Chapter Text
Eryndor University of Arcane Arts was not merely an institution—it was a legend carved into the mountain spine of the northern realm, where magic clung to the air like mist. The moment you crossed through its ancient obsidian gates, the world itself seemed to shift. The temperature cooled, shadows stretched farther than they should, and the laws of reality bent—welcoming those who had been born or chosen to wield magic.
The campus sprawled across enchanted forestland and crystalline lakes, suspended partially within the physical realm and partially in the Veil, the thin layer between dimensions. Majestic towers of blackstone and moonstone spiraled toward the sky, each one humming with magical energy. Floating lanterns burned without flame, whispering softly like living spirits. Pathways rearranged themselves depending on the traveler’s magical affinity—students with fire magic were often guided through sunlit courtyards alive with salamanders and fire lilies, while those with ice found themselves walking past frost-kissed fountains that sang with winds from the northern tundras.
Eryndor was the most prestigious magical university in the world, ancient and sovereign, untouched by political kingdoms. Elemental clans, arcane covens, royal bloodlines, and rogue prodigies all sent their heirs here—not just to learn, but to prove themselves.
——
Magic at Eryndor was categorized into five great disciplines, though rare individuals possessed hybrid or unknown forms:
Elemental Arts: Fire, Water, Earth, Air—shaping nature’s forces.
Spiritual Magic: Light, Healing, Auras, Blessings, Energy Enhancement.
Arcane Order: Runes, Sigils, Spellcraft, Enchantments.
Ethereal & Shadow Arts (forbidden to most): Illusions, Dreamwalking, Necrosis, Soul Manipulation, Shadow Dominion.
Primordial Magic (extremely rare): Magic tied to ancient bloodlines and forgotten gods, often feared more than understood.
Each student underwent trials to determine their affinity, then were placed in tailored curricula. Classes were brutal and magnificent: dueling arenas with sentient wards, lecture halls carved into trees older than civilization, libraries where grimoires whispered warnings and pages turned when the moon rose.
Professors were as respected as they were feared. Some were centuries old, preserved by temporal magic. Some were not human at all.
And of all the students who walked those halls… one name commanded silence.
Kim Taehyung.
First-year, but ranked number one across all disciplines.
Bearer of Shadow Magic—not illusion, not mere darkness, but true Shadow Dominion, an ancient force that allowed him to manipulate absence, reflection, fear, memory, and the raw fabric of souls. It was magic that had been sealed from human use centuries ago.
No one understood how he wielded it.
No one dared to ask.
---
Now, excitement thrummed across the grounds like a storm before lightning. Students weren’t walking—they were running. The word had spread from illusionspark to fire dorms to the lakeside enchantment towers:
“Taehyung has accepted a duel.”
The marble courtyard outside the Grand Dueling Coliseum was overflowing with bodies. The coliseum itself—a floating ring constructed from starlight and blackstone—hovered above a bottomless chasm. Hundreds of seats spiraled upward, platforms shifting to accommodate the incoming crowd. Professors took their reserved balcony, cloaked in shimmering wards that rippled like liquid diamond.
“They’re really letting him duel?” gasped a third-year pyromancer, clutching her staff.
“They can’t refuse,” said her friend, a seer with eyes glowing faintly violet. “A challenge was issued under the ancient rite. Professor Lucian himself approved it.”
“Who’s the idiot fighting him?”
“A fourth-year. Marcus Arvon. Wind affinity. Top of the combat division until Taehyung arrived.”
“Marcus must be out of his mind—”
“Maybe not,” someone whispered. “He’s been jealous for months. Says shadow magic doesn’t belong here. Says it’s demonic.”
A hush fell over the crowd as the arena’s runes ignited, lighting the floating coliseum in rings of white fire.
Some students were trembling. Not from excitement.
From fear.
Because no one had ever seen Taehyung fight at full power.
And some whispered that if he lost control, Eryndor itself might tremble.
_____
High in the viewing platforms, cloaked figures in ceremonial robes gathered—members of the Council of Arcane Law. This was not just another duel. This was observation. Study. Perhaps even judgment.
Because Taehyung was not merely powerful.
He was suspected of being something else.
Not entirely human.
---
The bell tower of Eryndor tolled three times, and the sound did not merely echo—it resonated. The air shimmered faintly with each toll, magic stirring in response, as if the university itself were reacting to the news spreading like wildfire.
