CHAPTER EIGHT – THE JOURNEY

A seven-year-old Mika stared through the curtain of thick, ancient buttress roots, her wide emerald eyes locking onto the silhouette of a boy — a few years older — standing just beyond the root-entwined barrier.

The tree that cradled her was massive — primeval — its twisted roots curled like a mouth in a silent scream. They sealed her inside a hollow chamber, more prison than shelter. She had been here for weeks.

Or was it months? Time no longer meant anything.

The boy, aged ten, frowned, brows drawn in irritation and suspicion. His posture was regal despite his youth. Mika, in her filthy, once-white frilled dress, looked away — guilt and shame burning her skin. Mud stained her arms and legs. Her tangled crimson hair hung limp around her small, trembling frame.

He hadn’t meant to come this far into the woods. In fact, the whole thing was his friend’s fault — a fool who couldn’t throw a training ball properly. The ball had sailed deep into the untamed wilds, and of course, it had been him — Shinji Karou — who was sent after it.

Ridiculous. He was no errand boy.

But then he heard it — a whisper. Soft. Feminine. Riding the wind like a forgotten song. It compelled him to walk deeper.

The forest changed as he moved through it. Trees loomed taller. The air thickened. The silence deepened. By the time Shinji realised how far he’d gone, the voice had vanished, leaving him breathless and confused.

Was he... lost? Impossible. The young Lord of the White Wolf Clan did not get lost. Suzumi would have his head otherwise.

Then came the sobbing. He followed the sound until the trees opened into a clearing.
There, tangled in the embrace of the tree’s enormous roots, was a child — a girl.

“You,” Shinji said sharply before he could stop himself. “Were you the one calling me this whole damn time?”

Mika stared, unblinking. He stepped closer, his sharp gaze scanning the hollow. No food. No water. No tools. And yet—she didn’t look starved. Just... hollow. As if something unnatural had preserved her.

Mika, from her side of the prison, studied him as well. He looked noble. Commanding. His deep-forest hair was cropped short, his features sharp despite his young age. A white training suit clung to him, dusted from his journey. But it was his eyes that struck her — eyes far older than his years, touched by pain and cruelty, perhaps even war.

“I asked you a question,” he repeated, sterner now. “Answer me.”

She flinched. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Fear choked her voice.

He exhaled, frustrated, and turned to leave.

“Don’t go!”

The cry tore from her throat, raw and desperate. Her arms reached through the roots, fingers trembling. For the first time in forever, sunlight warmed her skin. It stung.

Two ancient words slipped from her tongue — not in Fulainan, but in the Spirit’s language.

“Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

Shinji froze. His heart stopped. That language — it had been outlawed after the Great War.

A Spirit.

Miracle or omen, he wasn’t sure. But instinct moved before logic. He gripped the roots and pulled. With every ounce of strength, he tore at the wooden prison. The roots groaned in protest. Sweat poured from his brow.

At last, the final barrier gave way.

Mika collapsed into his arms.

***

Mika woke with a gasp, lungs heaving, heart slamming against her ribs. Sweat clung to her skin.

The dream lingered like embers refusing to die.

Was it real? It felt like truth wearing the veil of illusion.

She sat still for several minutes, letting her breath even out, before lying back, arms spread across her blanket. Her gaze wandered to the ceiling — as if the answers might be carved into the beams above.

It had been a week since Commandant Grants and Vice-Commandant Boyce had delivered their verdict. She was exiled from the only place she had ever called home.

Mika recalled the weight in Shinji’s voice when he had spoken to her later that night. No pity. No lies. Just a promise.

“Be patient. When the time comes, you’ll know what you have to do.”

At the time, those words had confused her. Now they echoed with a strange, steady purpose.

Mika sat up and glanced at the clock. Five-forty in the morning. She rose, dressed, and brushed her hair when a soft knock came at the door.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open.

He stood there — his presence filling the doorway like a storm on the horizon. Shinji wore a black turtle-neck beneath a long brown overcoat, boots laced to his calves, and a silver belt at his waist. The same look he’d worn in Andania. Which meant...

