Midday at the academy was usually lively with bells, footsteps, and laughter. But today, Geal heard a strange kind of silence.
It wasn't the absence of sound—more like all sound had been hidden away by someone.
He walked down the eastern corridor—where sunlight usually streamed through the skylight above. But today, the light didn't touch the ground.
It halted midair, splintered like shattered glass.
---
"Geal."
A soft voice called out. He turned around.
Lyre stood beneath a stone pillar, her hands wrapped in bandages, her face as gentle as always… but her eyes were sunken, as if she hadn't slept in weeks.
— "How's your hand?" Geal asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
— "I don't remember… maybe… I bumped into something."
She smiled.
But Geal saw the drop of blood seeping through the bandage, sliding down her fingertip, hitting the floor… and sizzling, like it was boiling under sunlight.
He quickly grabbed her hand.
— "Tell me the truth, Lyre. This isn't a normal wound."
— "I don't know anymore… Sometimes, I feel like I'm stabbing myself.
Not because I want to feel pain…
But to check if I'm still real."
She laughed softly. But Geal felt a chill run down his spine.
---
That evening.
Geal snuck into the forbidden library and pulled out a tattered old tome:
> "Of Photonic Vessels – The Corrosion of Light"
In it, a handwritten passage read:
> "If the light within a person exceeds its limit, it no longer illuminates—it begins to burn.
Those of Holy Light lineage are cursed... as they mature, the very light they generate will corrode their nerves, their bones, their memories—then their soul…"
Geal dropped the book. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt.
---
Three students were missing.
A warning was posted on the bulletin board.
But no one seemed afraid—just another prank, they said.
Only Geal knew:
Something was eating the academy from the inside out.
That night, he searched for Lyre again.
He found her standing in the cemetery behind the academy, holding a shard of mirror.
Symbols—carved in ancient script—ran in circular patterns across her arms like a matrix.
Her eyes were hollow. Her lips murmured:
— "They say… light purifies.
Then why does it hurt me like this…?"
Geal rushed forward and grabbed her by the shoulders.
— "Lyre! Please, talk to me like a normal person!"
— "Normal person…?" she tilted her head.
— "Geal, if you suddenly found out you were a fire…
Could you ever love the things you burn?"
She tightened her grip on the mirror shard. Blood spilled—
but didn't fall.
It floated upward, defying gravity, as if even pain no longer obeyed the laws of the world.
---
She fell asleep.
No—not sleep. She was falling.
Falling into a bottomless well.
Each meter down, the light within her cracked a little more.
In the dark, children's whispers echoed:
> "You were born to save people…"
"But you can't save anyone…"
"You're burning them. One by one… one by one…"
Then an older voice rasped:
> "Geal will die.
And these hands will be the ones to kill him."
Lyre collapsed, clutching her head.
— "No! No! I won't let that happen!"
— "I… just wanted to live like a normal person…"
A red light burst forth.
Not the light of salvation—
but the searing glow of despair.
Her own voice whispered, echoing through the cavern of her mind:
> "If light cannot save anyone…
Then let it kill everyone.
At least… I won't be alone."
---
The past continues.
After she had destroyed everything.
When they arrived at the scene, all they found was a naked girl, her limbs bound in strands of light that had hardened into hot steel, standing in the ashes.
Her face—expressionless.
As the final light withdrew from her spine like spent steam, she collapsed.
No rage, no fear, no feeling.
Only smoke and shattered cinders beneath her fingers—
as if the world had burned away.
Then… came footsteps.
Slow. Dry.
But steady—like a knock at the door that silence already knew too well.
An old man appeared in the ruins.
No staff.
No priest's robe.
Just a cloak of silver-gray.
Long beard, white hair like fallen snow.
His eyes were the color of sky after snow—soft blue, but so deep they had no end.
He looked at her—a naked girl, limbs scorched by light, eyes like a corpse still breathing—
and did not flinch.
> "You are not a sin," he said.
His voice was like a small fire burning in a wet bird's nest—warm, but so faint it felt almost imaginary.
She said nothing.
He stepped closer and raised a hand—not to touch her, but to let it hover in the air before her, waiting… as if offering a choice.
> "You're cold.
I have nothing but my breath…
But if you want… I'll let it warm you for a while."
---
Little Lyre looked at the hand.
She didn't tremble. She didn't cry.
She simply reached up—and touched his skin.
It was warm.
But not the warmth of fire.
It was a steady warmth—like the blood of someone long dead, still flowing by sheer will.
He embraced her. Gently.
Without urgency.
As if cradling a grandchild after a nightmare.
> "My name is Veyrion," he whispered.
"A wanderer. I don't believe in God.
I don't believe in the Church.
I only believe in the truth… that lives in children no one saved."
He draped his cloak over her, then lifted her up—light as if he were carrying only a hollow soul.
> "Master… why did you put it inside me?"