Evening's air sat on Charles' shoulders like a heavy, damp cloth.
Each of his steps seemed to press more than just the weight of a man onto the ground—he carried not only his body's burden but the heaviness of sorrow, regret, and memories long drained of joy.
He walked slowly toward the room that once echoed with children's laughter, the sounds of play, and life. Now, it had become a graveyard of memories—each recollection slicing a fresh wound through his heart.
He placed his hand on the doorknob. Paused.
As if inhaling one last breath before stepping into a world devoid of a child.
He opened the door gently.
The sunset light streamed through the windows, casting an orange-red glow on the scattered toys. The dolls still sat where they always had—but now… they were lifeless, soulless, like statues waiting for their owner to return.
Drawings were still stuck to the walls—childlike images of Anna and her father, laughing, hand in hand, among flowers or beneath a blue sky. They weren't joyful anymore. They were testimonies to what would never come back.
Charles closed the door behind him.
The sound of it shutting was like the thud of a coffin lid sealing away his heart.
He walked to Anna's bed.
Sat on the edge.
Stared at the frilled, colorful blankets that still carried the scent of his daughter.
His hand reached the pillow.
In his mind, the soft breaths of a child echoed—the nights he read her stories, the nights her small hands rested in his, and when she would fall asleep peacefully on his chest…
Now, only silence remained.
A tear rolled down his cheek. Then another.
The dam broke. He couldn't hold them anymore.
With a cracked voice, like shards of his soul falling with each word, he whispered:
"No... No, Anna… My little girl… Forgive me… I can't… I can't go on without you…"
His voice grew louder. The tears didn't stop.
He screamed, but the only response was the echo of his own pain.
Outside the room, Sebastian stood by the door, holding his breath.
His face filled with empathy, yet his feet remained rooted.
He knew—this pain couldn't be soothed. Onlytime… perhaps time.
And in the midst of those endless cries and sobs, something slowly took root inside Charles.
Not hope. Not surrender.
But a flame—furious, cold—born of revenge.
A decision as cruel and silent as fire beneath ash.
**Present Time**
Footsteps echoed through the stone corridor of the academy.
Arthur walked behind Professor Charles.
A heavy silence hung between them, like a thick curtain of uncertainty and expectation.
The hallway smelled of age.
The wall-mounted lights cast a dim yellow glow, stretching and breaking the shadows of the two men along the walls.
When they reached the heavy wooden door of the office, Charles opened it without a word. The hinges groaned, old and rusted. He stepped inside. Arthur followed, and the door closed behind them.
Charles sat at his desk, placing his hands on the wooden surface.
He stared at Arthur for a moment, then spoke in a calm tone—one that barely hid the tremble of unease:
"Arthur… You've probably read something in the books about the Order Correction Event... Why have you never asked me about it?"
Arthur blinked, confused. Then replied in a neutral tone:
"Well, I came across it in the library one night. I wanted to talk, but… that was the night I got sick. After that, I didn't get the chance."
A brief silence fell. Arthur added:
"But now… I want to know. Professor… what do you know? Please, tell me everything."
Charles took a deep breath, as if condensing centuries of memory into a single inhale. He looked up at the ceiling, then shifted in his seat and began:
"This is an apocalyptic event, Arthur. One that claims millions of lives. Not a war. Not a disease… but a global reset. Like hitting the reset button on a corrupted system."
He paused, then continued:
"Civilizations rise, flourish… but then they reach a threshold they're not meant to cross. This event is that threshold. Population collapses. Resources are redistributed.
And from the depths of darkness—creatures emerge. Demons. Monsters.
They feed on this chaos. Grow stronger with every tragedy.
Then disappear again—for centuries."
Arthur's eyes widened. He'd heard rumors—but never with such clarity, such certainty.
"But… why doesn't anyone stop it?"
Charles' face darkened. His voice was quiet, bitter:
"Many tried, Arthur.
Heroes. Gods. Summoned ones from parallel worlds…
They all tried. But in the end, every one of them… was slaughtered.
And then history… forgot them."
Arthur stared, filled with doubt and dread. A whisper rose from within:
"And how does that make you feel?"
Charles went silent. Long.
Their eyes locked.
Then, softly, yet firmly, he answered:
"Feel? Peace.
