As soon as I pulled the lever, I heard a dry crack, like wood snapping in the distance, and then the sound dissolved.
A magic circle formed beneath my feet, spreading in intricate patterns and arcane symbols that seemed to dance across the ground.
The inscriptions glowed in a bluish-silver tone, and a light began to rise slowly, enveloping first my ankles… then my torso… and finally, my entire body.
Axel, beside me, let out a low growl and shifted into a defensive stance. His ears flattened, the fur on the back of his neck bristling. His golden eyes, as loyal as they were alert, flickered with unease.
The light grew intense, almost blinding, until the world around us began to distort.
The trees, the ground, the sky… everything dissolved into blurred contours, like watercolor paint being washed away by a storm.
It all happened so fast. One moment I could feel the earth beneath my feet, the dampness of the forest in the air… and the next, everything was gone.
A sudden absence of sound, of smell, of wind. As if the world itself had held its breath.
I found myself somewhere else.
There was no gradual transition. No sensation of movement. Only the moment before… and the after.
'Teleportation magic…?' The thought cut through me like a blade of cold shock and fascination.
I had always associated that kind of magic with something beyond common reach. An extremely advanced, complex spell, restricted to those who had delved into the highest mysteries of the arcane.
Even Leopold, an archmage, used that kind of magic carefully, an instant snap of the fingers, yes, but I assumed that behind that gesture there was a long preparation, and pre-inscribed circles waiting for the final command.
And now… I had just activated one of them. With a lever. In the middle of a forest.
"This is insane…" my voice came out extremely low, still trying to convince myself nothing was wrong.
I began to reflect on the absurdity of it: the forest was vast, and the number of children and teenagers who participated in the Trial every year was enormous.
If each one had a different teleport point, and—at least as far as I could speculate—they probably did, then that meant hundreds, maybe thousands of magic circles scattered across the region.
But then the memories, blurred, began to surface. Like a gentle tide, images, words… feelings came back.
'Dracknum.' Of course. Why be surprised?
The family was not ordinary. Not new. There are records of that name dating back even before the kingdom's foundation. It was natural they would master this kind of magic with such mastery.
And although there were other places where magic circles were part of the land itself, of architecture, of tradition… great halls, structures designed to receive large flows of people, secret rooms, and so on…
Only in Dracknum would they be hidden so organically—inside tree trunks, engraved into forgotten stones, buried beneath fallen leaves, waiting only for the right touch.
I let out a long sigh. The heat of the magic still faded from my body, leaving a faint tingling across my skin, as if the laws of the world were trying to readjust around me.
The sensation was strangely comforting. Like waking up from a dream… only to realize that only now were you truly awake.
"I need to visit the library…" I murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. The sentence came out almost like a promise.
But I quickly forced myself out of the reverie.
My eyes searched the new environment. There was no forest anymore. No darkness, no damp leaves underfoot.
I stood in some kind of wide plaza, open to the sky. Soft golden sunlight fell over gray stone pavement, each slab carefully polished. There was life around: distant voices, hurried footsteps, the rustling of banners in the wind.
Behind me rose the outline of a colossal statue. I turned slowly, a shiver crawling up my spine as I saw its full form.
It was made of weapons. Swords, spears, broken shields, hammers, axes, daggers, and every kind of weapon imaginable, even hoes and pickaxes, all driven in as if they were piercing the same creature.
I remained silent. There weren't enough words to describe what I was seeing.
The image was raw. Threatening. Almost cruel.
And yet…
"Beautiful…" the words slipped from my mouth in a faint whisper, my eyes fixed on the colossal sculpture.
There was something deeply beautiful in that composition. A beauty in the scars. In the implicit history behind each broken blade, each chipped handle.
It was more than a work—it was a testament. A silent tribute to war, to pain… and to survival. But beyond that, something inside me vibrated just from standing before it.
Simply looking at it already meant a great deal to me. It showed I had left behind the unknown of the forest. Now, finally… I had reached civilization.
Axel sat beside me, calm in posture.
"I agree," said a deep, gravelly voice beside me, like stone grinding against stone. "It is truly beautiful. After all, it represents much of the family's history."
My body reacted before my mind did.
I instinctively stepped back. The forest had taught me well: when surprised, striking blindly was a mistake. Retreating, observing, that was the first step to survival.
"Looking at it always brings me memories," the voice continued, now lower, as if speaking to himself.
I lifted my head, shoulders still tense, and adopted a subtle defensive stance. Just enough to react if needed. But nothing happened. No hostility. Only his presence.