Students crowded the main bridges of the campus—arched structures suspended over pools of liquid starlight, reflecting the sky even in daylight. The towers of each magical discipline loomed overhead, each designed according to its art:
The Fire Tower, sharp-edged and crimson, forever crowned by a blazing phoenix circling its spire.
The Water Sanctum, built entirely of enchanted glass, floating waterfalls cascading upward instead of down.
The Arcane Library, where the spires rearranged themselves weekly depending on the moon.
The Spirit Hall, glowing with soft gold, where healers and aura-casters trained under ever-present, angelic chants.
And finally—set apart from them all—the Obsidian Tower, black as void, no windows, no lights.
The Obsidian Tower was where Taehyung lived and trained.
No one had ever seen its doors open.
A cluster of first-years passed under the shadow of the Arcane Library, their arms laden with scrolls.
“Do you think he’ll use that magic in the duel?” one whispered nervously.
“Of course he will,” another replied. “He has no other affinity. Shadow is his only element.”
“Still… shouldn’t it be restricted?”
“It was restricted. Until he broke four seals during his entrance exam. They had no choice but to admit him.”
They fell silent as two upperclassmen strode by in ornate dueling uniforms. The students bowed their heads instinctively—not in respect, but in fear they might be overheard speaking Taehyung’s name.
---
Near the edge of campus stood a tranquil lake, its waters perfectly still, reflecting not the sky—but the soul of whoever gazed upon it. It was a sacred training site reserved for spirit-users and seers.
Yet today, even they were distracted.
A small group sat under silver-barked trees, discussing in hushed tones.
“Marcus Arvon challenged him under Blood Oath law,” a seer murmured, eyes bright with clairvoyant glow. “If either of them refuses, they will be expelled.”
A healing major shook his head. “Taehyung could have ignored it. He never accepts duels.”
“He didn’t ignore it,” the seer replied. “He accepted in less than a minute.”
That made them all pause.
“Why?”
“Maybe he’s bored.”
“Or maybe…” the seer hesitated, “…he’s tired of running from what he is.”
---
While the arena continued to fill, some students sought refuge in the dining hall—an enormous chamber carved into the heart of the earth, its vaulted ceiling displaying illusions of swirling galaxies.
Floating trays delivered food from every corner of the magical realms: fire-roasted drake meat, moon-pastries filled with liquid starlight, skyfruit harvested from cloud orchards.
But no one was eating.
Forks hovered in midair, spells half-cast, potions left to cool.
All attention was fixed on the enchanted crystal at the center of the hall—a scrying orb that would project the duel.
A third-year necromancer leaned forward and whispered, “What if Marcus actually beats him?”
A silence followed, then laughter—short, sharp, disbelieving.
“You can’t beat Shadow Dominion,” a rune-caster said flatly. “It isn’t a school of magic. It’s a force of nature. Light mages can’t even see his spells.”
“But does he control it,” a spirit-user murmured fearfully, “or does it control him?”
---
Beyond the sight of students, in the upper echelons of the university, the professors gathered in a high council chamber—an ancient circular room where the walls were carved with runes older than any language spoken today.
Professor Lucian of the Elemental Arts stood with arms crossed, eyes like embers.
“Is this wise?” one professor muttered, fingers tapping anxiously on a crystal staff. “Allowing that magic to be demonstrated in front of students?”
“We cannot prevent it,” Lucian answered. “He bound the oath. If we interfere, it will trigger the ancient laws.”
Another voice, smoother, cooler—Professor Selene of Spirit and Void—spoke from the shadows. “Perhaps it is good they see. Better they learn fear from within our walls, than arrogance take root.”
“And Marcus?” a younger professor asked. “He’s no match.”
Lucian’s eyes gleamed.
“He thinks he is.”
---
From floating speakers that shimmered into existence above every courtyard, a voice echoed through the entire university:
“By ancient tradition of Arcane Combat, the Duel of Ascension shall commence at dusk. Opponents: Marcus Arvon, Wind Discipline, Fourth Rank. Kim Taehyung, Shadow Discipline, First Rank. Arena wards are active. Observation by Council is mandatory.”
The final line silenced everyone.
“Council observation” meant one thing.
This duel could change Taehyung’s fate.
Either they would deem him controllable…
Or decide he was too dangerous to be allowed to live.
