Raka rose from the simple wooden bed.
He moved slowly, as if afraid the world around him might collapse if he moved too fast. His bare feet touched the cold floor, a faint sound escaping as his weight shifted.
Real.
Too real to be a dream.
He stood still.
His body felt lighter than usual, yet strangely unfamiliar — as if it had been rearranged without asking for his permission.
His hand lifted to his chest.
His heartbeat was steady.
His breathing calm.
He was alive.
And yet, the sense of something being wrong remained.
Slowly, Raka stepped toward the window. Each footstep echoed clearly in the quiet room. He pulled the worn curtain aside, letting pale morning light wash over his face.
His gaze dropped to the street below.
Rows of stone and wooden buildings stood tightly packed together. Gas lamps still burned faintly despite the rising morning. People were beginning to fill the streets, walking with purpose.
At first, everything seemed normal.
A vendor pushed his cart.
A woman carried a basket.
Several children ran past one another.
Just like any other city.
Then, a man stopped in the middle of the road.
He opened a small book with a dark blue cover. Its pages trembled faintly as he read. The air around him shifted.
Symbols of light flickered briefly from the pages before shattering into tiny fragments. A thin gust of wind spiraled around his body, sweeping dust and dried leaves aside.
A few seconds later, the book closed.
The wind vanished.
As if it had never existed.
The man resumed walking, slipping the book into his coat and blending back into the crowd.
Raka froze at the window.
"He… used a book…?" he murmured.
Before he could fully process it, on the other side of the street, an old man staggered past carrying a sack. His face was tired. His breathing heavy.
No light.
No book.
Nothing unusual.
Just an ordinary person.
Near a bakery, a young girl read from a small red book.
A tiny flame flickered at her fingertip.
A few meters away, two workers lifted a wooden crate with nothing but their own strength, sweating under its weight.
Magic.
And no magic.
Mixed together.
Existing side by side as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"This is… a world where only some people are… chosen?"
Raka exhaled slowly.
He stepped back from the window, needing a moment to process what he had just seen.
This world was real.
Magic was real.
And everything functioned as if that were perfectly normal.
His chest tightened slightly.
Not from fear.
But from a question that refused to stay buried.
If they can do that…
then what about me?
His gaze lowered to the small table beside the bed.
The notebook lay there, along with a bottle of ink and a pen, positioned exactly as before.
It was his.
The book he had brought from Nexra.
Raka stopped in front of it, staring for several seconds.
Images from outside replayed in his mind.
Books being read.
Flames at fingertips.
Wind appearing and disappearing.
He reached out and touched the cover.
No strange cold spread across his skin.
No vibration.
No shift in the air.
Only the rough texture of old leather beneath his fingertips — stiff, worn, entirely ordinary.
Raka frowned.
He kept his palm there a little longer, as if waiting for something to happen.
Nothing did.
The book remained silent.
Just a book.
"So… it doesn't react here," he muttered.
Or perhaps…
This world itself was different.
Before he could think further, a faint sound came from outside the room.
Wood under pressure.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Raka lifted his head.
His hearing sharpened instinctively.
Creak.
A soft sound.
Then another, spaced evenly apart.
He couldn't tell whether it was footsteps or simply an old house shifting with age.
But the rhythm felt deliberate.
From the stairs.
Raka stood still, unconsciously holding his breath.
If it was someone, they were climbing to the second floor.
His gaze slowly shifted to the wooden wardrobe across the room.
Its left door remained slightly open.
Inside hung clothes with unfamiliar cuts, neatly arranged — as if prepared for the room's rightful owner.
He looked down at himself.
White shirt.
Dark trousers.
The black work coat he had worn from Nexra.
Too different.
Too clean.
Too modern.
Anyone seeing him like this would immediately know he didn't belong.
Raka swallowed.
"I need to change…"
He moved quickly to the wardrobe, choosing the simplest set of clothes he could find. Not the most striking. Not overly refined. Just something similar to what he had seen outside.
At least enough not to stand out.
He changed swiftly but without panic.
The fabric felt heavier than what he was used to, slightly stiff against his legs. Still, it blended better with this place.
The sound came again.
Closer this time.
Creak.
It paused. Then resumed — softer, as if the person walking had deliberately reduced their weight.
Raka didn't move.
He stood beside the wardrobe, eyes fixed on the closed door.
The handle remained still.
Yet the feeling that someone stood behind it grew stronger.
Silence thickened.
Then came a faint brushing sound. Like a palm touching wood.
Stillness.
A brief pause.
Knock.
Knock.
Two soft knocks.
Raka inhaled — not deep, not long. Just enough to steady himself.
He walked to the door.
His fingers wrapped around the cold handle.
He turned it.
The door opened.
Dim corridor light spilled into the room.
Two unfamiliar figures stood at the entrance.
The first was a well-built man in a long dark coat. His brown hair was neatly combed, though slightly disordered at the ends. Hazel eyes studied Raka calmly, calculating.
"Good morning," he said.
His voice was low, composed, polite.
He inclined his head slightly.
"My name is Marcus Rowen."
The man beside him leaned casually against the doorframe. His long coat hung loosely from his shoulders, partially open to reveal a white shirt beneath, the top button undone.
His black hair fell slightly over his forehead, carelessly arranged.
He glanced at Raka from the corner of his eye and gave a faint smile.
"Julian Wells."
His tone was light, almost relaxed.
Marcus shifted his attention back to Raka.
"We do not intend to disturb you," he said.
"However… a short while ago, a red light was detected near this house."
"We need to inspect this room briefly."
His tone remained polite.
But it was not truly a request.
Julian lifted a hand casually. "Relax. We're just taking a look. We won't tear your wardrobe apart."
"If there's nothing unusual," he added, glancing inside, "we'll be on our way."
"With your permission, of course," Marcus concluded.
Raka hesitated.
If they suspected him, refusing would only make things worse.
"…Please," he said at last, stepping aside.
Marcus entered first, his steps measured and nearly soundless.
His gaze swept the window.
The table.
The wardrobe.
The dim corners.
Nothing escaped him.
Julian followed more casually, leaning against the wall.
"Hmm," he murmured. "Neat room. Doesn't look like someone who hides things carelessly."
Marcus ignored the comment.
After several seconds, he spoke quietly.
"Julian."
A subtle weight rested behind the single word.
Julian straightened slightly. "Hm?"
"Use your magic."
Julian raised a brow. "Now?"
Marcus did not answer.
Julian sighed. "Alright, alright…"
He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.
The sound was soft.
The effect was not.
In an instant, the air shifted.
Light from the corridor dimmed as if swallowed by something unseen. Shadows spread from the corners of the room, crawling along the walls and ceiling.
Darkness.
Not ordinary darkness.
But thick black — like ink poured over the world.
The walls shimmered faintly beneath a thin layer of shadow.
All sound from outside vanished.
No footsteps.
No creaking stairs.
No whisper of wind.
As if the room had been severed from the world.
If they can create something like this… what could they do to me?
It wasn't fear.
It was the sudden perfection of silence.
Julian lowered his hand.
"Sound-sealed zone," he said lightly. "Nothing goes out. Nothing comes in."
He glanced at Raka and smiled faintly.
"Relax. Only the walls are locked. You're still safe."
Marcus gave a small nod.
"Now," he said quietly,
"we can speak without interruption."