The farce of that day came to nothing.
Perhaps "fizzled out" isn't quite accurate. This day would later be known as the "Day of the Red Rain," its impact far exceeding the imagination of most who witnessed it. Scholars of later generations would write countless papers about it, and in Erian, a proverb emerged whose meaning closely mirrored one from Earth: "Red rain is falling" came to describe events so astonishing, unexpected, and unbelievable that they defied comprehension.
But that was all later.
On the day the red rain fell, shock, anger, terror, grief... a torrent of complex emotions erupted among the crowd. It came too swiftly, too violently, leaving people utterly helpless, able only to fall into a speechless silence. Even after the strange phenomenon vanished from the sky and from above their heads, the images they had just witnessed remained deeply etched into everyone's memory. People looked at each other, bewildered and awkward, unsure how to react.
The leaders scrambled to activate the equally stunned violent apparatus, forcing everyone back to their homes and placing Erian under temporary martial law. They hadn't yet agreed on an official explanation, so they simply banned all discussion, ordering people to stay indoors in an attempt to prevent chaos from erupting. This served both to prevent civil unrest and to keep soldiers occupied—better to have them running errands on orders than idly speculating.
The Empire's high command convened an emergency meeting that night, faces grave as they debated next steps. "It's all the alien's scheme—to undermine morale," declared a haggard-looking general.
When the southeast corner's detection device activated, the general's family was sharing lunch. Shortly after the general mocked the alien race's foolish attempt to gather allies and left for work, the second wave of red rain fell. His son witnessed the alien projection hovering over his mother and himself. The young son strangled his mother before taking his own life with a table knife. Upon receiving the news, the general—who served as an honorary instructor at the military academy—realized with horror that the political slogans he'd casually shouted at work (about human purity and the necessity of exterminating the alien race) had been treated as gospel truth by his son.
The more deeply a soldier was indoctrinated in human supremacist ideology, the more fiercely they clung to their human identity. If one were to comprehend the significance of what had transpired... among the many terrible things they might have done, suicide was not the worst.
"It's all an alien conspiracy," the high command agreed, their conviction unwavering regardless of their true beliefs.
"We cannot be blinded by such tricks," the leader declared decisively.
Emergency orders, unseen for years, were issued. While the capital's previous assault had only mobilized the military, this time the entire Erian Empire felt the tremors. Announcements plastered every gathering place, and every newspaper carried the official stern declaration, denouncing the previous day's chaos as a despicable plot by the alien race in the southeast corner. "They slander humans as aliens to sow chaos among us!" The impassioned proclamation, printed in bold type, was disseminated by local administrators across the land.
They denounced the vile treachery of Tasmalin Province's conspirators, shattering the illusion that the "southeastern unrest was easily crushed." Now all knew that Tasmalin Province harbored an alien regime. With official debunking, this time the existence of the dungeon spread to every corner of the Erian Empire.
Rumors swirled everywhere.
In this matter, the swift official response proved highly beneficial. Seizing upon Tasmalin's rare "misstep," they had already widely publicized its significance before the second wave of detection began. Many commoners knew nothing of magical technology. Without the authorities' rapid dissemination of knowledge, they might never have linked the shadows overhead to bloodline detection. They believed the official narrative, and many genuinely uncovered hidden alien bloodlines. Then came the second wave of red rain and the authorities' flustered response.
The next day's announcement failed to convince everyone. Doubts began to surface in many minds, like chiseling a breach in a dam.
Drones hovered over cities. These magical machines, equipped with audio broadcast capabilities and smuggled nationwide by spies, now soared high, mocking the empire's official narrative as outright lies. They proclaimed how Tasmalin Province welcomed all races with open arms. Druids transformed into birds and Beastspeakers' magpie familiars seized the moment. These talking birds revealed truths in more hidden places, conversing with the bewildered.
The empire's rulers lashed out in fury against their aerial foes, but the sky battles left the military utterly frustrated. The new magical drones were lightweight, compact, and self-destructed upon impact—and new ones kept appearing after each strike. Tasmarin had just raked in a fortune from the empire and wasn't short on funds; its factories could mass-produce these low-maintenance drones on assembly lines. Spirit beasts and druids proved far more agile than drones. Ordinary weapons scarcely grazed them, while deploying precious magical weapons felt like using anti-aircraft guns to swat mosquitoes—shooting them down proved uneconomical.
