Arka sat in the very last row, tucked into the dimly lit corner of the room.

  The position was strategic for his personality, yet also a torture.

  His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, pressing into his ribs, attempting to trap what little body heat remained.

  He despised the draft of the AC.

  This artificial cold was different from the chill of the void or the freezing rainstorm at the temple. This was a dry, sterile cold that pierced the bone in an irritating manner. The blower above his head hummed softly, blowing frigid air relentlessly onto the nape of his neck.

  Arka’s eyes stared blankly ahead.

  On the distant podium, an old man in an ill-fitting suit was passionately recounting the history of the founding of the Kingdom of Carta. His mouth moved in boring spasms, his hand pointing at a digital map projected onto the screen.

  Arka snorted softly. He ignored every word spewing from the man’s mouth.

  Stale fairytales, he thought cynically.

  He had no need for this lecture. Grandfather Rajendra had told those stories thousands of times—since before Arka could walk until he was sick of hearing them. The old man’s speech text? Arka could recite it backward by heart, complete with punctuation.

  Arka’s mind drifted to the chaos that had brought him here.

  A sudden journey. Tch.

  The damn invitation had arrived only last night, slid under the temple door when the clock already struck two in the morning. No preparation, no pickup vehicle.

  The Young Master of House Sagara, heir to the blood of war generals, was forced to walk down the hill in the dead of night, then wait for a decrepit public bus to head to the Crownbelt—this glittering city center.

  And there lay the day’s greatest irony.

  Arka swallowed with difficulty. The nausea was still there.

  The grand soul of Sagara, cast aside by the kingdom, a soul that had just stared into the eyes of monsters at the void gate last night, was utterly defeated by the dead suspension of an economy bus.

  Stomach acid still clung to the back of his throat. It tasted bitter, burning, and shameful.

  The memory of the incident at the bus stop an hour ago replayed in his head.

  He had vomited violently. Not an elegant purge, but a heave that forced him to squat by the gutter, emptying his guts in front of dozens of people waiting for the morning schedule.

  Those eyes... the gaze of city people filled with disgust, pity, avoidance. Arka, with his shabby jacket and pale face, looked like a drunken vagrant in their eyes.

  Pathetic, Arka cursed inwardly.

  Amidst the shame burning his face at that moment, he remembered one small detail that was strangely soothing.

  A thin stray cat.

  While Arka was still squatting, gasping for breath and fighting nausea, the cat approached. The animal was not disgusted. Instead, it meowed softly, concerned, then rubbed its furred body against Arka’s trousers.

  Its tail curled around Arka’s calf, offering the only sincere sympathy he received this morning.

  Arka closed his eyes in the corner of that air-conditioned room, trying to banish the nausea threatening to rise again.

  Only that cat knows who I truly am, he thought bitterly. The rest... let them see me as trash.

  The voice from the speaker sounded cracked, painful to the ears.

  "T-thus concludes... this g-grand meeting..."

  Arka glanced lazily at the podium. The MC was a young officer with the rank of First Lieutenant. His uniform was crisp, his build sturdy, his badges gleaming under the spotlight. But his voice was shattered.

  Trembling. Stuttering. The officer’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a stuck seed.

  Ugh, cracker mentality, Arka thought cynically. Hears a little apocalypse fairytale and already wants to cry.

  Primal fear leaked from the cracks in the officer’s voice, betraying the medals of courage he paraded on his chest.

  "Please... p-proceed to the Main Banquet Hall."

  Without waiting for further pleasantries, Arka immediately stood up. His stomach could no longer be compromised with. He walked, cutting through the current of humans moving stiffly like zombies, heading toward the gold-plated double doors across the room.

  His goal was singular: Calories.

  The Main Banquet Hall was far more luxurious than the meeting hall. Long tables draped in white silk stretched out, filled with an insane spread of buffet food.

  Arka’s nose instantly caught the scent of earthly paradise. The aroma of fat from Wagyu A5 steak sizzling in pans, tempting red lobsters, and rows of sweet pastries.

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  Arka swallowed. The bitter acid taste from vomiting at the bus stop this morning still left a trace on the back of his tongue.

  There it is, he thought gleefully. Compensation for my breakfast wasted in the gutter. It better taste good.

  Arka did not take a small plate for snacks. He took a large dinner plate.

  With quick, unhesitating movements, he spooned up a large cut of steak, piled it with potatoes au gratin, and snatched two large prawns.

  Clink.

  He placed a silver fork atop his full plate.

  Devour.

  Arka leaned casually against the edge of the buffet table, then shoveled a piece of meat worth a blind salary into his mouth. The wagyu fat melted instantly, erasing the stomach acid taste that had tortured him since the bus ride.

  While chewing, his eyes swept the room.

  The view before him was a tragic comedy.

  Just him.

  Only Arka Sagara was eating ravenously in this room.

  Hundreds of other high officials didn't touch the luxury food served. Their appetites were totally dead thanks to the horror presentation earlier. Their stomachs churned with stress, rejecting anything but mineral water and perhaps sedatives.

  They sat clustered at round tables. No fake laughter, no rotten political lobbying.

  They bowed their heads, leaning close until foreheads nearly touched, whispering in panic. Their faces were tense, eyes wild, searching for a way out.

  Arka saw a minister on the phone, covering his mouth, whispering frantically. Beside him, his expert staff took notes with trembling fingers. At another table, generals busied themselves pointing at maps on phones with flushed faces.

  Everyone was busy.

  Busy saving assets, busy securing wives and children, busy looking for rat holes.

  Arka swallowed his meat, then stabbed a prawn.

  Such a waste, man, he muttered internally, eyeing the untouched trays of food. Out there people fight over rice packets. Here the rich go on a hunger strike because they're afraid of dying. Ironic.

