Chapter 001: The Lingering Warmth of a Gentle Dream

Year 33 of the New Calendar, at the turn of winter and spring, the cold recedes as the east wind brings warmth.

A midday breeze, still lingering with the crisp chill of the early sun, brushes against the tender cheeks of Adesiel, lifting strands of violet hair that, for a boy just turned three, seem a touch too long. The wind easily dispels the last traces of sleepiness from his little head—his steps grow lighter, almost involuntarily.

Following the jade-tinted lake encircling his family’s artificial island, the little one half skips, half rushes toward the ancient book tower at the far edge of his sight. Spring warblers sing sweetly around him, their melodious notes seeming to cheer on this lively, mischievous neighbor.

Stopping before the antiquated steps of the old book tower, young Ade is flushed and panting. As a mage whose latent magical talent nears grade A—though it’s hidden—it’s absurd to be caught in the predicament of “the mountain always farther than it seems.” How could such weakness ever allow him to share the mountainous research burdens of his mother in the future? At this thought, Ade adopts a solemn, mature expression, fists raised in silent encouragement, then carefully regulates his breath.

Having regained his composure, Ade charges up the hundred steps, beautiful as sculpted white jade, with nimble yet orderly strides. He arrives at the main entrance, placing his soft, chubby hands—teasingly called “plumpies” by his mother—against the ancient wooden door, whose surface bears the scars of time. He pushes with all his might—

With a creaking groan, the door opens—a crack.

Ade: “……” (Waa… why must the grumpy door bully me…)

Well, you can hardly expect that, no matter how precocious, a child just turned three could effortlessly open a seven-meter-tall door nearly as heavy as the gates of an ancient city, with rusted hinges and years of neglect—even magically reinforced limbs would not suffice, and with latent magic, direct use is almost impossible. Still, the result, though hard-won, is at least satisfactory.

At this corner of early spring, gentle sunlight pours in through the open door, flooding the long-dormant hall of magical knowledge and gilding the mountains of books in gold. These ancient tomes, inherited from times even older than the old calendar, seem startled awake by the visitor’s boldness, opening their deep, majestic eyes and gazing down upon this small figure, not two years past weaning.

The child, though young, is not ignorant; he keenly senses the greatness of civilization distilled in these books—a miracle that transcends technology, named “magic,” a truth apart. Though the magical tomes housed here are but a drop in the vast ocean of magical lore, a mere fraction, for Ade at the threshold of magic, and for any mage below grade S, this place is a sanctum for the study of magical theory.

Despite his nervousness, Ade does not forget the true purpose of coming to this “sanctum.” Carefully, he triggers the tower’s ancient crystal lighting system, anxious not to damage the exquisite magical lamps. He proceeds to the central hall—where search spells are set—and, with the scant magic he can call upon, uses the technique his mother taught him to activate the spell. Guided by it, he searches for the magical materials he needs, beginning his first study of magical theory.

Unnoticed, the sunset fills the sky. The dazzling, ever-changing evening clouds, as lovely as mountain wildflowers, play across Ade’s cheeks through the magically reinforced glass, adding a tranquil, radiant warmth to his already delicate features, so like his mother’s. His violet eyes, inherited from Precia, are calm and deep as a well, focused as if nothing existed outside books.

The ancient tower is so silent one could hear a pin drop; only the soft rustle of pages disturbs the air as Ade turns each book. All environmental distractions are shut out: the seemingly ordinary, unnamed potted landscapes are actually devices that purify and refine light elements into magic, powering the embedded spellwork and providing silent, endless operation for the intelligent magical air purifier. They preserve the precious tomes and create a pristine, pleasant reading space—both beautiful and practical. The apparently old, porous walls are in fact magically reinforced for soundproofing and structural strength. If “impregnable fortress” might be exaggeration, “the ideal haven for bibliophiles” is entirely apt.

In a blink, the moon stands high. Ade remains engrossed in the ocean of magical secrets, his violet eyes, clear and profound as the sea, tracing ancient, intricate magical glyphs and elemental totems—each hinting at boundless mystery, as if parsing ultimate truths.

Ade’s strange state at this moment is beyond his own understanding. If every book initially regarded him with indifference, then upon opening a tome, its attitude transformed utterly—becoming instant familiarity, like old friends reunited. In perusing these magical texts, he feels less as if acquiring new knowledge and more as if revisiting the familiar. He senses, wondrously, that the roots of magical knowledge are planted deep within him, objectively existing in his mind. Now, through the “ritual” of reading, he awakens knowledge asleep in his soul—not just knowledge, but something deeper—something that seems…

Just as Ade tries to ponder further, a vast, oceanic grief crashes upon him like a tidal wave. Rage ignites his chest, blood burning like molten iron. An intense pain, from nowhere, gnaws at his bones and soul with venomous force. When his body grows numb and voiceless from agony, the torment shifts to his mind, merciless and unending. Ade wishes for unconsciousness, but even this humble plea is denied—physical pain can be escaped by fainting, but how to numb the torture of the mind? Each second stretches like a year, and he prays for release before utter collapse, even a moment sooner, an unreachable redemption.

Southern Midchelta, in an industrial district, Central Technical Development Bureau (Border Branch). Precia, sorting the day’s magical experiment data in her private lab, suddenly feels a jolt in her heart—Ade wears a magic called “Heartlink Lock,” cast by Precia herself, whose effect needs no further description. It signals that a precious, irreplaceable presence, tied to her blood, is about to fall away from her life, plunging into hell. An immense unease gathers like leaden clouds, an ominous premonition threatens her reason like a flickering candle in a storm—“Ade!” Files scatter across the cold tile floor as Precia, frantic and distraught, bursts through the door.

