Lucian stepped slowly out of the library, occasionally touching his pants pocket to make sure the folds of the old documents were still in his pocket. His steps were orderly, but his mind was busy replaying the events of the day. And just as his foot came out of the threshold of the library, a name flashed through his mind, making him pause for a moment.
"Wait, Natty..." His mutter was soft, his eyebrows furrowed faintly. "Looks like I've heard that name..."
He lowered his head, trying to remember the contents of The Luminous Hero of Avandor game more deeply. His brain tried to recall the details of the game's main story.
Then a memory comes to his mind at this moment—Natty is one of the minor characters in the game who helps the protagonist quite a lot. If that's true, Natty isn't an attacking type character, but she's quite helpful as a supporting character in combat.
She has a magic called telekinesis, which is quite useful in battle by moving objects from a distance. Honestly, Natty's character is quite helpful in the early part of the main story.
Lucian raised his eyebrows, a smirk appearing on his face.
"Interesting... Why would someone like her be in the Haelric mansion?" His eyes narrowed. "Looks like I've found a good piece to work with this time..."
He continued down the mansion corridor, when suddenly a sharp pain struck his head—so intense it made him nearly stumble. The world spun around him, his vision blurred, and his footsteps felt heavy as if weighed down by something invisible. He felt utterly exhausted, as if all his energy had been drained away.
"Damn... Why does my head hurt so suddenly?! It feels like it's going to split open..."
Lucian bent forward, clutching his throbbing head. He tried to stay upright, but his body grew weaker by the second. His vision darkened, the spinning accelerating until he felt he might collapse at any moment.
The pain pulsed harder and harder until his body could no longer hold on. His knees buckled, and Lucian fell to the corridor floor. He heard a voice calling out to him from behind.
"Young Master...!!"
"Young Master Lucian...!!"
The voice called his name repeatedly. He wanted to respond, but for some reason, his mouth would not move. His vision faded, and the world went dark as consciousness slipped away completely.
xxx
Lucian slowly opened his eyes. Dazzling white light filled his sight, making him blink several times before adjusting. He found himself in a large, empty white room—no furniture, no decorations at all.
The walls were smooth and clean, creating a sterile, cold atmosphere. He tried to move, but his limbs felt stiff and heavy, like a doll with rusted joints. Then he caught sight of a reflection—a body that made his eyes widen in shock.
"Wait... This... Isn't this my body?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and weak. He looked at his hands—this was his body before he had taken over Lucian's.
As he scanned the space, he soon spotted a small circle of light ahead. Within it, he saw what looked like a memory: a small child, around five or six years old, whose form appeared as a black shadow. The child sat alone in a dark, quiet room.
Next to the child stood an adult man with black hair and a stern expression—he looked like the head of a family, handsome yet cold, radiating an aura of power.
"Lucian. Do you understand your mistake?" The voice was cold and firm, echoing through the empty white room—the sound coming from within the circle of light.
"I'm sorry, Father." The child's voice was quiet, barely audible—filled with regret. He bowed his head, the weight of guilt heavy on his small shoulders.
The scene in the light circle grew clearer, but strangely, the child's face remained obscured, like a dark silhouette.
"Wait... This... Is this the original Lucian's memory? But... Why does he look like a black shadow here? Like... just a silhouette?" he muttered, his voice full of confusion, unable to comprehend why Lucian appeared this way in these memories.
"Your face is a mistake. Do not show it to anyone again." The cold voice rang out once more, sharper and full of loathing.
The words cut through him like a knife, bringing intense pain. Kalandra—for that was who he had been—could not understand why Lucian's face was considered a flaw. Was there something truly wrong with it?
In the memory, the child—young Lucian—shrank further into the shadows, his form trembling violently. Tears streamed down his face, revealing deep fear and sorrow.
He did not dare look at his father, only curling up and crying. His small hands clutched his shirt tightly as if seeking shelter from his father's anger. Even as a shadow, his expression conveyed overwhelming despair—small and fragile, as if he might shatter at any moment.
Another circle of light appeared, showing a different scene he recognized immediately, making his eyes widen. There, a black-haired boy sat at a desk with exam papers spread before him.
Standing before him was a man in a crisp formal suit, his face etched with disappointment.
