Heir of Eternity

New Orders

Ethan had never liked trouble, especially trouble involving strangers. During his years in Blackridge, he had learned one fundamental rule: the less you meddle in other people's affairs, the greater your chances of returning home with your life intact. This city was not as pretty as a postcard. Behind the facade of Victorian-era buildings and dim streetlights, there were always dark alleys where dirty business was settled without witnesses.

That was the reason why, upon seeing four men in black suits cornering the old man he had met at campus earlier, his first instinct was to turn around and walk quickly in the opposite direction.

But his feet felt as if they were nailed to the wet sidewalk.

The old man was still standing, one hand pressed against his stomach. His breathing was short, labored. The rain pouring from the sky drenched his black coat, making the red stain seeping through his shirt look even more contrasting and dark. The man's gaze was no longer fixed on his pursuers; he was looking at Ethan with a piercing stare.

"Go..." his voice was raspy, nearly lost in the rumble of the rain. "Quickly."

It was the tone of someone who had reached the end of the road.

The leader of the group in black turned toward Ethan. His face was flat, showing no trace of anger or panic. He just observed the young man for a moment, as if weighing something.

"Does he know you?" the leader asked the old man.

The old man remained silent.

"Then he is not our business." The leader turned back to his associates. "Ignore the kid. We only have one target."

Ethan stepped back. Then another. He could leave now. No one was stopping him. The police would surely come if this commotion continued. Besides, what could a student who had to count coins for bus fare possibly do?

He gripped his backpack straps, preparing to run.

Thud.

The sound of the impact was dull, followed by a suppressed, heartbreaking moan. One of the men in black had just struck the old man in the stomach, throwing his frail body into a puddle. The old man tried to get up, but he was shoved hard against the brick wall again.

There was no resistance. The old man only tried to keep his balance so he wouldn't collapse completely.

The leader of the group crouched in front of his victim. "Your journey ends here."

The old man lifted his face. His lips moved, whispering something Ethan couldn't catch.

The leader shook his head slowly. "It's too late."

A small object was pulled from his coat pocket—a black metal capsule. Without hesitation, it was brought near the old man's chest.

Ethan didn't know what the object was. But for the first time, the old man's expression changed. There was a flash of shock there. And more terrifyingly, there was pure, raw fear.

Some impulse possessed Ethan. Perhaps because his own life was already too heavy, he felt sickened seeing someone oppressed in such a way. He felt he was seeing a reflection of himself—someone alone, cornered, and with no one to lean on.

Before his logic could protest, Ethan shouted.

"Hey!"

His voice broke through the torrential rain. The four men turned in unison. Without thinking, Ethan grabbed a metal trash bin nearby and pushed it with all his might toward them.

The bin slid noisily, slamming into one of the men's legs until he tumbled over.

"Run!" Ethan screamed, though he wasn't sure who he was addressing.

The old man jolted, staring at Ethan with wide eyes.

"Don't just stand there!"

In that split second, the old man mustered the last of his strength, crawled to his feet, and ran limping toward the dead-end alley that led to the street on the other side.

"Chase him!" the leader barked.

Three men immediately darted off to pursue their target. However, one man—a large, broad-shouldered individual—stopped. He turned his gaze toward Ethan with a cold stare, as if Ethan were merely an annoying insect that needed to be crushed immediately.

"You've made a big mistake," he hissed.

Ethan backed away, his spine hitting the wet wall. "I only..."

The man stepped forward. There was no barking, no excessive threats. Only steady, lethal footsteps.

The distance between them closed. Ethan looked back, glancing at the exit that was still open. Without wasting time, he turned and pushed his legs as fast as he could.

The sound of boots hitting the asphalt echoed in the narrow alley, following the rhythm of his ragged breathing. Ethan plunged through puddles, hopped over a low iron fence, and finally stumbled onto a busier street.

Store lights, the noise of cars, and the city bustle greeted him. He looked back. Empty. The street behind the fence was now quiet.

Ethan leaned against a lamppost, gasping for air. His chest felt tight. He scanned his surroundings, ensuring the man hadn't followed. Perhaps he hadn't intended to chase him very far, or perhaps Ethan was too insignificant to be considered a threat.

He wiped the rain from his face, trying to calm his heart, which was still beating wildly. Just as he was about to start walking home, something in his palm felt awkward.

He opened his clenched fist.

A silver metal disc lay there. It was small, the size of a coin, but its surface was covered in intricate, interlocking thin lines. The detail was so refined, it seemed not to be the work of ordinary human hands.

Ethan furrowed his brow. He didn't remember picking this up.

Slowly, he flipped the disc over. As he saw the symbol etched on the back, Ethan froze.

The same symbol.

The symbol he had seen in his childhood photo.

The rain hadn't stopped as Ethan stood motionless under the streetlamp. The metal disc was still in his palm, feeling cold even though his skin was warming up from the run. He flipped it over once more. The engraving of a circle with six interlocking lines remained the same; it was no different from the symbol he had seen for years only on the corner of an old photo.

He slipped the disc into his jacket pocket. His mind was blank. How could this be with him? Did it fall out of the old man's pocket? Or was it intentionally slipped to him while he was running?

Regardless of the answer, standing there too long was a mistake.

Ethan walked home using the busier main road. Vehicles were still passing by, and some shops began to turn off their display lights, which were wet from the rain. He looked back several times, ensuring there were no pursuers. No men in black suits, no injured old man. Everything looked normal, except for the bloodstain drying on his jacket sleeve.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when he opened the front door. His hope of entering silently vanished when he saw the dining room light still on. Martha was sitting, reading a magazine with a cup of tea in front of her. The woman turned as soon as the door opened.