“I must make it! I must make it in time!” The gloom on her heart darkens, the sense of dread intensifies. Precia, not even pausing to change her lab coat, urges herself onward. An unprecedented threat presses in on her beloved child, becoming ever more deadly. She must be faster, faster still! Before the situation spirals beyond repair, she must reach him, else regret will haunt her forever. Forcing her exhausted nerves taut, her will wrings every ounce from her weary body, slamming the accelerator down—Midchelta’s latest magical sports car, developed this year for top personnel only, slices through the night like an arrow, the uncrowned king of the iron forest racing through its domain.

Rare and precious tomes lie scattered, chaotic as the mangled remains abandoned by night-stalking killers in desolate wilderness—and at the center, a subject of special “attention.”

On the moon-white new clothes, crimson stains exude a metallic scent of misfortune. The boy’s delicate fingers are a ragged mess of blood and flesh—on the cold floor, deep blood scratches remain. What cruelty could wring such ferocity from a frail, young body, to tear at enchanted tiles with bare hands? What torment could drive a three-year-old to self-harm so desperately, seeking relief from pain and helplessness? Ade’s once brilliant amethyst eyes are now lifeless, hollow as voids, dark as abysses. His tiny body, like a broken doll, tries to curl up—like a dying cub seeking the last warmth in its body, though futile—his ability to even act on survival instinct is stripped away. In this state, barely alive, his mouth still opens and closes in unconscious, voiceless murmurs—a call for “Mama.”

The chill of moonlight seems to seep into the soul of the returning.

When Precia, nearly in tears, finally follows the tower’s beacon to the central hall, she witnesses a scene that shatters her heart, already strained to breaking by anxiety and dread.

Even her last hope is crushed by reality’s merciless blow. In this cold, silent night, fate plays a cruel symphony.

Precia collapses, powerless, unsure if from heartbreak or exhaustion—perhaps both. Trembling, she gathers her tormented child in the gentlest embrace. The familiar scent of his mother encircles Ade’s fading body, miraculously drawing back his pain-dominated consciousness for a brief moment. Clinging, anxious, and aggrieved, his words are weak as dreams: “Is… it… really you… Mama…?”

Tears break like a dam, sorrow falling like snow. Precia cannot even answer, overcome by sobs. All she can do is hold him tighter, using her warmth and gentle, non-aggressive magic to save the dying life entwined with her own fate.

In a haze, Ade instinctively tries, as always, to reach out and hug his weary mother returning home—but his hand falls, powerless, toward the cold floor. Thankfully, his mother’s warm, soft palm catches his icy hand, carefully cradling his bloodied, wounded fingers. In that moment, Precia seems to hear, once more, her son’s familiar, considerate, childish greeting: “Welcome home, Mama~!”

Fingers entwined, the warmth that once lingered countless times now dissolves like a dream—the frail body in her arms grows rigid, life stolen utterly by death.

“No—” The mother’s despairing cry echoes through the empty hall.

“Ade, wake up… don’t scare Mama… you can’t leave Mama like this. It’s my fault—I was always absorbed in work, never thinking about the loneliness you endured… it’s all my fault. I promise, I’ll never leave you alone again… we’re agreed, okay? Open your eyes now, the hills are blooming with your favorite violets, wake up and Mama will take you to see the sea of flowers, alright? Ade, if you sleep any longer, I’ll have to change my mind… Ade…”

Her words falter, for the child who always listened quietly on the lawn with bright eyes is now in eternal slumber… No matter how she refuses to accept it, how she deceives herself, death cannot be reversed, and reality’s chill will not become a dream.

“Someone… please save my child…” No answer comes—none can answer. The most complete helplessness in this world is not unwillingness to help, but inability.

No grief is greater than a dead heart; reality’s cruelty shows Precia the impotence of motherhood. She clings in vain to the small body whose warmth is fading, her tears falling endlessly into the dust, humbly accepting a broken fate.

Just as this deadlock concludes, as tragedy seems irrevocable, a miracle quietly descends.

Like moonlight, like a dream, the power of rebirth gathers here under the guidance of a supreme will.

Ancient words, witnesses to the world’s changes, echo through time, resounding across existence, heard only by the chosen—this is the song of Phoenix’s rebirth, the prayer of the Witch-King!

A lost spell from the primordial era, centered on mother and child, expands swiftly to the horizon, luminous magical circuits of unimaginable complexity trace mysterious paths, endlessly and silently turning.

Rain of glass-colored light dances, like butterflies among flowers, circling the pair before nestling into Ade’s body. The wounds on his fingers heal visibly, restored in moments.

Not only that, countless feather-shaped rays of pure light, like fledglings longing for the sky, rush to the boy’s back, nestling there naturally, as if “birds returning home,” without resistance or discord. Through the fabric, one can glimpse infant-sized wings of amber light, growing slowly but surely until perfect. The newborn wings flutter playfully, then fade, leaving only memory.

The mysterious incantation recedes with the diminishing light, the wide-area protective spell dissipates, and the resurrection ceremony concludes.

Ade’s body and soul, nurtured and cleansed by the power of rebirth, rise anew like the phoenix from fire.

The revived boy slowly opens his eyes—his mother’s gentle features, pale as moonlight, enter his gaze and settle in his heart.

His mother’s soft embrace is a balm for his wounds, and a faint, relieved smile blooms on Ade’s weary face.

This is enough…

(Prelude: The Hill of Memories, Scene One—The Warmth That Lingers Like a Dream. End.)