Chapter 2: The Dream

The sky was colorless, neither night nor day and the earth beneath his feet felt like glass, fragile and endless.

He stood there, barefoot, breathless, surrounded by ruins that felt too real to be imagined.

And then… he saw him.

A silhouette stood at the center of it all. A man, faced away at first, then slowly turned toward him.

The man's face was hazy, indistinct, but he noticed that the man had a scar on his cheek.

Then the figure smiled.

"Thank you, partner."

The words echoed like a whisper.

His eyes widened—

—and he woke up.

A man gasped and sat up, the dream still clinging to his mind like smoke.

Sweat clung to his skin, He ran a hand through his snow-white hair, then blinked and looked down.

A weight rested on his lap.

A girl, red haired tied into messy buns, was curled up like a cat, snoring softly. The scent of cheap liquor sticks to her like perfume. A half-empty bottle of plum wine lay tipped over beside the bedroll.

"...Seriously?"

He gave her a gentle push. She groaned in protest, arms flailing dramatically.

"Five more minutes... or a full bottle..." she mumbled.

“Kinana… Get off!”

With a firm shove, she tumbled off the bedroll and onto the wooden floor with a loud thud.

"Agh! My brain!" Kinana rolled over, clutching her head. "Lyon, have mercy! My head hurts so much.”

The front door creaked open.

In stepped a girl wrapped in morning chill and silence.

Her long white hair fell in soft strands over her shoulders, her sharp gray eyes scanning the room. She stood with arms crossed over a light cloak, posture rigid, purposeful.

She shut the door behind her.

“You're awake,” she said, voice calm but clipped.

"Good morning, Neema.” Lyon replied.

Neema's eyes flicked down to Kinana, who was sprawled on the floor, still groaning.

"You let her sleep here again?"

"She let herself in." Lyon said.

Kinana’s face turned into mockery, “You're just jealous, Neema... I get the warm lap, you get the cold shoulder.”

Neema didn't recognize it with a response.

She turned her gaze back to Lyon. “You had the nightmare again? You’re all sweaty.”

Lyon's eyes narrowed slightly.

“I think it was a weird dream, but I already forgot what it was.” He replied.

The sun peeked just over the tree line, casting pale gold light over the practice field outside the house. The training ground was crude just an open patch of grass behind the shed.

Lyon stood at the center, sword in hand, breathing unstable. Sweat clung to his collar.

Across from him, Kinana hoisted her red war hammer over one shoulder. The thing was oversized compared to her body, yet she handled it with ease.

To the side, Neema stood with quiet elegance, twirling a white umbrella closed at her side. Her long hair stirred gently in the afternoon sun. Her gray eyes locked on Lyon with the quiet intensity of a teacher watching a failing student.

Kinana yawned. “You know, normal people don't sweat like that unless they're digging ditches.”

Lyon adjusted his stance. “Well, normal people don't carry swords if they can't back it up.”

Kinana grinned. “Round one, a man with a steel versus hammer queen!”

She moved fast.

The hammer came down like a falling star, Lyon barely rolled aside in time, the ground cracking where he'd just been standing. Kinana swung again, laughing wildly, her movements chaotic but explosive.

Lyon ducked under a wide arc, slashing at her ribs, but the strike clanged off her hammer shaft as she parried with surprising grace.

“Too slow!” she shouted, spinning and sending a shockwave through the dirt.

He leapt back, landing hard and tightening his grip. Before he could recover, Neema moved.

With a soft snap of her umbrella, she unleashed a sudden blast of wind, knocking Lyon off balance. A second flick sent a thin needle of air slicing across his cheek, shallow but clean.

“Dammit…” Lyon grit his teeth.

Kinana called from the side, grinning. “You should be a mailman with that reaction speed!”

Lyon ignored her and charged Neema again, sword low, stance tight.

They traded strikes, steel versus air and effort versus grace.

He was outmatched, but he didn't stop. Not once.

A while later, Lyon sat on the ground, breath ragged, arms trembling from fatigue. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his sword lay on the ground.

Kinana lay in the grass, "You know... in this world, people without power usually end up as stall vendors. They don't swing swords. They sell oranges."

Lyon didn't respond right away. He stared down at his sword, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm not interested in selling fruit."

Neema crouched beside him, she lowered her umbrella and covered Lyon from the sun.

"Then you need to train harder than anyone else. You're swinging a blade in a world built on miracles. That means every cut you make has to be deliberate. Clean. Unforgiving."

"I know.” Lyon said.

The sky over Luminette cities had shifted to a pale amber, clouds streaking pink and violet as evening descended over the cobblestone streets. Lanterns began to flicker to life, one by one, casting warm lights on the vendors.

Lyon carried a small cloth bag tucked under one arm, the faint clinking of spices and fresh vegetables rustling inside. He had promised Kinana something hot for dinner that didn't come from a bottle of liquor, and he wasn't about to break that promise.

The street buzzed with the usual chatter, vendors calling out prices, children laughing, guards patrolling casually.

Then—

Thud.

He collided shoulder into someone shorter in front of him.

“Ah— Sorry,” Lyon said quickly, taking a step back and giving a small, polite bow.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He replied.

That voice.

Lyon looked up.

The boy standing before him had black hair, red-tinted eyes, deep eye bags carved beneath them, and a scar on his face. His expression was blank, completely emotionless.

It’s Nagi.

He wore weird clothes, like it was not from this world, but…

That face, that scar...

He remembered it. In the dream. The ruins. The colorless sky. The man who turned and smiled — “Thank you, partner.”

Lyon blinked, the image from his dream become clear now.

“No... It had to be a coincidence.” Lyon’s think.

