Farhinstone
The room was unnaturally still.
Atiarnad, his expression calm yet piercing, looked at Mr. Svandhill and spoke in a low tone.
"So… the Pinnaclster File has fallen into your hands. No wonder luck bends in your favor."
The Pinnaclster File was no ordinary record. It carried a legacy of calculated brilliance. Every individual who had ever possessed it rose beyond mediocrity — becoming someone no one dared to belittle.
A voice emerged from the crowd.
"Interesting… very interesting. It appears you have our attention."
Mr. Svandhill gave a faint, knowing smile.
"Although the individuals I initially targeted are nowhere to be found, I have formulated a superior plan."
He sat down slowly, lifting his teacup with deliberate grace.
"I am establishing a school."
Atiarnad's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A school?"
"Yes. Not an ordinary institution, but a citadel of pride. Only the elite will enter. The finest minds from every region. Admission itself will be a privilege beyond imagination."
He took a measured sip before continuing.
"Our first target is Siyon Godson. Forty-seven years old. One child — Halrom Godson."
His voice lowered, almost to a whisper.
"Among the selected few… one will unknowingly execute our design."
Silence swallowed the room once more.
Newland
The wealthy man bid the boy farewell.
"I shall wait for your return," he said gently.
The words I really wish I had a father like you echoed in his mind long after the boy had left. They had struck deeper than he expected.
The boy resembled him — not in appearance alone, but in the sharpness of his gaze. In that moment, an unfamiliar attachment began to take root.
After reaching home, Marchis did not rest.
When night deepened and the streets fell silent, he stepped outside and walked toward the forest.
Under the dim glow of the moon, he began collecting herbs — red, yellow, white. Different varieties. Different textures. He selected them with careful precision, as though each one had already been chosen in his mind.
The forest remained still. Only the faint rustling of leaves followed his movements.
When he returned home, his phone rang.
It was his parents.
"Son, we'll be coming late," they said. "It will take about half a month for us to return. Take care of yourself. Be well."
There was no hesitation in his reply.
"Understood."
He ended the call.
A slow smile formed on his lips.
"Luck truly stands on my side," he murmured softly.
The next morning, he went to the wealthy man's house.
They shared breakfast together. The wealthy man insisted he sit closer, almost instinctively.
"Tell me about your school," the man said warmly.
Marchis spoke calmly, choosing each word with care. The wealthy man listened with unusual attentiveness — like a father listening to a son he never had.
Later that afternoon, they played chess.
"You're improving," the man laughed.
Marchis tilted his head slightly.
"I learn quickly."
Days passed.
On the third day, they walked through the mansion's garden. The wealthy man spoke about his past — his regrets, missed chances, and the emptiness that wealth could never fill.
Marchis listened in silence.
On the fifth day, they cooked together. The wealthy man burned the food slightly; Marchis did not complain.
On the seventh day, the man placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You know… this house doesn't feel empty anymore."
Marchis lowered his gaze, concealing the faint expression in his eyes.
By the tenth day, the attachment had deepened. The wealthy man's laughter came more easily. His steps felt lighter. The loneliness that once haunted him seemed to fade.
And every single night —
Marchis returned to the forest.
Red herbs.
Yellow herbs.
White herbs.
Collected carefully. Stored quietly.
Ten days passed like this.
The bond strengthened.
And in Marchis' room, beneath dim light and closed curtains, he refined the ingredients into a bluish-black liquid.
It carried a faint scent of honey.
He observed it silently, the reflection of the liquid shimmering in his eyes.
What exactly was he preparing?