Pluto awoke to silence—not the stillness of a battlefield or the hush of early morning in a forest—but a quiet so complete it felt holy.
Warm light touched his face. As he opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the middle of a vast sunflower field. Endless rows of golden blooms swayed gently in the breeze, their wide faces following a soft sun that hung perfectly overhead. The air smelled sweet—floral, clean, untouched. It wasn't just peaceful here; it was unreal.
A breeze passed, ruffling his clothes and hair. The petals danced. Above, the sky was a pure, cloudless blue, the kind he didn't think existed anymore.
He sat up slowly.
This wasn't a dream like the others. It was too vivid. Too solid.
A few meters ahead stood a wooden house. Small, plain, yet lovingly built, it nestled into the field like it had always belonged there. Its walls were aged with time, but ivy wrapped gently around its frame, and sunflowers curled toward its windows like loyal guards.
Drawn by some instinct, Pluto approached.
As he walked, the stalks parted for him, brushing softly against his hands and legs. He reached the door and pushed—it creaked open with a warm breath of old air and the faint aroma of wild herbs.
Inside, the house was simple but homely. Wooden floors groaned underfoot. Shelves lined the walls, filled with worn books, ceramic jars, and dried bundles of lavender and mint. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight pouring through the window.
A full-length mirror stood near the hearth, its frame carved with ivy and moon-shaped runes.
Pluto stepped toward it.
What stared back was not his seventeen-year-old self. The face in the mirror was older—mid-twenties, perhaps. His frame broader, posture steadier. Black hair, now longer, was tied back in a loose ponytail, and his eyes carried a quiet, weary sharpness. Scars marked the skin near his collarbone and temple—faint, but real.
It was him… but not.
"I didn't think you'd arrive so soon," came a voice from behind, calm and quiet, like the wind outside.
He turned.
A woman stood at a low table near the window. She poured tea from a clay pot into two small porcelain cups. Her appearance was indistinct, as though light bent slightly around her—hiding details, softening edges. Her hair shimmered like it was woven from moonlight, and her hands moved with quiet grace.
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "Still, you came. That means it's close."
Pluto opened his mouth, but no words came.
"Sit," she offered, nodding to the chair across from her. "You'll need your strength."
Something about her voice unnerved him—too gentle for the weight behind it.
He turned and ran.
The door slammed shut behind him as he burst through the field. The stalks whipped at his arms. He ran and ran, as if sheer speed could wake him. But suddenly, the field ended.
Beneath his feet was no longer soil—it was stone.
He stopped at the edge of a cliff.
The land was floating.
Not just the house. Not just the field. The entire piece of earth was suspended in the sky, drifting in a sea of clouds. Below, endless white rolled like oceans, pierced by mountaintops in the far distance. A flock of birds passed beneath him, silhouettes against the sunlit mist. There was no wind. No sound. No horizon.
He blinked—
And found himself back inside the house.
His chest heaved with ragged breath. The woman still stood there, holding the same cup of tea. It hadn't spilled. It hadn't moved.
His voice came out hoarse. "Where… where am I?"
She looked at him, expression unchanging. "I had hoped you remember. But there isn't time now."
She placed the cup down carefully. "They won't approve again. So listen closely. You must find and end it before it begins."
Her voice trembled—just slightly.
"You must kill Shen before the disaster comes.
Pluto staggered back. "Who… who are you?" he asked, trembling. "What disaster? Who is Shen? Please… give me answers!"
The woman looked at him for a long time.
Then she began to fade.
Not in a burst of light or a swirl of wind—just quietly, like she had always been made of mist. Her outline blurred. Her features dissolved.
"No—wait!" Pluto screamed. He reached out across the table, knocking the teacup aside. "Don't leave! Please! I don't understand!"
The light in the house dimmed. The warmth faded. The petals outside no longer swayed.
"Please!" ,"not you too , please "
A blink—And he was awake.
Cold air rushed into his lungs as he sat upright, gasping. The warmth was gone. The sunflowers were gone.
He was back in the forest.
Under a patchwork tent, the campfire still crackled nearby. A blanket was tucked around him, the earth hard beneath his back. The scent of smoke and pine replaced the sunflowers. His skin was slick with sweat, though the morning air was cool.
