The day was Monday.At least, he thought it was.
He had never been good at remembering days of the week. Time blurred when every week looked the same—drills, patrols, orders, blood. What mattered was the date.
The 6th day of the 16th month.Year 1020.
He had been summoned by the Army Magister. That alone was enough to sour the morning.
He stood in his quarters, staring at the black overcoat and camouflage uniform hanging from a peg on the wall. The fabric was clean, pressed with military precision—too clean for a man who had spent the last two years on active battlefields. He exhaled slowly and reached for it.
Best look presentable, he thought. Or get court-marshalled for insulting basic hygiene.
The mirror across the room reflected a soldier shaped by repetition and violence.
Ebony-black hair cut short to regulation length. A face worn rough by wind, dust, and long nights without sleep. Scars traced faint stories across his skin—nothing dramatic, just reminders that death had reached for him more than once and missed by inches. His brown eyes were sharp, always moving, always calculating.
The war did that to people. Outside, the capital of Rammaset looked deceptively peaceful.
The weather was mild. The streets were clean. Greenery climbed stone walls and lined the avenues, the luxuries absent in the outer districts. If he hadn't been summoned so abruptly, it might have been a perfect morning to sit with a book and pretend the world wasn't rotting beneath its own weight.
But that was life. Unpredictable. Unforgiving.
The Empire could look like this everywhere, he thought bitterly. But it didn't. The war with Rinnett had frozen the nation in a state of permanent readiness. At first, people hoarded food and whispered prayers to the Flame and the Night. Now, warnings of war were as common as weather reports.
Border towns burned. Outer districts crumbled.And the Veins pulsed beneath it all, unseen and unacknowledged.
Lost in thought, he arrived at the Army Headquarters.
"Your badge and I.D., sir," the guard said at the gate.
He handed over the brass badge and folded credentials without a word.
"Good morning, Sergeant. Purpose of visit?"
"I have a scheduled meeting with the Magister. Fifteen minutes."
The guard scanned the papers, nodded, and returned them. "Proceed."
The Headquarters loomed like a monument to authority—second only to the Imperial Palace itself. A massive dome crowned the structure, its wings extending east and west in a subtle asymmetry that somehow made it feel alive. Powerful. Watching.
He quickened his pace.
Kohler White was known for many things. Patience was not one of them.
"Hey—Mr. Asshole! Would you slow down?"
The voice came from behind, loud and unmistakably familiar.
He groaned internally. Darwin.
Darwin caught up quickly, short-legged but relentless, panting dramatically like he'd just sprinted a mile. His brown hair was perpetually untidy, his uniform worn with careless confidence. Blue eyes—too kind for a battlefield—sparkled with mischief.
"Why didn't you slow down?" Darwin accused. "What, running from destiny now?"
"I'm late," the soldier replied flatly.
Darwin squinted. "Wait… today's the Magister meeting, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Darwin's face lit up. "You know, people say the Magister's actually a dragon. Breathes fire. Eats under-performing officers."
He stared at him. "You believe that?"
"Well, I haven't not believed it."
Weirdo.
They reached the office corridor.
"Well," Darwin said, backing away with a grin, "tell me if he sets you on fire. I'll check on you afterwards. Good luck."
And just like that, he vanished down the hall.
The soldier knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was deep. Solid.
Inside, a man sat behind a desk, chair tilted back slightly as he read a file marked 309875.
My badge number.
The man's eyes lifted.
Gold. Not metaphorically they were gold, with slightly vertical pupils like a reptile's.
So the rumours had a source.
Kohler White radiated authority. White sideburns framed a face carved by decades of command. His body was old but powerful, the kind of strength that didn't need to prove itself.
"Oh. You're here," Kohler said. "Sit. I'm Kohler White. Thirty-five years in service." Then he smiled faintly.
"Tell me, Mr. Chagrin. That's an unusual name. Care to explain it?"
Chagrin's jaw tightened.
"With respect, sir," he said carefully, "I fail to see how that's relevant to the Ruins of Catharsis. And—" he glanced sideways, "—why is there someone else present?"
"Oh. Right." Kohler gestured. "Army Psychic. Miss Monica."
She stood gracefully, composed and unreadable. Ebony hair. Tanned skin. Eyes that seemed to see past people rather than at them.
Beautiful, yes—but dangerous.
"You'll answer all questions," Kohler continued. "This evaluation determines your future. Pass, and your records will be erased. New name. New life."
Chagrin swallowed.
He had always hated his name.
"If you insist," he said. And so he spoke.
About his father. About the Outer Districts. About ambition curdling into cruelty. About being born into disappointment and named for it.
Kohler listened without sympathy.
"Your father was a piece of shit," he said plainly. "I'm not your therapist. Next question. Why did you join the Army?"
Chagrin answered honestly.
Because the Academy was escape. Because the war needed bodies. Because violence was easier than helplessness.
"And how did you earn the title Sergeant?"
He explained. The excellence at the Academy. The promotion. The name that replaced the one he despised.
Kohler nodded slowly.
"Impressive," he said. "Now… let's talk about Catharsis."
He leaned back.
"From here on, you answer to Monica."
Monica lit candles. Lavender filled the room. "Think back," she said gently.
And before Chagrin could protest, he found himself in Darkness.