T-Minus 2 Days to the Opening of the Dark Gate.

  The Observation Deck of Mirror Canyon.

  Noel stood in the exact spot he had occupied the night before.

  His boots were planted firmly on the frigid stone tiles of the observation deck. Both hands, encased in leather gloves, gripped the edge of the stone parapet. He pressed his palms down hard, his fingers seeking the same jagged grooves in the iron railing that he had squeezed in desperation last night.

  His coordinates had not shifted a single inch. His spatial memory worked with terrifying accuracy, slotting his body back into the optimal observation point.

  He was now wrapped in a thick, charcoal-grey wool coat, its fur collar turned up to shield his neck. His breath created thin white ghosts that were instantly snatched by the wind, vanishing as quickly as lives claimed by the void.

  Noel tilted his head up slightly.

  The sun sat precisely at its zenith. Perpendicular above his skull.

  By astronomical logic, it was 12:00 PM. The time when thermal radiation should be peaking, baking these desolate crags.

  But Noel narrowed his eyes. His pupils did not constrict fully.

  The Deceiver Sun, he thought coldly.

  The light was bright, blinding even, but it carried no caloric weight. It fell upon the skin like the glare of an LED stage light—purely visual, devoid of thermal warmth. The infrared spectrum seemed to have been filtered out entirely by the unnatural atmosphere hanging over the canyon.

  Noel activated the analytical mode in his mind.

  Ambient temperature: 14 degrees Celsius and dropping (negative gradient).

  Humidity: Low. Dry enough to make the nasal mucosa sting.

  And the most disturbing variable: Wind Direction.

  Noel observed the royal banners on the watchtowers.

  The fabric whipped chaotically.

  One moment it slapped West, then spun abruptly North, died momentarily, and suddenly slammed South with such force the flagpoles groaned.

  The wind had no dominant current. This was not a seasonal draft, nor was it a typical valley breeze.

  Atmospheric turbulence, Noel concluded. It was as if nature itself was confused, or afraid... fleeing in all directions to escape something invisible seeping up from below.

  Noel lowered his gaze to the fortress grounds and military barracks below.

  His calculations shifted to human assets.

  Alert Level: Increased by 200%.

  The scene down there had shifted drastically from the daily routine of a military camp.

  Usually, this hour was for lunch breaks, where soldiers would lounge on ammo crates, loosening their flak jackets, smoking, and laughing coarsely over dice games.

  Today, the grounds were silent of laughter.

  Noel saw patrols moving in double formation. Two squads walking in opposite directions, minimizing blind spots.

  Their pace was swift; the stomp of iron boots on hard earth sounded louder, rhythmic, and disciplined.

  Every Carta soldier wore full protective gear—Kevlar helmets strapped tight, chin guards locked. Their hands never left their rifle grips and triggers, as if the enemy were already standing at the main gate.

  They feel it, Noel deduced flatly.

  The collective instinct of the soldiers had caught the signal of danger carried by this strange wind. They were preparing for a war where the enemy was yet unseen, but whose aura was already choking them.

  Suddenly, Noel’s auditory senses picked up the scuff of a step, masked by the wind blowing behind his back.

  Not the step of an ordinary soldier. This step was heavy, yet remarkably calm.

  His combat reflexes took over.

  He spun a sharp hundred-eighty degrees, stance ready, eyes scanning for the threat.

  However, within microseconds, the tension in his shoulders and neck muscles collapsed. His pupils, constricted in alarm, now dilated and relaxed with visual recognition.

  The subject before him was not a threat.

  Target Identified: Gerald Sanjaya.

  Noel scanned the appearance of the middle-aged man.

  His uncle’s black hair was no longer dominant; the temples had been colonized by silver-white that spread evenly. Aging that was elegant yet undeniable. There were fine lines around his eyes that did not exist in the last data set.

  But Gerald’s face was adorned with a smile.

  A wide, genuine, and strangely... warm smile. It felt alien and contrasted extremely with the air temperature on the parapet that was beginning to bite the bone and freeze breath.

  Noel shifted his analytical focus to the eye area.

  Visual Analysis: Gerald’s eyes appear brighter than usual. glistening. There is an excess liquid layer reflecting the pale sunlight.

  Hypothesis: The eyes are wet. Moisture levels increased due to an emotional surge, not wind irritation.

