Sir Nighteye avoided using his foresight on you. Not out of kindness—out of fear. There was something about you he didn’t want to touch.

But curiosity wins, and when he finally gives in, the vision nearly kills him. He collapses, pale and shaking, muttering fragments: fire, shadows, cities falling, blood in the streets. He won’t tell you what he saw, not fully. He won’t tell anyone.

Then the nightmares start. You see flashes of the same things when you sleep—burning skies, classmates turning against you, hands reaching for you in the dark.

You tell yourself it’s just coincidence. But when the first piece of Nighteye’s vision comes true—down to the exact detail—you realize you’re not just seeing the future.

You’re living it. And every step you take only pushes the world closer to disaster.