'Am I... in the basement again?' Kurian wondered, feeling two firm grips pressing against his head — one covering his eyes, the other his mouth — as complete darkness enveloped him.
After falling asleep, he had lost all sense of time, sleeping soundly like a baby. Now, having finally rested enough, and awaken, he found himself restricted by the familiar constricts from yesterday.
'Right now she must be...' he stopped mid-thought, unwilling to let the thought form. Instead, he recalled the lullaby Serena had sung earlier — a voice so beautiful it had lulled him into serenity.
He couldn't tell whether it was the melody itself or simply because it came from his mother, but regardless, that song had calmed his restless mind as he remembered something.
'Speaking of music, I remember my teacher once saying something about it…' The thought brought back a memory from when he was first taken under his teacher's guidance — a man of faith who still believed in the old gods.
In Ferdinand's world, gods were relics of ancient times, their names mostly forgotten and remembered only through categories: Warrior, Tactician, Artistry, and Fortune.
Ferdinand himself, however, was an atheist; he believed no savior watched over anyone, and that gods were nothing more than remnants of fading belief.
"You are not favored by any of the warrior gods, it seems," his teacher had once told him, before adding, "Rather, I sense the favor of a god tied to artistry."
Ferdinand still remembered the man's look of concern as he continued, "I'm afraid you are not a warrior by birth, Ferdinand."
Back then, his teacher had then led him to a portrait of a dancing god. It was an eccentric figure, one who looked wild and symbolic.
That deity pressed down on something beneath his right leg, his left raised gracefully, four arms in motion; two forming a gesture of balance, the remaining ones holding an hourglass-like object in one, and the other cradling fire.
"This dancing god appears to be the one who favors you," his teacher had said. "Though his name is forgotten, many call him 'the Lord of Dances'."
With a faint sigh, he had added, "Perhaps you are better suited to be a musician or a dancer. You can still learn to fight, but I doubt you'll surpass those blessed by the gods of war or strategy."
"I just need to train harder," Ferdinand had told himself, yet down the line, each sacrifice left him emptier, and joyless.
Shaking his head, Kurian tried to dismiss these old memories, focusing on the present instead. Yet the bitter echoes of those sacrifices lingered, swirling in his heart.
Just as the bitterness seemed to tighten its grip, a single name surfaced: "Eden."
It would be a lie to say Kurian possessed magic — in the usual sense, he did not. Yet this name, held close to his heart, carried a magic of its own.
"Eden." The name of his late wife, one of the most significant figure of joy in Ferdinand's otherwise joyless life.
Even recalling her presence made his eyes moisten and his heart swell with bliss. Yet, alongside the joy, there lingered a faint bitterness.
Kurian — or Ferdinand — had forgotten her face. Perhaps he had consciously sacrificed the memory of it when she died, leading to this forgetting.
He only knew of her presence, and that alone brought him happiness. But being unable to recall the face of his dearest left a quiet sting, a lingering ache amid the joy.
Still, it was enough to pull Kurian out of his bitter state, when a thought struck him: 'How about I sleep while I'm tied up and get some rest at these moments from now?'
At first, it seemed sensible; taking small rests while tied up. But… 'No, I cannot afford to waste even a moment.' He rejected the idea.
Like a perennial river flowing through out all twelve months, he knew that even a brief pause would mean stagnation.
Instead, he made a decision: "Though it is not yet time, I should begin training the Corporeal Eye, or at least, gain partial access to it."
Steeling his resolve, he exhaled softly, relaxing as he turned his focus inward. He sensed the faint strain around the knots that bound his eyes and mouth, concentrating on detecting even the slightest tension within them.
"...."
Nothing but a deafening silence filled the space, but that was to be expected. Even with experience of using the Corporeal Eye, his senses were far too weak to match even the slightest measure of his past skill, leaving him unable to access it.
Yet he did not feel disheartened — he simply needed time to grow, and tread in this new world with patience.
***
"Sorry if the knots were too tight."
After an unknown stretch of time, Serena descended into the basement and loosened the bindings around Kurian. As his limbs regained mobility, a faint numbness lingered in his muscles.
'It was a failure,' he admitted silently. The Corporeal Eye remained a distant goal — far beyond his current reach. Yet, his silence wasn't born of disappointment, but of a question that had been haunting his thoughts.
He looked up at Serena. "Mom."
"Yes, my dear?" she replied softly.
"Who is my father?"
Flinch.
Serena froze at his words; her jaw tightened, and through gritted teeth, she whispered in a barely audible voice, "A despicable man."
She hadn't meant for Kurian to hear it — her tone was faint, nearly swallowed by the air — yet Kurian, whose senses remained in a state of heightened sensitivity from his earlier focus, caught the words, or at least enough of them.
"Your father…" Serena continued after a pause, forcing a strained smile, "…he's a very busy man."
"Will I ever meet him?" Kurian asked.
Serena's expression turned perplexed. She wasn't sure what to say — on one hand, she knew such a meeting would be dangerous for her son; on the other, she felt his question came from innocent curiosity, a simple desire to know his father.
Though she harbored a deep hatred for that man, Serena misunderstood Kurian's intent, believing he merely wished to see the one who had given him life.
"Maybe someday," Serena replied softly.
"Was…" Kurian began, then hesitated, unsure if he should ask.
Serena tilted her head slightly. "Was what?" she asked softly.
Kurian's lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Was the man who hit you yesterday… my father?"
Serena trembled. Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened before she forced out, "No."
Kurian's gaze fell, his tone turning small and heavy. "I wish father was here."
