What happens when something out of the norm occurs?

  When suddenly the air around a certain place grows heavy for no clear reason.

  When objects nearby begin to levitate once in a while, as if testing whether gravity still applies.

  When fractures in space itself appear briefly, then vanish, leaving no explanation behind.

  Well—the answer is simple.

  The world grows curious.

  And more often than not, curiosity ensures that a certain kitty is bound to die.

  Though curiosity is the mother of innovation, it also invites unwanted attention—and unwanted attention always equals trouble. And trouble, in a place already stripped of hope, provides excellent material for gossip, speculation, and entertainment.

  "Did you hear the howls last night?"

  "Yeah. Came from the cursed house."

  "What's that kid been up to lately?"

  The whispers carried on, seasoning their already dull lives with rumors and half-formed fear. And if one knew how to look—if one had trained eyes—then faint but vivid mana lines could be seen converging toward Eylin's house, threading through the air like veins of light.

  The one responsible for such a phenomenon, however, was currently lying face-up on the floor.

  Burnt patches covered most of his body. Sections of skin were blistered or missing entirely, and clumps of hair had been seared away. His left hand was charred beyond recognition, fingers warped and blackened. One leg oozed soot where flesh had failed to fully recover.

  "Ugghhhh… two weeks," he groaned hoarsely, barely conscious. "Two successes. This is messed up as hell."

  He dragged himself upright with far more effort than should have been necessary, each movement sending spikes of pain through his nerves. He staggered toward his desk, where a bone and a stone lay side by side, both glowing faintly with stable, obedient light.

  The corner of his lips lifted despite himself.

  "Well… not so bad," he muttered. "Though the pain from these can drive—ah… what was I saying… sigh. Let it be."

  Unbeknownst to him, the strange phenomenon he had created had formed something invisible yet absolute.

  A line.

  And the first being to cross that line didn't know it even existed.

  It was a stray.

  A mangy thing—one ear torn, ribs clearly visible beneath patchy fur, tail bent at an unnatural angle from some long-forgotten accident. It slunk through the alley behind Eylin's house, nose low to the ground, sniffing at rot, oil, and old grease.

  Then it paused.

  The air felt wrong.

  Animals noticed such things far faster than people ever did. The stray lifted its head slowly, whiskers twitching, pupils dilating wide. The smell wasn't food. It wasn't danger either.

  It was pressure.

  Like standing too close to something that hummed without sound.

  The cat hesitated—then stepped forward anyway.

  The instant its front paw crossed the threshold, the world stuttered.

  Not violently.

  Not loudly.

  Just… incorrectly.

  Its paw sank an inch too deep into the ground, as though the stone beneath had momentarily forgotten how to be solid. The cat froze, confused rather than afraid, tugging once. The paw came free—but the delay lingered. Its shadow dragged behind it, half a heartbeat late.

  "Mrrrow?"

  No sound came out.

  Its mouth opened. Its throat worked.

  Nothing.

  It took another step.

  This time its back leg lagged, joints bending at impossible angles before snapping back into place. The air around it rippled faintly, like heat haze without heat.

  Someone noticed.

  "Hey—what the hell's wrong with that thing?"

  A man leaning against a wall straightened, squinting. Others followed his gaze. Curiosity bloomed the way it always did—quietly, stupidly, irresistibly.

  The cat panicked.

  It bolted.

  Or tried to.

  Its body surged forward—but its head didn't follow right away. For a brief, horrifying instant, the cat existed in two places at once. One half dragged itself free of the radius, the other still trapped inside, stretched thin like taffy pulled too far.

  Then it snapped.

  Not with sound.

  With absence.

  The cat collapsed just outside the line, limbs splayed, eyes wide and glassy. Its shadow finished catching up a moment later, sliding back into place beneath it as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  Silence followed.

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  No one rushed forward.

  No one laughed.

  A woman whispered, "That ain't mana sickness."

