Sir Kane's POV
So that's the source of all this commotion...
His blood.
There's no mistaking it now — it carries a True Essence. A rare, unfiltered thread of power that most spend their entire lives chasing, only to die with empty hands and hollow dreams.
That explains why an Oculis Sage is involved.
But one question gnaws at me.
How did they know?
And even more baffling — why target the mother?
A Serial 7 of Distortion... someone that far along the Oculis Path should understand the fundamentals: True Essence is not tied to flesh. It clings to the soul. You can't extract it like an organ. It doesn't transfer through bloodshed.
Killing the bearer earns you nothing but silence.
So this wasn't an attempt to steal.
It was a provocation.
They were trying to awaken something dormant... something buried deep within the boy.
Tch.
I can't afford to be caught in speculation. Time is not a luxury I have.
If the Oculis moved once, they'll move again — and this time, they'll be far more precise.
The boy must be handled before they reach him.
________________________________________
Marc's POV
A Serial 7... Distortion.
I don't even know what that means.
But the words... they stir something. Memories. Flickers of ancient text. I remember old books, their pages yellowed and edges curled, tucked deep within the shelves of the USL Library — the grand archive of the United States of Leora. I'd sit there after class, thumbing through volumes of forgotten lore and half-believed myths.
Stories of sages.
Stories of a world shaped by perception.
They said that all living species were formed in the First Age — the Age of Creation. Birthed from the convergence of five base perceptions: sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste.
But there was little said beyond that. No kings or wars. No tales of conquest. Just creation. Just the beginning.
Then came the Second Age — the Age of Perception.
That was when something changed.
Certain creatures began to feel something stir within — a force, an essence. It wasn't magic. It wasn't will. It was more instinctual than thought, more physical than soul. A tether to one sense — not all five.
Just one.
Those whose essence bloomed found themselves bound to that single perception, amplified beyond the natural.
From that awakening, the Five Ways emerged:
• The Way of Oculis — Vision.
• The Way of Sonus — Hearing.
• The Way of Olfun — Smell.
• The Way of Tactus — Touch.
• The Way of Gustus — Taste.
Each Way developed its own teachings, its own rituals and beliefs.
From these philosophies rose the Sages — individuals whose mastery over a single sense granted them the ability to twist the world like parchment.
The Second Age belonged to them.
Their influence spread across the continents. Their doctrines became both gospel and curse.
But power invites pride.
And pride… breeds war.
The Sages of Oculis — masters of vision — declared themselves superior. To them, sight ruled all. Sight could measure distance, reveal lies, perceive time, illusion, and truth. In their eyes, Vision wasn't just a sense. It was dominion.
And so began the Third Age — the Age of War.
The Oculis struck first. Their crusade wasn't conquest — it was purification. They sought to rewrite the hierarchy of existence.
But they didn't anticipate resistance.
The other Ways — Sonus, Olfun, Tactus, Gustus — stood together.
The world cracked under their clash.
Mountains split. Oceans trembled. Even the sky lost its shape, warped by raw perception. Time itself bent around their war.
The old tomes called it The War of Gods.
It lasted decades... maybe centuries. No one knows. The very concept of time blurred during those years. And in the end, no victor stood.
Just ruins.
And grief.
The Sages finally relented — not out of mercy, but exhaustion. They forged a fragile pact, a treaty shrouded in secrecy and silence.
The Veil Pact.
A desperate peace meant to bury their shame beneath layers of unspoken guilt.
The Oculis Sages withdrew to the North, creating a sovereign land named after themselves — the Oculis Continent. The remaining Ways scattered to the East, founding their cult-nations, each grounded in its chosen perception.
Among them was the Olfun Nation — my birthplace... and the place I now stand.
A nation whose people follow the Way of Smell. Where essence lingers in the very wind.
But not all followed the Ways.
Some turned away.
Whole species — elves, fairies, and other beings whose bloodline stretched back into myth — rejected the conflict. They migrated west and built a sanctuary: The Theasis Kingdom, a realm rooted in legacy, nature, and silence.
Even among humans, some refused to choose sides. They created a nation grounded in democracy, science, and structure. A place where perception held no power. Where essence was myth.
That country became the United States of Leora — the USL[1].
It was there I studied.
It was there I worked.
And then came the Fourth Age — the age we live in now.
The Age of Pretense.
I used to think the stories were fiction. A patchwork of metaphors and legends.
But now...
A man stands before me who can control my emotions like adjusting a dial.
Even as he tells me that my mother — the woman who raised me, who whispered stories into my dreams — may have been killed by a Sage...
I feel nothing.
No sorrow.
No fury.
No grief.
I want to scream. I want to sob. I want to tear something apart just to feel again.
But I can't.
There's a wall inside me — not of stone or metal, but something far colder. I am numb. Controlled.
"You won't be safe for long," the man — Sir Kane — said, his tone chillingly calm. "Now that they've sensed it... the Oculis will come for you."
I frowned, my voice barely holding steady.
"Sensed what?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted toward the blood on the floor — the blood only I could see. It shimmered unnaturally, like memory itself had spilled out of me.
"They want what flows through your veins," he said quietly. "That's all that matters to them."
The words echoed. Dull. Hollow. Yet somehow sharp enough to wound.
"They're after... me?"
No answer. Just his silence. Heavy. Confirming.
And then it clicked.
The blood.
The attack.
My mother.
No... no, no...
They didn't mean to kill her.
She wasn't the reason.
I was.
I staggered back, my breath catching in my throat. "She wasn't the target," I whispered. "She just… got in the way."
Sir Kane didn't nod.
Didn't move.
But that stillness… said everything.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Not from fear — but guilt.
It's my blood that brought them.
My essence.
She died... because of me.
"…Sir," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "please lift this scent. I need to feel it. I need to feel something."
I bowed my head, the weight of shame bearing down like gravity.
A pause followed.
Then Kane's voice came — low, edged like a knife:
"I could," he said. "But if I lift the veil all at once, your heart might not endure it. The rush of emotion could kill you. Panic doesn't ask permission."
I remained still.
Silent.
That silence was my answer.
Another breath passed — maybe two.
Then came his final words. Cold. Brutal.
"So you'd throw away your mother's life... with your pitiful death?"
The sentence hit like lightning.
And just like that — my head lifted.
My breath caught.
And for the first time in hours…
I felt something.
Not sorrow.
Not rage.
But truth.
Raw. Bitter. Heavy.
And it had been waiting to be heard.
[1] From now on, I will use USL instead of United States of Leora for further lore.