Zay placed his foot forward, the sound of his step reverberating through the emptiness around him. A hollow echo followed, swallowed by the dense, grey fog that clung to every direction like a suffocating shroud. Wherever his gaze wandered, there was only more of the endless ashen mist, devoid of shape or structure.
'Where the hell am I?'
He moved forward, guided solely by the faint remnants of whispers he had heard moments ago. A slow blink passed as his body ached with a dull, unshakable fatigue. He lifted his right hand, thumb and middle finger pressing gently against his temple before he released a quiet breath through his nose.
Lowering his hand, he stopped as the suffocating fog began to recede, revealing a massive clearing. A piercing light shone down from above, forcing his hand to rise once more in a protective gesture across his eyes. He squinted, blinking several times until his vision began to adjust. Gradually, he lowered his arm.
Before him stood a grand mansion. Ornate, towering, and immaculate. Its facade was built of gleaming ivory stone etched with curling vines of gold, each window tall and narrow with crystal panes that shimmered beneath the sunlight. The roof stretched high, capped with obsidian tiles and flanked by twin spires. Verdant ivy, half alive and half petrified in appearance, wrapped around the columns like veins of a slumbering beast.
"Oh my... it hath been quite an age, indeed," a voice called out gently.
Zay lowered his gaze and turned slightly, catching sight of the speaker.
An old man stood nearby, his posture dignified, yet relaxed. Deep wrinkles lined his pale, weathered face like the pages of an ancient tome. His silver hair was tied neatly into a low bun that rested just below his shoulders, a few stray wisps trailing near his temples. His eyes were a cloudy sapphire, distant yet piercing. He wore an elegant suit of black silk, interwoven with intricate threads of gold that traced along the cuffs, collar, and seams in neat, geometric patterns. Around his neck rested a dark crimson tie, embroidered with a sigil that pulsed faintly with energy—an emblem Zay did not recognize.
The man said nothing else at first, merely offering a warm, measured smile. It was courteous, almost reverent.
Zay studied him for a moment longer, half expecting more words, a reason, an explanation. Yet the old man only nodded once and smiled again, his eyes remained with a sort of softness.
"Where is this place?" Zay finally asked, his voice low with both caution and curiosity.
The old man did not respond directly. Instead, he turned gracefully to his right, extending one arm in an inviting gesture. Zay followed the direction of his motion and found his eyes drawn to a monumental gate, wrought from radiant gold. To the far left of the gate rested a towering spear, its shaft forged entirely from diamond. Wings of pearl-white metal coiled gently around its blade, reminiscent of an angel's embrace. On the opposite side stood a matching construct, though this time it was a sword—equally brilliant, equally foreign.
"Seriously... what the hell is this?" Zay muttered.
A sudden clap resounded through the fog-bound realm. Zay turned swiftly to see the old man lowering his hands after the sound echoed. As if responding to the signal, the golden gate creaked open without a single audible groan or shift of metal. It simply opened, silently, grandly. A moment later, the front doors of the mansion swung inward with the same eerie grace.
Zay blinked once more, glancing back toward the old man—only to find he was no longer where he had stood.
He turned toward the mansion's entrance and spotted him standing at the threshold, on the right side of the open wooden door. The man chuckled softly, the smile never leaving his face as his voice rose again, echoing within the silence of this strange place.
"Right this way, if thou wouldst be so kind."
Zay hesitated, glancing around. No exits in slight, no visible sky, only more fog, the gate, and the mansion.
'This feels like a summoning… or an illusion perhaps. Either way, if it is a summoning, then that means he brought me here intentionally. Which also means… unless he permits it, I am not getting out of here.'
He let out a slow sigh, the reality of his situation anchoring itself more deeply in his thoughts. The difference of strength between them was clear and completely obvious to Zay. He had been summoned, effortlessly. The fog only parted when the mansion appeared, and the old man had moved with a speed that surpassed Zay's ability to react. Worse, within this fog-wrapped realm, he had no sense of control—no authority.
'I'm not in a position to resist… nor to refuse. This man… he's dangerous. And if he's chosen to let me remain alive, then there must be a purpose.'