In his right hand, he held a heavy travelling pack.

“We’re leaving,” Shinji said calmly.

“Leaving?”

“Far. Pack light. I’ll explain on the way. Meet me at the rear gate in ten minutes. Don’t be late.”

Then he vanished down the corridor. Mika blinked once — then moved.

***

Shinji had barely three hours of sleep before duty called. Now, he stood at the mansion’s rear gate, cigarette burning between his lips. The morning air was crisp, heavy with dew. He watched the sunrise — gold bleeding into violet over the hills.

Would he ever see this view again? This quiet sliver of peace?

No. Sentiment had no place today. He’d vowed to Suzumi that he would return safely. Though part of him wanted to give Mika more time to recover, the Elders had made it clear: the world could not wait.

Last night’s conversation replayed in his mind...

Suzumi sat near the low table, knitting a red scarf. Her calm presence softened his fatigue.

“It seems the reason the Spirits have begun to surface again lies in the Red Line,” she said.

Shinji, seated beside her, inhaled deeply and nodded, cigarette smoke curling in the dim light.

“The Red Line... Also called the Red Sand,” she continued. “It’s a dimensional corridor — a bridge between the Spirit World and ours. Since the Great War, no Spirit has crossed it without losing control. The late Master Oracle Khulai ensured that.”

“No man has crossed it either,” Shinji said. “It’s sealed by ancient magic.”

Suzumi nodded. “And yet... reports confirm the Spirits who attacked Andania came through it. Forcefully. Unnaturally. Someone is tearing open paths that should remain buried.”

She set her knitting aside and rose, looping the red scarf around his neck. “Lord Eden and Master Fye are tracing the cause. But they’ve requested our aid — no one understands the Spirits like we do. No one can purify them like us.”

Shinji smirked faintly. “So you’ve already decided.”

She smiled, soft but firm. “Come back home safe — with Mika. I’ll watch over things here.”

“I promise.”

They embraced briefly — and parted.

***

Mika arrived at the rear entrance dressed in the mission gear Suzumi had prepared: a fitted dark-red tunic cinched with a brown sash, tight black trousers for movement, and weatherproof boots. Fingerless gloves bore the faded insignia of Luyas.

A travel pack hung from her shoulders.

Shinji gave her a brief once-over, then handed her a pair of twin blades — sleek, balanced, polished.

“You know how to use these?”

“Yes. I trained with every weapon at the Academy.”

“Good. They’re yours now. You’ll need them. Let’s move.”

She ran her thumb along the blade’s edge — comforted by its weight — then fell into step beside him.

“Pardon me, but... where exactly are we going?”

“To the Red Line.”

“The Red Line?”

“How much do you know of it?”

“Only what I’ve read — legends, mostly.”

As they walked through the forest, he explained. The Red Line — also known as the Red Sand — was a dimensional fault. The surge in Spirit attacks, he told her, stemmed from an unnatural breach.

“Lord Eden and Master Fye are working with our Intelligence Units,” he added. “Their findings will reach us through encoded messengers whenever we enter a city.”

“Even while we’re on the move?”

“The Clan has eyes and ears in every province. We’ve maintained our networks since long before the Great War.”

“Shouldn’t this fall under state authority?”

“It should,” he said quietly. “But the world doesn’t know how to handle Spirits. Our Clan once traded with their royal family — medicine, knowledge, trust. We’ve kept that legacy alive in silence. It’s why we stay hidden. To act when others hesitate.”

He turned to her. “As my Chosen Apprentice, you must understand our history. Ask questions. Trust your instincts. And if your life depends on it — strike without hesitation.”

“Understood, Lor—”

“Shinji.”

She smiled faintly. “Shinji.”

“You’re learning.”

***

By midday, they reached a riverbank glittering under sunlight. Dragonflies hovered over clear waters.

“There’s a village nearby — Islez. Half an hour’s walk. We’ll rest here first.”

