Mysterious valley.
The air was filled with the fragrance of damp earth and fermenting wild apples. Maples and oak trees stood scattered along the creek at the bottom of the valley; the former red as if ablaze, the latter a waxy ocher gold, like armored sentinels.
Another deep autumn.
A young man wrapped in a large black robe sat by a rock covered in dark green moss, staring intently at a few robins drinking not far away.
He had hair as white as autumn frost and an exceedingly handsome face, as if he had stepped out of a painting.
"Splash—"
Ronan casually threw a pebble into the water, startled robins with red breasts, and shattered the tranquility of the place.
He stood up and began to walk slowly along the riverbank.
It had been seven days since the final confrontation with the Ancient Witch Revival Association.
In these seven days, Ronan had been having the same dream.
