Xavier remained motionless, his thoughts unsettled. Those horrible memories, fractured yet vivid enough to gnaw at him. A family such as House Xylaria—one that ruled with iron severity and demanded loyalty without question—turning upon its own bloodline?… it didn't align. Even cruelty had boundaries. But this… this transgressed them.
His gaze drifted across the chamber, searching for something tangible to anchor his spiraling mind. That was when he saw something odd. At the edge of the table, staining the wooden floor beneath, lay a liquid—crimson, stubbornly clinging to the grain.
It was not immediately striking. Not fresh, but not yet faded. It carried a grotesque depth—blackened at its center, rimmed with a dull crimson edge that seemed unwilling to vanish. Like wine left too long in shadow. Or blood. Xavier's breath slowed. He stepped closer.
The stain stretched wider than he had first imagined, spreading in uneven rivulets, as though it had once flowed before surrendering to stillness. It was not paint. It could not be mistaken. It was blood.
His hand moved instinctively. He tugged at his clothes, exposing the bandaged wound at his side. The cloth was damp, its center stained through. His eyes lingered. "…Poor kid must have been assassinated," he murmured, voice low.
Turning back toward the desk, his movements grew deliberate, almost ritualistic. His fingers brushed the surface, then found a drawer. He opened it without knowing why. Inside lay a knife. The blade was dulled, its edge crusted with a darkened red. Xavier froze. "…Where did this come from?"
His grip tightened as he lifted it. Then—his eyes shifted. To his hand. Across his fingers and palm, faint but undeniable, he hadn't noticed at first, but there were traces of blood. Pressed. A partial imprint, as though he had once gripped something wet… and held on. His breathing grew shallow. Slowly, unwillingly, his gaze returned to the knife. At the handle— A smear. The outline of a hand. His hand.
Silence pressed in. Piece by piece, the fragments began to align. "…He…" The thought faltered. "…He stabbed himself?"
Then the door burst open. The sudden force sent a sharp echo through the chamber. A tall man entered—broad-shouldered, posture composed despite the urgency of his stride. His white hair lay neatly beneath a dark top hat, a trimmed mustache framing a face marked by discipline. Yet in that moment, composure shattered. "Xavier—!"
The old man crossed the distance in an instant, abandoning all formality as he seized Xavier in a firm embrace. "You're alive… thank Aurora, you're alive," he breathed, his stern gaze softening.
Xavier stiffened, then allowed himself to relax. "…Winston, relax," he said, the name coming out naturally. "Calm yourself. I'm unharmed."
Winston pulled back, though his hands lingered on Xavier's shoulders; he brushed Xavier's messy hair lightly with his hand. For a moment, his stern features softened, the weight of fear easing as he confirmed the boy was alive and well. Then he turned, shrugging off his coat effortlessly.
Winston carried it to the hall stand by the door, the old oak frame lined with hooks for coats and hats. Hanging it carefully, he gave the fabric a quick brush, flicking away the dust that clung to it.
"You gave me quite a fright," Winston said, his voice roughened by emotion but steadying as he spoke. "I walk in from the market and find you bleeding out—what was I meant to think? My heart stopped. But you're here, and that's what matters." He glanced back at Xavier, his tone easing into something gentler. "You must be thirsty. Let me fetch you a glass of water, and I'll put the kettle on. A bit of tea will do you good."
Xavier exhaled softly. "No need," he replied. "I drank water out of the glass bottle on the desk, so I'm fine."
"Oh… alright, that's—" Winston's words cut off. He turned sharply, his face tightening as he fixed Xavier with sudden urgency. "Did you say… a glass bottle?" His voice carried a tremor of panic.
"Yes?" Xavier raised a brow, puzzled by the shift in tone. He turned slightly, lifting a hand toward the desk behind him. "That round one on the table."
Winston's expression changed at once—confusion giving way to wariness. His eyes locked on Xavier, sharper now, as though measuring every breath. "Tell me straight. Are you well? No dizziness, no fatigue? Nothing strange at all?"
Xavier shrugged, uncertain. "Umm… no, not really, I'm—"
His words broke off. Without warning, his legs buckled, dropping him to his knees. The chamber tilted violently around him, vision blurring into a haze. The floor seemed to lurch, shadows bending; the world around him was slipping out of balance.
His voice cut off, and out of nowhere, his legs gave up, dropping him to his knees. His vision blurred, and quickly, his world around him tilted off balance.
Winston noticeably became paler. Something was happening, and he knew what; it had something to do with that bottle.
"Noo!" Hurriedly winston picked Xavier up and laid him down on a sofa. This the effect of drinking the Spellworld potion.
The practice of awakening through the Spellworld Potion began with the Sovereigns—outherworldly beings said to have fallen from the sky and reshaped the very foundations of the world.
Among the knowledge they left behind was a method of entering the Spellworld, a parallel realm where mortals could gain power by concocting and drinking special potions.
The process was simple in theory, but the cost was severe. Once a potion was consumed, the body would weaken— experience dizziness and fatigue—until the drinker fell into a deep slumber. From that moment, their spirit was drawn into the Spellworld.
There, trials awaited. Each one was harsher than the last, designed to test strength, will, and resolve. Most challengers who survived returned as Awakened—granted a spell, a power unique to them alone. Such individuals became known as spellcasters.