As armies across the land deployed them overhead daily, spies everywhere began their work—their mission extending far beyond stoking rumors.
Official propaganda had already labeled the detection results as lies about alien species, so the military naturally ceased hunting down those first-wave marked non-humans. Only a very, very small fraction of half-breeds breathed a sigh of relief, truly believing the Empire's reassurances and choosing to stay put.
That day altered countless lives.
Some half-breeds had always been conscious of their alien heritage. They hid among the masses, struggling to conceal their unusual traits. For years before the red rain fell, they lived in constant fear. After the rain, their dreams of a quiet life were shattered. They abandoned hope, yet simultaneously heard whispers of a utopia. They resolved to pack their belongings. Rather than waiting blindly for death, they would make one final, courageous attempt before the empire struck.
Some half-breeds only learned of their alien heritage on the day of the red rain. The unusual traits on their bodies had either been concealed by their parents at birth, or they had discovered something themselves yet stubbornly deceived themselves, choosing to ignore it. On the day the crimson rain fell, they tasted the terror of being hunted as outcasts. Whether the stares they received the next day were strange or the faces returned to their former kindness, they knew one thing: their old lives were gone forever.
Then let them go. Let them flee. To the southeast.
Spies excel at reading faces. Even if they hadn't witnessed the marking on the day of the crimson rain, afterward they could discern signs in certain expressions or notable absences. Notes slipped under doors, birds pecked at windowpanes, drunken ballads hinted at the path ahead. Peddlers, vagabonds, traveling circuses... these seemingly disparate groups became conduits for those with hearts set on leaving. They slipped away silently with their companions, just as they had arrived without a sound.
Only after the first and largest wave of migrants fled did the Empire suddenly awaken. The roads to the southeast were sealed off, and the sprawling tentacles of the Undercity had already taken root in Tasmalin Province. So the imperial leadership simply abandoned the entire region outright, declaring it forbidden territory.
The empire hadn't failed to consider war—they had been preparing for it all along.
Only, the original plans had become somewhat ill-timed after the Day of the Red Rain.
The vanguard forces had already assembled and were undergoing pre-battle training. They were the elite of the army, possessing the most unyielding will. They were the finest soldiers in the eyes of commanders like General Syril—in other words, not only were they highly skilled combatants with foundational knowledge of magical devices, but they harbored no mercy, even hatred, toward the alien races. They were wholly committed to slaughtering the alien species for the Human Empire.
Had war truly broken out, these soldiers would have fought with unyielding resolve. They would never have been cowed into retreat by grotesque foes. Even without magical weaponry, they would have battled to the last breath—a commendable and cost-effective force, precisely why the Empire had chosen them. Yet before hostilities commenced, the red rain fell from the sky.
Within the army's barracks erupted a mutiny unprecedented in all of Erian history. Their knowledge of the alien race and the Red Hounds made them acutely aware of what the things overhead signified. Their unconditional hatred for the aliens drove them to act the instant they "discovered" them—their hands moving faster than their voices. Thus, a grotesque spectacle unfolded: without warning or mirrors to remind them, no one noticed the creatures above their heads. They only realized enemies surrounded them on all sides.
These soldiers, armed to the teeth, attacked the hidden aliens with heroic zeal, ruthlessly eliminating their own kind.
Later, the messenger sent to inspect the situation stood at the camp entrance and vomited at the sight before him.
The army preparing for war had suffered internal casualties, making an immediate military campaign exceedingly difficult. The imperial leadership once again placed the full restoration of the magic source at the top of their agenda. Yet the technical officer who came to report wore a troubled expression. "We have done everything within our power, sir," she said bitterly. "To continue the restoration requires something beyond the capabilities of magical technology."
That was the realm of magic.
The Erian Empire needed spellcasters—not diviners, but the kind erased from history a century ago. While the Great Library still held spellbooks, they lacked those capable of wielding them. Magic demanded talent and perseverance; cultivating mages required individuals with innate magical aptitude and extensive study.
