The café was tucked away in the deeper levels of the museum, nestled just before the restricted archives and royal collections. Sleek and modern, with brushed steel counters and ferns hanging a little too optimistically from the ceiling, it was trying to imitate coziness. A far cry from home, but for now, it was the closest thing I had to quiet.
I sat by the tall windows, the filtered sunlight casting sharp lines across the glossy floor. My tea was still untouched, cooling in my hands as my thoughts drifted—slow, heavy, disoriented.
Jet lag was kicking my ass.
I had only landed in Kingsland about twelve hours ago—this country's name still sounded like a bad RPG title to me. It was on the other side of the world from home—Singapore—and I hadn't even had time to catch my breath.
They hadn't given us a break either. "Welcome to Kingsland," they said. "Orientation will be held at the Royal Museum first thing in the morning."
And so, here I was—barely functioning, trying to stay awake through a whirlwind enrichment tour designed to "culturally immerse" us. Whatever that meant.
I looked like the cliché of a tired exchange student—slouched over the table in my hoodie, glasses slightly askew. But beneath the soft fabric and the quiet demeanor was a build no one expected from a CompSci major. Years of boxing back in Singapore had left lean muscle hidden under layers of unassuming clothing. I stood at 180 cm, wiry and strong, with jet-black hair and dark eyes—features common where I came from, but noticeably foreign here in the heart of Kingsland.
My head throbbed. Just a few minutes, I told myself. A short rest before the next half of the tour. I leaned back against the cool wall and let my eyes slip shut.
The stillness didn't last.
A scream shattered the calm like breaking glass.
My eyes snapped open. The sound echoed, sharp and raw, coming from one of the deeper wings of the museum.
Panic surged through the air like a wave.
Someone dropped a tray. A barista screamed. People bolted from their seats, stumbling into one another as they turned toward the sound.
I was already on my feet, instincts flaring.
But even before I reached the hall, I knew something was wrong. Truly wrong.
I saw the first one in the corner of my vision.
A statue—once perfectly still in its display—moved. The polished marble base cracked as heavy metal boots stepped off it, landing on the museum floor with a deep, hollow clang. It was the same one I had seen earlier—the obsidian knight. And now, it was holding its sword.
Blood painted its blade.
I couldn't move.
A glowing red pattern ran across the surface of its chest plate, pulsing like molten lava etched into steel. More movement flickered in the shadows as other suits of armor, statues of warriors from long-dead empires, stepped off their pedestals and raised weapons now unbound by glass.
Another figure—a Roman soldier, face cracked but somehow alive—drove a spear into a fleeing visitor.
The air was filled with screams, echoing through the museum like a chorus of panic. I ducked down a corridor, heart pounding, searching for my classmates. I couldn't find them.
But then I saw something I'll never forget.
A woman, her back to the wall, trying to crawl away. Her mouth opened in silent horror. The knight raised its sword.
And brought it down.
Time froze.
I couldn't breathe. My thoughts spiraled—what was happening? How could this be real?
Then it clicked.
The knight. The twitch. That flicker of movement I had noticed earlier—it hadn't been my imagination.
This was no malfunction or elaborate prank. Something ancient and terrifying was waking up in the heart of Kingsland's proudest museum.
I backed up slowly, barely feeling the cold stone beneath my shoes. The glowing red marks—they were on all of them. Different symbols. Different patterns. All pulsing with the same violent energy.
I had a choice to make.
Run for the exit—if I could even reach it through the chaos.
Or find my peers. Maybe someone was hurt. Maybe someone knew what was going on. Maybe we could help each other.
I stood frozen, adrenaline clouding my thoughts, the museum around me devolving into hell.
And still, beneath it all, I felt something else—a pull. A thread connecting me to what was happening.
I didn't know why.
But I had the sickening sense that I was already part of this story.