High above, on an upper deck overlooking the laboratory, three figures watched in silence. From that height, they could see everything—the capsule, the web of cables, and the scientists below, all moving like shadows in a silent theater.
The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that comes before something irreversible.
One of the figures stood at the center—tall and lean, his pale complexion almost ghostly under the sterile light. Medium-length brown hair framed his face in soft, layered waves, brushing lightly against his collar.
His calm, near-vacant brown eyes reflected an unsettling stillness, like a lake so still you'd never guess its depth.
He wore a high-collared gray coat, buttoned halfway, with faintly glowing blue lines tracing along its sleeves and hem. Draped across his shoulders was a detachable white overlay, half lab coat, half cape, fastened by polished silver clips.
Beneath it, a black compression shirt hugged his frame, marked by subtle silver accents. His pants were sleek, built for motion, paired with reinforced black boots that gleamed faintly at the toes and heels.
In one hand he held a clipboard; in the other, a red pen.
"It appears the test subjects, Amy and Sera, were unable to synchronize with the Lacrima," James said softly, feigning disappointment.
Beside him stood another man, rougher, sharper, and far less composed. His messy black hair was spiked unevenly, as though he'd cut it himself. His steady brown eyes carried a quiet intensity, the kind forged through battle, not study.
He wore dark red combat leathers reinforced by a half-breastplate over his left side. The crimson metal caught the dim light like dried blood. Armor plates shielded his forearms and elbows, their black straps worn and scuffed from years of use.
His trousers were reinforced at the knees, tucked into heavy, metal-shod boots built for movement and war.
"Unfortunately, it would appear so,"
Alexander Redmaere, Alex
said dryly. "Guess I won't be witnessing the birth of an artificial mage anytime soon."
James glanced at him. Alex met his gaze. For a moment, their expressions were unreadable, then both men broke into laughter.
"Ha…hahaha!"
"Ahahahaha!"
Their laughter echoed through the chamber, sharp and cold. After a moment, they wiped their eyes and composed themselves again.
"Now that we're on the topic," Alex said, his tone turning curious, "what exactly are 'Children of the Night'? And how do they differ from artificial mages?"
James smiled faintly. "As you may know, I believe humanity must be reborn in darkness, through controlled suffering and engineered adaptation," he said, voice calm but burning with conviction.
"I don't hate humanity… I'm simply perfecting it."
Alex said nothing. He'd heard this before. James saw pain and trauma as catalysts—forces that strip away weakness and refine strength.
That was the purpose of Project Requiem: to recreate that natural process of evolution artificially, to forge power through suffering.
Rex's words from the past echoed faintly in Alex's mind:
"Every generation of mages surpasses the last… not because they're born stronger, but because they're forced to face worse battles.
Children who endure trauma, war, and loss—those are the ones who awaken powers older mages could never touch."
That was the foundation of the "Children of the Night."
They were born through pain, designed to endure, their bodies remade through Lacrima implantation, their minds conditioned and stripped of fear.
They were evolution given form.
"To put it simply," Alex muttered, "Project Requiem carves away the weak—and births a new order of mankind."
James nodded approvingly. To him, the "night" represented creation's womb, where old humanity dies, and new humanity is born. Destruction and rebirth as one continuous act.
He didn't see it as killing or corruption. To him, it was salvation. He was burning away the impure to save what remained.
Even the name, "Requiem", reflected his ideology. A song for the dead, and a hymn for the reborn.
James doesn't just want stronger mages—he wants to reshape the world. He sees humanity as weak, flawed, incapable of handling magic.
Project Requiem is his answer—to create a new breed who can wield it perfectly, without rejection or chaos.
James looked back down at his clipboard, jotting notes with quiet precision. "Humanity, as it stands, cannot survive the magic age," he said softly. "So I will build a new one."
His tone wasn't malicious, it was righteous, almost noble.
Alex tilted his head. "So, what now, boss? Do you want me to get rid of the kid?" he asked, a small, cold smile creeping across his lips.
Of course, he meant Amon.
To Alex, if children twice Amon's age couldn't survive the experiments, a frail five-year-old didn't stand a chance.
James didn't respond right away.
Instead, his thoughts drifted — back to that brief encounter he'd had with Amon. They had met only once, but for some reason… the memory lingered. The boy had left an impression. A heavy one.
"Not yet," James finally said, his voice calm but tinged with something dark. "I have no evidence to prove it… but if I'm right, that boy might one day become as warped and twisted as I am."
A faint, sinister smile curved his lips.
"What do you mean, boss?" Alex asked, frowning slightly, not quite understanding.
James didn't answer. Instead, he turned his gaze to the third man standing a few feet away. "What do you think, Rex?"
Rex stood in silence.
