A young boy sat in the corner of a bright room, his back resting against the wall.
The rest of the orphanage playroom buzzed with noise. Children ran between scattered toys, laughing and shouting as they chased each other across the floor. Wooden blocks clattered, chairs scraped, and small feet thumped against the ground.
The boy did not join them. He never did.
One of the children suddenly tripped over a toy and fell hard onto the floor.
For a brief moment, the boy's eyes flickered with interest.
The girl began crying immediately. A caretaker hurried over and lifted her up, speaking softly as she carried the child away. The other children stood still for a few seconds, watching.
But very soon, they were running and laughing again, as if nothing had happened.
The faint spark in the boy's eyes faded just as quickly. Nothing interesting was happening anymore.
A pair of footsteps approached him. A young woman stopped beside the boy and knelt down so she was at his level. She looked barely older than some of the volunteers who sometimes helped at the orphanage.
"Hello there," she said gently. "What's your name?"
The boy slowly turned his head toward her. His face remained quiet and unreadable, and he didn't answer.
Her smile didn't fade.
"Why don't you go play with them?"
Still, there was no response. After a moment, she sighed softly and sat beside him instead. For a while, they both watched the room together.
Soon, two boys began arguing over a toy sword. Their voices grew louder until one of them shoved the other.
The boy's eyes sharpened, and for a brief moment, something like excitement appeared in his gaze. The caretaker beside him noticed the sudden change in his demeanor.
She watched him carefully as another adult stepped in to separate the boys and take the toy away. The argument ended quickly, and the children scattered again.
The small spark in the boy's eyes disappeared.
The woman frowned slightly. She had been observing this quiet child for a few days now, and a pattern had begun to emerge. He rarely spoke and never joined the games. Yet whenever something unexpected happened — a fall, a fight, a sudden change — his attention sharpened.
"You'd rather watch than play, huh?" she said softly.
The boy didn't respond, but he continued staring at the children ahead of them. After a moment, the caretaker reached into her bag and pulled out a small book.
"Here," she said, holding it out to him.
The boy turned his head and looked at the book in her hand.
The cover showed a large stone standing alone in an open field. A sword was buried deep within it, its hilt shining faintly in the sunlight. Strange letters were carved into the stone around the blade.
The boy stared at the image for a long moment before slowly reaching out and taking the book.
He opened it and began reading.
The room remained loud. Children laughed, toys crashed against the floor, and voices rose and fell. But the boy did not look up again.
His eyes moved slowly across the pictures, studying each one in silence. The noise around him faded as his attention settled on the story the images were trying to tell.
Before long, the scene on the page began to take shape in his mind.
He imagined people standing around the buried sword, waiting for someone to lift it. The stone stood in the middle of the field, the sword unmoving no matter how many hands had tried to pull it free.
In his mind, he could almost see the crowd. Knights in armor stepped forward one by one. Some gripped the hilt with both hands. Others strained with all their strength. Yet the sword did not move for any of them.
He turned the page slowly.
The next picture showed someone new stepping forward. Not a knight, or anyone important. Just a boy who had come to the town with his brother.
His fingers moved instinctively, turning the pages while his gaze remained glued to the book. The sword was no longer in the stone. The boy now held it in his hands, and the people around him stared in shock.
The boy holding the sword did not look strong. He wasn't wearing armor. He looked no different from anyone else standing there.
Just someone ordinary.
The child sat in the corner of the noisy room, staring at the picture for a long time. He had not even noticed the woman beside him stand up and walk away.
***
The woman returned the next week.
The child noticed her before she even spoke. She walked into the playroom with the same quiet steps, a small bag hanging from her shoulder. He was sitting in the same corner. When she saw him, she smiled faintly and walked over.
"Hello again," she said as she knelt beside him.
The child looked at her, then at the bag she carried. The woman followed his gaze and chuckled softly.
"So that's what you're looking at?"
She opened the bag and pulled out another book. This one had a picture of a tall mountain on its cover, clouds swirling around the peak.
"Another story," she said.
The child took the book without hesitation. He opened it immediately. The caretaker sat beside him again, watching the room while he read. After a moment she glanced down at the book in his hands.
"Did you finish the last one?"
The child looked up from the book. He set it down and immediately got up. Before the caretaker could ask him anything, he ran away.
She blinked in confusion. Perhaps she had frightened him?
But before more thoughts filled her mind, the child returned. He was holding the same book she had given him last week. The child walked up to her slowly and held the book out.
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise.
"Oh?" she said. "Did you like it?"
The child looked down at the book for a moment before speaking.
"The sword..." His voice was quiet and rough, as if it had not been used much.
The caretaker leaned forward slightly.
"What about it?"
The child thought for a moment.
"...only he pull it out."
She smiled. "That's right."
The child sat back down beside her, and began flipping through the new book she had brought.
From that day on, the woman began visiting once every week. Sometimes she brought stories about kings, sometimes about travelers, and sometimes about people discovering strange worlds or hidden treasures.
The child always waited in the same corner of the room, and every week he read. The other children still ran and shouted around him. Toys still scattered across the floor. Arguments still broke out and ended just as quickly, but the child paid less attention to them now.