It's like watching a clock that still ticks after centuries,
even if its hands point to destruction and blood.
This order, for all its horror… is natural.
Like birth and death.
Like a fire that clears the forest so new trees can grow.
The world screams, dies… and then, is born again.
This… is distilled truth.
Cruel, but beautiful."
A cold smile appeared on his lips.
"Isn't it beautiful?"
Arthur looked away. The words clashed in his mind. Cautiously, he replied:
"Maybe… it is cruel. But beautiful? I don't think so.
To me, it's just chaos and destruction."
Charles chuckled, not mockingly, but with understanding.
"True beauty isn't always pleasing to the eye.
Sometimes, it's hidden in ugliness, in darkness.
If an angel had the face of a monster, people would scream,
but its essence would still be divine.
Appearance is just a mask over truth."
Arthur said nothing. His thoughts tangled.
Charles spoke again:
"You don't need to accept it now, Arthur.
Some truths take time. Think about it."
He smiled—warmer this time, gentler:
"Also, the first-term exams are in a few days.
I expect great things from you."
Arthur gave a faint smile, determined:
"I'll do my best, Professor. See you soon…"
He left the office.
The door closed behind him, but his mind remained inside—somewhere between that dark smile and those prophetic words.
Charles smiled again.
A smile more mask than comfort.
"Goodbye, Arthur."
Arthur paused briefly, then gently opened the door and stepped out.
The door closed with a soft sound—but was quickly replaced by familiar footsteps.
The Academy Director, Marcus, entered as Arthur left.
Formally dressed, but with a friendly gaze, he smiled as his eyes settled on Charles.
"Got a moment?"
Charles nodded cautiously, tiredly:
"Of course. What do you want to talk about?"
Marcus sat down across from him. The creak of the chair broke the office's silence.
Charles leaned back and studied him.
Marcus got straight to the point:
"Charles, first-term exams are coming. It's a time to breathe from recent tensions.
But there's something I can't ignore."
Charles raised an eyebrow—curiosity, maybe concern.
"I'm listening. Whatever I can do."
Marcus stared out the window for a moment, then back at Charles:
"We still haven't found the killer.
Given the complexity… I want you to assist the special investigation team.
I trust your judgment more than anyone's.
And this isn't just a plea out of necessity—it's out of belief. Faith in you."
A long pause.
Only the ticking of the clock was heard.
Then Charles replied softly:
"How can I help?"
Marcus smiled—not comfort, but responsibility.
"Your perspective is unique.
Your connection to Kyle, one of the victims, and Elizabeth,your own student,could be key to unraveling this.
You're not someone who judges from the outside.
You look for the truth.
That's what we need."
Charles looked down, hands clasped.
Another heavy silence passed.
"I'll think about it.
If I can help, I will."
Marcus stood, satisfied. He walked to the door, then paused.
With his hands in his coat pockets, he asked calmly:
"By the way… one thing's been on my mind."
Charles tilted his head. His voice turned neutral, cautious:
"What is it?"
Marcus smiled, sly:
"I've seen you and that student before,the one before I arrived.
The way you look at him is… different.
Feels like there's something close between you."
Charles' face froze.
Like someone touched an old wound.
After a few seconds, he smiled faintly—a bitter smile, like ash.
"His name is Arthur. One of our scholarship students.
He's exceptionally talented.
His future could be… different, if he walks the right path."
Marcus chuckled—casual, but sharp:
"Your compliments are always so careful.
If you speak of him this way, he must be special.
But let me ask directly, does he remind you of someone?
Like… Anna?"
Time stood still.
Charles' face went pale.
His breath caught.
His gaze dropped, hand clenched into a fist.
A shadow from the past settled on his shoulders.
His voice was low and steady, like touching an old scar:
"No… he doesn't remind me of Anna.
He reminds me of myself.
A piece of a past that hasn't been buried.
A silent shard of something I thought was over…
but is still alive. In there."
Marcus nodded, thoughtful:
"I see.
So it's… complicated."
He opened the door with a gentle smile:
"Glad we talked, Charles. Let me know when you're ready."
And left.
The door closed softly—but this time, it sounded different… like it had shut an entire world behind it.
Charles remained, staring at the door.
The ticking clock now sounded like footsteps echoing toward the past.
Then he whispered, cold and low:
"Everything… is going according to plan."