  Gerald did not speak. He simply opened his arms wide.

  The universal gesture for acceptance. An open invitation for an embrace.

  Noel did not move.

  He remained frozen in position, his feet nailed to the stone tiles. He was one with the cold wrapping his body. His dominant left brain did not process the command to return the sentimental gesture.

  But Gerald did not wait. He knew his nephew was "mute" in many ways, including emotionally.

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  Noel watched his uncle’s figure growing larger in his vision. The man stepped forward, closing the distance between them rapidly, ignoring Noel’s awkwardness.

  The next second, Noel’s world went dark.

  Thump.

  Gerald collided with him, wrapping those muscular arms around Noel’s stiff frame. He pulled his nephew into his orbit of protection.

  Noel opened his eyes wide, staring at the fibers of his uncle’s coat from zero centimeters away.

  Uncle Gerald’s embrace...

  Warm.

  Incredibly warm. The heat of a living human being.

  Noel’s defenses crumbled.

  Not by sword strikes or dark magic, but by nostalgia forcing its way out of the Pandora’s box in his tightly locked memory.

  The stiffness in his shoulders melted like ice doused in hot water. He no longer resisted.

  Slowly, Noel’s hands moved on their own, bypassing his logic. He returned the hug. He buried his face deep into the thick fur collar on his uncle’s broad chest.

  Warm... he thought, his eyes squeezed shut.

  This scent... a mix of faint tobacco, the smell of dry desert wind, and the musk of the Sanjaya Mansion long lost to his senses.

  Ten years.

  The number blinked on Noel’s imaginary biometric screen.

  Gerald Sanjaya had left the old family mansion when Noel was just nine. Back then, Noel was a scrawny child barely reaching Gerald’s waist. His uncle had left on a long-term mission to Mirror Canyon—this silent, dangerous borderland.

  For a decade, their interaction had been reduced to binary data.

  Only short, encrypted text messages.

  Only static-filled voices over broken military satellite connections.

  Noel thought he had processed all that data well. He thought he knew his uncle just by updating his psychological profile through long-range intelligence reports.

  Error.

  System Failure: Emotional Overload.

  Noel tried to analyze the surge of emotion tightening his chest but failed. His algorithms hit a dead end.

  It turned out that no matter how high the voice resolution or how frequent the messages, they held no weight compared to physical presence.

  Meeting in person was a different beast.

  The variables of body temperature, familiar scent, and the heartbeat he heard behind his uncle’s chest... were analog data that could never be transmitted over any radio signal.

  Amidst the threat of the apocalypse waiting two days away, Noel felt like a nine-year-old boy again.

  In the silence of that embrace, Noel’s mind dove into the depths of his emotional data.

  He reflected deeply. Throughout a life calculated with coldness and logic, only three anomalies were recorded—three people capable of providing positive thermal fluctuation, a sense of "warmth" within his system.

  First was this man. Uncle Gerald.

  He was the only bonfire burning in the frozen hall of Sanjaya Mansion. When the walls radiated the chill of ancestral demands and rigid military discipline, Gerald was the wild flame providing thermal protection for Noel’s childhood.

  Second were his friends.

  If Uncle Gerald was fire, then his friends were glass prisms. They provided colorful warmth. Beautiful, sometimes blinding, sometimes burning, but always ensuring his life spectrum was no longer black and white.

  Third was Theodore.

  The King’s Advisor was warmth in the form of light. He was not a crackling fire, but stable photons. A wise guiding figure illuminating Noel’s path of logic, ensuring he didn't get lost in the darkness of ambition or emptiness.

  Slowly, the pressure on his shoulders lessened.

  Gerald loosened his grip.

  Noel took a step back, but his uncle’s eyes still radiated that smile.

  "Hahahaha..." Gerald’s laugh exploded, breaking the cold wind on the deck.

  Gerald’s large hand patted the top of Noel’s head, then lowered to measure his shoulder height.

  "Noel, you’re still only chest-high to me. Are you not eating enough? When will you catch up to me, huh?"

  Noel looked up, staring at his uncle’s face far above.

  He didn't answer with voice. He answered with a unique tactical sign language—a combination of swift, precise hand movements.

