forward to lift Rayan, who was soaked through, trembling on the wet floor. As Arham helped Rayan up, he noticed the dark aura radiating from Yamin. Realizing Yamin was dangerously close to losing his temper, Arham placed a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. Leaving the tense air behind, they guided Rayan toward the infirmary.
Standing outside the infirmary doors, Yamin stared down at the faded burn scars on his right hand, a bitter smile touching his lips.
"You told me, Mother... you said that many things here would be hidden, and I'd have to figure them out on my own. But the more I see of this place, the more it feels like an illusion."
Before long, Rayan and Arham emerged from the room. Together, the trio silently made their way back to class. Arham was at a complete loss, Rayan was thoroughly traumatized, drowning in anxiety, and Yamin looked like he was bearing the weight of the universe.
Sighing heavily at his own luck, Arham muttered under his breath, "What a bizarre bunch of friends I've managed to pick for school."
As they stepped across the threshold of their next classroom, Yamin's eyes immediately fell upon a familiar sight, the girl with the curly hair from the previous night.
She looked at the three of them, her sharp gaze analyzing their disheveled state. "Where have you three been?"
It was the first time Yamin had ever heard her voice. What caught him off guard, however, was that she wasn't a student. She was their instructor. Yamin stared, utterly perplexed, because she looked barely eighteen. How could she possibly be a teacher?
Arham leaned in, his lips brushing Yamin's ear as he whispered,
"A lot of people here use magic to halt their aging, and some retain their youth permanently because of the nature of their blessings."
Sensing Yamin's lingering gaze, Arham didn't wait for a reaction before stepping forward to clear the air.
"Miss, our friend Rayan fell ill suddenly, so we had to escort him to the infirmary."
The girl didn't push further. Turning back toward the blackboard, she flatly commanded, "Take your seats."
As they settled into their desks, Arham immediately busied himself trying to cheer a morose Rayan up. The girl spun back around, facing the entire class.
"Let me introduce myself once more. My name is Emma, and I am your instructor for History and Blessing Theory," she announced, her chalk scraping against the board. "Our first chapter today will cover the Genesis of Blessings."
Yamin genuinely tried to focus on the lecture, but the more Miss Emma taught, the more a knot of irritation tightened in his chest. Arham noticed his stiff posture and poked him with a finger.
"What's up with you?"
"Nothing," Yamin replied, his voice a drop of ice. "It's just... coming here, I've realized it's not just the hierarchy that's twisted. Everything we are being taught is a fabricated script."
Arham blinked, completely lost by the cryptic response. He stared blankly at Yamin for a few seconds before giving up and turning his attention back to Miss Emma. Yamin clenched his fists tight, closed his eyes, and exhaled a long, shaky breath, letting the classroom fade away once more.
When Yamin opened his eyes in his memory, he found his mother and father sitting right in front of him. His mother's eyes were red and swollen from endless weeping; his father's face was a mask of utter despair.
"What... happened?" Yamin asked, his voice cracking.
Even speaking those two simple words required a monumental effort from his facial muscles. The sheer strain of asking a question left him breathless. Humayra, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, placed a trembling hand on his forehead, gently stroking his hair.
"It's all my fault, sweetheart. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have failed to stop you from going down there. It's all on me."
The moment Siyam placed a comforting hand on Humayra's shoulder, she broke down entirely, burying her face into his chest. Siyam held her, stroking her hair softly.
"There is no blame on you, Humayra. Don't do this to yourself. He's a boy, and it is only natural for a child to be curious."
Humayra sobbed, "But look at the price he paid for that curiosity! Look at his hand!"
"With a healer as legendary as you by his side, what real harm can come to him?" Siyam reasoned softly, a faint grin breaking his grim expression. "Have you forgotten what state I was in after the war with Sameer? Yet, here I stand before you, completely whole."
Hearing his parents desperate words and muffled cries, Yamin found himself completely paralyzed, unable to move a muscle or utter a single reassurance. A solitary tear leaked from the corner of his eye, rolling silently down his cheek.
Three to four days passed before Yamin truly began to recover. Yet, no matter how hard Humayra tried, the severe burns charting across his right hand defied her healing arts entirely.
Later that afternoon, sitting quietly on a wooden chair, Yamin turned to his mother.
"It looked so completely ordinary... How did a simple sword do this to me?"
Humayra sighed, her hands glowing with a soft, warm light as she attempted to soothe the scarred flesh once more.
"Because that is the only weapon in existence capable of slaying Sameer. If it were just a common blade, Yamin, your father and I would never have forbidden you from going near it."
Yamin felt a sudden, warm drop plop against his skin. Looking up, he saw tears silently streaming down his mother's face again. Reaching up with his uninjured left hand, he gently wiped the moisture from her eyes.
"You played a monumental role in the Great War, didn't you, Mother? How did you survive a battlefield crying this much?"
