Zean woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. The dream still clung to him, vivid and oppressive. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, attempting to steady his erratic breathing.


    "You, chosen by fate, not as a ruler but as a slave—a slave to destiny''s inexorable design."


    The words echoed in his mind like the tolling of a mournful bell. What could that mean? Why a slave, not a ruler? And whose design was this?


    He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled mess. "Slave to destiny," he muttered to himself. Was it a warning? A prophecy? Or something more sinister? And who was the figure on the throne? The graveyard he had seen in the dream also nagged at him. It looked so familiar... but why?


    He closed his eyes, replaying the fragmented images until clarity struck. That graveyard—I saw it on my way into town! The realization sent a chill through him. Was the dream guiding him there?


    The idea gnawed at him. If he wanted answers, that graveyard might hold them. But the rational part of his mind urged caution. He wasn’t strong enough to face whatever might lie there. The dream itself was enough to remind him of his vulnerability. No, not yet. When I’m stronger, he resolved, letting the thought rest for now.


    Determined not to lose the details of his dream, Zean swung his legs off the bed and searched for a light source. His hands brushed against a smooth, cold object the size of his arm. The moment he picked it up, the object began to emit a soft, golden glow, illuminating the entire room. He stared in awe. What is this? He made a mental note to ask Aryan about it later.


    Sitting at the desk, he dipped the quill into ink and began writing, the mysterious figure’s words etched into his memory. Each stroke of the quill felt heavy, as though the words carried a weight far beyond his understanding.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.---


    The next morning, Zean descended to the ground floor, his mind still preoccupied. He spotted Aryan lounging on a sofa, sipping coffee. Aryan’s silver hair caught the morning light, and his dull blue eyes seemed distant, almost melancholic.


    As Zean approached, a sudden clamor drew his attention. He turned toward the window and froze. Outside, nearly seventy knights were engaged in rigorous training. Their swords clashed in synchronized motions, creating a rhythm that resonated through the air. At the forefront stood Sir Hustel Smith, his commanding presence undeniable as he demonstrated techniques.


    Zean couldn’t hide his awe. “That’s... incredible,” he murmured.


    Aryan appeared at his side, his lips curling into a slight smile. “Impressive, aren’t they? They are the knights of this branch—protectors of this land.”


    Zean nodded but couldn’t shake his curiosity. “But… are all of them that?”


    Aryan raised an eyebrow. “That? What do you mean?”


    “You know… people with special powers,” Zean clarified, recalling their first conversation.


    Understanding dawned on Aryan. “Ah, you mean the advancers. No, none of them are advancers except Sir Hustel.”


    “Then how do they protect people?” Zean asked, his confusion evident.


    Aryan chuckled. “They aren’t as helpless as you think. These knights are trained to deal with low-level threats—bandits, wild beasts, even weak advancers. But advancers themselves are a rarity.”


    “How rare?” Zean pressed.


    Aryan’s expression turned serious. “The Crusia Church, with branches across the land, has only 180 advancers. And that’s counting every single one of them.”


    Zean blinked in surprise. “That few?”


    “Yes. Advancers are not common. And even among them, surviving is no easy task,” Aryan said, his voice heavy with a gravity that made Zean uneasy.


    For a moment, Aryan’s gaze seemed far away, as though lost in another time. In his mind, he saw the scene vividly—a battle against a monstrous creature with the body of a beast and the face of a man. Blood stained the ground as comrades fell one by one. Above, the seven moons glowed ominously, four of them pitch black. The screams of the dying echoed in his ears.


    Aryan snapped back to the present, his hands trembling slightly as he set his coffee down.


    Zean noticed the shift in his demeanor and instinctively felt a chill. Whatever Aryan had seen, it was something he could hardly comprehend. To break the tension, he asked, “Where’s Rebecca? I didn’t see her around.”


    Aryan relaxed slightly. “She took a break. Her mother is sick, so she went to care for her.”


    Hearing this, Zean’s thoughts drifted to his own mother—her kind smile, her beautiful black