The manor was nothing short of breathtaking.
Perched atop a jagged mountain peak where clouds drifted lazily below like a cotton sea, it stood like a forgotten temple of peace amid a dying world. The air was crisp and fresh. Thin, but strangely invigorating. High above the corrupted lands, time seemed to slow, if only for a moment.
A tree with crimson leaves swayed softly in the courtyard's wind, its bark jet black like obsidian.
Matteo sat on a stone bench nearby, half-lost in thought.
"Bwuthur, bwuthur! Look! Yurisha caught a bwug!" a tiny voice sang out.
Matteo blinked.
A small hand reached toward him, proudly clutching a beetle the size of a pebble.
He smiled and patted the girl's snow-white head, her golden eyes practically glowing with pride.
"I see... well done, mighty hunter."
Yurisha beamed, skipping away with the creature trapped gently in a leaf.
His smile faded as he leaned back with a sigh.
The Rune.
The damned Dragonic Rune that now pulsed faintly beneath his shirt like a second heartbeat. Ever since he agreed to the old man's offer, he'd been caught between anticipation and dread.
The pain.
The burden.
The promise.
All of it circled like wolves at the edge of his mind.
Still... to think that little girl was a dragon?
That made two of them.
Wait—
Matteo glanced at his reflection in the icy basin nearby.
Short. Slight frame. Big eyes. Soft features. Even his damn hands looked delicate.
Right. That old trauma again.
People had always mistaken him for a kid. Back on Earth. On the battlefield. Even in the cell where he nearly got locked up for life the first time he put on the mask.
Now here he was—babysitting a toddler dragon.
Life was cruelly ironic.
Before he could spiral any further, a familiar voice interrupted his brooding.
"Follow me."
Matteo turned. The old man stood there as regal as ever, golden eyes unreadable beneath his silver lashes. Even hunched and wrapped in black robes, he gave off a weight... like a coiled blade pretending to be a walking stick.
Matteo stood and followed.
They passed through the manor's interior garden—an elegant corridor of floating lanterns, silent koi ponds, and curved architecture carved into stone and crystal.
At the far end stood a towering archway veiled in mist.
The old man pressed a palm to it.
With a low hum, the gate shimmered—then opened to reveal a space that defied reason.
No stone.
No walls.
Only an endless field of vibrant grass stretching beneath a golden-pink sky. A giant tree stood alone in the center, its leaves glowing with a soft inner light.
"What the hell..." Matteo whispered.
"This," the old man said, "is one of the secret arts passed down by the Dragons. An Inner Realm."
He stepped through. "A pocket dimension. One carved from the soul."
Matteo followed cautiously. As his foot crossed the threshold, a warm breeze brushed against his skin, and the scent of blooming wildflowers filled his lungs.
Time slowed instantly.
Calm.
Still.
Perfect.
"No one can interrupt us here," the old man said. "This space exists outside the laws of the world. Inside, time bends. What will feel like two days to you will pass as only a night beyond the gate."
Matteo froze. "Two days?"
"Yes."
He turned to face Matteo fully.
"And the pain... will last nearly as long."
Matteo's lips twitched. "Awesome."
The old man gestured toward a circular platform of stone that sat beneath the tree's roots. "Remove your shirt. Lie down there."
Matteo hesitated only a second before obeying. The moment his skin touched the cool stone, the Rune within his chest began to burn—ever so faintly.
The old man stood over him, hand raised.
"It will hurt."
"Can't wait," Matteo muttered.
A pause.
Then the air exploded with heat.
The Rune began to glow, floating upward from Matteo's body like a brand pulled from the forge of the gods.
His eyes widened.
The old man chanted in an ancient, low tongue that vibrated across Matteo's ribs. Symbols spun in the air—shapes too alien to be words, too ancient to be human.
And then—
Pain.
White-hot. Mind-shattering. Like every nerve in his body was being torn out and rewritten.
He arched his back, screaming, muscles seizing as the Rune began to sink into his chest—branding itself like molten iron to flesh.
His vision blurred.
The ticking tattoo across his body flickered.
The mask at his side shuddered violently beneath the pressure, leaking a faint pulse of power.
The old man's eyes flicked to it—narrowing.
There it was again.
That mask.
It wasn't of this world.
That much was clear.
But more than that... it wasn't merely cursed.
It was alive.
And the aura it leaked during moments of high tension—it felt almost like... like—
He paused mid-thought, brows furrowing.
No. That couldn't be possible.
He returned his focus to the boy beneath him—no, the being beneath him.
His eyes trailed over the writhing figure. The soul was strange. Deeply human, and yet... untouched.
Unscarred by corrupted Aether. No foreign mana rot. No bloodline tampering. No false enhancements.
Except for the eyes.
Ah. So that was it.
Only his eyes bore signs of old Aether exposure. Raw, unstable, but ancient.
The rest of him?
Pure.
"What a strange boy you are…" the old man murmured aloud. "Maybe the most suitable candidate I've seen in centuries."
The Rune embedded itself deeper.
The inner sky above them darkened into a swirling, violet twilight.
And the pain kept going.
Matteo screamed again, fingers clawing into the stone. The mask rolled beside him, twitching with a low giggle of glee.
"Fun~"