Ereos stood at his desk, palms pressed against the dark wood, leaning over a chaos of information strewn across the surface. Photos of missing teens, dates of their last sightings, locations, times, companions—every shred of detail, even birthdays and trivial habits, was carefully recorded. He had written down anything and everything that hinted at a pattern.
“A lady in red... masked... ten feet tall...” he murmured to himself.
“It matches the description of her. But how? Wasn’t she exorcised a century ago?”
His brow furrowed.
“Why now? Why is she back?”
“And she only targets young adults…”
He tapped his fingers against the desk, deep in thought.
“If he survived from them… that child would be eighteen now.”
“That means... he could be here... Is everything connected to him or am I thinking too much? Why would anyone seek the seal, after all these years of peace?”
His mind spiraled deeper, reaching backward—eighteen years ago.
Flashback
A train car. Quiet, swaying slightly. A few passengers. Locals, travelers sat distant, minding their own business. The young Ereos—thinner then—stared out at the snow-veiled mountains, pulling up the zip of his jacket.
Beside him, twin siblings bickered: Keri and Kerio. It ended as always—with a light blow from Keri atop her brother’s head. Their master sat across from them, serene, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Then, a breath. And words.
“We’ll be in Northern White within the hour,” the master said quietly.
He inhaled again, staring through his glasses at everyone.
“Before we arrive, there’s something I must tell you. This mission isn’t from the Sarath of the North. It came directly from headquarters... maybe from Lord First.”
Everyone’s ears perked up at the name Lord First. Even Hemi, who sat on the other side, shifted his gaze toward the master. All of them seemed excited, curious. Kerio’s curiosity took over.
“Lord First? Will he come?”
“Maybe not,” the master replied.
Disappointment settled. Hemi turned his eyes back to the cold white mountain range. Ereos watched him, then returned to his window.
“Then... why are we going to Northern White? The cold place?” Kerio asked, bundling deeper into his jacket.
He paused. Then, a whisper that chilled the cabin:
“His birth marks an end… His lost fate brings the end.
When the hands of Chronos come, the Mortal God will take him, eventually.
Perhaps even the God… The Creation holds onto hope.”
Kerio turned to Ereos.
“Did you get that?” he asked, then shrugged. “Don’t mind. We have to find the Sixth Seal of Anant’Vo-i’rel.”
Keri, who had been quiet until then, sharpened. Her red eyes tensed, her deep orange curls shifting as she turned her head.
“You didn’t... Temporal Walk, did you?” she asked, her voice tight with warning.
Their argument reignited, their quiet train now filled with sharp words. But young Ereos knew why they were going to Northern White back then. And the present Ereos knew how it all connected.
The memory collapsed.
Ereos gasped, hand at his chest. His breath caught in his throat as he stumbled back from the desk. With effort, he reached the window and forced it open, gulping the cold night air.
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The sun had set.
Darkness cloaked the city.
Something was wrong.
Ereos’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing, breath shallow.
I can feel her...
The Red Lady is here. Somewhere in the city. Hunting... for the Sixth Seal… for the survivor.
Without wasting another second, he grabbed his coat, slipped it on, and stormed out the door.
Elsewhere — inside the Northern White Police Department
The bluish light of computer screens painted tired faces. Sergeant Elaine Carter leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples.
“We’ve gone through it all before,” she muttered, exhaustion thick in her voice. “Nothing unusual... Most of the recordings are corrupted, or just blank.”
Her colleague, hunched over beside her, sipped from a chipped mug while staring at a flickering screen.
“There’s only five of us... we can’t cover everything,” he said, clearly frustrated. “What’s that guy from O.R.D.E.R. even doing?”
Elaine glanced sideways.
“His name is Ereos,” she replied. “Last I saw him was yesterday. He told us to recheck the postages, then locked himself in his cabinet.”
The man didn’t look away from the screen.
“Well, go check on him then. See if he’s still alive.”
Elaine sighed. She stood and stretched, joints popping in protest. As she walked down the hallway toward Ereos’s office, her thoughts turned quiet.