---
The storm of whispers and thundering footsteps did not stop the figure who stepped quietly through the obsidian gates.
Park Jimin paused just inside the threshold, suitcase in one hand, admission scroll in the other, gaze lifting to meet the sprawling wonder of Eryndor University. For a breathless second, he could only stare.
The air was alive.
Magic pulsed through it like a heartbeat—visible, tangible, shimmering with threads of elemental power. Spires pierced the sky like the fangs of ancient gods, each one thrumming with a different magical frequency. Pathways glowed faintly beneath his boots, adjusting to his presence with an almost living curiosity.
He tightened his grip on his suitcase—knuckles pale, but expression composed.
Jimin’s clothes were simple, but he wore them with effortless grace.
A long ash-gray coat draped over a fitted black turtleneck and charcoal trousers tucked into spell-resistant boots. A thin silver chain peeked from beneath his collar, glinting briefly when the sun caught it. His hair—soft blonde with hints of rose gold—fell over his forehead, moving slightly in the breeze that didn’t exist a moment ago.
He looked delicate, ethereal even—like someone carved from moonlight rather than born of flesh—but there was a stillness in his gaze. A subtle steadiness. The kind of presence that drew attention without demanding it.
And yet, as Jimin stood there, he didn’t notice the eyes on him.
Instead, he frowned.
The air around him was vibrating with tension. Magic shimmered like heat on stone. Students were rushing past—robes flaring, boots skidding, spells half-cast in excitement.
He turned to one of them, a girl with bright crimson hair and lightning crackling around her fingertips from uncontrolled magic.
“Excuse me,” he said gently, “what’s going on?”
She gaped at him for a heartbeat—more at his calm tone than the question—then her eyes widened as she realized he truly didn’t know.
“You’re new,” she breathed. “You have to go.”
“Go where?”
“To the arena.” She grabbed his sleeve without asking. Her hand trembled. “Kim Taehyung is dueling.”
The name meant nothing to Jimin yet. But the reaction it caused—the way the wind itself seemed to still—made his heart skip.
“Who?” he asked.
Her eyes flickered—fear and awe warring in her expression.
“The Shadow Heir,” she whispered.
Before Jimin could ask more, a shockwave of magical energy rolled across campus. Students flinched. The floating lanterns above flickered once, then steadied.
The duel is about to begin.
The girl let go of his sleeve, already running.
Jimin stared after her… then down at his admission scroll. He had been told to check in at the Registrar Tower upon arrival. To be processed. Assigned housing.
But the air around him throbbed with magic so powerful it tore at the edges of reality. His pulse quickened—not with fear, but with something unfamiliar.
His magic stirred.
A gentle hum beneath his skin.
A pull.
A whisper.
Go.
His feet were already moving.
He followed the current of students, up the shimmering staircase of conjured crystal, toward the floating arena wreathed in starlight and shadow. Around him, excitement escalated into a roaring storm. The sky was shifting, clouds swirling into a vortex directly above the dueling platform.
He clutched the strap of his bag, breath steady, eyes forward.
He didn’t know who Kim Taehyung was.
He didn’t know this duel would change everything.
But as he stepped into the arena gates and the magic washed over him—like night itself whispering his name—
something in his soul awoke.
---
The Grand Arena rose from the heart of the campus like a coliseum built to house gods. Hewn from moonstone and star-iron, its colossal arches shimmered with ancient enchantments, runes pulsing slow and steady like a heartbeat beneath the surface. Veils of raw magical energy drifted like mist across the high ceilings, catching the sunlight and scattering it across the tiered stands in fractured, prismatic beams.
As Jimin stepped through the archway, sound crashed over him like a tidal wave.
The arena was alive.
Students from all four Houses—Aetherborne, Emberfall, Tidecrest, and Shadowspire—filled the stands, their robes in their House colors billowing with enchanted embroidery that shifted and shimmered in response to their excitement. Whispered incantations sparked the air with floating embers, illusions of mythical beasts raced across the domed ceiling, and spectral serpents made of pure water spiraled between pillars before bursting into showers of stardust. Above it all, suspended like a floating crown, the ancient sigil of the university rotated slowly, casting sweeping shadows of wings across the crowd.
The air thrummed. Magic surged in waves—heat from fire users, icy drafts from frost mages, the floral scent of illusionists’ glamour spells drifting like perfume. The stone beneath Jimin’s boots trembled with gathering power.