He was tall, around 175 centimeters, with golden-blonde hair that flowed neatly down his back. His sapphire-blue eyes shimmered like still water — calm, but deep enough to drown in. He wore a sleek, form-fitting suit, something between a battle uniform and a lab coat — practical, refined, and suited for both the mind and the field.
"…"
"Rex?" James repeated.
"...." No reply came.
"Tch. Leave him be," Alex muttered, crossing his arms. "He's acting like a bitch right now."
James let out a quiet chuckle. "I suppose he always did care for those children… despite them being nothing more than test subjects."
He didn't deny Alex's words, nor did he care much for the state of his subordinates' hearts.
But Rex still didn't move. His hair had fallen over his eyes, masking his expression completely.
James shrugged and turned away. "No matter," he said, dismissively. His eyes wandered back down — to the floor below, to the boy.
---
Amon knelt beside the small, bloodied body of his friend.
His mind was breaking. He could feel it, like glass cracking under pressure.
His breath came out in ragged bursts. His chest tightened, his throat dry as sand.
'W-What is this…!' he thought, trembling. His hands were soaked in blood, warm and wet. He pressed one against his chest.
'This feeling… this pain!' His breath hitched.
'I've never felt it before… it's like there's a hole in my heart!'
He clenched his fist tight against his chest as if he could hold himself together.
A dark, black aura began to leak from his small frame.
It shimmered faintly, the same energy that had appeared when he first met his aunt, Nyx, though weaker, wilder. His hair stayed still, but the air around him seemed to bend, trembling with unseen weight.
The sound of chains echoed faintly in his mind — crack… crack… — like something deep inside was breaking.
Amon dropped to his knees, clutching his head, his fingers digging into his scalp.
James' eyes widened from above, his face twisting in surprise. "Impossible…"
Alex leaned forward, stunned. "That—! That's his magical aura?! But that shouldn't even be possible!"
"Not necessarily," James muttered, regaining composure, his gaze never leaving the trembling boy below. "Most wizards awaken their magic when they're young — between five and ten. It happens when their bodies first become capable of producing and controlling Ethernano, the magic energy in the air."
He paused, voice growing more analytical, like a scientist dissecting beauty. "Some are born gifted. Others… awaken through suffering. Fear. Anger. Loss. Desperation."
He looked down again. "This boy is no exception."
"When a child experiences something so intense their mind can't contain it, their magic erupts on its own. Instinctively."
"Sometimes they set fire to everything around them. Sometimes they break walls without touching them."
His tone softened, not with pity, but fascination. "The awakening is only the first step. Control takes years. But still…"
His eyes narrowed, intrigued. "No other Child of the Night has awakened their aura before. To think that at only five years old, this one could do it—"
He smiled faintly, the corners of his lips curling upward. "—and without screaming in pain."
"Amon…"
The voice was faint—barely a whisper, trembling and weak. Almost no one would've heard it. But Amon did.
His head snapped toward the sound.
Ten feet away, slumped against the cold wall, lay a boy with brown hair, older than Amon. Blood pooled beneath him, glimmering dark red under the sterile lights.
Amon froze. His eyes widened, his throat locked up. The black aura flickering around his small frame pulsed faintly, reacting to his spiraling emotions.
"Sera!"
He bolted forward, not a run, but a sudden, desperate dash. In the blink of an eye, he was at Sera's side.
"Hey! Are you okay? Talk to me!" Amon shouted, voice cracking. He dropped to his knees, trembling hands reaching out… but stopping just before touching him.
The moment he saw Sera's eyes, open, yet fading, his heart twisted.
"Haa… haa…!" Amon gasped, clutching his chest. His breathing turned ragged, shallow. His mind screamed at him to do something, anything—but his body wouldn't move.
'If… if I don't help soon… he'll…'
'Sera will die…'
His pupils trembled, distorting slightly as his gaze darted toward the far end of the room.
Ten scientists stood there, scattered across the chamber. None of them moved. Their white coats glowed faintly under the cold light, faces blank, detached. The air was silent except for the hum of the machines.
"Someone please!" Amon cried out, his voice breaking. "Help my friend! He's still alive!"
"...."
No one answered.
"Please!" he shouted again, tears streaming down his face. "You can use my body instead! Take my arm! Take my leg!"
He pressed both hands against his chest, trembling.
"TAKE ANYTHING YOU WANT! YOU CAN HAVE IT! JUST—PLEASE—"
His words dissolved into sobs. "Please… save him…"
The black aura surged violently around him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Strange, glowing tears, half energy, half emotion, fell from his eyes, sizzling as they hit the floor.
He was losing control.
As a child, Amon has spent most of his life learning things. He was infatuated by the most simplest of things in life
This is why he mainly spent time reading and learning things. Because he loves learning new things to an obsessive degree.
As a result, he never bonded with anyone his age. The only person he had a connection with was his mother.
He never learned how to connect with kids his age, never learned what friendship is. This is why he was such a complex person.
