Quicksand of Fate

"Although it's an academy, it's just a training ground for reserve soldiers, focusing primarily on physical and tactical training. The missions at Sentinel Academy also take into account the cadets' personalities and individual skills. Given your unique traits, it's unlikely you'll be assigned to group missions. If your abilities align with the individual mission requirements, you'll likely be chosen for those, minimizing the need for you to interact with others."

Lorenzo's gaze was cold and unyielding, his expression a mask of icy detachment, which only urged Vittorio to continue his explanation.

"You know you can't avoid compulsory military service unless you're either locked away in an Psychiatric hospital or permanently incapacitated. So don't give me that look," Vittorio said, his voice remaining smooth but firm. "Think about it. Give it a chance. If it doesn't work for you, you can always withdraw, and I'll find a way to excuse you. What do you say?"

"You're lying."

It was true, but who cared?

Vittorio continued his lie without hesitation or shame, explaining his point of view.

"You are from the Accardi family; even if it goes against the rules of humanity, they won't keep you there against your will, especially if your father, general Riccardo, intervenes."

It was a lie, of course. The rules of conscription did not allow for withdrawal.

There was no escape, except for expulsion— which led to imprisonment or, in the most extreme cases, banishment from the human realm entirely. But Lorenzo didn't need to know that just yet.

What mattered was that Lorenzo went willingly, making the situation less chaotic for everyone involved.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Marcel, the cat, jumped off the table, followed by Sandra, and the two cats began to circle Lorenzo's chair, playing.

Finally, Lorenzo reached out and picked up the card. He turned it over in his hands, studying the elegant letters in silence.

Sentinel Military Academy—

and a text in a strange language:

'ᚢᚾᛁᛏᛖᛞ ᛁᚾ ᛋᛏᚱᛖᚾᚷᛏᚺ, ᚷᚢᛁᛞᛖᛞ ᛒᛇ ᚺᛟᚾᛟᚱ, ᚢᚾᛇᛁᛖᛚᛞᛁᚾᚷ ᛁᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚠᛁᚷᚺᛏ'

But he could understand it. As he read, he realized how naive and childish it truly was.

After finishing what he came for, and disrupted Lorenzo's morning.

"Please try to accept it," he said. "You know how your father is. Riccardo won't let this go if you try to avoid conscription; he might even get angry with you."

Lorenzo didn't answer. As Vittorio headed toward the door, Lorenzo kept staring at the card in his hand, leaning back in his chair.

Sandra meowed softly, jumping into his lap. Marcel continued jumping around, bothering Emilio, who was tidying up the mess. Lorenzo watched them calmly.

There aren't many options left, are there?

Annoying.

That was all he felt.

The silver letters on the card flashed in his hands, and the sound of the door closing echoed with a soft click. Vittorio's footsteps gradually faded down the corridor.

Lorenzo left the dining table and walked to the wide window that spanned most of the wall, staring out aimlessly.

The city sprawled before him, an endless sea of dull gray and white. The gleaming glass towers reflected a light that seemed too tired to shine, and even the sporadic patches of greenery appeared muted under the oppressive afternoon haze. He stood, motionless, watching as distant cars sluggishly crawled along the roads, their movements resembling those of ants—small, mechanical, and devoid of purpose. The world below felt as though it were nothing more than a massive, lifeless machine, its parts grinding together with no soul, no individuality, no merit.

He remained motionless for what felt like an eternity.

"Emilio," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Yes, young master?" The butler's voice came from the back, his movements halting immediately.

"Leave."

Emilio paused, confusion flickering across his face. "Young master, are you sure? Should I prepare something—"

"Leave," Lorenzo repeated, his tone sharper now, though devoid of real anger.

"Well, young master. If you need anything—"

"I won't."

With that, the butler exited without another word, his footsteps gradually disappearing into silence as the door clicked shut behind him.

A heavy silence settled over Lorenzo like a physical weight. He retreated to the living room and sank onto the couch, motionless, his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling above him.

He sighed softly, his fingers brushing through his disheveled hair, pushing it away from his face.

What a dull, lifeless world.

When Lorenzo finally lowered his gaze, he was startled to find a strange boy standing before him. But he didn't react. This wasn't the first time—and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

A boy—no older than six, perhaps even younger—stood before him. Thin, fragile, and caked with ash and blood. His clothes were torn, bloodstained, and his pale skin marred by scratches and bruises. His silver hair clung to his forehead in tangled, wet strands. His silver eyes—empty, lifeless—pierced through Lorenzo like shards of broken glass.

Their eyes locked. Neither moved, nor spoke.

Lorenzo blinked, his breath caught in his throat. The boy didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't even breathe. He simply stood there, frozen in place.