The Darkness Weaver

Charles sprang to his feet immediately, turning to look at the man he had collided with earlier. The stranger had light blue eyes and bright golden hair, now drenched with rain. His handsome features were sharp and well-defined, with a perfectly sculpted nose and a slight dimple when he smiled.

The two stood facing each other, wary but not quite hostile. Suddenly, that same premonition screamed in warning again. A deadly distortion appeared in the air, its boundaries now wider than before, large enough to engulf both the golden-haired man and himself.

When his instincts cried out, Charles immediately pushed the golden-haired man who stood close to him. Caught off guard, the man couldn't dodge Charles's action and stumbled backward, his face showing surprise, while Charles dove in the opposite direction. In that split second, faster than lightning, both men escaped the danger zone.

The distorted space manifested instantly, like a canvas torn apart by giant hands. It pulverized everything within its radius before vanishing into darkness, leaving only destruction in its wake.

Charles stared at it, his legs growing weak and numb. His thighs trembled. The devastation before him carved a deep terror into his soul. That fraction of a second, briefer than the blink of an eye, had determined the difference between life and death.

The golden-haired man who had been pushed away earlier witnessed everything as momentum still carried him backward. The scene unfolded clearly before his eyes, the destruction etched into his vision. After collecting himself for a moment, he realized that the brown-haired man who had pushed him had just saved his life. He turned and nodded in gratitude.

But before the brown-haired man could respond, his face transformed into an expression of shock and despair. This time, even without Charles's instincts, the golden-haired man sensed it immediately. Another spatial distortion appeared, far larger than the previous two, massive enough to swallow the entire ship.

Charles knew there was no escape this time. Despair crashed over him like a wave, surrounding him like an enormous cage. This lethal threat was too powerful for any mortal to escape.

In the split second before the ship's destruction, the golden-haired man lunged forward without hesitation, grabbing Charles's shirt. Even if it was their final effort, he refused to surrender to fate.

Suddenly, a gray mist materialized, enveloping both Charles and the golden-haired man. It formed a barrier against that deadly power. Everything else crumbled to dust, but the mist protected them like a miracle.

In less than the blink of an eye, both ships were destroyed. That spatial distortion twisted, compressed, and tore apart everything within range. Even the raindrops and seawater beneath the ships couldn't maintain their form. Everyone who had been fighting on the ships never realized they had already drawn their last breath.

The corpses were mangled in different ways—some torn to shreds, others compressed into dense masses. Some bodies had wood and metal fragments from the ship embedded in them, while others were twisted beyond recognition. Though their conditions varied, they shared one common trait: they were lifeless, devoid of consciousness or breath.

All pieces of the destruction fell into the sea. When the flesh touched the water, it turned the surface a brilliant red before fading away.

But two bodies remained intact. Having exhausted its power in protection, the mist gradually dissipated, leaving both men to plunge into the freezing sea. The cold air pierced their skin, their ears clogged with liquid, the salty taste of seawater flooding their mouths, and the scent of blood in the water stinging their nostrils.

The golden-haired man regained consciousness first, quickly finding a piece of shipwreck to hold onto. For Charles, however, things weren't so smooth. He thrashed about in the vast expanse of water, struggling to survive against the relentless giant waves. His hands and feet flailed directionlessly.

His lips drew in water instead of air, his body numb and aching all over. His hands searched desperately for something to grab onto but found only emptiness. His consciousness began to fade, everything blurring like an unfocused image, hope diminishing with each failing breath.

Cries for help escaped his lips, but only the howling storm answered. Charles felt his breath failing, his lungs burning as seawater rushed in. His body sank deeper like a man who had lost all hope.

But then... a large piece of debris struck his head with force. The impact split open a wound, blood trickling into the seawater before dissipating. There was no cry of pain, no shock—only fading consciousness. The last image before he blacked out was of the young golden-haired man swimming through the waves toward him.

"Ah!..." THUD!

Charles awoke face-down on the floor. He remained frozen in that position for a moment, allowing his consciousness to gradually return before pushing himself up to sit.

His bottom touched the floor as he leaned back against the bed, one hand gently massaging his head, anxiously touching the hidden scar. His skin could still feel the slight moisture on his forehead.

He looked around at the familiar walls, ceiling, floor, and furnishings. His racing heart calmed as he realized he was safe.

He slowly pulled himself up, his hands still trembling and damp with sweat. The previous dream remained deeply embedded in his thoughts, refusing to fade. It felt more real than any dream he'd experienced in his entire life.

The images of two ships amidst the storm at sea, the strange occurrences that had nearly claimed his life three times, the mysterious mist that had protected him, and the golden-haired man whom he had saved and who had saved him in return—all of it lingered vividly in his mind.

His weakened legs carried him to open the window. A cool breeze swept through, making the curtains dance. His skin welcomed the freshness as moonlight cast away some of the heaviness in his heart.