  Someone else muttered, "Don't touch it."

  They didn't.

  They just watched.

  Minutes passed. The body didn't rot. Didn't twitch. Didn't bleed.

  It simply remained.

  Too intact.

  Too still.

  Eventually, someone spat on the ground and walked away.

  But the story stayed.

  Inside the house, Eylin heard none of it.

  Pain reminded him he still had a body.

  His fingers twitched first—what remained of them, anyway. Nerves screamed as sensation crawled back into burned flesh. He sucked in a sharp breath and immediately regretted it as his ribs protested violently.

  "—fuck…"

  He rolled onto his side, coughing soot onto the floor. The smell of burned hair clung to him, thick and nauseating. Every breath felt like it scraped something raw inside his chest.

  Two weeks.

  Two successes.

  And a dozen failures that still screamed inside his bones.

  He hauled himself upright using the edge of the desk, vision swimming. The bone and stone lay exactly where he'd left them, pulsing faintly—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.

  At least they weren't trying to kill him.

  "Note to self," he muttered hoarsely, staring at his left hand. "Metal and paper… never again. That's clearly suicidal."

  His fingers trembled as he wrapped a cloth around the charred mess, tying it clumsily with his teeth. When he stood, his leg left a dark streak of soot across the floor.

  He ignored it.

  Pain was normal now.

  What unsettled him was the delay.

  The way the room seemed to hesitate whenever he moved—like it was waiting for permission.

  He shoved the thought aside and pulled his hoodie over scorched skin. The fabric smoked faintly where it brushed against fresh burns.

  Outside, something scraped softly against the door.

  Eylin froze.

  Another sound followed. Slow. Dragging. Like something being pulled across stone.

  "…hello?" he called, voice rough.

  No answer.

  He took a step forward—and the air between him and the door warped, just slightly. A faint shimmer rippled outward from his foot before vanishing entirely.

  Eylin stared at the space where it had been.

  His heart began to pound.

  "That's… not good."

  Outside, unseen by him, the corpse of a stray cat lay untouched.

  And the world—having brushed against something it did not understand—leaned a little closer.

  Elsewhere in the slums, inside a darkened room, something else stirred.

  Figures emerged from thin air. Others peeled themselves away from shadow. Silence ruled—broken only by the loud snoring of a figure slumped at the head of the table.

  "Ahem…"

  A shadow stepped forward.

  The snoring stopped.

  "Kehehe… seems like young miss is as beautiful as ever," a raspy voice echoed.

  "Shut up, Old Eight," another snapped. "You've got a lot of nerve speaking after your last blunder."

  "Can't one sleep in peace?" came a soft voice from the head of the table.

  "No rest for the wicked," the shadow replied.

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  Then the head figure straightened—and the humor vanished.

  "It seems," she said quietly, "that we can no longer shield him."

  The room froze. Even Old Eight stopped smoking.

  "He's touched something believed dead," she continued. "A mistake the world buried for a reason. It won't be long before that mistake howls back."

  Fists clenched in the dark.

  "Speak plainly," Old Eight growled.

  She lowered her shawl, revealing eyes far older than her voice.

  "If he continues," she said, "the Hounds will notice."

  No one laughed this time.

  "And our vows?" a figure in black asked.

  "Unchanged," she replied. "We cannot interfere. We cannot guide. We cannot save him."

  "So the kid dies," someone muttered.

  "Or," she said quietly, "he succeeds."

  Silence stretched thin.

  A younger woman finally spoke, barely containing her excitement. "Then we should prepare. If he survives… we may finally be useful again."

  The head figure nodded once.

  "We do not seek dominion."

  "Only survivability."

  The shadows receded.

  As the room emptied, her final words lingered like smoke in the dark.

  "And if the path demands ashes…"

  "Then let the world burn carefully."

  Unbeknownst to Eylin the wheels seem to have turned once more and all it would bring is shielded in mystery.