I had some hope in you, Mr. Ereos... Don’t let me down.
Her hand hovered at the doorknob. She paused.
The door opened before she could touch it. Ereos stepped out, tense. His eyes met hers.
“We have to go somewhere,” he said and walked past her.
“But what about the footage?”
Her question was left unanswered.
Street 49 of Northern White.
Just moments ago, before the city sank into its usual darkness, the sun had still clung to the sky. But this street was always different—empty and cold, abandoned and silent, like death itself.
“I don’t feel good,” Acheron said, voice tense, face pale. One hand clutched his chest as he quickened his steps.
“We shouldn’t be here. Let’s go,” he added, breath shaking, steps uneven.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Sail asked, eyes narrowing, concern growing.
Acheron stopped. He looked down at the cracked pavement, deliberately avoiding what lay ahead—what he had already seen, what he couldn’t unsee.
“What is it?” Sail asked, peering into the distance.
A few meters ahead, she stood—the Red Lady.
As the rumors claimed, she was tall—unnaturally so. But her face was what stole the breath. Eyes and lips sewn shut with crude black thread, yet slightly parted as though forced open by pain alone. Blood leaked from the seams of her eyes with every tremor of vision. She wore no crimson clothes. She wore nothing at all.
Her flesh was stripped, flayed raw from head to toe, exposing glistening red muscle and sinew—as though her skin had been peeled off while she still lived. Only one thing defied the gore: her long black hair, flowing like dark ink against the hellish red of her form.
Acheron stumbled back, his fingers latching onto Sail’s hand.
“You can see that?” he gasped.
“Yeah… What the hell happened to her? That face… it’s—” Sail faltered.
“Just run,” Acheron whispered, already pulling him into a sprint.
They turned and ran—Acheron backward at first, still watching her, until the looming silhouette of the abandoned hospital swallowed their path. His steps grew faster, desperate for the entrance. But just as they reached the door—
the ground beneath them vanished.
Falling—
The world twisted.
They were no longer on Earth.
Acheron opened his eyes, lying on something soft and cool. He sat up slowly, blinking.
Sail stood a few feet away, just as confused, just as awestruck.
Around them, thick white clouds drifted like heavy blankets. Sunlight poured down in sheets—too bright, too warm. When they dared look below, they saw the city—tiny, distant, bathed in soft orange and blue. They were in the sky. Or something like it.
“We’re… in the sky?” Sail whispered. “How…?”
“I don’t know,” Acheron muttered, his face pale again. But before he could say more—
“I know how,” Sail said, voice trembling. “Because all of this… is a dream.”
“No,” Acheron said sharply. “It isn’t a dream, Sail. We have to go. Now.”
“No... It is. Look at the sky. The clouds. The sun—it’s warm, but it doesn’t burn. I used to dream of flying like this... breaking through clouds, chasing the light."
Sail’s voice broke, but he kept speaking.
Then a voice—not heard, but felt—slithered into their minds:
“Show me your forearm.”
They turned. No one was there.
They turned back.
The Red Lady was.
She stood before them in the sky, unmoving.
They ran, vanishing into the clouds. Together, they hid behind a great drifting mass. Acheron exhaled slowly.
“She’s gone...” he whispered.
But when he turned to his side—Sail was gone.
Acheron’s breath caught. Before he could react—
the world dropped away again.
Blackness.
He fell. He screamed.
“Sail!”
Then—light. Tiny, flickering fireflies blinked into being, one by one, lighting a field of swaying long grass and dandelions. In the center stood a massive tree, its blossoms a glowing, impossible purple.
Acheron stood there—not as a teen, but as a small boy.
Chubby fingers wrapped around the hand of his grandfather.
He felt lost.
He felt safe.
His grandfather knelt and lifted his sleeve. On the boy’s forearm bloomed a small birthmark—shaped like a lotus, Acheron unaware, lost in nostalgia.
But then—his grandfather was no longer himself.
It was the Red Lady now, holding his arm.
Her stitched lips stretched into a grotesque smile, blood seeping from the corners.
“I found you,” she murmured, her fingers like ice pressing against his forehead.