Jimin’s breath caught.
Not from fear.
From awe.
The arena’s circular stage—carved from obsidian veined with molten gold—sat at the center like the eye of a storm. Barrier wards spiraled upward around it in vast translucent layers, humming with protection runes that flickered with the colors of the four primal magics. Professors stood along the edges in formal robes, their eyes gleaming with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.
A single name echoed across the air, over and over, pulsing through the arena like the beat of war drums:
“Taehyung. Taehyung. Taehyung.”
It wasn’t cheering.
It was reverence. Fear. Fascination.
Every breath in the arena paused as the floating arena gates at the far end began to open with a slow, resonant groan—like a mountain waking.
And Jimin—new, unknown, and utterly unprepared—found himself standing among thousands, witnessing the arrival of the most powerful sorcerer this world had ever seen.
The air shifted.
A shadow moved beyond the gate.
And the arena held its breath.
---
The obsidian gate parted with a whisper, not a roar—the kind of quiet that was more terrifying than thunder.
A thin line of darkness cut through the light.
Then he stepped through it.
Kim Taehyung.
He did not carry himself like a student.
He walked as though the world bowed beneath his feet.
A tall figure clad in midnight. His uniform was regulation, yet it looked nothing like anyone else’s—black fabric that drank the light, embroidered with runes that flickered like dying embers against his pulse. His cloak trailed behind him, weightless, as though stitched from shadow itself. The moment his boot touched the stage, the ground tremored—as if the magic in the arena recognized him and recoiled.
His hair fell in obsidian waves, brushing the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes—Gods above, his eyes—were not a normal human color. They were deep violet, ringed with silver, swirling with moving constellations of shadow-light. Anyone who looked into them felt for a moment as if they were staring into the mouth of an eclipse.
The crowd fell utterly silent.
Not because they were asked.
Because instinct demanded it.
Even the wind seemed afraid to touch him.
Then—without raising his hands, without so much as a blink—the shadows along the arena walls reacted.
They rose. Slowly. Curling upward like living smoke. Spiraling behind him in a silent, coiling storm, as if drawn to him—hungry for him. His mere presence called them forth.
A girl in the front row gasped when the shadow brushed past her. It left frost upon her sleeve.
Jimin stood frozen in the aisle, heart hammering so hard he could hear it over the silence. His own magic—quiet, unremarkable by most standards—trembled within him like a small animal sensing a predator.
Beside Taehyung, the upperclassman duelist appeared through the opposite gate. He was tall, muscular, confidence radiating off him like heat. But his hands shook. Barely visible, but shaking.
Taehyung did not look at him.
His gaze was lowered. Focused. Silent.
And yet every spirit, every ancient ward, every sentient spell within the arena reacted as if they were standing in the presence of a primordial force. Students leaned forward, barely daring to breathe.
It was not merely a duel about to begin.
It was an omen.
And somewhere in the stands, a new transfer student named Park Jimin felt his destiny shift.
---
The ancient bell tolled—soundless yet shattering. A pulse of magic rippled across the arena like a shockwave, tingling across skin, burrowing into marrow.
The duel had begun.
Marcus Avron—a tall, sharp-featured upperclassman with platinum hair tied back in a high tail—moved instantly. The air answered him, swirling around his body like an invisible cloak. Wind mages were rare. True wind dominators—even rarer. And Marcus Avron was said to be the most gifted Aeon-blooded student in over a century.
He lifted his hand, fingers slicing through air.
Runes of pale turquoise light spiraled from his wrist up his arm. The air compressed, the sound of reality itself groaning as pressure built.
“Gale Sunder!”
The air cracked.
A spear of compressed wind, invisible yet devastating, tore forward with enough force to cut through a mountain. The wind screamed—an ancient cry, shrill and deadly—as it spiraled through the arena toward Taehyung, ripping the tiles beneath it, ripping the very oxygen from the space it passed.
The crowd exploded.
Cheers, gasps, frantic murmurs:
“He’s starting with Gale Sunder?!”
“That can slice a fortress wall—”
“Taehyung won’t even have time to conjure—!”
The arena wards flared to full power, shimmering barriers rising to protect the spectators as the attack howled forward.
And yet—
Taehyung did not move.
Not an inch. Not a flicker of energy. His breathing remained slow. Measured.
