The cycle that gives ripeness and maturity, a reminder of our mortality, that not all things last, they either wither or change.

  Pray—do not become unrecognizable.

  Pray—that you deserve to be remembered.

  A beautiful death, before the miracle of eternity.

  The Fall season...

  September 7, 1917.

  Rain weeps like teardrops from the sky, its beauty enveloping the town of Leuvana in feelings of melancholy.

  In its veins, ballet dancers showcase exquisite techniques and an elegant performance in one of the fancy buildings, practicing diligently early in the morning.

  A particular woman in her teens was dazzling, like a swan in a lake, her figure slender and every movement laced with contemporary grace.

  "Lady Cantabile, your contract has arrived," a woman spoke, perhaps her assistant.

  The lady took the paper reading its contents—she replied, her voice flowing like silk over porcelain, "This is... Absurd..."

  Her gaze was lost in the fog-tainted mirrors wondering.

  "What do I need to sacrifice, for a normal life?"

  The voices of opera singers, break through the damped streets, entering the ears of intrigued listeners.

  The voices swelled into a crescendo, sustaining the piercing pitch of a high note.

  Another fleeting week—The weather was ghostly pale, others prayed for the downpour to finally fade away.

  But just outside of Leuvana, a man with pitch-black hair wore an elegant half-black, half-white formal shirt—perhaps an actor?, he was accompanied by a pale maiden in black dress—with dark elegant bangs, carefully holding an umbrella over him.

  "My lord, does this place interest you?"

  The man's face lit up, revealing white marble skin and sharp, piercing—unreadable eyes. With a monotone voice, he uttered:

  "It's perfect—for our theatric play..."

  Today, a silent show cloaked Leuvana—binding its fate in foreboding, dark lies.

  In a room filled with a somber mood, a young man stood lost, gazing at his reflection for an unknown length of time. He dressed himself in a dark trench coat, and carefully styled his black hair—perhaps looking forward to impressing a lady.

  His eyes like rain-soaked glass, resembling the color of a raven, meet his reflection on the circle-shaped mirror on his old desk.

  A face of quiet longing, carrying a weary soul, it is strange why a handsome young man like him would be so... hollow...

  "No matter..." In his hand, a luxurious bottle of 'Maria’s Tears'—famed for its black, elegant design. He sprayed himself a total of four times. The scent was nothing short of masculine.

  He let out a sigh.

  A moment nearing its realization in his future lingered like a suffocating shadow—but his demeanor revealed only a man without a choice.

  He bore a fragile resilience, akin to Prince Rupert’s Drops, the surface holds strength but break it's tail and the facade beneath shatters like droplets in water.

  And it seems like this somber man was near the brink of his internal collapse.

  Departing from the space he occupies, closing its door—softly, followed by a creak—just in front of his room, another door, with an adorable nameplate hanging from it: Lyn'chael.

  The young man's heart finds fondness in that name, for it was the name of his beloved sister—likely awaiting his arrival just below.

  His steps were careful as he descended the wooden stairs, soon reaching its end—the living room.

  In his dust-filled organic lenses—this place is nothing but a muted and bereft space, with unmoving decor within his peripherals, one couch in pearl white and another in dusty blue.

  An unlit fireplace, and a modest coffee table at the center beneath a massive brown circular carpet.

  If there were to be one silver lining in the perspective of this somber man, it would be the intricate paintings adorning the grayish walls of the living room.

  But the artistry of the paintings is not enough to redeem this place. One thing mars it: the deathly and harrowing appearance of a deer skull above the fireplace.

  Its sight—bleak and mournful—is one of the few catalysts for the man's languor morning.

  It was suspicious in size, too ominous in Its design—to be just a mere deer skull.

  Disturbingly.

  —Almost as if... Death itself looms over this place.

  He had felt what was akin to instinctual fear; yet, the possibility of him having been easily bothered by such wicked objects was also plausible—but then, was it really just mere cowardice?

  Although there's no reason he should lament to this degree on an innocent morning, why was the somber man so easily unsettled?

  Nonetheless, he saw her—his sister—standing next to the unlit fireplace with today's newspaper in hand—she was the exact opposite in demeanor to the somber man, her presence was joyful, a light in the dark. For a moment, he almost didn’t notice her, as if the weight of his mental toll had dulled his senses. She blended into the tone-deaf atmosphere of the room.