In other words, unless the empire was willing to invest decades in training mages, they must seek ready-made ones.
They would have to recruit mages who had been condemned as minions of the Abyss over the past century.
This was more than just awkward.
"Spellcasters are human too," remarked a high-ranking official. "Since magic was used in creating the mana source, it must mean good mages were on our side back then."
Others nodded in agreement, as if suddenly realizing this truth. Yet some hesitated, their expressions guarded—clearly, terms like "anti-magic campaign" or "witch hunt" couldn't be dismissed as unfortunate misunderstandings. They asked, "What about the spellcaster's mana depletion?"
"If we place spellcasters under jurisdiction, limiting their use of finite spells solely for repairing mana cores, it wouldn't significantly impact Erian," another clever voice interjected. "Moreover, after a century of recuperation, Erian's mana reserves are no longer as scarce as they once were."
The first part made sense—the scarcity of spellcasters and ease of management were indeed rare advantages for present-day Erian. The latter part, however, was pure conjecture; this fellow clearly couldn't sense magic at all. But what did it matter? The magic source must be restored, mages must be recruited—all that was missing was a stepping stone. Suddenly, everyone understood, nodding in agreement.
Though the public recruitment yielded disappointing results, the Day of the Red Rain exposed the whereabouts of numerous mage remnants. Presumably, they'd prefer work over lifelong imprisonment or death.
...
The sound of rats scurrying across the prison floor jolted Abigail awake.
The second Red Rain should have spared Abigail, but Edwin had used magic in public. The army arrested him and Abigail, who had caused the commotion, separating them into different cells. She didn't know how her uncle was faring now.
Dad must be worried sick.
Abigail had screamed and cried, but no one had responded. Only indifferent cellmates and rats everywhere. Those dreadful creatures with earthworm tails had always been her most hated things. The rustling sound of their movements always startled her awake from her sleep. Rats. So many rats. In her recent nightmares, waves of rats always surged toward her, the scene feeling so real—though Abigail couldn't recall such an event ever happening.
The sound of rat footsteps was approaching her.
"Shh! Go away!" Abigail hissed at the darkness, hoping to scare off any unwelcome visitor. But the sound grew closer and closer. A pointed snout emerged from the shadows, twitching in the lamplight.
Abigail sprang from the floor just as the rat darted into the light.
Unlike the plump rats common in prisons, this one was small—no bigger than a baby's fist. Its teeth, as long as two adult fingernails, seemed all the more terrifying by comparison. Its wicked little eyes glowed red in the darkness. Abigail swore it was staring right at her, sending shivers down her spine.
She wanted to scream.
If she had a torch, she would burn this cell and every rat in it to the ground. It was unbearable. Everything that had happened filled her with rage and helplessness, even though she felt she should be able to do something. Abigail's fingers twitched, her skin was sweaty, and hot tears welled in her eyes, so hot they felt like they might boil her eyeballs. She didn't just want to scream; she wanted to...
"Oh my, oh my, there you are."
Abigail whipped around to find the purple-clad woman and the guard outside her cage.
The mouse squeaked and darted toward the exit, moving as swiftly as a kicked ball. It shot up the purple-skirted woman's dress, making Abigail scream, but the woman only laughed.
"Come say 'hi' to Newz." " she said to Abigail, affectionately stroking the mouse climbing onto her shoulder as it rubbed against her fingers. "Open the door."
I can't open the door! Abigail wanted to say, but she quickly realized the command wasn't meant for her. The guard produced a key and unlocked the door. The purple-clad woman beckoned Abigail to step out.
"Am I being released?" Abigail stood frozen.
The scene felt utterly suspicious: the guard's vacant stare, the purple-clad woman's left half-face hidden beneath burgundy curls, her dress looking decidedly unprofessional, clutching a palm-sized, sealed jar while wearing high heels. Abigail looked down at the towering heels and noticed two peculiar creatures standing beside them. In the dim light, she squinted for a moment before recognizing a very thin cat and a very fat dog.
