The projection began to blur at the edges, colors bleeding like wet paint, but the sounds only grew sharper. The girl's sobs echoed through the darkness, warped and looping like a broken record stuck in grief.

  Her voice tore into him.

  "Papa… get up… please…!"

  Albrecht clutched his ears, but the sound didn't stop. His heart pounded against his ribs. Each breath came shallow, jagged.

  The dream twisted. Shifted.

  He was no longer in Vaelmont. Instead, he stood in a vast, black void where even his own shadow had vanished.

  The man—the girl's father—stood before him.

  And behind him, others emerged, thousands of people.

  Their faces were lost to the darkness, their eyes hollow, their mouths forever silent. A crowd of corpses gathered in the dark, all staring at him. Accusing. Waiting.

  Albrecht turned—only to find himself.

  Older. Taller. A stranger with his face. His hair was longer and matted with blood. His eyes were no longer the soft, curious blue… but a deep, burning red.

  In his hand, a sword. Still wet with something that shimmered darkly in the void.

  That version of him didn't speak.

  He simply smiled.

  Watched.

  And smiled.

  Albrecht screamed and woke up.

  Gasping, drenched in sweat, he shot upright, his hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

  The forest was still.

  Across the clearing, Thereon sat upright, watching him with a serious expression.

  Albrecht blinked, his breath still unsteady. He felt something sliding down his cheeks. He touched his face.

  "Am I… crying?" he asked, voice low, almost dazed.

  Thereon studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his gaze shifted upward.

  "No," he said. "It's just raining."

  Albrecht looked up.

  The sky above the canopy was dark and wide, with stars blurred behind a thin veil of clouds. He instinctively raised a hand, palm open toward the heavens.

  A few droplets hit his skin, soft and cold.

  'Just rain,' he repeated in his mind.

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  Was what he had seen just a dream—some cruel illusion born from guilt and exhaustion?

  Or was it something more? Perhaps a warning or prophecy…

  Maybe even a glimpse of a future where he would stand among corpses, blade in hand, and smile.

  Could he really become that man?

  "Alright! Let's do some training!" Thereon suddenly exclaimed, clapping his hands like an overexcited coach.

  Albrecht blinked.

  "What? It's raining and in the middle of the night. Also, I—"

  "There won't be a warm sunrise and friendly sparring matches when your enemies come swinging. You think they'll wait for good weather or consider your feelings?" Thereon snapped, voice rising like a drill sergeant.

  "Now get up and give me fifty push-ups! You're not made of sugar, are you? The rain won't kill you, but I might if you don't get your ass moving!"

  And that's how Albrecht ended up training in the middle of the night, his shirt soaked, muscles aching, and rain dripping into his eyes.

  Thereon never asked any questions, never pushed. It was obvious he was just trying to distract him, but honestly… Albrecht appreciated that.

  The weight of suddenly waking up in another world, of killing someone, of not knowing who he was becoming—it pressed down on him harder than any weapon could.

  But he wouldn't give up. If this world demanded blood to be spilled, then Albrecht would spill it.

  After all, he wanted to conquer the world.

  And if that dream really was a prophecy, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn't only a warning.

  Maybe it was a glimpse of a future in which he was strong enough to overcome anything standing in his way.

  It was a dangerous thought. A crazy one, even for him. He didn't want to become a mindless killer. He didn't want to lose himself.

  But not everything in that vision had to be bad.

  The next day, they picked up the pace and reached Branlow by the afternoon.

  The village sat just beyond the forest's edge, small and simple. At its center stood a modest town square, with four main streets feeding into it like spokes on a wheel.

  A few narrow alleys branched off here and there, but that was the extent of Branlow's urban complexity.

  What it lacked in buildings, it made up for in farmland. The surrounding landscape was a patchwork of sprawling fields, neatly fenced pastures, and weathered barns.

  It was clear that this was a place where most people worked the land and lived quiet, practical lives.

  Branlow's only inn was run by a man named Gareth, who Albrecht thought of as the major—though calling him that was a bit of a stretch.

  The village didn't really have an official governing structure. Gareth was just… the guy who collected the taxes settled disputes, hosted travelers, and made sure things didn't fall apart.

  The so-called town hall was actually just Gareth's house—larger than most, sure, but nothing grand. It served as an inn, meeting place, and courthouse all in one.

  To Albrecht, it seemed like the kind of place where nothing ever happened.

  'Finally, some peace,' he thought, letting out a quiet sigh as he stared up at the wooden ceiling.

  Thereon had already told him that they'd begin training the next day, so for now, Albrecht was simply lying in bed, savoring the rare moment of calm. The mattress wasn't exactly soft, but it wasn't gravel either—so he wasn't about to complain.

  Best of all, they had separate rooms.

  Which meant no sarcastic old man muttering nonsense in his ear. No smug laughter. No dramatic life lessons disguised as insults.

  Just silence.

  At least, that's what he had hoped for.

  Instead, faintly through the wooden walls, he heard something that could only be described as a dying animal crying for help.

  It was a flute, and Thereon was playing it.

  Albrecht didn't consider himself musically gifted. In fact, his music teacher once told him that had the rhythm of a malfunctioning clock.

  But even he could tell that the tones were all wrong. It was as if Thereon had taken it upon himself to wage war against melody itself.

  Albrecht buried his face into the pillow and groaned.

  'Of course, he plays the fucking flute. And, of course, he sucks at it.'