  Noel held his palm flat above his own head, then raised it high until it leveled with Gerald’s head—then slashed his hand across decisively. His face was flat, shaking his head slowly.

  [I don’t want to be an excessive giant like Uncle.]

  Then, he lowered his hand back to his own head level, holding it steady, and patted his chest once.

  [This height is sufficient. Efficient.]

  Finally, he brought the tips of his index finger and thumb close, leaving a small gap—a few centimeters—and moved his hand in a slow wave forward.

  [Maybe... add just a little over the next few years.]

  Noel heard the laugh stifled in his uncle’s throat. The sound vibrated in the broad chest still pressed against his side.

  "You still won't speak, even now... Hahahaha. Alright, alright."

  Gerald gave up forcing his nephew to vocalize. Instead, Noel felt a heavy weight land on his shoulder. His uncle’s right arm, the size of a tree trunk, hugged him tight, pulling Noel’s small frame back to face the deck’s parapet.

  They stood side by side, two generations of Sanjaya staring at the same horizon.

  "Look, Noel," Gerald’s voice grew heavy, his rough index finger pointing into the distance. "There."

  Noel’s eyes followed the finger.

  Far away, Mirror Canyon looked like a gaping black wound on the earth’s surface. But this time, he saw it through his uncle’s narrative.

  The canyon was wedged in the middle of the massive rock formations of the Iron Mountains.

  "These stubborn mountains..." Gerald muttered, his voice full of respect and dread. "...they cage that black rift. As if these ancient rocks know what's inside. Even nature rejects their arrival... Nature tries to pinch it shut so it doesn't vomit its contents out."

  Noel fell silent.

  He felt a shift in perspective. He had always viewed Mirror Canyon as strategic coordinates and a battlefield. But now, he saw it as a cracked prison of nature.

  Then, Gerald shifted his finger downward. Toward the thousands of tiny dots moving on the fortress grounds and barracks.

  "Noel, look at them... those soldiers."

  Noel caught the frequency shift in the voice.

  Gerald’s tone dropped drastically. It became somber, low, and wet with unconcealed sorrow.

  "They have families," Gerald whispered. "There is a child waiting for a father to come home with a wooden toy. There is a mother praying for her son. There are wives, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers..."

  Noel stared at the thousands of iron helmets gleaming under the pale sun.

  The cold calculations in his head ran automatically.

  Battle Analysis: Probability of conventional infantry success against Pure Darkness entities is 0.0%.

  Noel knew the bitter fact.

  Their flak jackets were mere thin weaving to Void creatures. Their rifles were just thrown sand.

  Thousands of lives down there... statistically, they were already dead the moment the gate opened. Their presence on the front line meant absolutely nothing tactically. They were merely meat to be minced to buy a few seconds of time.

  Noel glanced at his uncle’s face from the side.

  The eyes that had twinkled with humor were now shaded and wistful. The gaze of a general who knew he was sending his children to the slaughter.

  Noel understood his uncle’s meaning perfectly.

  Uncle Gerald didn't see infantry units. He saw thousands of dining tables that would be empty in the homes of Carta.

  Noel’s throat tightened. The burden of knowledge was too heavy.

  Slowly, Noel bowed his head, staring at the tips of his own boots, unable to look any longer at the bleak future lined up neatly down there.

  Noel no longer looked down. His visual focus locked onto his uncle’s profile.

  There, a painful psychological phenomenon was unfolding.

  Gerald Sanjaya’s face shifted rapidly, like a sky unable to decide on the weather.

  For a moment, the corner of the man’s lip lifted—a thin, soft, distant smile. Perhaps he was replaying a sweet memory from the past, or imagining a stupid joke soldiers usually cracked in the tavern.

  But within seconds, the smile collapsed.

  The facial muscles slackened, then hardened into a grimace of pain. The eyes that had sparkled dimmed again, covered by grey shadows as his gaze fell upon the thousands of lives lined up below.

  Smile. Sorrow.

  Smile again. Gloom again.

  Noel analyzed the pattern.

  It wasn't mental instability. It was heavy contemplation.

  His uncle was fighting inside his own head. He was weighing the burden of life on one side of the scale, and the duty of command on the other. He was trying to reconcile his gentle conscience with the brutal fate he had to execute.

  This man was grieving before the death had even occurred.