The risk, however, was absolute. Those who died in their trials never woke again.
Despite the danger, the rewards were undeniable. Awakened spellcasters possessed the strength to confront the creatures that plagued the world—the greatest threat among them being the demons. Their abilities elevated them in both military and political spheres, turning awakening into more than a personal choice. It became an instrument of power.
Among noble and privileged families, children were trained from a young age to prepare for the trial. Tutors instructed them in combat, survival, and every scrap of knowledge available about the Spellworld. For most families, this was a matter of legacy, a calculated investment in influence, security, and control.
Not all who trained were forced to undergo the trial, but they were made ready for the possibility.
In contrast, those of less affluent families rarely had access to such preparation. Without guidance and training, entering the Spellworld was widely regarded as a prayer for death.
And yet, even so… many still took the risk.
Xavier lay there, succumbing to the potion's effects, while Winston frantically tore through the shelves.
He moved in long strides, pulling books down, flipping pages with desperate speed. Paper rustled, ink blurred beneath his eyes. Then—he stopped. His fingers froze on a single worn volume, its crest faded with age. Relief flickered across his face, but only for a moment.
Xavier was already slipping. His body swayed, eyelids heavy, head drooping as though dragged down by unseen chains. Winston rushed forward, caught him by the shoulder, and shook him.
"Xavier—look at me. Stay with me."
The boy's gaze lifted, unfocused but still present.
"You've drunk a Spellworld potion," Winston said quickly, his voice tight with urgency. "That's what's happening. In a moment, you won't be here anymore—your mind will be pulled into the Spellworld."
Xavier's lips parted, but no words came. His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open.
"I can't go with you," Winston pressed, his tone raw. "Once you cross over, you'll be on your own."
Winston's face hardened. He rose quickly, striding to the far wall. With a sharp tug, he pulled down a painting, revealing an iron safe hidden behind it. His fingers moved quickly, turning the dial, entering the code. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
He stared inside, his expression darkening. "I placed the potion in here," he muttered, voice low and stern. "So how in the world did you open it… and drink it?"
For a moment he stood frozen, the weight of the realization pressing on him. Xavier had said he found it on the table—but Winston knew better. The safe should have kept it sealed away.
He sighed, the sound heavy with frustration and worry. Reaching into the safe, he pulled out a yellow stone pendant, then closed the safe.
Turning back, Winston crossed the room and knelt beside Xavier. His hands trembled slightly as he hung the pendant around the boy's neck, fastening it with quiet resolve.
"May this keep you," he whispered, more to himself than to Xavier.
"I kept this ready… just in case. Listen to me now, lad, because we don't have time."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "In there, you'll face a trial. If you make it through, you'll awaken. If you fail… you won't come back."
Xavier's breathing slowed, his thoughts scattering. Spellworld? What is he saying? What's happening to me?
Winston's words came faster, panic sharpening them. "You've got to survive. There are monsters in that place—more than you can imagine. If you see one, don't fight. Hide. Run. Do whatever it takes to stay alive. You're not ready to face them head-on."
Xavier's brow furrowed, the faint twitch betraying his struggle to process Winston's words. His chest rose shallowly, each breath fragile, as though his body itself resisted the weight of what he was hearing.
"Many will kill without hesitation," Winston warned, his voice steady but edged with gravity. "To them, you are nothing more than an opportunity. Trust no one."
Xavier's head dipped, a weak nod that seemed more instinct than conviction. His lips parted, but no words came.
"…Survive. Complete the trial… gain a Spell."
"Yes." Winston inclined his head once, firm. "Exactly that."
But he did not step back. His gaze held Xavier, sharp and unyielding, as though forcing the words deeper into him.
"Listen further. This is important."
Xavier's body swayed, knees threatening to buckle. His fingers twitched faintly, reaching for balance in the empty air.
"In that world, not everything you see is real," Winston continued. "Some entities are illusions, constructs born of the trial itself. Others… are genuine. You may be cast anywhere, so keep your guard high."
The words pressed down like iron. Xavier's shoulders sagged, his breath catching.
"Another thing," Winston said, lowering his tone. "Time does not differ between worlds. If you remain asleep for three days, then you have spent three days within the Spellworld."
Xavier's hand rose weakly, curling around the pendant at his neck. Its faint glow pulsed against his skin, a fragile anchor.
"That pendant will sustain your body—for a time," Winston added. "At most, a month. After that, hunger and thirst will gnaw at you. If your body dies here… you will not return."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Xavier swallowed hard. "…Then I just have to come back," he whispered.
Winston's eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. "No matter what."
"…No matter what," Xavier echoed, the words trembling as his strength finally gave way. His body slackened, collapsing forward.
Winston caught him, lowering him gently to the ground. His hand lingered at Xavier's shoulder, steady and protective.
"May the eyes of Saint Aurora guide you, my lord," he murmured.
Darkness swallowed Xavier whole. For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then—
A single resonant tone rang out.
Like the toll of a distant cathedral bell.
Ding—
The sound rippled through the void, echoing endlessly. Then a loud voice followed:
[ Welcome, player. Prepare yourself for the first trial of the Spellworld. ]