Before me stood a robust man, broad-shouldered, his musculature dense like the walls of an ancient castle.
He wore full black plate armor, ornate and engraved with the family crest, his physical traits similar to anyone with even the slightest drop of Dracknum blood. But there was also something in his eyes… a melancholic, almost reverent glint as he contemplated the statue.
'When did he appear? Better yet… where did Kyr'thas hide him? For him to show up like that out of nowhere?'
There had been no footsteps. No clinking armor. Nothing.
"I am glad to know there are still descendants with good taste and sound judgment," he said, still not taking his eyes off the statue. One hand rested almost habitually on the hilt of a long sheathed sword, while the other stroked the silver hair of his long, full beard.
Then he turned. His eyes met mine.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, as if only now noticing my expression. An amused grimace formed on his face, like someone who had just heard an inside joke.
"Sorry. I hope I didn't scare you too much." He smiled, his rugged face softening for a moment.
"Whenever I get excited I start talking too much… especially when it comes to nostalgia." He let out a rough, sincere laugh, scratching the back of his head, as if trying to hide embarrassment with a gesture that didn't suit his imposing appearance at all.
I kept watching him. 'How…? How can someone with such heavy armor and stature move without making a single sound?'
Each step he took was wide, deliberate. And yet… no metal creaking, no echo of weight on the ground. It was as if the world itself silenced itself to let him pass.
He seemed too solid to be a ghost… and yet moved with the lightness of one. The contrast was unsettling, almost unnatural.
Then, without warning, he approached. His hand landed firmly on my shoulder.
"Huh?" I let out, my muscles tensing in a delayed reflex.
Once again, he had moved too fast. My eyes hadn't even been able to follow him. As if time around him obeyed a different rhythm.
"Boy!" he said enthusiastically, his voice vibrating like a contained thunder. "Without further delay: congratulations on successfully passing the Hunter's Trial!"
"Thank you…" I murmured, still trying to keep up with everything.
His hand remained firmly on my shoulder, as if anchoring reality for me.
Axel, beside me, let out a long sigh and lay down on the stone plaza floor, resting his muzzle on his paws, eyes half-closed, looking more interested in taking a nap than worrying about the giant man.
"Tell me, boy," he continued, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Which one are you? Alexander… or Nikolas?"
"Which one…?" I frowned, confused.
"Alexander," I replied naturally. "But why the question?"
"OH!" he exclaimed, stepping back as if pleasantly startled. "So it was true you really escaped Thalaton's scythe?!"
"Escaped…?" I repeated, even more lost now.
"Or was it the other one…?" he said, hand on his chin, thoughtful. "Ah! Never mind, never mind…"
He waved it off.
"Anyway, boy…" he began again, more serious now, though no less talkative. "Due to… you-know-what… the patriarch ordered the temporary suspension of all trials. Long story short, we had to find a way for all of you to finish early. Either by completing it or failing it."
"What…?"
"Yes, yes," he continued, not listening. "You two really delayed us. We couldn't continue the ceremony because you stayed in the forest for more than six months. Six! At least you're here. But the other one…"
He made a vague gesture toward the horizon.
"Okay, okay… I get it," I tried to interrupt, raising my hands. "I understand."
"No, you don't!" he said, spreading his arms. "We even had to increase the number of crests! We had to create more teleport points! And even that didn't work. We had to clear the region so you wouldn't find any more magical beasts. And even then, you two managed to… stay longer than everyone else combined."
"But… why?" I tried again, but he was already going.
"And there's still the other one! Because of the father and now that damn Israel proving he's alive, we can't even conclude the ceremony! Everything stopped! Frozen! A complete mess!"
He paced back and forth like a frustrated general recounting a lost battle. Axel, who had been dozing, let out a soft snore and turned over, clearly more concerned with comfort than the heated speech.
"Why all this? Because we had to shut down the entire trial! Closed! Like a tavern on a day of mourning!" He sighed deeply. "Ah… I miss the days when everyone just did it in their own time…"
He fell silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the statue behind me.
"Not that I'm complaining," he added. "I'm just getting too old for all this drama—returning dead, lost children, interrupted ceremonies…"
He paused.
"I used to enjoy it when the only surprise was a kid crying at the sight of a magic moth…"
"…did that really happen?"
"Three times," he said seriously. "One of them fainted."
I stood there, trying to piece everything together. 'Escaped Thalaton's scythe? Well, considering what happened, I'd also consider myself reaped by the God of Death.'
