"Why am I always treated like an animal?" Oliver muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
His eyes locked on the piece of bread rolling across the dusty floor. A tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another. The ache inside him wasn't unbearable—but it was deep, heavy, and suffocating.
As he wiped his face, a sudden vision flashed before his eyes—his brother's mutilated body, vivid and horrifying. It felt as though he were standing right in front of him.
Oliver snapped his eyes open, forcing the image away. For a brief moment, his breathing steadied. The haunting vision faded. But peace never lasted.
He reached out for the metallic bowl and the bread, only to freeze. The spilled liquid on the floor shimmered red—too red. It looked just like the blood that once painted his brother's room.
Disgusted, he flung the bowl aside and rushed to the window at the far left of his room—the only place that gave him some comfort.
There, nature spoke to him. The rustling trees, the soft breeze, the birdsong—they brushed past his senses like a gentle orchestra. For nearly an hour, he stood still, watching and waiting. Hoping. Starving. Dreaming the door might open and bring him proper food.
His eyes wandered to a distant tree, the one usually wrapped in a white cloth. But now, it bore a deep red fabric—wine-colored, almost like dried blood. He froze. Something was behind it, but the locked room offered no answers.
Curious, he pressed his ear against the door. Voices. Humming. Movement. Life. Yet none of it came near. It was as if the world was deliberately avoiding his door, retreating from him.
His room, detached from the main mansion, was crumbling. The walls cracked, the back side sloped, and no one cared—not even the servants. Not even enough to fix a single window.
With hope fading, Oliver sat on his bed, eyes fixed on the broken ceiling. He began to wish—not for freedom, but for the message to return.
Then—
Something appeared. But it wasn't the message.
It moved too fast for him to catch, a blur in the air. Still, he reached out—and his fingers touched something. Soft. Fluid. Almost liquid.
The message box had changed—it now looked like a floating wardrobe. Slowly, Oliver pulled out what his hand had touched.
And then—he gasped.
Laughter, bright and uncontainable, burst from him. For the first time in forever, joy filled the room.
Bam!
"Hey! Stop making noise, you stupid brat!"
The voice was sharp but youthful—clearly from someone far younger than him, no older than fifteen. Oliver turned quickly, startled by the tone, but not surprised. Despite his age, he was treated worse than the servants. His only worth was the family name he carried.
"Tsk…" the voice faded.
Oliver chuckled softly, then turned back to what he held in his hands. A warm, sweet-smelling pie. Without waiting, he took a bite—then another—and devoured it with a hunger that wasn't just physical.
Relief washed over him like spring water. Full and finally calm, he lay back down, letting sleep claim him.
But peace betrayed him again. A sudden splash jolted Oliver awake. Water soaked his clothes, his bed, and the cold floor beneath him. Gasping, he shot up—only to find the heavy chains on the door gone. The door now stood wide open, creaking gently in the silence.
There was no one in sight.
Without a second thought, Oliver sprinted out, the wet fabric clinging to his skin. He raced through the old hallway, past crumbling corners and cracked tiles, and finally reached the main gate, flanked by towering black walls.
"Hey! Where do you think you're going again?" a harsh voice barked behind him.
But Oliver didn't stop. He couldn't. His legs carried him beyond the mansion's edge, straight toward the intersection—the three-way street that seemed to stretch into different fates.
At the center of the junction, he froze.
Lying on the ground was the white rabbit—the same one he had seen the night before. But now, it was dead. Its tiny body lay torn apart, limbs splayed, and its insides grotesquely exposed. What was left of its liver had been placed on a strange, carved stone. The same stone—now smeared with the rabbit's blood—its symbol pulsing darker with each beat of Oliver's heart.
Oliver staggered back, trying to shake off the horror.
Then—his ring flickered. A strange, radiant gleam.
Almost immediately, a searing pain surged through his right arm. He gasped, clutching his shoulder. The pain wasn't everywhere—it focused on a single point. Gritting his teeth, Oliver sank to the grass and pulled up his sleeve.
His eyes widened.
The star-shaped mark that had been etched into his shoulder had changed. Its five points were now lined with shifting, iridescent colors. Each dot at the tips of the star glowed—dimly at first, then brighter, as if reacting to something unseen.
And then, it came—the sound.
A melody.
Faint, eerie, and strangely familiar. It danced on the wind, curling around him like smoke. It was the same melody he had heard before the legendary clash of Yama and Yrrakal.
But this time… it was being played.
Somewhere nearby, someone was playing it.
He looked up, scanning the horizon—and there she was.
A woman stood a few yards away, her fingers moving gracefully over a strange, stringed instrument. Her posture was calm, her spine too straight, as if the song were pulling her strings too. As the music floated through the air, Oliver noticed the pain in his shoulder fade. The glowing dots dimmed slightly, calmed by the tune.
But then the music stopped.
The pain returned, sharper than before.
"Hello…" Oliver called out, his voice hoarse, desperate.
The woman didn't respond. She seemed lost in the rhythm, completely absorbed.
"Please… I need to speak to you…"
Still, nothing.
She continued to play, her face hidden behind a veil of dark hair and silence—pouring her soul into the song, unaware of the boy writhing in the grass before her, bound by a pain that only her melody could soothe.