Lunet slept beside him, her wounds wrapped in careful bandages. Her face looked at peace, despite the fading bruises. A few meters away, Senko sat sharpening his blade, watching the trees. Bruno knelt near the fire, poking at it with a stick.
It had been a dream.
But that voice still echoed in his mind.
You must kill Shen… before the disaster.
"Nightmare?" Senko's voice was calm, but his eyes stayed on Pluto, steady and watchful.
Pluto didn't answer right away. He rubbed his face with trembling fingers, still breathing heavily.
"I hope so…" he finally murmured, voice low and hoarse.
He pushed aside the blanket and stood abruptly, ignoring the stiffness in his legs. The morning air hit him sharp and cold. He stumbled out of the tent, heart pounding, eyes wide.
But nothing looked right.
The world outside was bathed not in light, but in patterns—webs of pale, floating threads that twisted through the forest like spectral brushstrokes. Trees, stones, even the fire—they were all outlined by delicate fibers, like someone was constantly redrawing reality to help him interpret what was in front of him. He could still tell where things were, still move around without crashing into them.
But it wasn't sight.
It was something else.
He turned slowly, heart thudding against his ribs, and locked eyes with Senko. Panic rose like bile in his throat.
"Brother…" His voice cracked. "How do you see me?"
There was a pause. Senko didn't move right away.
Then, quietly, he said, "So it's true. Your vision's changed."
Bruno stepped closer, looking Pluto over with concern. "Your eyes… they're dull. Gray. There's no pupil."
Pluto froze.
Senko stood up and walked toward him, face serious but calm.
"We don't know what's happening yet," he said carefully. "But for now, stay calm. Think clearly. We can't leap to conclusions."
His voice was firm—not dismissive, but grounding.
"In all my nine years of medical study," he added, "I've never seen anything like this."
Pluto said nothing. He just stood there, watching his brother's voice move through strands of silver light, and trying to make sense of a world that no longer belonged to his eyes.
A soft rustling came from behind.
Lunet stirred, her voice cutting through the morning quiet with a teasing scoff.
"So you're awake. I was starting to think you'd die before me."
There was a slight smirk on her lips, but her words were weighed down by fatigue. Her shoulder was tightly wrapped in fresh bandages, and her skin still carried a sickly pale hue.
"How's your head?" she asked, adjusting herself with a wince.
Pluto froze for a moment, then quickly shut his eyes. He turned his head away, as if the sunlight stung him.
"I'm fine," he said shortly—too quickly.
He exhaled, forcing calm into his voice.
"What about your wounds? You shouldn't take them lightly."
Lunet narrowed her eyes. She sat up slightly, ignoring the sting in her side.
"That's odd coming from you,Lunet's gaze sharpened, her brow furrowing. She was about to press him again when Senko suddenly stepped forward, his tone unusually loud for the quiet morning.
"Lunet," he said, crouching beside her with a faint smile. "Let me check your bandages. You were still bleeding last night."
She blinked, momentarily distracted. "I'm fine. It's just a scratch compared to—"
Bruno cut in from the other side, tossing a chunk of bread into her lap.
"Eat something before you start acting like a hero again. You nearly collapsed trying to stand yesterday."
Lunet scowled. "I wasn't—"
"No arguments," Senko said firmly, already beginning to inspect the gauze on her side. "We need everyone in working condition. That includes you."
Pluto took the moment to quietly slip away from the firelight, staying half-turned, head low. He rubbed his eyes again, but the world remained tangled in threads—glowing strands crossing and shifting, outlining the world in unfamiliar ways. Every movement looked like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
Senko glanced at Pluto from the corner of his eye, then gently pressed on Lunet's wound.
"Ow—damn it, Senko!"
"Still tender. Don't push it." He gave her a flat look.
Bruno chuckled, tearing off another piece of bread.
"You two never change."
For now, the attention was off Pluto. But he could feel it—Lunet's eyes still searching, still wondering. she said. Then, more softly, "why you aren't opening yor eyes?."
Pluto didn't respond. His fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers. A long breath escaped him.
Lunet studied him, her teasing fading into something quieter.
"Pluto… is something wrong with your eyes?"
There was a pause—too long.
