Chapter Text
Klein's curiosity stirred as he extended his spirituality, drawn to the crimson star that had long lain dormant but was now flickering faintly once more. Reaching out with his senses, he saw the young, boyish-faced teenager who had spoken Jotun before.
The youth knelt before a pure crystal ball, still dressed in those unfamiliar black tights unlike anything worn in the countries of the Northern Continent. His features remained blurred and indistinct, yet Klein could just make out his brownish-yellow hair. He seemed to be kneeling, praying in a voice filled with unusual pain.
"O Magnificent Deity, please cast your eyes on this land that you have forsaken;
O Magnificent Deity, please allow us, the People of the Dark, be freed from the curse of our destiny;
I am willing to dedicate my life to you, using my blood to please you."
'The Forsaken Land of God!'
Klein tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of the long bronze table. After three measured taps, he reached a decision. Extending his right hand, he touched the illusory crimson star. Instantly, the cloud of crimson burst apart, its light surging inward like flowing water.
— City of Silver, Mortuary
"Oh, Derrick," his mother's voice echoed in his mind. "I'm sorry son," followed his father's, heavy with regret. Before him, a simple silver sword was embedded in a stone plate. As he stared at it, images flashed across his mind—
His stern father teaching him sword techniques, his warm father brushing the dust from his back, his gentle mother mending his clothes, and his brave mother steeping in front of him when they faced a mutated monster. Finally, he saw them all together, huddled before a flickering candle, quietly sharing a meal.
Despite his efforts to suppress it, a faint, broken sound escaped his throat. His fists were clenched, his teeth set tight, as blood streaked across his face. He stared at the empty shell of what had once been his home.
He imagined his mother's concerned voice, his father's stern reprimands when he ran about too carelessly. But the house remained silent... cold, hollow, and unresponsive. Derrick clenched his teeth—and searched until he found the crystal ball once used by a long-destroyed city to worship their deity. Kneeling before it, he lowered his head and began to pray, though no hope stirred within him.
His voice trembled as he pleaded, bitter and raw. For he was nothing more than a child-now-orphaned, and the lights of his life had just been crushed, buried deep beneath the earth—
Sealed in coffins, six feet under, forever out of reach.
A glow flowed like water. When Derrick regained his senses, he found himself standing within a magnificent palace upheld by towering stone pillars. Before him stretched a long, ancient table, and at its far end sat a human figure, obscured by a dense, impenetrable fog.
A flame of hope ignited in Derrick's heart. He stared at the figure seated at the head of the table, confusion and uncertainty filling his gaze. "Y-you... are you God?" The moment the words left his mouth, he recalled a line he had once read in a book from the City of Silver. Startled, he quickly lowered his head. Do not look directly at God.
"I am not God, I am merely The Fool, one who is interested in the long history of this world," the being replied calmly. 'The Fool...' Derrick turned the title over in his mind. After a long silence, he spoke again, his voice strained with emotion.
"... I don't care if you're God or The Fool. My prayers will not change. I hope the people of the City of Silver can be freed from the curse of their fate. I hope that the sun and sky described in the books will one day appear above us—" Derrick stumbled over his words, his voice trembling. "And... if possible... I wish for my parents to be brought back."
Klein's first thought was, 'I'm not a wishing well.' His second followed close behind—'his voice... he sounds so young.'
Perhaps it was the sudden resurfacing of the original owner's memories—of losing his own parents—that stirred something within him. He chose to blame it on a fleeting sense of empathy as his expression softened.
Lowering his voice, he asked gently—"how old are you?" The boy seemed startled. "Ten..." His voice trailed off. Then, as if suddenly recalling proper courtesy, he quickly added, "I'm ten years old, The Fool," his tone tinged with fear.
Klein was taken aback. 'Ten?' The older-brotherly instinct within him recoiled in shock. 'That's far too young...' Only then did it truly sink in. This bloodied child was in the Forsaken Land of God.
Klein fell silent, stunned. 'Now what am I supposed to do?!'