Most of the time, his eyes remained fixed on the pages of a book.
***
Weeks turned into months.
The woman arrived in the afternoon, as she usually did.
One of the caretakers stood near the middle of the playroom, trying to teach a small group of children their letters. A few of them repeated the sounds loudly while others lost interest and wandered away. The child was sitting in his usual corner when the door opened.
He noticed her immediately. She carried the same small bag over her shoulder. When she spotted him, she smiled and walked over.
"Well," she said as she knelt beside him, "there you are."
"You know," she said gently, "you could sit with them. They're learning their letters today."
The child watched the group for a moment.
"They slow," he said quietly.
The woman blinked.
"Oh?"
He looked back down at the book resting on his lap.
"I already know letters."
She studied him for a moment, a faint hint of surprise crossing her face.
"Do you now?" she asked.
The child didn't answer. He simply turned a page.
For a moment, the woman said nothing. Then, a small smile appeared on her face.
"You really like stories that much?"
The child nodded.
She leaned back against the wall and watched the room for a moment before asking, "Why?"
The child didn't answer right away. His eyes followed a group of children running across the room.
"Things happen," he said quietly.
The woman smiled a little.
"Things happen here too."
He shook his head. "Not like that."
She glanced down at him.
"Not like in stories?"
He nodded.
For a moment, they both watched the playroom together.
A group of children started arguing over blocks near the middle of the room. One of them knocked over a tower someone else had built, and the pieces scattered across the floor.
The child's eyes moved toward them immediately. The caretaker noticed the shift in his attention.
"You always notice things," she said.
The child didn't reply.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"In story...people find things."
"What kinds of things?"
"Treasure... Monster... Secret places."
She chuckled softly.
"That sounds a lot more exciting than this room."
The child looked back at her.
"Do those things exist?"
The question caught her off guard for a moment. She thought about it before answering.
"Maybe," she said. "But stories are good at making ordinary things feel important."
The child looked down at the floor, thinking.
"I like that."
She smiled again.
"I know you do."
After a moment, she opened her bag.
"I brought you another one."
She pulled out a small book and handed it to him.
The cover showed a bright sky stretching over a wide blue sea. In the center of the picture, a boy with wings made of feathers was flying high above the water.
The child stared at the cover quietly. The caretaker watched him for a moment before speaking again.
"This one is a little sad," she said.
He didn't look away from the picture. Then he nodded slightly and opened the book.
The room continued as always around them, filled with noise and movement. But the child was already reading, while the caretaker simply sat beside him, watching the room.
***
The story spoke of a man who built wings from feathers and wax, wings strong enough to carry a person through the air like a bird.
The picture showed the sky stretching endlessly above him. The water below looked small and distant. The man flew higher and higher until the wax in his wings began to melt.
Feathers scattered across the sky, and he fell into the sea.
At the bottom of the illustration, the child reading the book saw a single line.
Do not fly too close to the sun.
The child stared at the picture for a long time. The man falling down didn't cry or shout in anger. He smiled.
Why would someone fly higher if they already knew what would happen?
It didn't make sense.
***
For the next two weeks, he read the same story again and again. He read it slowly, but the story never changed. Every time he reached the last page, he returned to the beginning.
The question stayed in his mind.
Why would someone do that?
The caretaker usually visited once every week. But the next week, she didn't come. The child sat in his corner and watched the door.
Children ran past him. Toys clattered across the floor. Caretakers walked in and out of the room. But none of them were her.
He kept the book in his hands.
The week after that, he waited again. She still didn't come. The boy began watching the door more than the room.
One afternoon, the child walked up to another caretaker. He stopped a few steps away from her. She was stacking toys back onto a shelf, unaware of his presence.
The child opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He stood there quietly for several seconds. Then, he turned around and went back to his corner.
After a while, a boy of similar age as him, whom he hadn't seen before wandered closer. He stopped a few steps away and looked at him curiously.
"Hey," the boy said. "What's your name?"
The question sounded familar, but it didn't feel the same.
The child looked up, surprised. For a moment, he didn't answer. No one had tried talking to him for a long time other than the lady who brought him books.
During his first few days at the orphanage, a few children had approached him, but his quiet indifference had slowly driven them away.
Eventually, they simply stopped trying.
Before he could speak, another voice called from across the room.
"Hey! Come here! We're building a fort!"
The new boy turned his head immediately.
"Wait—I'm coming!"
He ran off without another word.
The child remained where he was.
No one else came over.
***
Another week passed.
The child still carried the same book with him. The cover had begun to bend slightly from how often he held it. Sometimes he read it again. Sometimes he simply stared at the picture of the boy flying above the sea.
But most of the time, he watched the door. The woman did not come.
One afternoon, while the other children were playing, the child walked slowly toward one of the caretakers again. She was arranging toys back onto a shelf, just as she always did.
The caretaker noticed him standing there and turned.
"Yes?" she said gently.
The child hesitated. His fingers tightened around the book.
"The book lady," he said quietly.
The caretaker blinked.
"The book lady?" she asked.
