"Aidan... Aidan... Aidan..."
A voice echoed—soft, almost a whisper.
Aidan opened his eyes—
But what greeted him wasn't the familiar ceiling of his room.
It was a forest, shrouded in shadow, thick with silence. The trees loomed tall and ancient, their bark twisted with age, their branches clawing at him—like arms desperate to hold something they could never reach.
And there, rising from the dark—
A temple.
Cracked. Forgotten. Yet familiar—so familiar, like a memory just out of reach. A breath of déjà vu.
Then the voice came again, this time from within the temple—
"Aidan…"
A whisper. But unlike the cold around him, unlike the creeping dread that clung to the forest floor… this voice was warm.
Like sunlight breaking through a storm. Like the memory of someone who knew him.
For a moment—just a moment—he felt safe.
A longing stirred deep within him.
Aidan stepped forward—or tried to.
But he couldn't.
His body refused. Something unseen gripped him in place. And as he struggled, the warmth of the voice began to fade.
The wind picked up, cold and sharp, rustling through the leaves around him.
Aidan stood there—helpless, unmoving, and alone.
Sweat clung to Aidan's skin, dampening his clothes as his eyes snapped open.
He gasped for air, chest heaving. His body trembled, hands ice-cold. He glanced to the side—the night felt silent, too still, like it was holding its breath.
He rubbed his eyes. These dreams—they weren't just dreams anymore. They felt... like memories.
"Fuck," Aidan muttered in frustration as he sat up, reaching for the water on his bedside table. The lingering echoes of the dream haunted his mind.
It had been two months now since he started seeing these strange visions—a temple hidden deep within a forest, and a voice calling to him from somewhere inside.
He walked toward the balcony, hoping the cold air would clear his thoughts.
He stared blankly from the railing, eyes fixed on the distant moon.
Aidan truly felt scared. Even now, a chill crawled down his spine. He felt watched—looked upon by something he couldn't see.
He hissed under his breath, trying to calm himself. Its fine, he told himself. Father's just in the room next door.
The only reason he hadn't run to his parents' room was because he knew—his father always kept an eye on him. That gave him the confidence to stay put.
Aidan mumbled to himself, "Why?" A nightmare once or twice, sure. But every night for two straight months?
It didn't make sense.
He gripped the railing tighter, staring at the moon. Is that place real? The question hung in the air without an answer.
But after a while, he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. No matter how real it felt, he couldn't afford to dwell on it.
It was just a nightmare... and yet, a name surfaced in his mind that matched everything he'd seen: Dark Forest.
Aidan took one last breath of the cold night air, then turned and stepped back inside. He massaged his temples as he made his way back to bed.
Later that morning, at the training grounds—
Aidan stood sluggishly as the vivid image of night flashed through his mind, eyes still half-closed. He let out a yawn trying to forget it as he looked at Zane.
Zane raised an eyebrow at the dark circles under Aidan's eyes. "You okay? You look terrible."
Aidan waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, I'm alright. Just didn't get much sleep," he said, yawning again.
Matthew stepped forward, glancing at them both. He paused briefly when his gaze landed on Aidan's tired face but said nothing.
"Start," he ordered.
Both boys took their stances as wooden weapons were passed to them. Aidan gripped his sword tightly and slapped his own cheek to shake off the fatigue, forcing his eyes open as he locked onto Zane.
He ducked low, the wooden blade grazing just above his head. Twisting with the momentum, Aidan swung at Zane's side in one clean motion.
Thwack!
Blocked.
Zane grinned, stepping back with smooth footwork. "You're getting predictable," he said, light on his feet.
Aidan didn't respond. His gaze sharpened. He feinted toward Zane's shoulder, then abruptly changed direction—aiming for the ribs.
Zane twisted, barely dodging. But Aidan was already on him, pressing forward.
One strike—blocked.
A second—parried.
The third nearly landed—but Zane turned with it, sliding a foot behind Aidan's.
Aidan stumbled.
In that instant, Zane's wooden sword tapped against Aidan's chest.
"Point."
Aidan clenched his jaw, frustration flashing in his eyes. "Tch."
"Close one," Zane said, offering a hand.
Aidan accepted it and stood. "You got lucky."
"Or maybe," Zane smirked, "you rushed the last hit."
Aidan looked down at his sword, his grip tightening. He hated losing. But deep down, he knew Zane was right.
Aidan had met Zane just a month ago during a training session. From the very beginning, he could tell the boy wasn't ordinary. Zane was a future captain candidate for House Wilson—something that set him apart from most recruits. He had earned that position through sheer effort, not privilege. And now, at just twelve years old, he was already an incomplete First Rank being.
What made it even more impressive was that he'd only started training two years ago—unlike most kids, who began around the age of eight and only joined the academy if they managed to reach Rank One before turning sixteen.
Every weapon Zane touched moved like an extension of his body. It didn't feel like he wielded it—it belonged to him.
Even Matthew had praised him—and if there was one thing Aidan had learned, it was that Matthew didn't hand praise easily.
"Well done. Both of you have improved," Matthew said, stepping forward with a rare smile. "Zane, your aura control is getting sharper. And Aidan… your weapon control has come a long way."
He stepped back, hands behind his back.
"But both of you still need to refine it. Sharpen it."
Matthew took a stance, his body and blade instantly coated in a thin veil of aura. He glanced at Zane first.
"Controlling your weapon is one thing—but aura isn't meant to be forced. It's a stream. It flows. And yours? It sputters. One moment it's sharp, the next, it's gone."
Then he turned to Aidan.
Without warning, he swung.
Mid-strike, the blade changed direction—fluid, sharp, and effortless.
"This is how it should move," Matthew said. "You've got the technique, Aidan. But there's a gap between your thoughts and your blade. That hesitation? It's costing you."
He stepped forward and flicking Aidan on the forehead, locking eyes with him.
"You have a natural talent for grasping concepts—your aura control is better than people who've trained for a year or two. But you don't let your body move on instinct, and that's costing you."
Aidan nodded, understanding what Matthew meant to convey, but the nightmare had left his mind and body in a mess, making it harder to focus the way he used to.
He realized he had been avoiding it for a long time now—but that vision was becoming a real obstacle to his combat training.
Aidan wasn't the kind of person who would let something like that slide.
Aidan decided to find the answer to those visions. His eyes narrowed as the image of the temple coming to mind again.