The gates had opened, yet what greeted Vandal was not merely a courtyard—it was something closer to a transitional space between two different realities. He stepped forward slowly, and with that single step, he immediately realized that this place was not constructed upon the same logic as the world he knew.
The mansion's front grounds stretched wide, but not with natural expanse. A path of black stone cut through the garden with excessive precision, as if every angle had been calculated rather than grown. On either side, tall trees stood in perfect symmetry—their trunks flawless, their leaves faintly shimmering with reflections that did not entirely follow the direction of light. At the center, a fountain defied gravity in subtle defiance—the water rose, paused midair for a fraction too long, then descended as though time itself had been momentarily restrained.
"This isn't just a residence…" Vandal murmured, his gaze sweeping across every detail with growing caution.
"It is not, my lord," the maid at his side replied without emotion. "This is the heart of the Nacht family."
Vandal did not respond immediately. He observed the other servants and gardeners working in silence—their movements too uniform, too precise, as though they followed an inaudible rhythm. There was no conversation, no mistakes, not even a single wasted motion.
"…Too perfect," he said at last, more to himself. "Perfection like this usually conceals something."
They approached the main doors, which opened before they could touch them. Vandal did not react, but he noted it.
Inside, the mansion only reinforced the unease. The ceilings soared high, etched with carvings that resisted full comprehension. Dark pillars stood like sentinels—neither alive nor dead. Beneath his feet, the marble floor reflected their images with a delay so slight it was almost imperceptible—yet enough to unsettle.
"A desynchronized reflection…" Vandal murmured. "Interesting."
"Please proceed, my lord," the maid said shortly.
They passed through several corridors before stopping at a grand door. Twelve servants stood aligned before it—silent, upright, expressionless. Not a single one turned as Vandal approached.
"…Twelve," Vandal said quietly.
"Yes."
"And you make thirteen."
The maid inclined her head slightly, offering no reply.
She then stepped forward. "Great Lady Camelia, Vandal Nacht has arrived."
Silence.
No answer.
No movement.
Vandal frowned. "There's no one inside."
And then—
"Vandal… Nacht…"
The voice emerged.
Not from a single direction.
Not from a single source.
But from the entirety of the space itself.
It was slow, yet each word arrived too quickly to process. It was not human—yet not entirely alien either. Something in between. Or perhaps beyond both.
"The adopted son… of Valeria Nacht…"
Pressure crashed directly into Vandal's consciousness. He did not step back—but his body reacted. Blood began to trickle from his ears.
The servants around him suffered the same.
None of them moved.
None covered their ears.
"There should be… something you wish to ask… is there not?"
Vandal slowly raised his head. "What happened to this world… why I'm alive again… and why my memory is nearly gone?" His voice wavered, yet he forced the words out.
A brief silence.
"Are those… your questions?"
The tone shifted—not louder, but heavier.
"But before that… I have something to ask you."
Vandal narrowed his eyes. "Ask."
"Your original purpose… what was it?"
He paused. "What do you mean?"
"Why… do you continue to move… after all that?"
It was not a simple question.
Vandal drew a slow breath. "…To find her. Or to reach her. My mother—Valeria Nacht."
Silence.
Then—
"Are you… certain… Valeria needs you?"
The question struck deeper than the last.
Vandal did not answer immediately. For the first time since awakening, doubt took root.
And yet—
"…I am," he said at last, quiet but firm. "I can help her."
Laughter erupted.
Not human laughter.
The entire mansion trembled.
Vandal's head felt as though it might split apart.
"Fool…"
The voice softened, yet now carried unmistakable anger.
"Use magic."
The command left no room for refusal.
Vandal raised his hand. Flame ignited—red, stable.
"Fool. Is this the best graduate?" the voice pressed harder. "Did Valeria teach you nothing?"
Vandal stiffened. "What do you mean…"
"How… did you create that flame?"
"I… imagined it."
Silence.
Then—
"Truly a fool."
The tone turned cold.
"Were you never taught from the fundamentals? From elements? From cause? How fire is formed?"
Vandal fell silent. "…A chemical reaction?"
"Correct. Then why do you not use it?"
"My mother always taught me that…" his voice lowered. "…she repeated it constantly."
"Then why do you ignore it?"
No answer.
"Do it again."
Vandal raised his hand once more.
But this time, he did not imagine.
He understood.
Oxygen. Energy. Reaction. Heat.
The flame appeared again.
But it was different.
Not red.
But blue.
Smaller—but denser.
More stable.
More… real.
Silence descended.
"…At last," the voice spoke quietly, its anger fading but not gone. "At least you are not entirely worthless."
Vandal stared at the flame in his hand. "…What exactly are you testing?"
Silence.
"Not your magic," the voice answered slowly. "…but the way you understand the world."
The words lingered.
And for the first time—
Vandal began to feel that what he was searching for…
was not merely answers.
But something that would change him entirely.