On a bitterly cold night, amid a snowstorm that cloaked every house in a pristine white shroud, stood a lavish residence nestled in a semi-isolated mountain range—though calling it a mere house would be a disservice. It was more akin to a grand palace lost among the peaks.
From the outside, this extravagant estate, brimming with servants and exuding an eerie calm, appeared like a sanctuary untouched by chaos. But inside, the shrill, heart-wrenching screams of a woman tore through its silence—screams so raw, so agonizing, they could send shivers racing from the tip of your hair down to the edge of your toes.
Screams that shattered the usual peace the mansion was known for.
Her cries echoed through every corridor of the palace and beyond, slicing through the storm outside. If you looked around, at the faces of those dwelling within, you'd see unease, fear, tension—and even disgust—etched into their expressions, all because of that endless wail that refused to stop for even a second.
Some bore faces filled with sorrow, their hearts aching for the woman behind that agonizing voice—one that could burst your eardrums if you dared stand too close.
And amidst this endless storm of screams, in a particular room deep within the mansion, sat two men separated by a large desk cluttered with unmarked papers and documents.
Books were scattered across the carpeted floor, on the bed, stuffed between shelves, and torn manuscripts lay crumpled around the room like discarded thoughts. The only real decoration in this paper wasteland was a curtain hung over the lone window behind the desk. Etched at its center was a majestic image of a revered dragon's head, its glowing crimson eyes staring down with divine authority.
The two men sat in the heart of that chaos, on ornate wooden chairs. One of them appeared calm and composed, yet in truth, his mind was drowning in a whirlpool of thoughts and anxiety. The other seemed equally serene—but genuinely detached, indifferent to both the state of the room and the uproar echoing throughout the mansion.
He wore a slightly crumpled white shirt, had piercing red eyes, and long black hair laced with a few strands of silver. Sitting on the right side of the desk, his expression was cold and unreadable as he silently sifted through the stack of papers before him—picking one up, discarding it, moving on to the next, never once breaking his gaze or uttering a single word.
It was obvious he was the master of this opulent abode. You could sense it just by standing near him—the way the very air bent differently around him, heavy with presence.
Unlike the others in the mansion, there wasn't even a flicker of annoyance or concern on his face. His expression remained firm and grim, like a man who had never smiled in his life... or perhaps was cursed to never be able to.
The man kept flipping through the papers on his desk, even as the sound of screaming pierced the air like nails on glass. It hadn't stopped. In fact, it was only getting louder by the minute. He tried to ignore it, though his ears had clearly decided otherwise. With a weary sigh, he finally looked up, addressing the person standing before him.
Expressionless, he exhaled and spoke in a loud, clear voice.
"My god, that woman…"
He muttered the words, almost like a curse, aimed at the man seated opposite him—a man with long, pure white hair tied neatly behind his head, a thin beard, and soft wrinkles around his eyes and cheeks. His features made it obvious he was well into his fifties. Dressed in a long-tailed black suit, he looked every bit the loyal servant—if not the head butler of the mansion itself. His reply came promptly, his voice polite and calm, though tinged with a hint of concern.
"Well, it's been going on for three hours straight now. I'd say the end of it is near. But sir, perhaps… it's time you left this mess behind and saw it for yourself? Being there for her, especially in a moment like this, matters too."
A short silence fell between them, broken only by another deep sigh from the man—clearly someone with a personal connection to the source of that agonizing cry. After considering the butler's words, the man leaned back in his chair, releasing another heavy breath, his eyes scanning the room around him.
It was messy. Scattered. It looked more like a young boy's bedroom than the office of a grown man.
He closed his eyes, as if weighing a decision. A moment later, he stood up, leaving his disorganized papers behind. Straightening the wrinkles in his shirt, he spoke once again in his usual firm tone.
"Alright. Let's go, Sebas."
Sebas stood immediately upon hearing his master's words, replying with a respectful, "Yes, sir."
Despite his age, the swiftness of his movements didn't match his years—it was almost like watching a trained athlete in motion.
They carefully stepped around the books and papers littering the floor, avoiding them as best they could. The clutter seemed to irritate Sebas more than he let on. The two left the room, and the very moment they opened the door, the scream outside hit them like a physical force—brutal, hideous, raw.
It was so intense, even the master's frozen features cracked—one brow twitching upward in surprise.
With the door closed, the sound had been muffled. Now, there was no barrier.
The man quickly regained his composure, his breathing calm and steady once more. He shut the door behind him and walked into the mansion's hallway, Sebas trailing close behind, his steps composed and full of dignity.