Mika knelt to refill her canteen while Shinji lit another cigarette under the shade. The air was peaceful, almost human. Then — rustling. Her eyes snapped open. She sprang to her feet, blades drawn. Shinji was already in motion with his pistol raised.

A grotesque Spirit burst from the opposite bank, its face scarred and twisted, black eyes blazing. Mika blocked its charge with crossed blades, the impact forcing her back. She kicked, rolled, struck —

Stop! The voice hissed in her mind — not in Fulainan, but Ancient Aspaniac.

You are one of us. Why do you fight your own blood?

The memory of the massacre flashed through her mind. Fire. Screams. Blood.

BANG!

A bullet tore through the Spirit’s chest.

“Focus, Mika!” Shinji barked.

“S–Sorry!”

The Spirit spat black acid and lunged again. Shinji dodged, countered, fired.

“She was ours! Now reeking of human scent — disgrace!”

It turned on Mika.

“Mika!” Shinji threw himself forward, tackling her to the ground.

Then — the sound of chains.

A shriek split the air. When the silence fell, the Spirit’s headless body slumped to the earth.

Mika stared, shaken. “What...?”

Shinji muttered, “I have a hunch,” already cursing under his breath.

“Oi! Lovebirds! You alright?”

Shinji groaned. “Of all the people...”

A tall figure strode through the river. A bold, battle-hardened fighter — confident to his bones and just the right amount of reckless. His spiky ginger-blonde hair catches the light like flame, and that grin of his — sharp, wolfish — radiates mischief and danger in equal measure. The red leather jacket screams rebellion, pairing perfectly with his lean, athletic frame and the casual strength in how he grips the chained sickle.

There’s artistry in his stance too: relaxed yet ready to strike, like a man who thrives in chaos. The earring adds a hint of roguish flair, while the moon-shaped blade gives him an almost mythic edge — a warrior who’s equal parts flirt, hero, and troublemaker.

A storm wearing a smile.

“Run,” Shinji muttered.

“What? Why—”

Too late.

“You sneaky bastard!” the man laughed, hauling them up into a bear hug. “Visiting Islez without a heads-up? Is Suzumi still mad about that explosion? Totally wasn’t my fault.”

SMACK! Shinji’s forehead slammed into the man’s skull, earning a loud groan.

“Goddamn it, Shinji! You bastard!”

Shinji’s glare could have frozen fire.

The man coughed and turned to Mika, eyes now sparkling. “And who might you be, gorgeous?”

“Mika,” she said cautiously. “Former knight. Chosen Apprentice.”

He grinned. “Kazuo. Twenty-three. Single. Hero of the West — if you ask nicely.” He seized her hands. “Your smile — a sunrise through blood mist. Your eyes — gods, don’t get me started. I might write a poem. Or worse — fall in love.”

Click.

A pistol barrel pressed against his head.

“Last word before I end you,” Shinji hissed.

“Alright, alright — peace, brother.”

BANG! A bullet whizzed past his ear.

“Y-You crazy lunatic! I JUST FIXED MY HAIR!”

Shinji walked off, muttering under his breath.

Kazuo turned to Mika, brushing his jacket.

“Anyway, sorry for the theatrics, love. Old habits. But seriously — those eyes? “Troubled — the good kind.” He winks before smiling gently and offered a hand to her.

“Let’s start fresh. Kazuo. Chain-sickle expert. Hopeless romantic. Your unofficial knight in rusty armour.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mika said, still dazed from what just occurred between these two men.

“Mika, huh? So you’re the infamous Lady of Andania.”

“...If you put it that way. But right now, I’m exiled and apparently, hunted wherever I go.”

“Not while I’m around.” He twirled his sickle with flair. “Anyone comes for you — they leave headless. But don’t worry, I only decapitate the rude ones.”

He winked. “You, I’d guard with my life.”

And so, their trio began — a young Lord bound by duty, a exiled knight, and a rogue with chains and charm.