Sadness arrived not as a storm but as a slow, crushing weight—like dusk spilling into him until no light remained. He stood still, surrounded by silence too thick to breathe through, and for a heartbeat his thoughts refused to move.
Then, from the stagnant dark inside his mind, a voice surfaced—his teacher's voice—sharp, calm, and almost cruel in how ordinary it sounded.
"It's not about certainty. It's about increasing the odds. You don't have certainty for anything— not even for this world. For all you know, it could be an alien experiment, a simulation, or something you cannot even imagine. All you can do is increase the odds."
In memory, those words fell like stones into the stillness, rippling through every layer of him. What had once sounded like abstract philosophy—warm with idealism, harmless in its distance—had become something else. A brutal, undeniable truth.
Now those same words pressed against his ribs like cage bars, hollow in their honesty.
At this point this words climbed the hierarchy and became much more than just "abstract"
Something was ending—he could feel it, like decay beneath the skin of every thought—and yet, within that same decay, something new moved. Quietly, invisibly, a beginning was forming.
The air smelled faintly of metal and wet stone, and he closed his eyes once before lifting his head. There was no going back anymore.
Wind whistled high through the forest canopy. On the ridge of an immense tree whose upper boughs pierced a gauze of drifting clouds, a boy stood with a small shape perched nearby. The air there was thin, cool, and strangely clean, the kind that tasted of sap and leaf and unspoken things.
He wore a plain purple shirt, creased at the shoulders, and light, skin-colored pants tucked into green shoes whose soles were worn to a smooth shine. Beneath the wind, the fabric whispered faintly against itself. His hair—thick silver strands that caught the sunlight in a soft metallic gleam—reached down to his neck, swaying with each gust.
On another, those features might have looked cold or distant, but his face carried a quiet gentleness that veiled it all: the long eyelashes, the pale skin drawn tight around a narrow chin, the blue eyes—too bright, almost circular—that made him look younger than his seventeen years.
In his right hand, he held an apple, half crimson, half sunlight. In front of him crouched a small white creature—a four-legged omnithal—with a coat like frost over fresh snow. The creature's fur twitched as it breathed; its tiny jaws parted to nibble at the apple, savoring each bite.
Reinhard's fingers brushed its fur once. The texture was warm, almost down-like, and he could feel the faint thrum of the beast's pulse beneath it. A species bred both as cattle and companion, the omnithal was rich in nutrients and traded often in human markets. Its meat was a commodity, its presence a comfort. Yet, to Reinhard, it wasn't a meal—it was alive, and that was enough.
Footsteps came behind him, soft but deliberate, forcing the branch beneath his feet to tremble slightly.
A familiar voice slipped through the stillness, tinged with sarcasm.
"So, Reinhard, you're feeding an omnithal again."
Reinhard turned slightly, not hurried—his tone already sharpening.
The other boy, Kael, stood there, arms folded and a grin stretched thin across his lips. "Nice work. Keep it up," he continued. "Feeding human food to food meant for humans. Your cousins starve, our enemies dine, and you— you spend your time playing caretaker. Admirable job."
Reinhard's eyes narrowed, and the irritation in his voice came almost lazily.
"How many times are you going to repeat that?"
Kael shrugged, the motion loose and half-hearted. "Until it stops being true. Though honestly, I'm just teasing. You and your convictions—no one can change them." His grin broke into a short laugh. "I've said the same thing a hundred times, and you've ignored me every one of them. So really, I'm just talking to fill the air."
"Then fill it with something else," Reinhard muttered.
Kael leaned against the branch, watching clouds drift between the tree crowns. "Fine. Let's talk purpose, then. I got a message from the Level 2.b Human Government Office. They want both of us at their apartment. Official call, not a request."
Reinhard exhaled slowly, the irritation ebbing. His voice steadied into its usual restraint.
"Then let's go."
The ride through the mid-island lanes was quiet; even the air seemed heavier. When they reached the Human Government Department—Level 2.b—the silence lengthened into something else. The corridors, normally filled with chatter and diluted laughter, now echoed with the muted hum of machinery and distant footsteps. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and processed air. Somewhere beyond a window, a flag hung motionless.
Reinhard noticed the tension immediately. The building had a strange stillness to it—a quiet that pressed down on the skin, as though the walls themselves were listening.
Then, a familiar voice.
"Reinhard."
He turned, and his expression softened slightly. Standing a few meters away was his sister, Elizabeth. She carried herself with a natural poise that didn't need rehearsal. Nineteen years old, golden curls spilling to her shoulders, dressed in a cream skirt and soft blouse that shimmered faintly when light caught the threads.
Her blue eyes reflected that same clarity Reinhard had, though hers carried warmth he had always lacked. She looked every bit the image of nobility— a princess carved from quiet confidence and controlled grace.
Reinhard asked, "Are we all summoned together?"
Elizabeth smiled lightly. "Seems that way. Unusual, isn't it?"
Her voice, gentle as it was, couldn't mask her unease.
They walked side by side down the main hallway until the door to the administrative chamber loomed ahead. Reinhard pushed it open.
Instantly, cool air washed over them—the hiss of air conditioning felt almost alive against their skin after the heat outside. The room bore that faint metallic hum particular to well-maintained government offices—neutral, sterile, but undeniably comforting.
Inside, behind a broad oak desk, sat Malric—their uncle and President of Human Government Department 2.b.
