A memory. 

A memory from the distant past yet so vivid it felt untouched by time, as clear as spring water running over smooth stone. It carried a scent with it. One the boy loved deeply. The smell of aged paper and ink, of wood and dust, and silence layered upon silence. It was the smell of a library. 

It was always the smell that came first. 

Before the images. Before the voices. Before the warmth in his chest and the faint ache that followed it. 

Rows of towering shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, their spines packed so tightly together that no wood was visible between them. Some books were new, their covers smooth and unblemished. Others were ancient, their leather cracked, their titles barely legible, their pages yellowed by centuries. Light filtered in through high windows, turning the floating dust into drifting constellations. 

And in the middle of it all walked a boy with his face buried in a book. 

He was small then. Too thin. Too quiet. His dark skin contrasted softly with the pale pages he held, fingers gripping the worn edges of the cover with reverence, as though the book were something fragile, something sacred. His eyes moved quickly, absorbing every word, skipping nothing, missing nothing. To him, the world within the pages was not an escape. 

It was reality. 

“Is it that good?” a woman asked beside him. 

Her voice was warm, amused, carrying the quiet affection of someone who already knew the answer. She watched the way his steps unconsciously matched the rhythm of his reading, how each turn of a page aligned with a shift in the story’s tension. 

The boy nodded without lifting his gaze. 

They left the library together, stepping into the afternoon sun. The world outside was alive with sound cars passing, people talking, wind moving through leaves but to the boy, none of it existed. His entire universe was contained within ink and paper. 

The tension in the book rose. 

So did his heartbeat. 

His pace quickened, careless now, drawn deeper and deeper into the story. One step too far. One moment too late. 

Suddenly, he was yanked backward. A vehicle tore through the space he had been about to occupy, its horn blaring sharply as it sped past. The rush of displaced air brushed against his face. 

“Mom…” the boy said softly, finally looking up. 

She exhaled, relief and fear crossing her eyes before she masked it with a gentle smile. 

“You tend to get sucked into books,” she said. “And that’s not a bad thing.” She knelt, picked up the book he had dropped, and placed it back in his hands. “But you have to remember that you’re not the only thing in the world. Other people exist. Other things move. You have to stay aware of your surroundings, even when your mind is somewhere else.” 

The boy hesitated. 

“Do you think… stories ever come true?” he asked. “Not the good parts. The parts where someone appears, and everything changes. Where the world stops being the way we know it.” 

She studied him for a moment, as if sensing something beyond his years. 

"Some people are born carrying storms inside them,” she said quietly. “And when they walk into your life… nothing stays the same. Not always for the worse. But never the same.” 

He didn’t understand. Not then. So, he only nodded. 

She sighed and ruffled his hair. “I can’t help but worry. This habit of yours could get you into serious trouble one day.” 

A warning. 

A loving one. 

A warning that, had it been fully heeded, might have prevented the situation he now found himself in. 

“That’s why you should always listen to your parents,” the boy muttered to himself. 

But the voice was no longer that of a child. 

His voice was calm as he inspected his light ebony skin for injuries. 

He lifted his head. 

Before him stretched an unbelievable sight an endless, empty plain beneath a clear blue sky completely devoid of clouds. No landmarks. No signs of life. Just silence and space, stretching infinitely in all directions. 

His headset rested loosely around his neck, faint music still playing as if unaware that reality itself had shifted. A book lay beside him on the ground, its pages fluttering gently in the wind, and next to it sat his backpack. 

He had gotten himself into trouble again. 

Three years had passed since that memory, and time had not been idle. He had grown taller. His purple hair now fell longer against his neck. His face carried the subtle sharpness of puberty—a firmer jawline, a body no longer childlike. 

He stood, dusting off his black jeans, then placed the book back into his backpack with careful hands. His bright white shoes were scuffed with dirt, something that clearly irritated him. He brushed at his gray hoodie before glancing down at the ring on his finger. 

Pitch black. Unharmed and that made him exhale in relief. 

SCREEECH

The sound tore through the sky, deafening and violent. 

The boy calmly looked up, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair.Above him, a beast circled. 

Its wings served as arms, claws extending from their ends. Its body was coated in thick gray scales, while its stomach bore larger, thinner beige ones. Blood-red eyes with sharp pupils locked onto him, brimming with predatory intelligence. 

There was no doubt about it. It was a wyvern. A Kin of dragons. 

“Out of all the Historia’s that exist,” the boy muttered, frustration slipping through his otherwise calm tone, “I had to enter one of the dragon kind.” 

The wyvern circled once more, then decided after locking eyes with the young boy. 

Then it dove. 

The air screamed as it descended, jaws wide open. The boy moved instantly, leaping aside just as the wyvern slammed into the ground. The impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, wind and dust blasting violently across the plain. 

Using a wall of stone as cover, the boy dropped his backpack and emptied its contents. 

Belts hit the ground. 

Weapons followed. 

A thigh belt carrying seven combat knives. A waist belt fitted with two black handguns. 

He equipped them swiftly. 

“I never thought I’d need these,” he muttered, irritation evident. “The only way to leave an Historia… is to clear it.” 

The wyvern lunged again, swallowing a chunk of stone mere moments after the boy dodged. A black sphere hit the ground. 

Smoke exploded outward from that sphere. It was a smoke grenade. 

Anticipating the wing strike coming, the boy had already moved. As the wyvern’s wing sliced through the smoke, he slashed it four times with twin knives after ducking. 

The beast screamed, and chaos ensued. 

The boy fired and hit one of its eyes. Blood sprayed. The wyvern tried to take flight but failed due to the injuries on its wing. 

Smoke cleared after the wyvern screeched. 

The boy used the opportunity, slid under him, and the knife pierced his stomach from below. 

That’s when the wyvern caught him with its claws. 

It smirked when his prey was frowning from the pain as his claws slowly tightened on the boy's chest. 

The boy stabbed again and again, knives breaking, blood dripping, until the bone cracked. He drove a broken claw into the wyvern’s eye, pulled it out, then its neck. 

The beast stumbled, and the boy used even more strength to drive the claw even further into its neck; then the wyvern fell. 

Silence followed. The wing of the wyvern rose and fell to the side, then a hand came up. The boy pulled himself up and stood atop the beast's body, covered in its deep scarlet blood

“I hate Historia’s,” the boy said quietly as he ran his hand through his blood-soaked hair

He butchered the corpse, ate, and rested. 

A door had appeared after he managed to kill the wyvern, but he had ignored it. He slept. When he woke, he was healed. Unsurprised. He had heard of the many mysteries of the Historia’s.  

He pushed the steel door open. 

Light swallowed him. 

“Wind?” he thought. 

When he opened his eyes, gray clouds churned overhead. Wind screamed past him, growing stronger by the second. 

Before him, wind gathered, and a tornado formed. 

Then another. 

Then more. 

He was surrounded, and he needed an answer to escape this. 

And the trial had only just begun.