Then Pluto murmured, almost inaudibly,
" nothing's wrong,....."he muttered even though he didn't believed it.
The forest was still cloaked in early morning mist as the group moved quietly around the fading campfire. The smell of charred wood lingered in the air, mingling with damp earth and pine. Dew clung to their packs and boots as they rolled up blankets, tightened straps, and gathered their belongings with practiced efficiency.
Senko knelt by a log, checking the contents of a leather satchel filled with vials and parchment. Satisfied, he rose, brushing a few leaves from his knees. He adjusted his cloak and looked toward the rising sun, its golden light filtering through the trees like broken glass.
"We should reach the mountain hill by midday," he said, voice steady but brisk. "Our Galpadons will be waiting."
Pluto paused as he cinched the strap of his bag, head still lowered. The name stirred something in him—familiarity, finality.
"So…" he said slowly, lifting his head just enough to look toward his brother. "We're heading back to the castle?"
He hesitated, then added with quiet uncertainty, "Are you sure our work here is done, Senko?"
The question hung in the air longer than it should have. Bruno glanced up from where he was stuffing cooking tools into his sack. Lunet, crouched by the edge of camp, looked over her shoulder at Pluto, brow furrowed.
She stood with effort, one hand pressed gently to her side where the bandages still held tight.
"Pluto," she said, voice softer than usual. "You can't even open your eyes properly right now. "We can't keep going like this. We need to get you back ."
Bruno slung his pack over his shoulder and gave a small grunt of agreement.
"I don't think we need any staying anyways," he muttered, giving Pluto a sidelong glance. "The way Senko's been packing, I'd say he's ready to march straight through a blizzard."
Senko turned, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he stepped forward, boots crunching softly on the forest floor.
"Absolutely not," he said, voice clear and firm. "We're not staying. Not after everything we've found."
"I have what I came for. The evidence is solid—undeniable."
He paused then, something colder sliding into his tone. Not cruel. Not angry. But laced with something deeper: , maybe. Fatigue.
"i understand you Pluto, but you don't have to carry it alone,"
Pluto's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. The silver threads of his vision shimmered in the air, outlining his brother's figure like a spirit wrapped in light.
He didn't trust this version of the world—not yet. But he trusted the people in it.
Or at least, he wanted to.
A hush settled again over the clearing, broken only by the distant cry of a crow somewhere deep in the forest. The kind of silence before a change.
[Seventeen Years Ago, castle vengin]
The storm clawed at the castle walls like a living thing. Wind howled through the stone corridors, slipping beneath the doors and rattling the old windows in their frames. Thunder cracked across the sky, briefly illuminating the heavy curtains and book-littered floor of the study in stark white.
Inside, a single flame trembled in a brass candleholder, casting dancing shadows across the face of a boy hunched over an ancient tome.
Senko was only nine, but his eyes were sharp, scanning each line with a mixture of fear and fascination. His black hair clung to his forehead with sweat, though the room was cold. He sat cross-legged on the thick rug in the center of the room, a book sprawled open in front of him, its pages yellowed and brittle.
The cover read:
"A Treatise on the Cursed: The Origins and Nature of Hounds."
He turned a page slowly, careful not to tear it, and whispered the text aloud under his breath, as if trying to make the words real.
> "Hounds are not born. They are cursed."
> "A punishment sent by the divine upon mankind. When a person dies consumed by guilt, rage, pain, or vengeance… those final emotions do not fade. They ignite. They fuel the remains."
The wind howled louder, and Senko paused, glancing toward the shuttered window. For a moment, it felt like something was breathing outside—something hungry.
He looked back down, candlelight catching the shimmer in his wide eyes.
> "The average Hound matches the size of a man. Its flesh is decayed, its bones twisted beyond nature. Eyes glow orange—brimming with blind fury."
> "They have no memory. No mercy. They exist for one purpose: to hurt the living."
Senko swallowed hard. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the next page. A crude anatomical sketch of a Hound filled the parchment—its gaping mouth, its elongated limbs, the claw-like hands. The muscles were drawn like they were unraveling, rotting even in the diagram.
A note scrawled beside the image read:
> "Some Hounds are different."
> "There is no known limit to their form. No rules to their bodies. No law to bind what they can become."