He looked up as they entered. A man of about fifty-five, Malric had a frame that seemed stretched by time yet unbent by age. His black coat buttoned sharply over a white shirt, the edges aligned with surgical precision. A dark magician-style hat rested on the table beside him; he rarely wore it indoors anymore, but it remained part of his presence.
His eyes—grey and calm—studied his visitors with the patience of someone who had seen too many bright dreams burn out.
The trio stepped forward together and bowed slightly.
"Good afternoon, Uncle," Reinhard said.
Malric gestured for them to sit. "You're here sooner than expected." His tone was even, without warmth or coldness—merely weighing the balance of facts.
Reinhard asked, "Why have you summoned us?"
Malric rested both hands on the table, fingers steepled. "You all wanted to see the outside world, didn't you? Especially you, Reinhard."
Something flickered through Reinhard's expression—dangerous, fragile excitement. The corners of his lips lifted slightly, and though he tried to contain it, there was no hiding the glow that sparked in his eyes. The idea of the 'outside world' had always lingered like a forbidden flame inside him.
Malric watched that reaction quietly before continuing. "I have a mission for you three," he said. "Not a minor one. You'll leave the island—to save a species."
He paused, letting the words expand before naming it:
"The Oryn. An eight-legged creature, somewhat like a spider. It crawls both the ground and the trees, territorial, aggressive, and… endangered. If we don't act, it will disappear."
Reinhard's hands twitched on his lap. The thrill that ran through him was fierce, but he said nothing. Inside, his thoughts were colliding violently—excitement and disbelief, joy and the muted fear that always lies beneath first freedom.
Kael, ever quicker with words, leaned forward. "Where is it located?"
Malric's voice unfurled slower this time. "In the continent of Hawkins."
The name thickened the room's air. Reinhard felt his chest tighten—the kind of thrill that teeters on the edge of dread. His teeth set against each other with an audible click from the sudden pressure of emotion.
To most, Hawkins was a distant rumor, the third of the known continents—vast, predatory, a land where entire species ranked humanity as food. To live there was unimaginable; to venture there, closer to death than courage. Only one species was said to prefer human flesh more than the dominants of Hawkins—and they no longer existed in any habitable territory.
Reinhard, Elizabeth, and Kael had never left their own island. Even the continent ruled by humans was an unseen myth to them—a story told across lessons and government bulletins. Yet Reinhard had always ached for the idea of outside, not for conquest, not even for curiosity—but for the simple need to see what lay beyond the horizon that restricted his sky.
The island of Noren—called Noren Island officially, though most residents just said "Noren"—was small, a self-contained refuge shielded by rules more than waters. Of its wide expanse, Reinhard had been permitted through less than a twentieth. Permissions and prohibitions defined the boundary of his world; ninety-five percent of his own island was forbidden territory.
His only home, Yangpass Village, sat near the island's central plateau—a closed community within a larger cage. To be offered a journey outside that island meant more to him than any title. It meant release.
He felt that truth bloom inside him: the first step to freedom.
Malric broke the silence. "You'll leave immediately. A private jet is waiting."
Reinhard blinked. "Private?" The word clung strangely in his mouth. He had expected transport—yes—but something public, shared, practical. This sounded too deliberate.
Kael, smiling once more, stood taller. "Rest assured, Uncle," he said. "We'll make sure the Oryn reaches you within three days. The mission will be completed before this week's end—your trust won't be misplaced."
Malric gave a small nod. "I have full faith in you."
Beside Reinhard, Elizabeth had remained quiet through it all. Her fingers twisted slightly in the hem of her skirt. Beneath her composed expression, unease grew.
Weeks earlier, during their geography lessons, Professor Aurel had lectured on the continents. Hawkins had been described then too—its landscapes infested with peril, its ecosystems so hostile that human life could never persist without treaties. The students had listened with morbid fascination.
Then the professor had cushioned the terror with safety: For now, an agreement stands. For now, humans are protected.
That "for now" had been comforting precisely because they'd known they'd never need to face it. The continent existed in their imagination, stored safely away from lived fear.
Now Elizabeth felt that small protective illusion breaking piece by piece. Her heartbeat was quiet but sharp in her chest.
Malric rose slowly from his chair. His expression shifted—the calm of one who bears knowledge others should not. He reached for a drawer in his desk, pulled it open, and withdrew a folded sheet of thick paper. Its edges were frayed, as if handled often.
"Come here," he said. "There's something you should see before you go."
The three of them stepped closer. The faint floral perfume on Elizabeth's sleeves mingled with the leather-and-ink scent rising from the map. Malric flattened it carefully over the desk. Lines crisscrossed the parchment: landmasses, sphere markings, old script etched in cramped letters.
"This," Malric began, his fingertip tracing a small uneven oval in the center, "is our world. At least the parts we've charted."
They leaned in, watching the miniature continents unfold before them.
"This rounded piece here—about two hundred thousand square kilometers—is our domain, Noren Island. To its west lies the human continent proper, much larger, much older. And far to the north-east…" His finger paused on another blotch of land, shaded darker than the rest. "…is Hawkins, where your mission begins."
The room fell silent again. None of them spoke at first. The weight of the distance between their small island and that shadowed continent stretched across the parchment like a gulf between worlds.
Reinhard looked down at that dark shape and felt something stir inside him—a blend of awe and quiet terror.
He understood the world structure a little better now
With that the trio left .