The forest beyond the Academy didn't appear on any map. It wasn't forbidden—just forgotten. Students rarely wandered here. The trees whispered old secrets, and the moonlight always felt too sharp.
Angel liked it.
Here, among the obsidian roots and glowing moss, he could think.
And tonight, he needed to.
What does Silas really want?
He walked slowly, hands tucked behind his back, cloak fluttering against the night wind. The note, the alliance, the threats… all of it spun in his mind like shards of glass. Silas was too calm, too composed. A boy with the power to rewrite memory had no reason to trust anyone—let alone him.
Unless he needs something I don't know I have.
Angel exhaled, eyes drifting toward the stars visible through the treetops. They seemed to swirl when he stared too long, like the universe itself was watching him.
Was this what I wanted when I wished for a second chance? To live a story of monsters and war?
He stepped past a thick tree with bark that shimmered like metal.
And then the world exploded.
Crack—BOOM!
A force slammed into his gut like a battering ram wrapped in lightning. His body lifted off the ground and smashed through three trees in a blur of shattering bark and flying leaves.
He hit the earth hard. Rolled. Coughed. Blood spilled from his lips.
His ribs were broken.
The taste of iron filled his mouth as he tried to stand. Pain roared through his chest. Something warm and wet soaked through his robes.
And then came the voice.
Cold. Confident. Cruel.
"I wondered when you'd slip away alone. Dreamborn or not, you bleed just like the rest of us."
A man stepped through the mist.
Clad in black, no emblem, no house mark. A mask covered half his face. His eyes glowed with runes—not cast from his own magic, but etched into the bone. His aura was thick, suffocating, like poisoned smoke wrapping around the trees.
An assassin.
Angel tried to rise, but the man struck again—faster than sound. A foot drove into his side, launching him into a tree that cracked on impact.
Angel collapsed to his knees, coughing violently.
"They warned me you might awaken," the assassin said, circling him like a vulture. "But power's not enough, boy. You don't know how to kill. That's what makes this easy."
Angel stared at him, vision swimming. "Who… sent you?"
The assassin chuckled. "Who didn't?"
He knelt, blade glinting in hand, voice low and venomous.
"You weren't supposed to be born. The Dreamborn line was erased for a reason. You, Angel Galván, are a mistake. A fluke. A threat. And mistakes are meant to be corrected."
He leaned closer.
"After I cut out your heart, I'll visit your lovely family. Your sister first. Marina, isn't it? She'll scream like music."
Angel's eyes widened.
The assassin smirked—until he felt it.
Boom.
The air changed.
No wind. No chant. Just pressure.
Like the world itself took a breath.
Then it came—
A pulse.
White-blue aura erupted from Angel's body, blinding and wild. Trees bent backward. The ground cracked beneath him. Birds fled. Even the shadows shrank away.
The assassin froze.
For the first time in a long, long time…
He felt fear.
"Wha… what are you—?!"
Angel rose slowly, blood dripping from his lip, eyes glowing brighter than any spell. His voice was calm—but laced with something ancient.
"You shouldn't have mentioned my family."
The aura around him swirled like a storm, violent and brilliant. And from the sky, a glyph opened—a tear in space, a rip in reality itself.
The assassin staggered back.
"What are you doing—?! That's dimensional magic—! That's impossible—!"
Angel reached into the tear.
And drew a katana.
Not just any blade.
Its hilt was wrapped in celestial cloth. The sheath shimmered like glass dipped in starlight. It hummed—not with magic, but intention. As if it were alive, waiting for the moment to be real.
He unsheathed it only an inch—
CRACK.
The earth trembled.
The assassin dropped to one knee, gasping. His lungs collapsed under the pressure. His aura flickered. His bones screamed.
Angel raised the blade above his head.
The forest lit with white fire.
"This is your story's end."
He swung.
A single arc.
Silence.
Then—flash.
The cut wasn't physical. It was metaphysical. The space in front of him tore like paper, the assassin caught within it. His body split cleanly—but there was no blood, only the severing of presence. He was erased.
The trees calmed.
The air fell still.
Angel stood among the wreckage, blade humming, his breath ragged. He sheathed it slowly and the space-tear sealed itself like a healed wound.
Then, and only then, did his knees buckle.
He collapsed to the ground, eyes wide. His aura faded. The pain returned. The silence grew heavy again.
I killed someone.
Not imagined. Not dreamt.
Real.
He looked at his hand.
It shook.
Not from fear. Not from regret.
But from clarity.
The stories he used to write… they weren't just dreams anymore.
They had become weapons.
And tonight, he'd used one.