As they moved through the corridor, passing servants along the way, everyone bowed deeply at the mere sight of the man. Heads lowered, faces tightened with nervous respect. His presence didn't just command attention—it radiated sheer authority. One could say that fear and reverence walked in his very shadow.
And as he moved forward, face set in a stern mask, the screaming began to fade the closer they got to its source.
Was it because his ears had grown numb to it after hearing it for so long?
Or… had it finally stopped?
At that moment, the sound ceased entirely—vanished like it had never existed.
Relief painted itself across the faces of the nearby servants. Some even looked genuinely happy, as if something monumental had just occurred within the estate.
And somehow, it all seemed connected to him.
"Looks like it's finally over."
Sebas spoke from behind, a touch of happiness sneaking into his tone.
But the man didn't quite share his sentiment.
"Maybe. But nothing says it ended well."
Sebas blinked, caught off guard by the sheer pessimism laced in those words.
"Sir... I know it's failed many times before, but this time... just maybe, it'll work out. So please, let's not speak that way."
He spoke with a trace of sadness, a flicker of compassion in his voice.
That thing—that event—had failed before.
And perhaps, that's exactly why the man's heart had grown so weary, so doubtful.
But maybe this time was different. That hopeful suggestion from Sebas didn't seem to lift his master's spirits even a little.
Before the old butler could get any sort of response, the two of them arrived at the room—the very source of all that noise. The master didn't bother knocking, nor did he prepare himself for what might be on the other side. He simply opened the door and stepped in, with Sebas right behind him.
A soft, warm light bathed the small room, where three women were gathered. The moment he entered, one of them—an older maid not far in age from Sebas—looked up from across the room, a deep frown already on her face as she marched toward him.
"Oh my, if it isn't the master. Finally decided to show up after everything's already over? How cold of you."
Her tone was anything but respectful, the kind of thing no servant should ever say to their lord… which could only mean one of two things: either she was incredibly close to the man, or he wasn't the master of this mansion in the first place.
"You really ought to learn—there are times when you should put down those never-ending papers of yours and show some concern for more important matters, you know? I don't even understand how you can sit in that room all day. Doesn't it exhaust you?"
Her words came sharp and fast, each one punctuated with a jab of her finger aimed straight at him.
Oddly enough, the man didn't argue. He didn't bow his head or respond. He didn't even seem annoyed. No tension filled the air. He simply looked at her with that same blank, unreadable face of his. A face so void of emotion, you wouldn't even know if he was listening or just ignoring her completely.
That very look made the maid boil even more.
"What's with that expression?! You need to—ah, forget it! It's hopeless with you!"
She gave up. And judging by the way she did it—so naturally, so quickly—this clearly wasn't the first time she'd given him an earful.
If not for the unmistakable maid's uniform she wore, one might've mistaken her for his mother, or grandmother, or even his mistress, rather than a house servant meant to show respect and fear like the rest.
The two of them were… strange.
"Sigh… no changing that face, huh. Well, rejoice. It's a boy."
With a tired sigh, the maid delivered the news like she was commenting on the weather. But those words—simple as they were—made Sebas's eyes go wide, a spark of relief and gratitude blooming into a soft, warm smile across his aging face.
As for the master, it was only then that something in him shifted. The man who had walked in with all the emotion of a blank sheet of paper… trembled.
Most people, upon hearing that word—especially if it's their first child—would break into tears, smile until their cheeks hurt, maybe even laugh or cry or jump for joy. Congratulations would pour in like a wave.
But that didn't happen.
Instead, his crimson eyes—sharp and angled like a blade—drifted toward the center of the room, to the woman lying on the bed. Her face was completely changed, warped by hours of laborious screaming… and yet, she still smiled, holding the newborn in her arms.
The second maid, standing close to the bed, noticed the strange, unreadable look on her master's face. It wasn't what you'd expect from someone who'd just become a father… and yet, in those red eyes of his, there was a flicker of something—joy, hope, maybe even… fear.
She looked nervous at first, but eventually let out a sigh of her own.
"Pardon me, sir, but… are you sure you're making the right face? Shouldn't you at least smile a little? You know, the delivery lasted over three hours, and the baby came out perfectly healthy… so please, try to look a bit more cheerful!"
It seemed everyone had trouble with his expressions.
"Of course the baby's healthy. He's my son, after all," the man finally replied—for the first time since walking in—his voice cool, calm, and somehow proud. "Just because I don't look happy doesn't mean I'm not. I was born with this face."