His eyes were lowered. His arms at his sides. The shadows at his feet pooled languidly, as though bored.
The wind spear was less than a heartbeat away—
When the shadows moved.
They rose. Not with speed. Not with aggression. But with inevitability.
Like ink poured into water, the shadows unfurled, forming a single tendril that lazily curled upward… and the spear disappeared.
Silence.
No collision. No blast.
One moment, Marcus’s signature technique was ripping through dimensions.
The next—
It had been devoured.
The shadow tendril curled back to Taehyung’s side like a cat returning after playing with a toy.
Marcus stumbled, eyes wide. “Impossible—”
The crowd fell silent.
A hush so absolute it felt physical.
Even the spirits of the arena—old, ancient things that had weathered centuries of battles—seemed to pause.
Taehyung finally raised his gaze.
Violet eyes met Marcus’s.
And in that instant, every student felt the same thing:
The wind did not answer Marcus Avron.
It bowed to Kim Taehyung.
---
Marcus Avron stood rigid at the far end of the arena, chest heaving as the reality settled in.
His most lethal opening strike hadn’t just been blocked.
It had been ignored.
Swallowed.
Erased.
Taehyung stood amid the lingering hush, surrounded by coiling shadows that drifted lazily behind him like celestial smoke. His presence felt… wrong. Not evil, not monstrous, but limitless. As though the arena was not containing him—merely tolerating him.
The wind around Marcus began to spiral wildly—no longer graceful, but frantic. It whipped his hair into a fury, tore at his clothing, vibrated along the edge of madness.
“I won’t be humiliated,” Marcus whispered, though his voice trembled. The words were meant to be quiet, yet the wind carried them through the arena.
Students exchanged nervous glances.
“Something’s wrong—”
“He’s losing control—”
“Call it off—!”
But the professors did not move. Their eyes were trained on the arena wards, hands already glowing with defensive magic. They were preparing—not to intervene, but to contain.
Marcus spread his fingers—and blood blossomed along his palm where his nails dug in.
The air shuddered.
Wind magic was pure. Ancient. But now it twisted, convulsed, reacting to what Marcus was summoning not with obedience—but with revulsion.
“By the breath of the Forsaken—” he chanted, voice cracking.
“—by the final exhale of dying stars—”
A collective gasp ripped through the arena.
He was invoking a Forbidden Discipline.
A spell not of wind nor light—
but of death.
Soulrot.
“—I command the soul beneath the flesh,
to answer me.
To rot.”
The sky itself moaned.
It began as a dull groaning in the air, like wood splitting under too much weight. The clouds above the arena churned unnaturally fast, darkening—not with storm, but with absence. The sun dimmed. Magic recoiled everywhere—students clutched at their throats, choking as their own spells recoiled inside them.
Jimin, still standing near the entry stairs, felt the pressure in his bones. His breathing stilled. Something in his chest—the faint ember of his own magic—flared in warning.
The arena floor cracked. Runes flared and then flickered out, one by one, unable to recognize the spell’s origin.
Marcus screamed—not in power, but in pain.
Wind magic was not meant to channel death. It tore at him, shredding his own aura as a price for harnessing what should never be summoned.
A black gale erupted from his hands—wind made of shadowed essence, shrieking with the echo of severed souls. It wasn’t loud. It was chaotic silence, a sound that scraped the mind more than the ear.
It shot toward Taehyung—not fast, but inescapable, crawling forward like fingers of the void.
Every instinct in the arena screamed run.
A girl sobbed. Someone shouted for the duel to be stopped. Wards were triggered—professors hurled counterspells—but the curse ignored them all. It was not a spell you blocked.
It was a spell that chose.
Taehyung did not move.
He only lifted his head fully for the first time.
For the briefest moment—
his eyes widened.
Not in fear.
Not in pain.
In… recognition.
The black wind touched him.
And the world broke.
---
Taehyung’s entire body convulsed—not visibly, but with a violent pulse that rippled through the aether. His veins lit up beneath his skin with violet light. The shadows recoiled away from him in terror.
They were afraid.
The air exploded outward in a shockwave—students screamed as the force threw them back into their seats despite the wards. Even the professors staggered.
When the light dimmed—
Taehyung stood hunched.
Breathing shallow.
A slow, crackling dark aura began wrapping around him—not cloud, not smoke—soul decay.
