A figure laid on a bed with an iron frame and white sheets in a dark room. The walls, lined with archaic enchantments, whispered low melodies of old magic, like the fading breath of a forgotten dream. Without any alarm or external cue, the figure opened its deep gray eyes and sat upright, movement precise and immediate—a man stirred by purpose, not habit.
He rose from bed without hesitation, approaching the desk nearby. A soft click sounded as he turned on the desk's electric lamp. The room filled with a dim, comforting glow, but the pale young man it illuminated remained untouched by its warmth. Short, messy dark gray hair framed a face of sharp angles and unreadable calm. He reached for a pair of black glasses resting beside the lamp, slipping them on in a smooth, practiced motion. They sharpened his already-defined features into something severe, mechanical—perfect.
Across the desk sat a small golden pocket watch. He lifted it, listening to the near-silent ticking.
"0400," he whispered to himself.
With mechanical fluency, he moved into the bathroom and began his daily routine: shower, teeth, face, hair, bed, stretches, cleaning. Every task completed with surgical efficiency. He dressed in a white high-neck dress shirt, slim black trousers, and polished black boots. Over this, he layered a tailored indigo, high-collared, double-breasted long coat with extended tails to the knees. Upon his chest gleamed the silver crest of House Animus: a clock encircling a coiled serpent, with three interlocked rings at its center. The cuffs of his shirt bore another crest: a mirrored triangle enclosing a closed eye, framed by two serpents meeting eye to eye.
He checked the watch again. "0450." He tucked it into his coat, then sat cross-legged before the iron bed, eyes closing, breathing slowing. Meditation began.
Within the silence of his mind, a vast field of multicolored flowers opened beneath his feet. A smaller version of himself ran toward him, arms open, face lit with joy.
"Daddy!" the child cried, hugging him tightly.
The young man smiled. Beside the child stood a woman—familiar, mirrored, and yet uncanny. She smiled softly.
"Looks like Daddy is finally with his work. Isn't that right..." She paused, her expression widening into something darker. "Claudius."
As her smile grew, the field began to wither around them, colors draining into ash. Claudius's eyes opened slowly, his expression as cold as ever. He checked the time.
"0650."
He rose, stretched, and turned off the lamp. Down the dark halls he walked, his boots clicking steadily. Purple lamps distorted depth and color, but Claudius's gait never faltered. He reached a wide door and opened it into the dining hall—brighter, but no more welcoming. Sparse students sat at scattered tables, all silent.
Claudius approached a table with two other students: one brawny and bald, the other slender with a shoulder-length bowl cut.
"Hiroyuki. Welter." He greeted them flatly before sitting.
"Not gonna eat?" Hiroyuki asked, hoping for small talk.
"We can grab something quick," Claudius said with a sigh, standing.
Welter sat silent, unmoving, eyes lost in space.
"Fourth time he's done that," Hiroyuki muttered as they walked. "Fills his mind with Kate Beckinsale instead of protecting his memories."
Claudius remained quiet.
"Probably not even the one from Underworld..." Hiroyuki mumbled as they grabbed metal trays.
"It is his choice whether or not he fails. He shames only his name," Claudius replied.
They reached the food line. Claudius felt a flicker of warmth at the sight of pickled lotus root—his favorite. Sliced thin, spiraled. A minor dream stabilizer.
Just before he could take any, two students cut him off.
A voice echoed in everyone's mind.
Well well well...
Claudius turned. A blond student with yellow, arrogant eyes smirked.
If it isn't the failure of the Mornveils.
Claudius stared.
Hambrock.
How's your sister? I heard you and her little boyfriend had a nice rumble.
The students blocking Claudius laughed aloud.
Without a word, Claudius walked past them. Hiroyuki followed, tense.
Run all you want, Claudius. Next week, your memories will be MINE.
Claudius ignored him entirely.
Back at the table, Welter had returned to reality.
"Want me to take your spot in the Combat Final?" he offered. "He won't touch you."
"No need. I'll handle him." Claudius began eating.
"Why's that guy even targeting you?" Welter asked.
"He got dumped by Selene Mornveil," Hiroyuki answered. "Didn't even last a week."
Welter burst out laughing.
"And he blames you for that?"
"Didn't know you fought her current boyfriend though. What was that about?" Hiroyuki asked.
Claudius had finished. He checked his watch.
"0735."
Irritation flickered across his face. He stood and left.
"Five minutes late and he acts like it's judgment day," Hiroyuki sighed.
"We should go too," Welter added.
The rest of the day passed in intense, silent study. The Somnus Wing of House Animus did not tolerate failure. Students trained to master mind manipulation techniques or risk exile—their memories bottled, their names struck from record.
That night, Claudius collapsed onto his bed. "2315," he whispered, throwing his pocket watch onto the desk. He drifted into sleep.
But the cold came too quickly.
He opened his eyes—not to his room, but to a dark, fog-covered container yard. The moon above bathed the world in sterile silver.
Before him stood a woman—tall, poised, her form lit like a statue carved of shadow and moonlight. Purple hair shimmered. Crimson eyes pierced through the night. She wore a sleek bodysuit with armored accents. In her hand: a barbed crimson spear with a vine-wrapped shaft.
And it was pointed directly at him.
Claudius fell back, bracing.
"AHHHH!" he cried.
The woman turned her back, losing interest.
"W-Wait!" he shouted, desperate.
Then he saw his reflection in a puddle.
The face staring back wasn't his.
It was a young man with messy, dark, orange hair.