He took a step forward, eyes narrowed, his heart steady yet beating just a touch too fast for complete ease. Whatever this place was meant for, he resolved to play along—for now, at least.
Zay reached the doorway and turned his head to the right, where the old man offered a slight bow before stepping inside the mansion. His movements were unhurried, his footsteps nearly imperceptible as they were muffled by the rich carpet lining the floor—its fibers thick enough to swallow sound entirely.
From where he stood at the threshold, Zay allowed his gaze to roam. The mansion's interior was grand but not ostentatious, bearing a quiet refinement. A staircase curved upward just beyond the entrance, visible even from outside. Past the stairs, nestled against the far wall, rested an ornate wine rack crafted from polished dark wood. Beside it stood a tall bookshelf, and upon a pedestal near its base rested a long, gleaming spear. Directly below, on a second stand, lay a sword—its blade clean, its hilt worn, as if it had seen both glory and time.
He drew in a quiet breath and swallowed, steadying himself. Then, with a controlled step, he entered the mansion, the atmosphere wrapping around him like velvet. He followed the old man, who walked with the grace of one long accustomed to silence and stillness, until they reached a modest sitting area.
Before them stood a black-painted wooden table, atop which rested a vinyl player. A simple couch and an elegant armchair were arranged across from the couch, their fabric a deep shade of crimson, embroidered with gold threading along the edges.
The old man moved to the vinyl player with reverence, retrieving a record from a case nearby. With practiced care, he set the vinyl onto the turntable, gently lowering the tonearm until the needle kissed the grooves. A soft melody began to drift through the air, a lilting tune that echoed faintly off the high ceilings.
The old man turned to Zay and gestured gracefully toward the couch.
"Thou may rest thyself there," he said, his voice like parchment and wind, aged yet composed. "Take thy ease, for there is much we must speak upon, and time hath not grown patient in its old age."
He moved toward the armchair, lowering himself with care but without struggle, his posture still proud despite the burden of years.
"Once thou art seated, we shall begin."
[Predator's hunting Grounds] has been activated.
Zay's eyes shimmered with intricate patterns as a natural flow of aura drifted from every corner of the room. There were no signs of hostility, no formations hinting at combat, no energy shifts suggesting danger of any kind.
[Predator's Hunting Grounds] has been deactivated.
He moved further into the room, feeling a subtle sense of ease settle into his frame. Carefully, he lowered himself onto the couch, never once taking his eyes off the old man seated across from him.
The old man blinked once, then reached his right hand toward the wooden table between them. With a steady grip, he lifted a small porcelain cup that Zay had not noticed until now. The cup was elegant and refined, crafted from fine white ceramic with delicate silver filigree circling the base and rim. Wisps of steam coiled into the air, rising from the dark liquid within, rich in color and faintly aromatic.
He took a quiet sip, the movement graceful and quick. With a slight flick of his wrist, he swirled the contents gently, the surface rippling as a fresh stream of heat rose into the air. He drank again, slower this time.
A soft clink followed as he placed the cup back on the table with care. His gaze lifted to meet Zay's, calm and steady, his expression completely unreadable.
The old man gave a gentle sigh, his eyes drifting for a moment as the melody from the vinyl player whispered through the chamber. Then he straightened his back and folded his hands in his lap, the steam from his cup still faintly curling upward between them.
"Now then," he began, voice smooth as parchment, yet bearing the weight of nobility. "Thou must understand, lad, that the balance of this age teetereth on a most fragile axis. The Council of Thorns hath grown restless, whispering dissent in the marble halls of Verdellen, while the Eastern Courts prepare their veiled assassins beneath moonless skies. The Pact of Twelve, once sacred, hath been fractured, and the Sovereign of Ash speaks in riddles that border on open defiance."
He paused, his gaze narrowing slightly as he observed Zay's reaction.
Zay nodded slowly, expression calm, thoughtful, eyes flicking once toward the cup on the table as though considering another subject. But inside, confusion bloomed like a sudden fogbank.
'Council of Thorns? Eastern Courts? Pact of Twelve? What the actual hell is he talking about...'
Still, Zay kept his features composed and responded with a mild, measured tone.
"I see. That certainly explains a few things."