Dormitory:
As the sun gave way to the moon, Aiden finished their meal and is now talking with the kids—telling stories about the mystery of the world.
After he was done with kids and urge them to sleep as it was already sleep time, the director who was on the side thanked him for taking care of the kids. Finally after a few minutes of talking the directory excused herself and decided to rest for the night.
While walking through the hallway he suddenly saw the contrast of this place between day and night.
The once joyful place, filled with smiles and laughter in the day, now seemed to hide a quiet sadness. The only source of light was the pale moon hanging high in the sky, ensuring a safe travel for others.
When he reached his room, he gently opened the door. It creaked faintly, and he closed it just as quietly to avoid disturbing the others.
His eyes landed on the book he had borrowed, resting at the corner of his table. He walked over and ran his fingers along the cover, tracing the title: Lightning Flame Sacred Book.
"What kind of book is this that it caused such a stir at the institute? Everyone's been trying to get their hands on a copy," Aiden muttered curiously.
As he opened the book and turned to the first page, his excitement quickly faded. What he saw was merely a low-level inscription—nothing that justified all the hype.
But then, at the bottom of the page, a small note caught his attention:
"This page has been translated from the
Ancient Blizzard Empire's script."
Still thinking little of it, he flipped to the next page.
His eyes widened.
The text wasn't in the ancient language anymore—it was written in the dialect of his village, an obscure language barely known beyond its borders.
His breath caught in his throat.
"…This can't be a coincidence," he whispered. "Why would a book from the Blizzard Empire… have my village's language in it?"
He turned to the third page with a trembling hand—and froze.
A bloody fingerprint stained the center of the page.
His body tensed. Hair stood on end. His heart thundered in his ears.
A whisper clawed at the edge of his hearing:
"F…Finger…Hold… Fin…"
The voice grew clearer and more insistent with each repetition, as if echoing inside his skull.
Just as his hand neared the bloodstain, a knock at the door made him jump—and a startled yelp escaped his lips.
"Aiden!" a voice called from outside, followed by another knock. "Are you okay? I think I heard you scream," the director asked with concern.
Aiden exhaled shakily, wiping sweat from his brow. He stood up, his t-shirt clinging to his damp skin, and approached the door.
He reached for the lock.
"DON'T."
The voice exploded in his ears. Aiden froze, heart pounding harder than before.
He looked around the room, but there was nothing there.
Background noise: "Aiden! Please open the door, the director is worried!"
Slowly, cautiously, he reached for the scythe mounted above his bed—a ceremonial weapon he'd never actually used. It felt cold and unfamiliar in his hands.
The silence dragged.
No movement. No breath. Just his own heartbeat.
Maybe it really was just his imagination…
The sounds outside that is getting louder and louder, which broke him from his focus.
He reached for the door again.
"STOP!!"
This time, the voice roared like thunder.
Without thinking, Aiden spun and slashed with the scythe in a wide arc—completely missing his intended target.
Instead, he accidentally sliced through the door.
In horror that he accidentally put harm to the director, he charges through the broken door and there.
An unearthly screech ripped through the hallway, that only he heard—sending a jolt of pain through his skull.
Then—he saw it.
A monstrous figure loomed in the dimly lit hallway, casting a terrifying silhouette by the window as the moonlight shone down upon it.
Its head resembled a massive rafflesia flower, its petals lined with twisted thorns and fangs dripping with black goo.
The creature was already in two halves—split cleanly by his accidental strike—but it still writhed, clawing at the ground in agony.
Aiden's knees wobbled, but he solidified his feet.
He tightened his grip.
He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't trained.
But something inside him refused to back away.
With a final shout,
As the creature wiggled he repeatedly drove the scythe's handle into the creature's core—ending it. And a essence was sucked in to the veins of the handle.
Which he didn't notice as he was still a mortal.
A fire then covered the corpse—reducing it to ashes.
Nothing was left behind, only the horrors it gave to Aiden.
The hallway fell silent.
He stood there, panting, blood on the blade and the broken door holding itself in half.
With a sigh of relief, the headache he felt earlier is finally gone.
He used the scythe as cane, the bed in hands reach, when he suddenly collapsed due to exhausting himself mentally in that ordeal.
What he didn't notice is that a blood flew from the door, where Aiden accidentally injured himself.
The blood reached his fingers and formed around his fingerprint. Then, it flew toward the book, landing on the page and creating a new mark in the center, seemingly signing a contract he didn't even know he was making.
Next day a new beginning started and a new legend is born
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