Extra's Curse: Servants Of Will

"The Bastard's Invitation"

Ibaan's frown deepened. Three straight lines formed between his eyebrows as he stared at the name. It felt strange. He had no idea who could have sent it, but the word Bastard itself held many meanings in ancient tongues.

In his vampire language, it meant Joker—not a clown, but a wanderer who played with fate. In newer languages, it was often mixed up with a clown, though they were not the same. One traveled freely, the other performed for crowds, even if their looks were similar.

In another tongue—the Utopian, also called the Dragonic language—it meant a lone bird that ruled the world through instinct alone.

Stunned, he quickly shut the door and went back up to his bedroom.

He opened the envelope and found two strange items.

The first was a ring. A pearl-red crystal glowed at its center, set into an obsidian-black band. The crystal pulsed faintly, as if it were alive.

The second item was a card. It was nothing like the cards used for games in his world. An arcane, cosmic aura clung to it, making his heart stir for reasons he couldn't explain. At the top, carved neatly along the edge, were the words "The Bastards."

Below that was an image. A man in a white robe stood inside a white castle, his long red hair falling freely over his shoulders. His eyes were closed. Resting on his shoulder was a red-bladed sword, a dragon skull embedded in its hilt, the blade planted into the ground.

Beneath the image were the words:

"Bastard 11."

At that moment, his eyes widened and a chill ran down his spine.

The man in the image was him.

And the sword—there was no doubt about it. It was the Dragonic Sword.

'Impossible.'

How could the other party know his true self? It was clearly impossible in this world. Did someone else enter the book and send him this invitation? He dismissed the thought at once. There was no one who truly knew he was from Utopia, and that sword was without doubt the Utopian Duke.

Then his mind trembled. His thoughts lined up, one after another, and suddenly his memories burst open. Endless scenes of Utopia flooded his mind—faces, names, places.

The Lady of the Utopians, the Mother of Utopians, Xorra. Her face was clear. She stood at the front, leading everyone, wearing a long white suit that flowed over the ground. To her right stood his master, the Nemesis of Angels—Atifien—white hair, red eyes cold with bloodlust. To Xorra's left was Atifien's wife, Iman, her black hair falling quietly over her shoulders. And beside Atifien stood him—wearing a white robe, red hair shining—his gaze fixed on a young girl.

She was Atifien's and Iman's daughter.

Long white hair. Red eyes. A black fabric outfit that fully covered her body.

Im—Imvish.

'Imvish,' the name he had lost along with himself suddenly surfaced again, coming alive deep within his soul. He even remembered his final moments, when he had almost died at the hands of those filthy creatures. From a part of himself he barely understood back then, he had apologized to his master, Atifien, for failing to find his daughter.

Find her, you ask?

Yes. That was right. Imvish had gone missing thousands of years ago, after her parents perished. Yet he always felt it—he knew she was still alive.

In his entire life, his sole goal had been to find her. But he never could, not within the nation where he lived, nor after leaving it. Leaving that nation itself was nearly impossible. It was completely isolated from the rest of the world. The people inside barely knew what lay beyond its borders. They believed there was no life outside, only corrupted abominations of terrifying rank. To step beyond the nation meant risking one's life.

His feelings were reborn. Her scent, her presence—everything that belonged to her returned to his heart… except her.

He felt full, yet hollow.

Still, a smile slowly formed on his face. At least he had recovered his lost memories. His gaze shifted back to the Bastard card in his hand, then to the ring.

Someone out there knew him—knew him from thousands of years ago. Otherwise, they would never place him in a situation like this.

He had first thought of using his sixth sense to check whether the ring was safe. But he dismissed the idea at once. The trust he felt toward the other party was real. If this person was someone who knew him from the past—friend or enemy—they would not deceive or trap him in such a way.

And he thought he might find a way to reach Imvish, or at least learn whether she was in the same group.

From what he could tell, the Bastard seemed like a sect, a faction, or perhaps something even larger.

After that, he raised the finger of his right hand. As he did, it began to glow brighter. Something deep inside his body stirred. He felt lighter, yet at the same time heavier. He could not describe the feeling growing in his heart—it had no name, and perhaps it could never be named.

Then, suddenly, the world around him shifted into thick darkness. At once, he heard a voice—a young man's voice, calm and firm.

"Welcome to the Bastards, Shon Eril. You wield the 11th rank and bear the title, Bastard 11."

The voice paused for a moment, then continued, as if it had already been programmed.

"I am Bastard 01. Be careful not to speak of the Bastards anywhere. I repeat, do not speak of the Bastards anywhere except during inner gatherings and meetings."

"For further information, call out the words: 'I, Bastard 11, ask the Great Lord to lift the barrier of the paper.' You will then see the information page within the envelope."

After that, no more voices came. The surroundings returned to normal, and without wasting any time, he steadied himself, placed the card on the table, and, holding the envelope in his hands, prayed, "I, Bastard 11, ask the Great Lord to lift the barrier of the paper."