Solflare: The Painter's Secret-Chapter 51: People Aren’t What They Seem... Remember

The light bulb buzzed. Then—click-crack.

It died with a wet, shattering sound instead of a simple pop.

Darkness crashed over him. He could feel his blood seeping from his body.

In that void, voices erupted. They echoed from beside him, behind him, in front of him, and from within him.

They weren’t whispers. They were screams—a chorus of every insult and doubt he’d ever heard. They weren’t carried by air; they were harsh, metallic roars, like grinding turbines.

"Pathetic rat... Grade E trash... Should have stayed dead... Begging on your knees... the boss wants to send a message..."

But beneath the noise, one sentence cut through. Calm. Sharp. It was the old woman’s voice from Dusthollow—the one who had vanished with her basket.

"People aren’t what they seem... remember."

The word remember vibrated in his skull, layered with the lizard-lady’s voice. In the pitch-black space, faces ignited.

They drifted apart, then merged, distinct yet connected.

Before him, the faceless being from his dream resolved, its head a void of stars. To its left stood the stony sentinels, their forms etched in faint volcanic red.

To its right, the lizard-lady shed acid tears from her molten golden eyes. Behind them lingered the old woman’s hard gaze.

Over them all hovered the final image—his father’s face, eyes blazing with the same golden fire Leon now felt and feared.

A searing pain split Leon’s brow. He gasped, his hands flying up. His fingers came away wet when they wiped the center of his brow.

In the dark, he couldn’t see the liquid, but he felt its heat. The Y-shaped mark on his brow wasn’t just glowing; it burned from within.

As the lizard-lady pressed on, the world outside the Alchemania responded.

A tearing sound shook the air. It rattled his teeth and the floor beneath his boots.

Through the hallway windows, the night flashed with violent streaks of crimson lightning.

Closed doors lit up in brief, bloody flashes.

Another sound joined the storm—a dense, rising thrumming that became a roar of wings and furious cries.

Crows—hundreds of them—slammed into the hallway windows. The thick panes bulged inward with each impact.

CRACK. CRACK-CRACK.

Fractures spread across the glass. The faces in the darkness pulsed with each blow.

Leon’s bones felt close to splintering. A scream built in his throat, crushed by the pressure in his chest. His heart felt ready to burst.

The window at the far end shattered inward. Feathers and bodies flooded the corridor, surging toward Leon.

The faces—his father’s and the lizard-lady’s—brightened, then vanished in white light as beaks and claws reached him.

He felt a sharp tug at his sleeve. A beak grazed his cheek.

"No! No! No!"

Every muscle locked as he screamed. His jaw clenched tight.

He dropped, not in surrender, but under the weight of the vision. His knees struck the tile with a force that echoed.

The dormitory shook as his knees hit.

Inside him, something shifted. His skin prickled as if stretched over a larger frame. His vision blurred at the edges with drifting gold motes.

A deep internal rumble drowned beneath the crows’ cries.

His mind began to fracture. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping, fighting to hold on.

"LEON!"

The voice cut through everything—sharp and real.

It carried the strain he recognized from Zoe.

His eyes flew open. The pressure shattered.

He was on his knees in a brightly lit hallway. Fluorescent panels hummed overhead. No storm. No crows. The windows were intact, showing a quiet, star-filled night.

His door stood ajar. A semicircle of students watched from a distance, faces split between shock and amusement.

Smirks. Wide eyes. Phones held low, torches blinking.

"Is he mad, too?" someone muttered.

"Looks like the hunger damaged more than his body," another snorted.

"Give him space!" Zoe snapped. She pointed at a bald boy leaning too close. "You’d have been dead if not for that proctor."

The crowd slowly dispersed. The bald boy scowled, then smiled as he stepped back.

Zoe turned to Leon. "You would have cracked your skull if I hadn’t stopped you."

She offered a hand, hesitating. "Let’s get inside."

Leon’s mind struggled to settle, caught between the quiet hallway and the fading screams of the vision.

His legs moved unsteadily as he let her pull him up. His hands rose once he was upright and gripped her shoulders.

She flinched, startled, but didn’t pull away.

He scanned her face, then raked his gaze over her shoulders and her arms, as if checking for wounds. His palms rubbed against the fabric of her shirt.

His eyes darted past her to the window. No cracks. No feathers.

The mocking whispers from the retreating students finally registered like a dull buzz against his raw nerves.

"Zoe," a dry word exited from his mouth.

"Don’t listen to them. Come on," she said in a calm voice and guided him. She supported him through the open door and pushed it firmly shut behind them.

Inside, the cosmetics were neatly arranged on the desk. The clothes were gone. The gauzy privacy curtain hung properly from its track. The pink mat was centered at the front of the bathroom door.

Leon’s heart, which had begun to slow, now hammered against his ribs again. His skin felt two sizes too small, itching and burning as if doused in acid.

He saw Zoe move. She disappeared into the bathroom and emerged carrying the small, white plastic basin they used for washing, now sloshing with water.

Without hesitation, she raised the basin and poured the cool water over his head.

It sluiced through his hair, down his neck, and back. He gasped, shuddering. Evaporated air filled the room when she poured the water on Leon for the second time.

She did it again. And again. Five more times, she fetched and poured, until a small lake pooled around his boots.

"Leon," Zoe asked again, setting the empty basin down.

"Are you sure you’re okay? What was that?"

"I’m fine," he said automatically. "Just that, I..."

His sentence died as his gaze fell on the datapad. Its screen shimmered red – which shouldn’t have been.

In the center, a white, skeletal symbol – the universal sigil for death – flashed once and vanished.