The child raised the book he was holding. The caretaker still looked confused. Slowly, she reached her hand out to take the book.
He hesitated for a moment, but eventually let go.
Opening the cover, the caretaker skimmed through the pages. Understanding slowly crossed her face.
"Oh." Her expression softened.
"Come here for a moment," she said.
She led him to a small chair near the wall and knelt down so she was at his level. The room was still loud behind them, but her voice remained quiet.
"You mean the lady who used to bring you books every week?"
The child nodded.
"Where is she?"
The caretaker paused, choosing her words carefully.
"She got very hurt," the woman said softly. "And... she passed away."
The child looked at her, blinking.
"Did she get an ouchie?" He asked.
The woman frowned slightly. "Yes, a big ouchie."
"When will she come back?"
Pain crossed the caretaker's face.
"She can't come back anymore," she said gently.
Slowly, she handed the book back to him.
The child held it in his hands for a long moment. Then he asked the only question that came to his mind.
"...forever?"
The caretaker nodded slowly.
"Yes."
The child sat there for a moment longer. Then he stood up without another word and walked back to his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the book again.
The page showed the boy flying high above the sea.
He turned the page. The wings were breaking apart, the boy was falling.
The child stared at the picture. The question about the story was still there. Why would someone fly higher when they knew what would happen?
But now there was another question beside it.
How could someone just... disappear?
He sat there for a long time, holding the book in both hands.
If someone disappears... does that mean their story ended?
Days passed, then weeks. The playroom looked exactly the same as before. The room was just as noisy as it had always been, but the child no longer watched it the same way.
Before, he had sat in the corner and followed everything that happened. A fall or a fight — small things that broke the pattern. But now those things felt... empty.
He stared at the book in his hands. He had probably read it countless times by now, but the ending never changed. The question remained unanswered.
Lifting his gaze, he looked back at the door. Caretakers walked in carrying supplies, volunteers passed through the hallway outside. Children were called away and brought back again.
But the one he was waiting for never appeared.
He kept watching the door anyway. Sometimes he imagined her footsteps. Sometimes he thought he saw the bag she carried, but it was never her.
After a long time, a quiet thought passed through his mind. Maybe she would come back next week.
Or maybe... he could go and find her.
The playroom faded. The door he had been watching disappeared into darkness.
The child opened his eyes.
For a moment, he remained still as awareness returned to him piece by piece. The memories of the orphanage slipped away like mist, leaving behind something colder and far more familiar.
He was no longer the silent child in the corner. He was Leonar, living a new life.
Leon looked around slowly. After a moment of quiet observation, he recognized the place immediately.
He was standing in his Soul Sea.
His Soul Sea no longer resembled the vast, silent ocean he remembered. The surface was torn apart, as if something enormous had forced its way through the waters.
Dark cracks spread across the sea like wounds, splitting the endless expanse into jagged fragments. The waves moved strangely now, sluggish and uneven, as though the ocean itself had been injured.
Far above the waters, masses of flesh clung to the space around his soul core like parasites, slowly pulsing as they tightened their grip.
Somewhere beneath the surface, something shifted. The sea felt... disturbed, as if a foreign presence had burrowed deep into its depths.
"Welcome back."
Leon turned toward the voice.
Noah stood a short distance away, arms crossed, his usual unimpressed expression on his face.
Leon looked back at the torn sea.
"How bad?" he asked.
Noah followed his gaze toward the corrupted waters.
"Bad enough that you should probably stop staring and start thinking."
Leon remained silent for a moment, studying the strange growths surrounding his soul core.
"So it got inside," he said quietly.
Noah sighed.
"Yes. Congratulations. The fog thing didn't just attack us, it forced its way into the Soul Sea."
Leon's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Is it still here?"
Noah gave a small shrug.
"Where else would it go?"
Leon looked around the darkened sea again.
The usual calm presence of the ocean felt wrong now. Something beneath the surface seemed to move slowly, like a shadow gliding through deep water.
"Then we should remove it."
Noah glanced at him.
"You say that like it's easy."
Leon didn't reply. For a moment, they both watched the disturbed sea in silence. Then Noah straightened slightly.
Leon opened his mouth to respond—
But Noah had already begun fading away.
"Wait—"
Too late.
The space where Noah had stood was empty. Leon lowered his hand slowly. The sea around him grew darker. The soul core vanished from sight, swallowed by shadow.
A voice echoed through the void.
"Leon..."
A figure stood in the distance.
Sunny.
"Sunny?" Leon asked, visibly confused.
Sunny nodded slowly and let out a bright smile.
"Hey Leon."
Leon smiled, but before he could speak again, Sunny interrupted him.
"Why were you so reckless?"
He froze, staring at Sunny.
"What?"
Sunny grimaced in anger.
"How many people have died because you wanted to see what would happen?"
Stepping forward, Sunny grabbed Leon's shoulders.
"They're dead Leon. Cassie, Nephis..."
Frowning slightly, Sunny continued.
"They're dead."
Leon took a step back.
"What?"
Sunny dropped his arms.
"Are you a fucking owl?" lifting his head, he screamed "They are gone! And it is all your fault!"