A faint, tearful smile broke across Humayra's face at her son's teasing. Yamin looked back down at his mangled fingertips, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"You know, Mother... I barely even touched it. Honestly, my fingertips didn't even make physical contact with the metal. I was a fraction of an inch away, but I felt this invisible, terrifying force violently dragging me inward. It lasted maybe one, two seconds at most... and then I was blasted back so hard everything went black."
Realizing the cellular damage was locked, Humayra ceased her healing magic and began wrapping his hand carefully with fresh linen bandages.
"When the Creator forged Heaven and Hell, He created two swords to maintain the balance of reality," she explained, her voice steadying. "The Sword of Light, which anchored the divine power of Heaven, and the Dark Sword, which stabilized the raw abyss of Hell. The Creator decreed to the Angels of Heaven and the Demons of the Underworld that only their respective Kings possessed the authority to wield them. But there was a catch, the blades feed entirely on the wielder's life force. As long as their lifespans endure, they can wield them. But the moment their life force is drained to zero, they dissolve, merging entirely back into the fabric of creation, ceasing to exist."
She tied the knot on his bandage. "The crisis began when Negate was born. Before that anomaly emerged, there was never a reason to unsheathe those weapons. But to seal Negate away, their power became absolute. Yet, a single blade wasn't enough to scratch him. That was the very first time the Demon King and the Angel King stood as allies. They bound the two swords together, creating the legendary *Dark-Light Sword*. With that combined force, Negate was successfully sealed.
But the strain completely devoured the life forces of both Kings, erasing them from existence."
Humayra paused, looking into Yamin's wide, absorbing eyes.
"But one day, the sealed Negate and the Dark-Light Sword vanished without a trace from the cosmic vault. Years later, your father stumbled upon that very blade... the same weapon he used to fight Sameer."
Yamin hung onto every single syllable, his jaw slack in absolute shock. Smiling softly, Humayra reached out, gently tapping his chin to close his mouth. It was clear this massive influx of ancient cosmic lore was far too much for a seven-year-old brain to digest. Rising from her seat, she began walking toward the hearth to prepare dinner.
"Remember this, Yamin," Humayra added, her voice echoing from the kitchen. "Some truths are better left buried in the dark. Sometimes, knowledge is nothing but a curse. The less you reveal about what you know, the safer you will remain."
Listening to his mother's parting advice, Yamin stared down at his bandaged hand.
Blinking the memory away, Yamin raised his eyes. The blackboard before him was completely covered in complex diagrams and text. He couldn't comprehend a single line of what was being taught; it all felt like a shallow, reconstructed lie. Glancing to his side, he saw Arham completely dozing off, while Rayan was meticulously taking down notes.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the class, and Arham snapped awake. He rubbed his eyes, looking around. "
Man, that class was so boring it literally put me to sleep."
Yamin was slightly shocked by Arham's bluntness. His eyes widened as he glanced back and forth between Arham and the teacher. Miss Emma was staring directly in their direction. For a second, Yamin couldn't tell who exactly she was looking at, and he worried she had overheard Arham's complaint. However, Emma simply gathered her books, announced that they would cover Blessing Theory the next day, and walked out of the room.
With the lecture over, the trio headed toward the cafeteria for lunch. As they walked, that same unsettling sensation washed over Yamin, the feeling of being watched. He had been sensing it since morning.
Suddenly, Arham chimed in, "Hey, you guys go ahead. I need to use the restroom real quick."
Without waiting for a response, he sprinted off. Yamin cast a brief glance backward before continuing toward the cafeteria with Rayan.
Meanwhile, Arham burst into the restroom and locked the door behind him. The moment the lock clicked, a subtle transformation took place,the color of his eyes shifted, losing their usual warmth.
Turning around slowly, Arham spoke into the empty room. "I explicitly told you not to linger around me while I am on duty. I will report it to my father when the time is right."
From the shadows near the corner, a figure clad entirely in black materialized, dropping instantly to one knee. "Forgive me, young master. I did not mean to anger you. However, your father strictly commanded me to monitor the academy's affairs and keep an eye on the Prince's condition."
Arham cracked his knuckles, cracking his neck slightly as his expression grew icy.
"If you have to come here yourself just to keep watch, then what am I even here for? Tell my father that if he doesn't want unnecessary complications, he should leave me to handle this my own way."
He turned toward the door to leave. Just before stepping out, he paused, tilting his head slightly without fully looking back.
"And do something about that boy named Nabil. His arrogance has crossed the line, he actually dared to lay a hand on the Prince."
The shadowed assassin bowed his head in compliance, "Understood, young master," before melting silently back into the darkness.
Arham closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, his gaze had reverted to its usual, harmless warmth. A cheerful, innocent smile crept back onto his face as he strolled out toward the cafeteria.
"Nobody in this place has any patience," Arham muttered to himself, his smile widening. "Everyone is just begging to tear each other apart."