"What is the meaning of this, Kalandra? You failed your exam again?"
His voice was flat yet cutting, his eyes demanding. The boy—his own past self—clutched his pants and glanced at the paper, which showed a score of 85 in the corner. To most it would be excellent, but to this man, it was a failure.
"I-I'm sorry, Father. I tried my best. But the teacher said... this score is good enough..." The boy spoke quietly, trying to explain.
But his words only made the man's jaw tighten, his expression growing colder with barely concealed anger.
"Good enough?" He scoffed, his gaze sharp on the child. "If you are content with 'enough', then do not expect to inherit this family."
The boy bowed his head low, his lips trembling as he held back tears. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he worked, his father never acknowledged his efforts.
The light circle faded, leaving only the white void. Soon, faint whispers filled the space.
"...You've seen everything now, haven't you?"
The voice was calm, growing closer until it seemed to whisper directly in his ear.
"...You and I are the same—both here, and where you came from."
The voice brushed against his ear, then something seemed to touch his shoulder as it spoke again.
"So... Do you think your plans will succeed?"
He froze, his whole body tensing. The voice—whoever it belonged to—had struck too deep. "Who... who are you really?" he muttered. "Are you one of the architects or something...?"
No answer came—only silence filled the empty room.
"Damn it—just answer me already!!" He shouted, his voice echoing through the white space as he clenched his fists.
Still, there was no response. No one appeared, and silence surrounded him completely. Then Lucian's eyes slowly opened to find his room filled with soft light filtering through the curtains, casting faint shadows across the space.
He blinked several times to adjust, feeling his head still throbbing—a reminder of his sudden collapse. This time, he was back in Lucian's body.
Looking around at the familiar room, he sat up and tried to piece together what had happened: leaving the library, the searing headache, then the strange white room.
"Damn... What kind of dream was that..." Lucian rubbed his face, still feeling the lingering dizziness.
He tried to recall every detail—the empty white space, the glowing circles of memory, the faces of Lucian's father and his own past self, all vivid in his mind.
There was something different about this vision—it felt more than just a dream. It was like... fragments of a soul. Both his own, and the original Lucian's.
He stared at the ceiling, thinking back to the voice that had echoed in his mind, when suddenly Ivan's voice broke through the silence.
"Young Master! You're awake at last!!" Ivan's voice was a mix of panic and relief.
Footsteps hurried toward him, and moments later Ivan appeared in the doorway—his face pale, beads of cold sweat on his forehead. His hair was slightly disheveled, his suit wrinkled—signs of how worried he had been. The usual calm in his eyes was replaced with genuine concern.
"Ugh—you're making such a racket, Ivan! My head's starting to hurt again..." Lucian grimaced, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple, the pain still sharp enough to remind him of his collapse.
"I'm truly sorry, Young Master." Ivan bowed deeply, his voice heavy with guilt.
"I... I was so worried. I'll send for the doctor immediately." He paced anxiously by the door, his movements betraying his distress.
Ivan turned to leave, but Lucian stopped him.
"No need—I'm fine now," Lucian said, his voice still weak but steady. He forced himself to sound strong, to show he could handle whatever came next.
Even so, the headache lingered, bringing back the memory of that terrible moment. "Besides... there's something I need to discuss with you."
Ivan fell silent, studying him with worried eyes. "What are you saying, Young Master?! I nearly panicked when the maid told me you'd collapsed in the corridor! You were so pale..." He let out a long breath, trying to steady himself.
"You were unconscious for seven whole hours! How could I not worry?!" Every word was filled with genuine care—he felt deeply responsible for Lucian's well-being.
"I said I'm fine now," Lucian sighed softly, trying to ease the tension. Though a bit irritated by the overreaction, he understood Ivan's concern.
"Hmm..." He took a slow breath, then spoke more gently. "I'd rather not talk from across the room like this." He emphasized the words "across the room," a subtle signal for Ivan to come closer.
Ivan, who had been standing rigid a few steps away, immediately understood. He approached carefully, stopping beside the bed as silence settled over the room.
"Ivan," Lucian began, looking directly at him—seeking support he knew he could trust. He knew the question might seem odd, even foolish, but he had to ask.
"What do you think... about my face?" The question came out quietly, carrying more weight than its simple words suggested.