In a forest dense with trees, a boy was running as if something was chasing him. He had pitch-black hair and a pair of ashen-colored eyes, and he wore black clothes that seemed to drink the scant light filtering through the canopy.
The boy ran through bushes and over branches, each step accelerating his pace. When he reached a slightly clearer area where the trees thinned, he abruptly stopped.
"Ha.. haa.. haa..."
He panted for a couple of minutes, forcing his breathing to steady. His ashen eyes scanned the empty clearing before he stretched his right hand forward, his fingertips pressing against an invisible barrier.
His eyes flashed with anger. He clenched his left fist until the knuckles turned white like marble and punched the barrier. A loud BANG echoed through the silent woods.
"Grrhh."
He groaned, intense pain flashing up his arm and into his mind. He did not stop. He made a fist with his other hand and punched the barrier again. And again. His fists began to bleed, the skin splitting open, but he did not care. He punched even harder, driven by a silent fury, until glimpses of white bone were visible through the torn flesh.
...
He breathed out a mouthful of turbid air.
"Huuuu..."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Blood fell from both his hands, staining the dark grass a vivid, violent red. He did not look at the wounds, nor the blood, as if they belonged to someone else.
Instead, his gaze shifted over his right shoulder. There, a tall black figure stood motionless between the trees, watching.
The boy turned and began walking toward the figure. He stopped at a distance of five steps and kneeled on one knee, head bowed slightly, but his spine remained rigid.
Silence descended between them, thick and heavy. The black figure broke it first.
"Eclipse, your free time is over. First, give me your hands. I will heal them. After that, we will return to the temple and begin your training."
After the archbishop's words, Eclipse secretly gritted his teeth. But without a word of retort, he stood and stretched both his battered hands forward.
The archbishop took them in his own, his touch cool and dry. He inspected the ruined knuckles with dispassionate eyes. Then he raised his right hand, the movement revealing a bone-white arm from within his long black sleeve.
After a moment of concentration, strange runes began to appear on his palm—seven of them, arranged inside a perfect circle. They glowed with a soft, verdant hue.
Simultaneously, Eclipse's torn skin began to knit itself back together. An itchy, crawling sensation spread across his knuckles. A weird feeling rose in him—a desire to stop the healing, to scratch the itch raw and make the wounds even worse.
He suppressed the feeling, jaw clenched, and endured.
After some time, the wounds were fully healed, leaving only smears of dried blood. The archbishop let go of his arms and turned, beginning the walk back to the old temple without another glance.
They retraced the path Eclipse had just sprinted down. The same tall, dark-brown trees loomed, their leaves an unnatural, lifeless black, unlike the lush green of ordinary foliage. The soil underfoot was the color of dried blood.
They walked for fifteen minutes in complete silence, the only sounds their footsteps on the leaf litter. Finally, they reached their destination.
The tall, mysterious temple stood shrouded by the countless trees. Its stairs and walls were crafted from polished black marble, seeming to absorb the faint light. It was a place of shadow and silence.
Eclipse and the archbishop ascended step by step, reaching the grand entrance.
Massive gates stood guard. They looked ancient but indestructible, made from the same dark material as the rest of the temple. One detail stood out: two deep, crescent moon-shaped engravings were carved into the gates along the vertical opening line.
The archbishop walked forward first. He placed a hand on the cold surface and uttered a silent command. The two engravings flashed with a faint, sickly light, and the gates swung inward without a sound.
The archbishop stepped through.
Eclipse hesitated. His body tensed as if an invisible weight pressed against his chest, a deep-seated reluctance and fear rooting him to the spot.
But he had no choice. Even if he refused, the archbishop would force him inside.
He entered the temple slowly.
The interior was as he remembered. The same six ancient pillars rose to support a shadowy ceiling. An altar stood at the far end, and above it, a circular hole was open to the sky—a conduit through which moonlight would descend every week.
He was bitterly familiar with this place. He had lived here for nine years. More than familiar, he was sick of it.
He walked behind the archbishop, their footsteps echoing in the hollow space. They stopped at the exact center of the temple floor.
The archbishop turned, his features hidden in the deep shadow of his hood.
"Take off your shirt and sit down, cross-legged."
Eclipse obeyed. He pulled the black shirt over his head and let it drop to the marble with a soft flutter.
His physique revealed years of relentless training—not overly muscular, but lean and tightly corded with strength, carrying no spare flesh.
He sat down cross-legged, his back to the archbishop, his face toward the now-closed entrance and the world beyond it he could not reach.
He closed his eyes slowly, drawing in a deep, steadying breath.
Behind him, the archbishop also sat, mirroring his posture. He stretched both hands toward Eclipse's bare back.
Cold, bone-white palms pressed against the boy's skin.
The archbishop concentrated. Two intricate magic circles manifested on his palms, larger and more complex than the healing one. This time, each held nine sharp, angular runes, and their color was a deep, scarlet red.
Blood-red flames kindled from the archbishop's palms, igniting Eclipse's skin.
Hot, scorching flames instantly engulfed Eclipse's upper body. The pain was not that of a simple burn; it was a searing invasion, as if the fire were seeking to consume his very life force. Agony, white-hot and profound, tore through him. He felt as if he were being unmade. A groan clawed its way up his throat, but he barely managed to suppress it, biting down until his teeth ached. His entire world narrowed to the struggle of holding still, of enduring, of not screaming in the suffocating silence of the black marble temple.