Boasting like that, he stepped forward, gaze fixed on the baby still wrapped up in the arms of his wife. Her face was pale, her body clearly spent… and yet her soft smile never wavered.
"You did well, Fiona. You endured everything for the sake of our child."
He spoke gently to her, even though she couldn't muster the strength to reply. Her lips curved faintly, offering him a trembling smile in return.
She lifted the baby toward him, but her arms shook—too weak to hold him up properly. The man quickly stepped in, leaning forward and scooping the child from her arms. The baby passed from soft, delicate hands… to ones rough and calloused.
And at that moment—finally—he smiled.
"Ah—"
That soft smile—
It washed away the exhaustion on the woman's face like a healing spell.
A fleeting miracle, like a moment that only comes once every hundred years.
She let out a light laugh as her eyes fell on her husband's expression.
"Fiona, what's so funny?"
Confused by his wife's sudden laughter, he asked with a puzzled look.
With a tender smile, she replied,
"Fufu, it's nothing, Veldora. I just… liked your smile, that's all."
"...What are you talking about all of a sudden? I don't get it."
Simple words, but they were enough to chip away at the towering presence of the man known as Veldora.
And the embarrassed look that crept onto his face only made Fiona's laughter grow.
The same warmth and laughter spread throughout the room, infecting everyone present.
In that moment, it truly felt like they were one whole, happy family—
Free of sorrow, free of pain.
They say there's a cure for every illness.
And it seemed, for that man, his cure was right there beside him.
---
— Three Years Later, After the Child Was Born —
Once again in that luxurious mansion,
The head of the house, Veldora, sat in the same room as his wife, Fiona, who stood beside their son—
A boy who, even after all these years, still hadn't been given a name.
The loyal servant Sebas was there too.
The atmosphere was thick with tension.
Sorrow and unease painted everyone's face—
Everyone, except for the child, who had no idea what was about to unfold.
A heavy silence filled the room.
It wasn't the silence of having nothing to say—
It was the silence of people too burdened to be the first to speak.
Finally, Fiona broke it.
Her voice trembled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears—
As blue and deep as the midsummer sky.
"Is there really no other way…?
Veldora, I can't just give him up like this… I can't."
Veldora looked down at his three-year-old son.
The boy smiled at him—softly, innocently—
And that alone shook the man to his core.
Veldora let out a deep sigh, regaining his composure.
With a sharp, unwavering tone, he answered.
"I won't sacrifice our whole family. This isn't up for discussion.
Sebas, is everything ready?"
Trying to mask his pain with steel-like resolve,
He shifted the conversation toward the butler.
"Yes," Sebas responded quickly.
"All the preparations are complete. All that remains is—"
But before he could finish, Fiona stood up and cut him off.
Her tears now flowed freely, like a stream bursting from a dam.
"I won't let you!!
He's our son—our flesh and blood!
How can you even consider this?!
I know there's another way!
You have power, you have influence—use it!
Just… please… don't take my son away from me!"
Her words left the room speechless.
No one could speak.
Only Fiona's voice echoed—fragile and breaking—
As she cried and clung to the boy who couldn't understand why his mother wept,
Or why everyone looked at him with such sadness.
Still sobbing, Fiona held her child tighter.
Veldora quietly walked over and embraced them both.
Then, in a whisper only she could hear, he said:
"It'll be alright…
I swear on the name of Great Heileth—
If things go well… if we make it through this…
I promise, I will bring him back."
Fiona calmed down a little upon hearing those words.
But her heart… it didn't quite believe him.
It felt like something—some cruel twist of fate—would get in the way.
Still, she said nothing more.
Veldora gently took his son into his arms.
He looked into the boy's eyes—eyes filled with confusion, fear, and unspoken questions.
He placed his hand on the boy's head,
And a soft crimson glow began to radiate from his palm.
Then he spoke—his final words to his son, like a spell, a prayer, a command.
"My son... live for your future.
Fight for your right to exist.
Never bow your head to anyone.
Adapt, survive, and show your courage.
Always remember—true bravery isn't slaying lions for glory.
It's standing with the weak.
It's fighting for the voiceless.
It's toppling tyrants with honor.
We live in a world where feelings have gone numb.
A world where true friends are rare.
A world where the weak are devoured without mercy.
So fight—fight with everything you've got.
Never give in.
And I swear—I'll find you.
As long as you keep struggling to survive,
No matter what it takes, I will find you.
Just live. That's all I ask."
After the man's final words, the red light glowing from his hand slowly faded away.
And then—
The boy collapsed.