  Dressed in dark trench clothes similar to his, her silhouette—slender in form, pale complexion in her skin, with an eye-catching silver flower earrings—at that, her flowing hair mirrors the alluring feather of a crow.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  She simply sets aside the newspaper, its contents intriguing, with a peculiar headline—a father of two has mysteriously lost his emotions in one sudden day.

  The photo imprinted on the front page in black and grey would catch any curious reader's attention for reasons daunting, a loving father, sitting in a chair, eyes wide open—devoid of expression, life abandoning their eyes.

  The empty husk man.

  "Perhaps it was just a hoax?"

  Lyn’chael didn’t want to be bothered by today’s news. To her, it was nothing more than a new disease—one that the medical institution would figure out sooner or later.

  —At least, that’s what she hoped.

  "Brother, what took you so long?"

  The somber man's lips curled—a charm that carried sadness in its smile.

  "Had to take my time getting styled—can’t show up underdressed."

  Lyn'chael's innocent eyes scanned his outfit, mildly impressed—her finger pointed at him, her face playful along with her tone.

  "Y-you copied my style! You plagiarizer!"

  "Is that even a real word?"

  A spark of color in a blank canvas, the somber man greatly values his family above all else. He would bear all the melancholy within his heart, never to show it—for to him, they're undeserving of those burdens.

  "I don't see any problem, you do dress yourself quite well,"

  Lyn'chael let out a soft chuckle, amused by his words.

  "Brother, that's not the point, we look like we're going to a funeral!"

  A natural banter between them—the focal point of such a relationship. There's always a time to be silly with your sibling.

  "Where's father and mother?"

  A quick reply—an attempt to change the topic, as he can't deny that they do look like they're about to attend a funeral.

  "They left early to buy offerings. We should get going—"

  "I see…"

  "Let's hurry then—to church."

  The sky had ceased its weeping, leaving behind the glistening streets of Leuvana.

  "Make sure to lock the door!" Lyn'chael called to her brother—an assurance, as burglars could show themselves at any time to an empty home...

  "Hmmm~ hmm~"

  A gentle melody from Lyn'chael; their boots kissed the puddles of water alongside the dirty cobblestone pavements, filled with carpets of fallen leaves, as they paced outside the silver-washed alley.

  This is the Amber District of West Leuvana, a place of the wealthy and high class, with brick buildings and gas lamps.

  Her brother—just behind her, eyes shackled to the ground, not bothering to gaze ahead—finds comfort in this mist-soaked atmosphere despite its oddities.

  The vibrations of vintage car engines, the murmurs of industrious civilians, the bark of dogs, and the cries of cats, all mingled with the gloomy architecture of Leuvana—as if he were in a Neo-Gothic era.

  A town born from medieval stone and wartime fog.

  The birth of a new epoch, on which humanity will sculpt its stain.

  Eerily—The toll of the church's bell resonates through the town, signaling the approach of Sunday service.

  "We should hurry up!"

  Lyn'chael quickened her steps—unfortunately, damp streets are not ideal for walking at her hurried pace.

  In a short moment, she had quite a bit of distance between herself and her brother.

  But one can easily slip...

  Sigh.

  "Eeek!" An urgent noise from his sister, who slipped... on the slippery parts of the sidewalk.

  He tried to reach her, but the gap was too wide—too late for her to be saved.

  As Lyn'chael instinctively covered her head from the sudden accident, her bigger concern was the flood of banter sure to come from her brother's mouth.

  "Curses!"

  Just as she was about to finish her fall–flat onto the slippery sidewalk—with a clear view of the bystanders witnessing her mishap, someone caught her by the arm, steadying her before she could hit the ground.

  Their eyes come across like two bright stars, perfectly parallel, yet light-years apart.

  "Liam?!" Lyn'chael blurted the name of the man who saved her. She could see his face—and its well-defined contours, light-brown combed hair. He was tall and wore a cinnamon-colored wool coat.

  People in Leuvana are just that fashionable, it seems.

  But Liam, the gentleman he is, quickly let go of Lyn'chael once she was stable, an uncontrollable soft smile etched on his face.

  "Be more careful next time," he said in a soft tone. Despite the nocturne of the atmosphere, Liam felt more like a tender–torch.

