1) Purgatory
“Huff… haah….”
Seiyad jerked upright, his upper body drenched in cold sweat. He let out ragged breaths and swept back the strands of hair stuck to his forehead with a rough hand. It felt like he’d just woken from a horrific nightmare—his insides churned and his mood was foul. He had the sense that he’d seen something, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall a thing.
His entire body ached, like he’d fallen from an immense height and slammed into the ground. It was a familiar pain—the kind that always accompanied the onset of winter or followed overexertion of his powers. A price to be paid. Feeling this wasn’t unusual. What was strange was the very fact that he could feel anything at all.
‘I definitely died. Even if I wasn’t executed, my body was beyond saving.’
Seiyad raised a hand to check his chest. The touch beneath his fingers was smooth. His cold, pale torso bore no wounds, no marks. But his body should’ve been shattered, bones crushed, with no part left intact.
Brow furrowing beneath his thick, dark eyebrows, Seiyad lifted his head. The room, shaded in soft shadows, was incredibly familiar. The aged furniture bore the traces of frequent use, and the fireplace crackled with burning logs. It was exactly the room he’d used in life—down to the last detail.
‘Is this what hell looks like?’
His eyes scanned the inexplicable scene. Stepping down from the bed, he heard the soft flap of his sweat-soaked robe. Bare feet pressing onto the icy wooden floor, he walked to the window. Pulling aside the heavy curtains and throwing the window open, a harsh blizzard came howling in.
The biting cold raised goosebumps on his skin. The wind carried the dry scent of distant tree branches and the sting of frigid air. It all felt far too real. Before him stretched an endless white field of snow—the very landscape of the territory where he’d grown up. And yet, a thought flickered through his mind: perhaps this was his hell. To be trapped in eternal cold and loneliness seemed a fitting punishment for him.
“Your Grace, did you cough? May I come in?”
Just then, a knock at the door was followed by a voice calling to him. Seiyad flinched, turning toward the sound with a bewildered expression before striding to the door and flinging it open.
Behind it stood a young man holding a basin of wash water. The moment he saw him, a tremor passed through Seiyad’s once-cold eyes.
“Quilly?”
Quilly was the steward’s son and had served Seiyad since childhood. One of the few who’d shared his youth. But Quilly had died five years ago—on the first day of the Ritual of Invocation, which marked the beginning of the harsh season. Seiyad had never imagined he’d see him again, not after he’d turned to ash and vanished. Even someone as unshakable as Seiyad faltered in that moment.
“…Huh? Are you all right, Your Grace? You don’t look well.”
Quilly, too, looked surprised. His eyes wide, he cautiously studied his master.
“Shall I fetch a physician? We brought them in early for the Ritual, so one should be available at once.”
The mention of the Ritual stole the words from Seiyad’s mouth. The Quilly before him behaved exactly as he had in life. He’d always been the one to assist the lord of the northern domain during the most hectic time of year.
Quilly was one of the burdens Seiyad had borne—someone he was supposed to protect, but failed to. Always loyal and diligent, Quilly had never needed praise to serve Seiyad faithfully. Even when the world turned its back on Seiyad, Quilly remained quietly by his side.
Seiyad could accept his own place in hell, but Quilly didn’t belong there. A mass murderer who had slaughtered hundreds could never be compared to Quilly. For someone who believed that if anything existed after death, it could only be hell, this situation defied all logic.
If he couldn’t deduce it on his own, he had only one path left—ask, and find out.
Seiyad’s already cold expression hardened further as he questioned Quilly.
“Where am I?”
Quilly’s eyes widened at the question. Caught off guard, he barely managed to stammer a reply.
“Pardon?”
As if he didn’t understand what the words meant, Quilly blinked. But Seiyad fired off more pointed questions.
“How long have you been here? And what happened to my injuries?”
Quilly looked flustered, trying to keep up with the barrage of questions before finally pulling himself together and responding, one by one.
“What do you mean, ‘where’? This is the Axid Territory, held for generations by the great Brosius family of the North. I’m your faithful and adorable Quilly, who’s served you for over twenty years since I was born. Are you truly all right, Your Grace?”
Quilly seemed as if he’d stepped straight out of the past. In fact, he looked even younger than Seiyad remembered. Back then, Quilly had been a young man about the same age as him, but now, to Seiyad—who was nearly thirty—he seemed like a child.
“And what wounds are you referring to? Haven’t you been staying in the castle these past few weeks to prepare for the cold season? Don’t tell me you went out inspecting the territory on your own again!”
As Quilly fussed and tried to size up his condition with just his eyes, Seiyad gazed at him with a peculiar expression. Memories, no matter how tightly gripped, always slipped through the fingers like sand. He’d thought he’d remembered everything about Quilly, but watching this scene unfold—as if he’d returned to the past—filled him with a strange emotion. Just having Quilly nearby made the surroundings feel louder, more alive. The difference had gone unnoticed after spending so long in silence.
‘It really feels real.’
Everything—the sensations, the person in front of him—it all felt undeniably real. As if time had rewound and brought him back.
And then, a final wish surfaced in his mind. The last thing he’d repeated before dying: that if there were any way to turn back time, he would do anything to stop what he’d done.
He had wished for it—desperately, enough to offer up his soul. But it had only been the futile yearning of a man on the brink of death. If such a paltry wish could truly turn back time, the world would’ve long been a chaos of regrets belonging to the dead.
Of course, Seiyad wasn’t just any ordinary dead man. He was a Tither, a being granted powers from the Nir’a—monsters that had ruled this land since the dawn of time—in order to protect humanity. From the moment of the Solias Kingdom’s founding, the Tithers had existed alongside it, born with extraordinary abilities that were always unpredictable and wildly erratic.
Still, no matter how bizarre a power might be, Seiyad had never once heard of an ability that could reverse what had already occurred. And even if such a supernatural gift did exist, there was no conceivable reason it should have been used to bring him back. Not a single Tither alive bore goodwill toward Seiyad. All of them despised him.
Which meant this apparent return to the past—everything he was seeing and feeling—had to be an illusion. A vile hallucination crafted by hell itself. And there was only one way to wake from it.
Having made his decision, Seiyad acted at once. Turning his back on Quilly, he strode swiftly to the bed. Quilly trailed behind in a nervous flurry, unsettled by Seiyad’s silent demeanor.
“You haven’t said a word. Your faithful Quilly is terribly worried. You’re already so reserved, but today it’s like you’ve taken a vow of silence….”
Ignoring the babbling servant at his side, Seiyad reached beneath his pillow and drew a dagger. The moment the blade appeared in his hand, Quilly’s eyes widened to their limits.
And without a moment’s hesitation, Seiyad slashed his own wrist.
“Master Seiyad!”
The finely honed edge sliced through flesh with ease. Bright red blood trickled down his pale arm in rivulets. Horrified, Quilly lunged forward and grabbed Seiyad around the waist.
“Why would you do such a thing, all of a sudden? Were your earlier words some kind of warning? No, no, that’s not important—Is anyone out there?! Physician! Call the physician at once!”
The corridor outside erupted into chaos. Seiyad could feel the servants rushing toward the room in response to Quilly’s frantic cries. He ignored Quilly’s shrill wails and kept his eyes fixed on the wound, blood streaming from his forearm.
The pain flared like fire, spreading along his veins and flooding his entire body. Yet the illusion he’d believed surrounded him did not disappear. Nothing faded.
The deep gash remained, vivid and raw—glaring back at him.
As if to say: this was reality.