"What time is it?" Martha asked coldly.

"I came home right after the café closed."

"Why are you late?"

Ethan fell silent. What was he supposed to say? That he saw someone nearly murdered and got involved in a stranger's problems? No one would believe him.

"I got caught in the rain," he replied briefly.

Martha clicked her tongue. "Excuses."

The woman stood up, throwing an envelope onto the table until it stopped right in front of Ethan.

"Electric bill."

Ethan glanced at the contents.

"Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because you live in this house."

"I already give you part of my wages every week."

"That’s for food," Martha retorted without a hint of guilt. "Starting this month, you pay for electricity too."

Ethan read the amount written on the bill. It was nearly half of his café wages. "Aunt, I really can't afford this."

"Find another job then."

"But my classes..."

"That's your choice." Martha walked toward the stairs. "One more thing. Ryan will be using the guest room for his friends this weekend. Clean the attic tomorrow. Starting next week, you're moving up there."

Martha’s footsteps faded on the second floor, leaving Ethan standing frozen, clutching the bill.

The attic. The room hadn't been used for years, the roof leaked, and the air was much colder than his current room. Ethan folded the bill and tucked it into his bag without arguing.

After ensuring the door was locked, he went into his room. He hadn't even changed his clothes when he remembered the metal disc. He took it out of his pocket and placed it on his study desk.

Under the lamp, the engravings on its surface were clearer. The pattern was precise, as if made by high-level industrial machinery. Ethan took his childhood photo and placed it side-by-side with the metal piece. The symbol was an exact match. For sixteen years, he had thought the symbol was just a random design on the clothes in the photo, but now the object was real before his eyes.

His fingertips touched the surface of the metal.

Click.

Ethan pulled his hand back in surprise. He was certain he hadn't pressed anything, but the metal disc split into two parts. Tucked in the middle was a small, neatly folded piece of paper.

Ethan's hands trembled as he picked up the paper. It was only the size of a thumb. He unfolded it slowly.

There was only one sentence written there:

Do not trust anyone who knows your name.

Before Ethan could even understand what it meant, there was a knock on his bedroom window.

Tok.

Once.

Then...

Tok.

Tok.

Tok.

It wasn't the sound of the rain. Someone was knocking on the window from the outside. Yet, Ethan’s room was on the ground floor and faced the dark backyard.

The sound came again.

Tok.

Tok.

Tok.

Slow and rhythmic, as if the person outside the window did not want to attract anyone's attention inside the house. Ethan didn't move. His gaze was fixed on the glass covered by cream-colored curtains. From the inside, only the faint shadow of swaying leaves was visible. The rain had begun to subside, leaving water droplets from the roof falling one by one onto the backyard.

Tok.

This time, a little louder.

Ethan slowly moved away from his chair. The distance between the study desk and the window was only three steps, but tonight it felt much longer. He stood directly in front of the curtain without pulling it aside immediately.

"Who is it?" he asked softly.

There was no answer. Only the rustle of wind passing through the gaps in the wooden fence.

Ethan waited for a few seconds. When silence enveloped him again, he let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was just a branch of the old oak tree carried by the wind, bumping against the wall. He reached out and parted the curtain by a few centimeters.

Just as he peered outside, a shadow darted past with unnatural speed.

Ethan recoiled. He pulled the curtain aside completely.

The backyard was empty. The grass was wet, the wooden fence stood sturdy without any gaps, and the dim back porch light illuminated only an old bucket and Ethan's worn-out bicycle. There was no one there.

He was just about to close the curtain when his eyes caught something on the outer windowsill. A small, dark brown envelope, wet at one corner.

Ethan opened the window slightly, just enough to reach the object. The cold air rushed in immediately. He glanced left and right once more—still empty. He closed and locked the window quickly.

The envelope had no address or sender. A black wax seal on the back was cracked from the dampness. Ethan opened it carefully. Inside was a small piece of paper with neat black ink writing:

Tomorrow. 18:00. Come alone.

Below it was an address: St. Aldren Cemetery. East Gate.

A cemetery?

Ethan’s mind went straight to the old man in the alley. No one else knew he had been there. But how was it possible? The man had been severely wounded. Even if he had managed to escape, it was highly unlikely he was capable of delivering a letter in the middle of the night. Or perhaps, this letter wasn't from him.

The creaking of the floorboards above broke his train of thought. Footsteps. Someone was coming down from the second floor. Ethan immediately folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Not long after, the sound of Ryan's bedroom door opening followed, then lazy footsteps heading toward the bathroom.

Ethan waited until it was quiet again. The warning in the previous letter, the metal disc with the same symbol as his childhood photo, and now a mysterious invitation to a cemetery. All of this had happened in less than twelve hours. It made no sense, yet it was real.

He put the metal piece and the letter into the iron box, then pushed it deep into the corner of the drawer. Tonight, he just wanted to sleep. He turned off the bedroom light, letting the darkness swallow the room.

Several minutes passed. Ethan’s breathing became steady.

Outside the house, the clouds shifted to cover the moon. Behind the backyard wooden fence, a figure in a black cloak stood motionless. His face was hidden in the shadows, his gaze locked on Ethan’s bedroom window.

A soft voice emerged from a small communication device on his coat collar. "The target has received the invitation."

The man didn't answer. His eyes remained on the now-pitch-black window.

"Orders changed," the voice sounded again.

"Speak."

"Do not touch the boy."

The man was silent for a moment. "And then?"

"Starting tonight... watch him twenty-four hours a day."