  "Thank you for catching me... I blame the rain," Lyn'chael said, her voice laced with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. Still, a thought lingered at her temples.

  "Where the hell did he come from?!”

  She was taken aback by how Liam seemed to materialize out of thin air, just as she was about to fall.

  But her gratitude was sincere regardless.

  “Romance? At this hour?” the somber man mused, a touch of disbelief in his mental as he finally caught up to them.

  "Good morning to both of you! Heading to church as well? May I walk alongside you two?" A humble request from Liam, but the somber man couldn’t help but notice that he was avoiding eye contact with Lyn'chael. In the air, he could sense a faint hint of nervousness.

  Although Liam was quick to mask it—exceptionally so, like a professional actor with complete control over his emotions.

  "Sure!" Lyn'chael composed herself, still carrying a small trace of embarrassment from her mishap, using a pinkish handkerchief in an attempt to remove the small bits of mud clinging to her trench coat.

  "Thankfully, it's black! They wouldn’t notice a thing."

  "Where are your parents?" asked the somber man. He found it interesting that Liam wasn't with his family, the Al'woods, especially on a Sunday service when it was traditional to always attend alongside your loved ones.

  However, Liam had an answer at the ready, "It seems like both our parents already went ahead, no?"—he was right, the somber man and Lyn'chael weren’t with their parents either.

  "Fair point."

  Male friendships are intriguing—not a single greeting was exchanged between them, yet the action felt like a routine born from the unspoken.

  Their hands flew like birds in clouds, not a practiced gesture but a by-product of their friendship, their hands met in a swift, ending in a resonating clap.

  Liam and the somber man clasped hands—it was brief but it carried substantial weight.

  Brothers not by blood, but by soul.

  Lyn'chael was awestruck. "That's so sweet~" she murmured—followed by a cheeky smile on her lips.

  Her demeanor playful—suspicious...

  "...Huh?"

  Both men blinked—they misinterpreted her words. In a flurry of subtle panic, they straightened their postures, brushing off invisible dust with exaggerated care.

  "Aha! Shall we get going?" Liam offered quickly, his voice a notch higher than usual.

  That sound... Echoing...

  —They heard it...

  The subsequent toll of the church bells spread the message once again, service was about to begin on the third ring...

  They continued to church.

  As they walked, their silhouette blended with the wet cobblestone streets, the lady in front while the two gentlemen trailed behind her, both on guard, anticipating she might 'slip' again.

  They passed by lush dripping greenery on the parks and along with it—lined gas lamps, remnants of the recent downpour scatter. Suffice it to say, it was a cold—trench coat season.

  This was a trench coat propaganda.

  But beneath the serenity of the mist-filled Leuvana streets, preachers, protesters, and newspaper boys mingled among the civilians.

  Yet, an unwelcome noise entered their ears.

  "What was that?" Lyn'chael ask.

  "It sounds deranged." Liam remarked.

  But the somber man thought, "I hear the voice of a—heretic."

  —In the distance.

  "They will return! The prophecies spoke of them!"

  A man with tattered clothes and feint signs of mental impairment—yells desperately along the busy streets. Civilians dwelled in normalcy and the three youths just passed by.

  The tone of conviction laced his throat. Were there truths behind the nonsense he was spewing?

  "I had a nightmare! The Children of Purity will once again pour down from the heavens!"

  "They’ve already begun! First your hearts, then your souls!”

  "They’ll devour your minds! They'll feast on your emotions! They'll relish in your sins!"

  "The church won't do a thing!"

  "Our prayers went unheard—unanswered!"

  "We’re praying to a god that.... Does not exist!"

  A universal concept that we all follow—time, and in this moment, beneath all this melancholy, it has stopped—unsure how to react to the madman’s rumblings.

  The gazes of humans all struck down the tattered man, baffled by what he had just said—especially here, on theocratic soil.

  The townsfolk averted their shame-tinted expressions, like sheep in a shepherd's flock—amongst them felt disgusted, others remorse, while some ignored it entirely, and a few stood bewildered.

  To stand against the people’s faith is to walk a path—buried beneath.

  More importantly.

  To them, the civilians—what is a 'children of purity?'"

  Lyn'chael felt uncomfortable.

  Liam didn’t want to get involved.

  And the somber man knew—that this tattered man…

  "Upon mentioning 'children of purity'"

  "He has signed his own death sentence."

  Chapter End...