Serena's breath hitched. "W–why is that?" she asked, her voice quivering.
"Because I'm weak," Kurian said, his eyes lifting with a strange, quiet conviction. "If someone strong were here… Mother wouldn't be hit again."
Serena's eyes widened, her heart twisting painfully. She exhaled deeply, though the sigh did little to ease the ache.
On one hand, she was relieved her son didn't yet understand the full truth — but on the other, she knew that innocence couldn't last forever.
Drawing him into her arms, she whispered gently, "Let us pray to the Sentinel."
"The Sentinel?" Kurian blinked, confused.
Serena frowned slightly, brushing his hair back. "Did you forget the stories I told you?"
"Hmm." Kurian folded his arms and shut his eyes in mock contemplation, trying to look deep in thought.
After a brief pause, he lifted a finger, his eyes lighting up with feigned realization. "Ah, the hero!" he declared proudly.
Of course, Kurian knew absolutely nothing about this so-called Sentinel. But since his mother had said, "Let's pray to the Sentinel," he could at least guess that it referred to some figure of reverence — perhaps akin to the gods from his old world.
'Maybe gods are called Sentinels here,' he reasoned. Yet even if he was wrong, he was certain of one thing — whoever the Sentinel was, they were figures of great importance… perhaps even heroes.
Serena, hearing his eager response, couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Alright then, follow my gestures," she said warmly.
Together, they prayed to the Mighty Sentinel of the New Federation — though by the end of the prayer, Serena asked for only one thing: survival.
When the prayer ended, Kurian began fidgeting, his fingers twitching and his gaze shifting restlessly. Serena noticed and asked gently, "What's wrong?"
"Um, Mom… I—" Kurian hesitated, his face tinged with embarrassment. "I want to hear the story of the Sentinel again."
Serena's eyes widened slightly, but when she glanced outside and saw the sky already draped in darkness, she sighed. "We should sleep. Come, let's get something to eat first."
"I promise I'll sleep if you tell me the story once more," Kurian quickly bargained, his tone half-pleading.
Serena raised a brow and tugged his ear playfully. "Oh? Since when did my son learn to negotiate like this?"
"Owowowow—!" Kurian whined, wincing as he squirmed under her grip. Then, looking up at her with genuine sincerity, he pleaded, "Please, I really want to listen!"
"Hmm..." After a moment of consideration, Serena finally let go, and Kurian rubbed his stinging ear with a quiet groan. 'Yeah,' he thought, 'I should probably do something about this weak body as well.'
***
"Eat up," Serena said softly, placing a small platter before him. The meal was modest — unevenly baked bread with a faint, sour scent, and a piece of roasted bird that looked like quail, though Kurian couldn't be sure.
He sat quietly at the rough wooden table, the single lamp flickering weakly above them. Just as he reached for the food, a faint breeze slipped through the wall's cracks, brushing against his skin and sending a shiver through him.
"—!!?" His body tensed as a rush of adrenaline struck; his heart pounded, every nerve snapping to high alert. The sensation, however, was eerily familiar.
'This feeling…' Kurian recognized it immediately — the same sensation he'd felt that morning when he'd heard the caw of a crow.
'Could it be…?' He turned his gaze toward the plate, and sure enough, the shape of this bird, it now resembled that of a crow.
A sense of unease welled within him as his Mortal Sense began to stir, struggling to form an image that refused to fully emerge. But…
He knew better than to fear every hint of premonition; it only lead to paranoia. Gritting his teeth, Kurian suppressed the rising nausea.
Mortal Sense demanded discipline — not only of fear and the psyche but also an unyielding balance between detachment and awareness.
A total of three images had already formed in his mind — one complete, the other two still taking shape. The first was vivid: a scene of human cruelty, of trafficking and suffering.
The second showed crows circling in a gray sky, and the third, faint trails of musical notes drifting in a skyless sky — not scattered at random, but moving in deliberate, purposeful harmony.
The first image that surfaced in Kurian's mind answered the question, why he was being sheltered from the outside world, and why his mother's life hadn't improved even after his birth.
He recalled the words of that brute from yesterday, the one who had sneered at his mother, had said: "The nobles would've paid a hefty price for those fine genes."
Serena was a strikingly beautiful woman, and naturally, there were those obsessed with shallow ideals of beauty who sought to breed with such people — believing it would grant them more "perfect" offspring.
The latter two images only showed the sky — they were visible, but the effect on the ground remained hidden.
Just as Kurian was pondering this, his mother handed him some meat wrapped in bread. He chewed cautiously, finding it tasted like a quail, while she explained, "Luckily, scavenging the streets, I was able to get this at a very cheap price."
At the word "scavenging," Kurian's jaw slackened as the second image formed in his mind: a gray, bruised sky, filled with expressionless crows circling above, their heads all pointed toward the ground.
Below them, other crows had already gathered around the lifeless body of a shadowed figure, their features as expressionless as the crows circling in the sky above.
Just then, Kurian's eyes were drawn outside, and under the moonlit sky, he saw a dark bird watching them for a moment before taking flight, 'Caw!' — its mournful caws dripping with resentment.
Suddenly, the second image began to alter itself, and the crows circling in the sky now seemed to carry an expression of resentment.
To be continued...
***
A/N: Alright, I think I've explained enough about Mortal Sense, so I will no longer explicitly state that certain scenes are related to it on the future.
Instead, I'll hint at it subtly, and I plan to use images as a narrative tool to convey Mortal Sense in the story, but there wouldn't be much.