A Whisper in the Fire
The morning after the Mirror Trials smelled like rain and ozone. Celestara's skies had turned violet, a color that usually meant something ancient had opinions again.
I woke to the feeling that someone was breathing through my bones.
The Nihility Fire in my veins pulsed once—then spoke.
Child of Hel… and of the One-Eyed King. The Red Code awakens.
I sat bolt upright. "Okay," I whispered to no one. "That's new."
The walls flickered, mirrors rippling with unfamiliar runes—lines of crimson script that looked more like commands than language. The letters rearranged into a single phrase:
ACCESS: ODIN.PROTOCOL//LOCKED
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
The mirrors stayed politely silent.
Professor Vastel's Office
I barged into the ghost's classroom. He didn't look up from the cauldron.
"If this is another philosophical emergency, I charge extra," he said.
"Something talked through my blood," I said. "Called itself the Red Code."
He froze. Ink bled faster from his fingers.
"Repeat it."
I did. He frowned.
"The Red Code predates the academy," he said slowly. "Fragments of divine syntax Odin left behind when he tried to rewrite fate. They respond only to his lineage."
He stared at me, almost sorry.
"Congratulations, Valentine. You're now a living security key."
Ayaka, lounging on a desk nearby, perked up. "So if he learns to read god-code, does that make him dangerous or just loud?"
"Both," Vastel said. "The first fragment usually manifests as hallucinations or reality errors. Try not to sneeze when near glass."
"Great," I muttered. "Add that to the list."
The First Fragment
That night, the message came again. The mirrors in my room darkened, the runes spinning faster.
A voice, deep and metallic, filled the air:
If you would inherit the sight of the All-Father, open the Eye that Sees Within.
Pain burned behind my left eye. Light—crimson and gold—flared through it, showing layers of the world folding like paper. The entire dorm looked like a puzzle being reassembled.
Ayaka burst in. "Why is your face glowing?"
"Apparently, I just installed divine firmware."
I blinked. Lines of Red Code floated over everything—runes labeling matter, energy, and emotion. When I looked at Ayaka, the symbols spelled 'TRICKSTER—TRUST LEVEL: UNDEFINED.'
"I can read people," I said, awe mixing with horror. "Their hidden functions."
Ayaka's tails twitched. "Try reading me again and I'll redefine violence."
Unlocking the Eye
Over the next days, Vastel guided me through decoding the fragments. Each glyph demanded focus; each mistake could theoretically rewrite the hallway. I learned to overlay Red Code over Nihility Fire—to refine reality instead of erase it.
The result: a new ability—The Eye of Odin.
When activated, the world's data unfurled before me, threads of fate like strings of glowing text. By plucking them gently, I could nudge outcomes—mend cracked mirrors, stabilize alchemy results, even make Ayaka's pranks backfire by one step.
She called it cheating. I called it survival.
The Shadow of the Past
But with power came echoes. Each night, the voice grew clearer.
Son of the One-Eyed King. The Code hungers. Reassemble the Nine Fragments, and rewrite what was lost.
When I asked Vastel what "what was lost" meant, he only said:
"Odin's experiment ended the day he tore his own name out of the world. If the Code calls to you, it remembers that name—and it wants it back."
Ayaka listened in silence, tails still for once. "So the universe gave you homework."
"Apparently," I said. "Nine assignments. No deadline. Infinite consequences."
She smiled faintly. "Then we'll cheat together."
A New Path
At night, the mirrors around Celestara reflected fragments of the Red Code for the first time in centuries. Professors whispered. Students speculated. The Headmistress watched, unmoving, from her tower of stars.
And me? I stared into the dark glass of my window, the Eye of Odin faintly glowing.
The Nihility Fire purred beneath my skin, no longer just hunger—something closer to anticipation.
The curse is evolving, I thought. Maybe it was never a curse at all.