Maybe that's why he didn't understand it, why he didn't understand the pain of losing it.
And now, as that strange, raw emotion tore through him, something in his mind cracked.
Voices echoed inside his head—cold, clinical, familiar.
>When you've seen enough corpses, one more doesn't matter."
"Don't look at me like that, subject. You were never meant to leave here."
"Do you know how many failed before you? You're replaceable."
"You should be grateful, you'll advance humanity, even in death."
"Children die every day. At least this one serves a purpose."
They overlapped, louder, sharper, until they drowned out his thoughts entirely.
"You think your life matters? It's already been sold to the project."
"They always cry before the transformation. Predictable."
"You're asking for help? You're an experiment, not a patient."
"If the subject breaks, we'll dissect what's left."
Amon's eyes widened in horror.
He could hear them, all of them. Their voices, their thoughts, their apathy. Every cruel, detached word echoed through his skull like a chorus of ghosts.
And in that moment, something deep within him began to awaken.
This was one of the drawbacks of Amon's First Sense of Creation.
What was this ability, exactly?
The First Sense was Amon's primordial perception — the embryonic form of a power that transcended normal magic.
While most mages manipulate Ethernano externally, through casting, shaping, or embedding it into matter, Amon's "First Sense" worked inwardly.
It allowed him to perceive and interpret the very essence behind creation itself.
In simpler terms:
Amon didn't just sense magic.
He sensed the intention, the emotion, and the existence woven into it.
He could "see" the truths that others buried — the invisible threads of life, pain, and will that tied the world together. But that clarity came with a cost.
When exposed to too much raw emotion — fear, despair, death — his soul was overwhelmed. His mind drowned beneath it.
That's why his chest grew heavy around suffering. Why did his head throb when others wept?
His soul simply wasn't mature enough to filter it all out.
It was like a newborn trying to process every sound in the world at once.
"Haa… haa… haa…!!"
The more Amon heard the thoughts and emotions of the scientists — their cruelty, their indifference — the faster his breathing became.
Above, James watched the unfolding chaos with a wide, trembling smile.
'Incredible… this boy… this child... he's unlike anything I've ever seen.'
His pen scratched furiously against the clipboard as his grin widened into something manic, unhinged.
'A living, breathing anomaly!'
His eyes gleamed with obsession as he muttered to himself, voice trembling with excitement.
"It appears the boy's magical aura is directly linked to his emotions… but is there a limit? And if he has such an ability, then why does he have it? Why him?!"
Each question only deepened his thrill.
James's goal was simple — to birth a new humanity, one stripped of weakness and fear.
And if Amon represented the next step, then Project Requiem was already a success.
Today, he would witness the birth of an artificial mage.
"Calm down, James…" he muttered under his breath, exhaling shakily. "You can only get so excited before it becomes… unprofessional."
He chuckled softly to himself. "Haa… you're such a masochist."
Down below, Amon trembled.
"It hurts… it hurts…" he whispered.
"IT HURTS!"
His aura surged violently, engulfing his small body. The air cracked. The floor beneath him splintered under the pressure.
And then — a soft touch.
A trembling hand rested atop his head.
"It's okay… Amon…"
That gentle voice cut through the chaos. Amon's eyes widened.
"S… Sera…?" he choked, tears blurring his vision.
"I… I don't understand…" His voice trembled. "Why do you and Amy have to suffer? This wasn't supposed to happen! I was the one who was supposed to die today!"
He clenched his fists, shaking.
If there was one thing Amon was prideful of, it was his high intelligence. For as long as he could remember, he was smart.
If there was one thing that never fell to him. It was his intelligence
So why…
Why was he wrong?
Why were they dying instead of him?
Amy and Sera, siblings who only wanted to protect each other.
Family.
Why did they have to suffer for his mistakes?
Sera coughed, blood dripping down his chin. But somehow… he smiled.
Even as his body gave out, he forced the words past trembling lips.
"Thank you… for being my friend."
His hand slipped from Amon's shoulder, falling softly to the ground.
'Amy… Sister… I failed you…'
Those were his last thoughts before his eyes closed for the final time.
Sera — age ten — a boy who only wanted to grow strong enough to protect the one he loved.
Died.
Amon didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't cry.
He just stared, frozen in disbelief.
Then—
Clink.
A single chain echoed through his mind — the sound of something ancient and sealed deep within his soul breaking free.
From that void, a faint, tender voice whispered:
"I love you… my sweet little crybaby…"
And then…
"A—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
It wasn't a roar.
It wasn't anger.
It was grief — raw, tearing, unrestrained grief that shattered into madness.
A scream that began as a child's cry and ended as something inhuman.
BOOM!
...
Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying Amon's journey, don't forget to hit Add to Collection so you don't miss the next chapter. Every collection helps this story grow!