Torn threads

Sartor finished every bite of the meal that had been brought to him. It was the first time he'd ever cleaned his plate… as if he had been born anew.

He closed the lid and returned the dishes to the cart before stepping out, still savoring the flavors of the first meal he had ever truly tasted.

"I should ask Yasmin to prepare a breakfast like that again tomorrow… The eggs were rich, with a scent that stirred the appetite—like a garden of herbs. And the bacon? It was an explosion of flavor—spices I've never known. The salad brought everything together perfectly. I won't forget that dessert. She may call it 'bread'… whatever it is, it's the best thing I've ever eaten. Not that I've eaten much. But still."

He was muttering to himself as he walked toward the dōjō, not noticing that he had reached it without breaking a single drop of sweat—something that had never happened before.

Sartor couldn't ignore the warm, unnatural calm that surrounded the castle. There were no animals. No insects.

Many times, he thought he heard birdsong—only to realize it was his imagination.

The trees looked real. The wind moved naturally.

And yet… there was not a single living creature. Even insects. None.

Something was wrong with this place.

It was impossible for plants to thrive without a whole chain of life around them.

Like the rest of his questions… no answer came… until he found himself standing in front of the dōjō door, lost in thought.

Sartor paused for a moment before the entrance to Tian's home, slowly turning to glance back at the path he had taken.

There was no panting. No exhaustion. No pain.

As if the body that had always failed him… had finally begun to wake up.

—

"Come in."

Just like the first time, the invitation came from inside, as though the home's resident had sensed his presence long before he'd arrived or knocked.

Sartor stepped in.

But this time, he didn't linger on the symbols carved into the walls, nor on the scent of wood that had become a standard for all other woods he'd encountered.

Instead, he went straight to the dōjō.

He had questions. And he wanted answers.

Tian was sitting, but as Sartor approached, he turned to face him—already seated, as if he hadn't moved at all.

His motion was fluid, as though he'd been in that position from the start.

—

"Welcome, my dear student. Are your muscles still crying? Did you weep a little? If a girl like the princess carried me… I'd die from shame!"

He followed it with a warm-hearted laugh.

Sartor's cheeks flushed, but he wasn't so easily deceived.

—

"No thanks to your drink… or maybe it was that punch. I feel like I've been born again."

Tian didn't reply.

He stood, placing a hand over his face, hiding his chin and mouth—deep in thought, it seemed.

But Sartor caught the faintest trace of a mischievous smile behind that hand.

—

"I don't think I did anything. That was all your hard work. All I did… was speed things up a little."

Sartor realized Tian had no intention of giving him a straight answer.

But his body language, his expression—it was as if he was laying the truth out on a silver platter.

So perfectly, in fact, that Sartor began to wonder…

Was he being fed a false trail?

…

While Sartor was trying to decipher the master's hidden meaning in the dōjō, the Kaiser was combing through the library shelves.

After rearranging dozens of books, he opened a secret panel in the wall.

Behind it lay a small room, sealed in chains.

The walls were layered thick with wards and sigils.

He leapt among the chains—horizontally, vertically, even sideways—until he reached the center of the chamber.

From around his neck, he removed a pendant, and placed it into a carved hollow in the floor.

As soon as he did, a glass casing rose from below, within it, a book, wide open on an elegant stand.

He murmured strange words, then uttered a name:

"Isabella."

As he spoke the name, the door behind him sealed shut, leaving him alone with the book.

Its pages slowed, turning less and less, until they finally halted, and symbols began to appear—one by one, forming strange writing.

But the Kaiser overlooked—or rather, chose to ignore—something else entirely…

In his shadow, a faint flicker.

As if some alien color shimmered through it—an eye… opened.

Then shut again.

There was no sound. No echo.

But something in that room took a breath… and then, once again, fell still.

The Kaiser didn't turn around.

Perhaps he hadn't noticed.

Or perhaps… he knew exactly what had awakened in his shadow.