And then—
the screaming started.
But it didn’t come from Taehyung.
It came from the wind spirits.
From the arena itself.
From the ancient wards as they howled warnings in languages lost to time.
Students clamped their hands over their ears, eyes wide with horror.
Taehyung took a single step forward, and the ground beneath him died. Flowers conjured into the arena withered to ash. The wards sparked. Magic twisted.
Everyone watching felt it—an instinctive primal terror:
If Kim Taehyung’s soul dies… the world will remember it.
And in the stands—
Something pulled Jimin forward.
As though the curse had reached out…
…and chosen him.
---
The last of Marcus Avron’s forbidden chant trembled in the air before dying on his tongue. He stared, pale and drenched in sweat, as Taehyung’s body swayed like a candle flame in a storm.
Then—
Taehyung fell.
No dramatic crash. No scream. Just a slow, inevitable collapse—like his strings had been cut. His knees hit the obsidian floor. One trembling hand braced against the stone… and the shadowy corruption spread from his fingertips.
The decay began.
The floor blackened beneath him. Runes died as they touched his skin. The very magic inside the arena fled from him. Taehyung gasped, not in pain, but as though something was being ripped from him—something essential. His soul.
The air went cold.
And then the curse pulsed.
A wave of invisible force erupted from Taehyung’s body, expanding in every direction. Anything living—or magical—was struck with violent force.
The first professor stepped forward.
Dean Aramond, Archmage of Celestial Theorems, raised his staff and conjured a dome of radiant energy. “Hold on, Kim Taehyung! I will sever it—”
He never reached him.
The curse struck.
BOOM.
Dean Aramond was flung backward thirty feet into a barrier, his staff snapping in two. The protective wards hissed in protest.
Another professor—a healer—rushed in, chanting spells of restoration. The decay met her light.
The light died.
She was thrown harder than the dean.
Students rose from their seats in panic. Some out of fear, others out of desperation.
A group of advanced healers, third-year prodigies, attempted a joint incantation. They didn’t even get halfway before the curse exploded outward, sending them flying like rag dolls, crashing into rows of seats.
“Nothing can approach him!”
“His soul is rejecting all magic—!”
“If this continues—he’ll—he’ll die!”
Taehyung’s breathing weakened. His head hung low, shadows bleeding from his skin like veins of ink. His aura flickered—
Then shrank.
A terrifying sign.
The curse was consuming him.
And then—Jimin moved.
He didn’t think.
He ran.
Feet pounding over stone, his heart a frantic drum. People screamed at him to stop.
“DON’T GO NEAR HIM!”
“YOU’LL DIE!”
“THE CURSE WILL RIP YOUR SOUL OUT!”
But Jimin didn’t stop.
He didn’t cast a shield. Didn’t activate any magic.
He just ran straight into the decay.
The curse surged as he approached—like a beast baring its fangs.
The air screamed. The ground fractured.
And then—
Nothing.
Jimin burst through the barrier untouched. The decay swirled around him, brushing against his skin like a curious phantom…
…and stepped aside.
The arena fell silent.
No one breathed.
Jimin skidded to his knees beside Taehyung and, trembling, lifted a hand.
His fingers brushed Taehyung’s.
The instant their skin touched—
The decay stopped.
The shadows halted mid-crawl. The dying runes flickered… then reignited. The oppressive force choking the arena vanished like mist in sunlight.
Taehyung’s spasming breath steadied.
His head, still bowed, turned slightly—just enough that a lock of dark hair fell away from his eyes.
And he looked at Jimin.
The arena stood frozen, thousands of eyes locked on the two young men at the center of the storm.
Bound by something ancient.
Untouchable.
Inevitable.
A whisper ran through the stands like wind through dead leaves:
“What… just happened?”
“Why him?”
“The Soulrot should have killed him on contact—”
But no one dared step forward.
Jimin, chest heaving, didn’t dare move his hand from Taehyung’s. The moment their skin met, he felt it—
Something inside him locked into place.
Like a key turning in a forgotten door.
Like destiny exhaling.
Taehyung’s lips parted. No sound came out.
But his eyes—those swirling galaxies of shadow and starlight—were fixed on Jimin, unblinking.
Alive.
Because of him.
And above them…
High in the sky…
The clouds tore open in a perfect circle.
As if something was watching.
---