Still, the chill lingered at the base of his spine.

The stranger had something else with him, perched on his shoulder, a white owl with a black collar-feather around its neck. Its eyes were shut, giving it a perpetually sleepy, unimpressed look. It didn't move, didn't even blink.

The boy noticed Lyon's stare and shifted slightly, perhaps uncomfortably.

“You're… bleeding.” Lyon said, noticed a bloodstain smeared near the collar but no wounds had been seen.

Nagi looked down.

Lyon hesitated and he turned and gestured toward a nearby vendor stall, one that sold plain tunics and traveling cloaks.

"Come on. I'll get you a clean shirt."

Nagi looked confused, just for a moment. “I don't have money.”

"It’s okay, don’t mention about it." Lyon said, already walking.

They stood at the stall in silence as the vendor wrapped up a black shirt in paper. Lyon handed over a few coins, then passed the parcel to the boy.

Nagi stared at it for a moment and a glimpse of his grandfather crossed his mind.

“Remember, Nagi. When someone offer you a kindness, don’t forget to say—"

“…Thank you.” Nagi said.

Finally, he took it.

“No problem. And this is for you too.” Lyon took a piece of oranges from his bag, smiled and turned to leave, “Well, I’ll go now. My friend would be mad at me if I was late coming home.”

Nagi stood still, expressionless.

As Lyon disappeared into the crowd, Nagi watching his back with unreadable eyes.

Later, Nagi already changed his clothes. Now, he already looked like a local people from this world.

Nagi sat alone in a narrow alley, his back resting against the cold stone wall. The street noise had faded into a distant hum.

He looked down at the orange in his hand, a round, bright thing gifted to him moments earlier. That man with snow-white hair and with light-blue eyes.

He peeled it slowly, the rind cracking under his fingers, citrus oils spraying into the air. Segment by segment, he broke it apart, then held one out to the owl on his shoulder.

The owl blinked lazily. Its eyes barely moved.

“No?” Nagi asked flatly.

The owl shook its head once, slowly, as if the idea of eating fruit offended its very soul.

Nagi didn't push. He popped the slice into his own mouth instead, chewing slowly.

His head flying.

The sound of blood splattering against the ground.

Tiana's laughter echoing into the forest.

He saw the sky spin, then blur, then go black.

Nagi stood in a place that wasn't a place that fog blurred everything. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above. Just grey, endless and pulsing like it breathes.

He didn't know when he started walking, but he did.

Every step made no sound. Every breath felt like he was inhaling smoke.

Then, he saw a figure.

He couldn't see the face, only the silhouette. The outline shimmered, like it couldn't decide whether it was solid or smoke.

"...Are you the god who brought me here?" Nagi asked, his voice echoing strangely, like it didn't belong to him.

The figure didn't answer.

It just smiled, mockery.

Then, a voice that not loud, but crawling into Nagi's ears like it had been waiting there all along.

"Am I?"

Suddenly, the dream cracked.

The fog turned black and surged around Nagi's feet, swirling like ink in water. He looked down, his legs were vanishing.

The black swallowed him whole.

And then—

He woke up.

On the ground.

Neck reattached. No pain. No scar.

Just silence.

“...Oh,” he'd said at the time. "I'm still not dead."

His voice then had tinged with disappointment. Not afraid. Relief notes. Just tired of resignation.

He barely noticed there’s a white owl stood in a tree branch above him. It eyes was red and blue and it eyes wide opened, like a predator.

The creature blinked once, then tilted its head.

“…You're surprisingly calm for someone who got beheaded.”

Nagi, still expressionless stared at the owl.

Its voice was high and soft, like a child's.

“You talked.” Nagi said, quietly.

The owl ruffled its feathers.

"What's your name?" Nagi asked.

“Pupa.” it replied.

“Pupa… An animal with magic?”

"Closer, but nope."

After that, it sticked to Nagi’s shoulder until they arrived at Luminette city.

The wooden table creaks under the weight of the meal, warm rice, grilled vegetables, and warm soup. The furnace cracked gently in the corner of the room, casting orange light across the floorboards and ceiling beams.

Kinana had already polished off her third helping and was now lounging with a bottle of plum wine in one hand and her cheeks flushed.

“Neemaaa,” she whined, swaying slightly in her seat, “You need to learn to loosen up. Maybe if you drank a little, you wouldn't be so... sharp.”

Neema sat upright, her posture perfect even in relaxation, slowly sipping a cup of hot tea. “If I loosen up, who'll keep you from setting yourself on fire?”

“Ooh, maybe that fire-haired prince will~”

Across the table, Lyon sat motionless. His bowl remained untouched, the steam long faded from his food. He stared into the distance, one hand resting near his sword on the bench.

Neema noticed first.

“You're not eating,” she said, her voice softening slightly.

Lyon blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “...Huh?”

“Your food's getting cold.”

He looked down at it, then forced a small breath through his nose. “I'll eat in a minute.”

Kinana squinted at him. “You've been weird since you came back.”

“I bumped into someone,” he muttered, almost into himself.

Neema raised an eyebrow. "Someone dangerous?"

Lyon shook his head. "No... just a guy. Looked younger than me."

Neema's fingers paused on her cup.

"When I looked at his face, the scar on his face... I remembered my dream. It was him. I'm sure of it."

Silence settled briefly over the table.

Neema looked down, her eyes thoughtful. Meanwhile, Kinana poured herself another drink.

"...Maybe you were just reminded of it. You know, the brain pulls weird tricks. You dream of a face, then see someone kind of similar, and bam. Déjà vu." Neema exclaimed.

"Maybe." Lyon muttered, his eyes were distant.