Axel yawned loudly, stretching, and gave me a sleepy look as if to say: 'you deal with this guy, I'm just sleeping.'
I sighed.
"Sir… could you please breathe between sentences?"
"Ah! Right. Got carried away," he chuckled, scratching his head. "Old habit. Age comes, but the tongue stays sharp."
Without ceremony, he sat down on the cold earth.
From somewhere I gave up trying to understand, he pulled out a wooden cup. And from another equally impossible place, he produced a jug and calmly poured himself a drink.
"Boy," he said after taking a sip, "do you know what it means to be an old, tired man like me? With a wife, children, nephews, grandchildren, and most importantly… granddaughters to protect? Especially from hunters like the one you'll become in the future?"
'I never said I'd become that kind of hunter.' I opened my mouth to object, but gave up.
"Being stuck in this place for over three years… without even… without even a single drop of decent alcohol?! Not absinthe, not black vodka, not even a sip of draconic brandy! Not even the common Serpent Dandelion wine. Nothing!"
His voice sounded like he was describing a war crime.
'Since when are these considered light drinks…?' I was giving up more and more on trying to understand him.
Each word left me more stunned. It was as if the universe had decided to play a cruel joke on me right at my first encounter with civilization.
I knew those drinks. Not from experience, but from reputation. Legends in liquid form. And the last one he mentioned, Serpent Dandelion wine, was so strong that a single sip could make warriors collapse and bards forget their own songs.
And yet… he spoke of them like they were afternoon herbal teas.
"Boy…" he said solemnly, raising the wooden cup, "because of you, I've been drinking only water for the past year!"
He said it with such seriousness I almost thought he would cry.
And in a dramatic gesture, as if invoking the gods of drunkenness themselves, he squeezed the cup hard.
The wood creaked. It gave in under his grip like it understood his suffering. The liquid inside—perfectly clean, harmless water—shook gently.
"See…? Water!" he repeated, voice trembling, as if speaking a forbidden curse.
I stood there staring, my brain simply… freezing. It was too much. Too fast. Too strange.
Beside me, Axel snored peacefully, curled up like an old dog who had decided to completely ignore human chaos. At that point, I envied him.
I sighed, rubbing my forehead.
"Sir… with all due respect… are you sure you're okay? Mentally speaking?"
He turned his eyes to me.
"Mentally? Boy… after spending over a year sober, isolated in this hole, with nothing but trees, wind, and a pot of tasteless soup… do you think anyone would come out mentally intact?!"
"Soup without salt…" I whispered. "That's worse than I thought."
He pointed at me with the cracked cup, threatening and comedic at the same time.
"And you dare mock a thirsty old warrior?"
"I'm not mocking you, I swear…" I murmured. "I'm just… trying to understand…"
"Understand…" he spat on the ground, an extremely unknightly act.
"Living surrounded by a bunch of moody, crying, dirty, complaining children and teenagers… who can't do anything but scream at each other! No hierarchy! No age respect! No codes! It's like living in a pen of wild beasts!"
He gestured so wildly the water almost spilled.
"It's something that would drive anyone insane. Even more so when the most beautiful person in that whole place is a damn squire."
I blinked. "A what?"
"A SQUIRE!" he yelled, as if blaming me was natural. "There are no women here! And the only hope a man has of having the slightest hint of a feminine feature is a FUCKING bearded man… with accentuated buttocks!"
I stood motionless. Each word was a new bomb dropping without warning. And he wasn't finished yet.
"And the worst part…" he continued, voice breaking with despair. "The worst part is having to wait for the damn fool to shave his beard… just to see if the face helps the illusion…"
He paused.
"Having to pay another man to shave his beard and wear a dress…" he shook his head, lost. "How far have you made me fall…"
'Damn…'
I stood there, caught between disgust and pity.
And then it hit me. There I was. Dirty, exhausted, fresh out of the forest. Marked by scars, internal and external. And the first living soul the world gave me…
was this man.
This man. With more stories behind an empty cup than anyone I had ever encountered—whether in reality or in Alexander's memories.
I had barely arrived and already wanted to go back to the forest.
'Why… why is my first interaction with a human after so long… someone so… so… so… unique?'
'Is this some kind of extra trial? Or is this old man an emissary of Sylas?'
I looked at the cloudy sky.
Gods… this is personal, isn't it?
Unaware of the weight of my despair, he simply smiled. And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, extended the cup—actually a smaller one now—in my direction.
"Want a sip?"
"It's water."
"But it's the best water I've ever hated drinking."
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath.
It was official: civilization was disguised as an asylum.