"Hort on the left, Gamara on the right," the purple-clad woman said with a warm smile.
"Hello..." Abigail managed to say. "And you are?"
"Evil Eye," the woman replied briskly.
Who would name themselves that? Despite Abigail having told herself ten times not to say anything unnecessary, she couldn't help asking, "Your name is Evil Eye?"
"Of course not. We call ourselves Medusa." The woman gave her a strange look, as if she were the odd one out. Before Abigail could respond, Medusa continued in a lighthearted tone, "So what are you? Shadow? Flame? Oh, I remember now—Flame. Your mom said so."
Abigail's mother had passed away when she was just one year old. She took a small step back, convinced the woman was completely mad.
She cautiously asked, "Are you sure you have the wrong person?"
"No, Abigail, right? Yes, I know your mother passed away." Medusa said cheerfully, "She asked me for help, and your father agreed. Good thing I arrived in time. Otherwise, your seal would have broken soon, and if you accidentally burned yourself to death, the world would lose another witch."
"Are you out of your mind?" Abigail muttered. "You must have the wrong person..."
"Please, stop wasting time!" sighed a voice from within the jar.
Abigail stared at the jar, which clearly couldn't hold even a single head, and gasped.
"Alright." Medusa flicked her hair. "We've got a carriage to catch. Let's get moving first!"
She approached Abigail, who tensed, ready to slip past her from behind as she drew near. Abigail watched Medusa nervously, while Medusa regarded her calmly. Her burgundy hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing a face indistinguishable from the right side.
No, wait—the right eye... it wasn't that color.
The woman with burgundy hair had a burgundy left eye, and something seemed to be swirling within its depths. Abigail's gaze locked onto it, unable to look away. Her eyes followed the movement, spinning and spinning, until suddenly everything went black.
When she opened her eyes again, the sky was bright.
Abigail sat in a swaying carriage, staring blankly at the sunlight streaming through the small window. Suddenly, everything came flooding back. She remembered the dragon-winged woman, the shadows in the basement, the rats, and the flames. She snapped her fingers, and a speck of fire rose between them, illuminating her face.
Medusa sat on the other side of the carriage, idly stroking her cat and dog. She flashed a toothy grin at the awakened Abigail, her burgundy hair now draped over the left side of her face. Abigail glanced at the small jar in the shadows, then at the sunlight streaming through the window. Finally, she couldn't resist lunging toward the latter, yanking the curtain completely aside and sticking her head out.
It was a vast expanse of wilderness, the sunlight so bright it sparkled on the green grass—but that wasn't what captivated Abigail. Was it something she saw? Was it something she saw? Heard? Smelled? Touched? Tasted? She didn't know, but... but...
The entire world had become utterly different from before.
How could she describe it? If this was sight, she saw minute specks of light in the air, floating like willow catkins, belonging to no spectrum yet encompassing everything while existing beyond it; If this were hearing, she would hear the gentle chanting of all things, each possessing its own language. Though incomprehensible, it stirred Abigail's soul with longing... Ah, it was impossible to distinguish. She smelled the sharpness of metal, tasted the softness of sunlight, touched the fragrance of flowers. In that moment, Abigail realized this belonged to none of the five senses. She possessed a new sense, this fresh perception merging with her former world in perfect harmony, becoming one.
Abigail could not describe it; her vocabulary was confined to humanity's five senses. Like a color-blind person suddenly seeing a rainbow, like a deaf person hearing celestial music, like a fish fry born in a tank leaping into the ocean—Abigail was suddenly free. The vastness of the world nearly frightened her, yet no fish drowns in the ocean. Her newfound perception expanded across this wilderness, thriving like a fish in water. Abigail reached toward the sky, and points of light drew near her, while she herself glowed like a torch.
Whoosh! A firebird shot skyward from her palm, soaring into the clouds.
Abigail fell backward, darkness swirling before her eyes as laughter shook her. Medusa chuckled, lifting her from the carriage floor. Only when the purple-clad woman's soft hand brushed her cheek did Abigail realize she was crying.
"I'm a witch?" the girl stammered.