His once bright eyes turned pitch black and empty, like hollow voids that reflected nothing. Fiona let out a choked sob before her knees gave out, crumbling to the floor in a storm of grief.
Veldora gently picked up his son and, with a heavy heart, passed the unconscious child to Sebas. Just as he turned to leave, Sebas asked something... odd.
"Master… you still haven't given the boy a name."
The question caught Veldora off guard. He blinked, eyes drifting toward Fiona, who lay collapsed in tears. Then slowly, he looked up—
Toward the ceiling.
There, etched into the old wooden beams, was the family crest: a mighty dragon's head, eyes glowing pale white, painted in crimson and ivory.
His gaze dropped back down to the boy.
"...Shiro. Let's call him Shiro. Write that in the letter and leave it with him. Make sure it doesn't get lost."
"Shiro… Understood."
Without another word, Sebas took off—carrying the child, the letter, and the weight of a secret that could alter the fate of kingdoms.
He exited the mountaintop manor swiftly, making his way toward the distant port.
But when he arrived…
He was met with an overwhelming sight.
Armored soldiers.
Dozens—no, hundreds—gathered across the docks in tight formation, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. The air was thick with tension, the kind that precedes war.
"…Can't believe it's come to this," Sebas muttered under his breath, unable to hide the mix of awe and sorrow in his voice.
Still, he moved quickly, weaving through the soldiers, some of whom turned to eye him with cold, unreadable stares. There was no kindness in their gazes—but oddly enough, none dared to stop him.
As if they knew who he was.
As if they feared it.
He paid them no mind. His focus was set.
And finally, he found the one he was looking for.
An old man stood atop a small sailboat docked at the edge of the pier, his wild, silver beard fluttering in the sea breeze. The moment he spotted Sebas, he gave a rough wave.
Sebas hurried forward and handed over the child and the letter with a firm voice.
"Here. This is the boy—and this is the message. Make sure they stay together, and that nothing happens to him."
The grizzled sailor took both with steady hands, eyes narrowing as he scanned the child's face.
He nodded once.
Then spoke, his voice deep and gravelly like crashing waves.
"Aye. By the name of the Great Helith, I swear the boy and this letter will reach Wysperia safe and sound."
Sebas allowed himself a small smile.
"Good."
The old sailor didn't waste another moment. With surprising speed, he climbed aboard, adjusted the sails, and pushed off into the open waters.
Sebas watched in silence, the breeze tugging at his cloak.
"…Young Master," he murmured softly, "May you survive… and live free of the chaos our failures have left behind."
The boat grew smaller and smaller, disappearing into the horizon.
Sebas didn't move.
Not until he heard it—
The sound of boots.
Many boots.
He turned slowly.
There they were.
The soldiers.
Weapons drawn. Shields raised. They'd surrounded him completely.
And yet, as he looked upon the wall of steel and spears, Sebas didn't tremble.
He only let out a faint sigh and smiled—a tired, nostalgic smile.
"…So, this is how it ends.
I didn't expect to go out this way…
But I've done my duty.
That's all that matters."
He dropped his stance slightly.
Raised his hands.
"…Now come on then. Let's get this over with."
---
— Fifteen Years Later —
Far from that mountain manor—
Far from all the pain and blood that had once soaked its halls…
In a distant land, deep within the Kingdom of Wysperia, life was simple.
In one of the many vibrant villages spread across the kingdom's green heart, a field of golden wheat danced in the breeze.
And in the middle of that field sat a boy—
No, a young man.
Around eighteen years old, with jet-black hair that brushed his shoulders, streaked at the ends with sharp, snow-white strands. His eyes were crimson—deep, piercing, and filled with something unspoken.
A smile played at his lips, soft and mysterious, as he gazed up at the endless blue sky.
"…Blue, huh?
I don't know why, but it really calms me down.
Something about it… feels familiar. Like I'm connected to it somehow."
His voice was gentle. Thoughtful.
But before he could sink deeper into his thoughts—
"Shiro! Shirooo! Where are you?! Breakfast is ready!!"
A young girl's voice rang out through the air, loud and lively, breaking through the calm like a pebble into still water.
Shiro blinked.
Turned toward the sound.
There she was—standing by the fence with her hands cupped around her mouth, pouting slightly.
A chuckle escaped him.
That same easy smile returned to his face.
"I hear you, I hear you! I'm coming!"
He stood, brushing off the dust from his pants as the morning sun bathed the field in gold—
Completely unaware of the storm his existence would soon awaken.
The storm that once began with a red light…
And a forgotten name.