Charles walked to the desk in his room and lit the lamp. The light cast his shadow long against the wall like a stranger's silhouette. He took out paper, grabbed his quill pen, dipped it in ink, and began writing the first words:

Dear Joseph...

I hope this letter won't disturb your valuable time too much, but I urgently need your help regarding a matter. It concerns a dream I just had.

I dreamed of events amid a raging ocean, amidst pouring rain and thundering skies, as if it had truly happened. On two ships battling in the dark sea, I found myself there, along with someone I believe might have been you.

Then strange events unfolded. A mysterious power destroyed everything, until you and I plunged into the cold waters. Giant waves crashed relentlessly, and a piece of wreckage struck my head hard. The last image I saw before losing consciousness was of you swimming toward me.

This dream feels too real to forget, and I wonder if it might not be just a dream but rather a fragment of my lost memories, possibly connected to why my memories disappeared in the first place.

For this reason, I wish to meet with you to discuss everything. Would you please spare some time to meet and advise me, to help clear these uncertainties?

If you're available, I'll wait for you at the Two Flavors tavern one hour before closing time, for three consecutive days.

Respectfully,

Charles Ravencroft

Charles carefully rolled the letter before sealing it with deep red wax, stamping it with his seal. The candlelight reflected off the not-quite-dry wax, making it gleam like drops of blood. His trembling hand wrote the recipient's name on the outside: "Joseph Cavendish" in hurried script. He sighed, knowing he couldn't deliver the letter tonight as the messenger's office wasn't open yet. He would have to wait until dawn.

Setting down his pen, Charles lay back on his bed, trying to force sleep while waiting to welcome the new day. His heart still pounded with anxiety about what might appear in his dreams, his anticipation for his friend's answer mixed with uncertainty about whether everything might just be an illusion. But regardless of the truth, at least he would have answers soon.

...

That same night, in a location shrouded in mystery, people in dark clothing sat in a circle for a meeting. Their faces were obscured by dim lamplight, leaving only sharp eyes that watched each other intensely in the somber atmosphere.

"The raid will happen tomorrow night. Does everyone understand the plan?" the group leader spoke with a decisive tone.

One man raised his hand, asking doubtfully, "But they're cautious and vigilant. How can we be sure the attack will succeed?"

"Tomorrow, the suppression unit will join the attack plan. Plus, we have the seal key to cut off their escape route. Though it's difficult, the chances of success are higher," another answered firmly.

Suddenly, hurried footsteps rushed into the meeting room. A young man in dark clothing, breathing heavily, hastily reported, "Unexpected situation! The City Guard raided the orphanage in the nearby district. They... they've already fled!"

Commotion erupted throughout the room. Everyone began criticizing with angry voices, some pounding the table in frustration, others holding their heads.

Amidst the chaos, a tall, dignified figure rose from a dark corner. His deep voice cut through the tumult, "We must find where they're hiding, and we must investigate why the City Guard went there."

The group leader nodded before concluding, "We must send scouts to find them quickly. This organization is a threat we cannot ignore. We must eliminate it."

Everyone nodded in willing acceptance of the orders, though frustrated that the plan hadn't gone smoothly.

One member raised their hand, their figure suggesting they were a woman. "Should we recall the people we sent to watch that house, Chief?"

"No, have them continue surveillance," the group leader replied immediately.

Afterward, the members gradually dispersed into the darkness, preparing for their next mission.

...

Early the next morning, Charles woke at dawn and immediately grabbed the letter, heading straight for the messenger's office. He walked through small streets just awakening from silence. People were starting their daily work—some carrying baskets to the market, others shouldering tools to their jobs. Children ran and played with cheerful laughter, while food vendors' lively calls echoed from afar.

The private messenger's office wasn't far from his residence. It was a two-story wooden building painted a clean brown, with clear glass windows open wide to welcome the light. A wooden sign at the front was beautifully carved with the shop's name. A kind-faced elderly man swept leaves at the entrance before turning to greet Charles with a friendly smile.

Stepping inside, the scent of ink and paper permeated the room. Staff in brown uniforms efficiently sorted letters by category. Two or three customers queued at the long wooden counter in front, while wooden shelves were packed with envelopes awaiting delivery to various destinations.

"Good morning, sir. How may I help you?" an employee greeted with a smile.

"I'd like to send a letter to Joseph of the Cavendish family in the Royal Authority District," Charles handed over the letter and payment to the clerk.

"Of course, sir. We'll handle it with care. Rest assured the letter will reach Mr. Joseph today."

"If there's a reply, could you deliver it directly to my house?"

"Certainly, sir. We'll provide our best service. We hope you'll be satisfied with our care."

Charles nodded in thanks before leaving the shop feeling relieved, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. He headed toward the guild for combat training as scheduled, feeling energized and ready to give it his all.