Senko blinked slowly. He could feel the weight of those words settling in his chest. Monsters with no ceiling—no shape too grotesque. And worse: they were once people.
He flipped again.
This page was thinner, more fragile, and the ink had smudged slightly from age.
> "How to identify a body at risk of turning into a Hound:"
> "- Eyes left open wide, clouded in white."
"- Mouth unhinged, stretched unnaturally."
"- Muscles begin rapid decay within hours."
He leaned closer.
> "To prevent transformation, the dead must be burned. Delay can be fatal."
A roll of thunder shook the castle, and the candle flickered violently. Shadows danced across the shelves—long and stretched like they had minds of their own. Senko didn't flinch. He simply lowered his head, reading again.
Behind him, the old clock ticked on. Midnight passed quietly.
And still, Senko read.
The storm still grumbled outside as the heavy door creaked open behind young Senko. He didn't flinch—he had heard the footsteps coming down the hall. A soft voice followed the opening of the door.
"Master Senko," said a maid, bowing her head respectfully, her voice gentle to contrast the chaos outside. "Your mother is calling for you. She's waiting in the hall."
Senko looked up from the candlelit pages, reluctant to leave the haunting words behind. But he nodded, closing the tome carefully. His small hands brushed the book's cover as if sealing a secret back into its prison. He stood, lifted the book, and placed it neatly onto a high shelf beside several untouched volumes.
The candle flickered one last time as he walked out, the room growing dim behind him.
The corridor was long, lined with old paintings and unlit lanterns. The sound of rain tapping against the windows followed him, but Senko moved quietly, his expression pensive.
He turned the corner and stepped into the grand hall—its stone floor gleaming faintly under the chandelier's soft glow. And there she was.
Lady Amane, regal even in her 7 months of gestation, sat poised in her wheeled chair, her long silver hair braided over one shoulder. Her figure was cloaked in royal blue velvet, and her hands rested on a bundle of white cloth. Her face, though weary, held a maternal calm.
Senko approached slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he saw the baby nestled in her arms.
"You were calling me, Mother?" he asked softly.
Lady Amane nodded, her voice low and distant. "Yes, my dear. Come, look…"
Senko stepped closer. The baby stirred as he did, a small sound escaping its lips.
Then he froze.
The child's eyes opened briefly—and they were milky white. Wide. Unblinking.
Senko's breath caught. A coldness settled over him. Something from the book echoed in his mind:
> "Eyes left open wide, clouded in white…"
His heart thumped faster. His smile faded.
Lady Amane noticed his silence. "He lost both his mother and father just hours ago," she said softly. "How cruel must the gods be to cast such grief on a newborn?"
Senko looked into her face, then back to the baby. He felt sadness—but also something else. Fear. Dread.
His gaze was drawn to a nearby room. The door was half-open. Inside, on a modest bed, lay the body of a woman—her hands folded, her face turned slightly toward the wall.
Senko stepped subtly to the side for a better look.
Her eyes were open.
Her mouth, slightly parted, curved into an eerie, peaceful smile. But there were tears on her cheeks. Fresh.
Senko took a step back, chilled to the bone.
Lady Amane followed his gaze, then turned away.
"Don't look," she said gently but firmly.
Senko's stomach churned. "What now, Mother?" he asked. "This baby… he has no one in this world."
Lady Amane looked down at the infant in her arms. Her eyes glistened, but she smiled.
"Then we give him someone," she said. "Senko… will you accept him? Will you take him as your younger brother?"
Senko was silent for a moment. The thunder echoed outside once again. He stepped forward, placing a hand gently over the baby's small chest. Its heartbeat was weak, but steady.
"I'd love to," he said, voice quiet but firm. "He doesn't have to be alone."
Lady Amane nodded. "Ashia… that was his mother's name," she said softly. " She wanted to name her first child pluto, after the name of a old book legend, just yesterday she looked soo happy, " lady amane couldn't hold the burning pain in her throat, her eyes bursted out with tears.
Her voice trembled faintly, then steadied. "but God had… different plans."
Senko looked at the child once more.
"Pluto," he whispered.
The storm raged on outside, but inside Castle Vengin, in that solemn moment, a bond was forged. A name was given.