  In the middle of a room full of people planning how to escape the apocalypse, Arka was just a hungry spectator enjoying his lunch.

  Suddenly his chewing slowed.

  Eh?

  His eyes caught movement in the corner of the room, near a large window covered by heavy drapes.

  Turns out he was wrong. There were other creatures with an appetite here.

  Those two old men—one of them Lord Gavin—were sitting relaxed at a small round table, separated from the crowd of panicked people. Before them, plates of roast meat and salad were served.

  They ate calmly. Very relaxed. As if the apocalypse news earlier was just an unimportant passing commercial.

  Crazy, are those geezers made of steel or what? Arka thought, amazed and bewildered. World's ending, lunch goes on.

  However, Arka’s attention was diverted. That sturdy figure—General Garreth—was walking toward Gavin’s table. His steps were heavy and hesitant, but clearly, he needed answers.

  Garreth pulled out a chair without asking, sitting hunched before Gavin.

  Arka set his plate down for a moment. He retreated, leaning his back against a marble pillar to be less conspicuous.

  He sharpened his ears. His curiosity piqued.

  What are they talking about, so serious?

  Garreth’s voice was clear, low and raspy, piercing the noise of the room.

  "Lord Singh..."

  A brief pause. Gavin did not turn; he continued cutting the meat on his plate with a silver knife.

  "I need clarity," Garreth pressed, his voice trembling, holding back frustration. "What will this darkness look like?"

  Garreth leaned forward, his hands crumpling the white tablecloth.

  "Parts of the technical protocols haven't been shared with us. My division... we are blind. The documents don't state exactly... what is our enemy? What is its physical form? How can I deploy troops if I don't know the target?"

  Gavin paused mid-bite. He placed his knife and fork down slowly, then wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. His movements were elegant, contrasting with Garreth’s panic.

  The old man looked at Garreth. His gaze was hard to read—perhaps pity, perhaps weary of entertaining stupid questions.

  "They have no physical form you can draw on your strategy board, General," Gavin replied softly.

  "They are fog," he continued. His tone was cold, making the hair on one's neck stand up. "They are shadows that move when there is no light. They are darkness possessing consciousness."

  Garreth’s face paled.

  Arka could see the General’s military brain short-circuiting. He was used to fighting tanks, fighter jets, or terrorists. He needed a target he could see. He needed something real.

  "Monsters?" Garreth mumbled, his voice hoarse and full of hope.

  Really hoping for monsters, Arka thought, shaking his head slightly.

  Garreth hoped the answer was "yes." Because monsters could be shot. Monsters had heads that could be blown off. Monsters were biology; they could be killed.

  But Gavin did not answer.

  The old man just remained silent. Slowly, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and returned to silence. A subtle refusal to validate the General’s naive hope.

  Arka shoveled the last piece of potato into his mouth. He stared at Garreth’s back, which now looked increasingly dwarfed in his chair.

  He doesn't get it, Arka thought.

  The General thought he would fight Godzilla or aliens. He didn't realize his enemy was far crazier than that. Arka had glimpsed the shadows at the gate last night—something that made you vomit blood.

  Good luck with pistols, General, Arka thought cynically. Because I reckon bullets are hard pressed to work against demons.

  "Hah..."

  Arka exhaled a long breath, letting the afternoon air of Crownbelt city fill his lungs.

  Fresh.

  It felt far better than inhaling the recycled AC air inside, contaminated by the smell of cold sweat, expensive perfume, and the aura of mass panic from the officials. The air pressure inside that Ballroom was too heavy, as if gravity had been multiplied by fear.

  His stomach was full—thanks to the state's free Wagyu. Now his brain could be used to think again.

  Arka walked away from the glass doors, toward the quiet balcony railing. The wind at this height was strong enough to ruffle his black hair.

  He reached into his trouser pocket.

  Not cigarettes, not a phone.

  His fingers pinched a small paper object. A simple origami folded into the shape of a bright yellow butterfly. The folds were a bit rough; understandable, he made it carelessly while bored waiting for the bus in the dark morning.

  Arka placed the paper butterfly on his open left palm.

  He stared at the inanimate object.

  "Okay, Young Master Sagara..." he thought, challenging himself. "Grandfather said you've become an Aksesa. Let's see if that's just a cool title or if there's substance to it."

  Arka closed his eyes.

  He tried to recall the sensation at the temple last night. That cold. That hollow void. He didn't summon the nausea; he summoned the "pulse."

  His mouth mumbled briefly, whispering intent without sound. Not a cool Latin incantation like in the movies, just an inner instruction he forced out through his fingertips.

  Live. Move.

  Crinkle.

  There was the sound of fine paper friction.

  Arka opened one eye, peeking.

  His heart jumped in shock. Damn.

  In his palm, the yellow origami vibrated.

  Not from the wind. The object vibrated from within. Its stiff paper wings slowly bent upward, then downward.

  Flap... flap...

  The movement was jerky. Very stiff. Exactly like a robot running out of battery or a person just learning to walk.

  The butterfly began to lift from the skin of Arka’s hand. Rising five centimeters... ten centimeters...

  Its flight was unsteady. Tilting left, then wobbling right, struggling hard against gravity and the afternoon breeze. It looked pathetic, but to Arka, this was the most magical thing he had ever seen.

  He—Arka Sagara, a third-semester architecture student who vomited in a gutter this morning—had just brought paper to life.

  A crooked smile carved onto his face.

  "Not bad for a first attempt. Just not falling is a blessing."

  He watched the yellow butterfly flying drunkenly with a sense of pride.

  "Yosh," Arka murmured softly, giving a final mental command.

  He flicked his finger gently toward the city.

  "Go look around. Be my eyes and ears."