"You're a fire witch," Medusa replied cheerfully. "But if you can't defeat your mother in seventeen years, you'll die, you know?"
"Oh, okay," Abigail murmured dazedly.
"Shocked?" Medusa asked curiously, her bare feet—shoes long discarded—tugging at the curtain hem with restless energy.
"No, I'm... I guess I'm not really scared," Abigail gasped, reaching for the can. Something in the shadows opened her hand like a light slap. Medusa said, "Your mother is sleeping. Don't disturb her!"
Abigail gave a silly smile, rubbing her reddened hand. She realized she wasn't afraid. Even if she would die in seventeen years, it wasn't terrifying. Abigail was a witch; she possessed magic. Her mother was also a witch—not dead from illness, but hiding in the shadows. In seventeen years, they would fight, just as she'd glimpsed in her half-awake state: a spectacular clash between the dragon-winged woman and a room full of shadows. So she truly was born extraordinary. Her life would be filled with adventure, not trapped in the safe, dull grind of daily existence like the thousands of ordinary people born into mediocrity and dying in silence.
What had once been dismissed as a girl's fondness for fantasy now shed its cocoon, revealing its true form: Abigail loved adventure and challenge like a moth drawn to a flame. She was born for this, and would die for it.
She slumped in her seat for a moment, then remembered something crucial. Abigail sat bolt upright and asked urgently, "What about Dad? Uncle Edwin? Are they okay?"
"Don't worry," Medusa said. "Your father knows we're bringing you here. As for your uncle, he's a mage—they're watching him like a hawk. We can't get him out."
"What? No! We have to rescue him!" Abigail jumped up, pacing frantically. "Mages get hanged!"
"Oh, the rules changed recently. The higher-ups are recruiting mages now. They're keeping him well-fed and pampered over there." " Medusa snorted, clearly displeased. "Hmph, only mages, mind you. But even if they recruited witches, we wouldn't go. We stand with the victors—no way are we going to be their pets."
Abigail froze at this, then remembered to ask where they were headed. Medusa nodded toward the window. "Southeast of Tasmalin. Look, we're here!"
The carriage came to a halt.
Abigail peered out. At some point, the road had become incredibly crowded. Carriages, horses, and pedestrians jostled together, bustling as they waited to pass through the checkpoint ahead.
"So many people," Abigail murmured.
Medusa also squeezed her head out the window, and the mouse in her hair nearly startled Abigail back inside. The elder witch surveyed the scene and chuckled, "You should say, 'So many non-humans.'"
Upon closer inspection, there truly were far too many oddities here. People who were unusually short waved sticks to avoid being trampled, while those who were exceptionally tall stood out like cranes among chickens. Some had skin so pale it took on a bluish tint, others bore scales that glinted in the light. Many pairs of furry ears stood erect in the sunlight—some looked wonderfully soft to touch, others seemed in desperate need of a good wash. With so many oddly shaped faces around, everyone shed the hoods and veils that had kept them tightly wrapped up outside, finally able to breathe freely.
The procession moved slowly forward, growing livelier the further they went.
Two cyclopes spotted each other from afar. They simultaneously straightened their habitually hunched backs, waving at each other in astonishment, neither expecting to find another being as tall as themselves. A group of short people struggled through the crowd to reunite, exchanging names of their elders and slapping each other's backs with a loud thud. A man who kept drinking water had just emptied his last bottle. He sighed with a grimace when a cup full of water was passed to him from the side. He turned gratefully in that direction, and another man pouring water over his head gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Are you witches?"
Abigail tore her gaze away—it was their turn.
"Yep. A fire witch, an evil eye witch, and a shadow witch. Three of us here," Medusa counted on her fingers, shaking the jar until Shadow weakly swatted her hand away. The rabbit-eared staff member gave them a nonchalant glance, recording as he spoke, "Well then, that makes six witches here."
"Six?" Abigail exclaimed in surprise.
A peculiar sensation struck her.
Unlike the fervor she felt upon learning she was a witch, this was a warm current encircling her heart. Her heart pounded as she looked around at the diverse crowd, at the newly revealed kin and kindred beside her, feeling utterly amazed and profoundly joyful.
We are not alone.