"The war ended over a decade ago."
The words hung in the air, taking a long moment to truly register in Cyril's mind. He stared blankly. "What?"
"You suffered severe injuries." The other nodded, as if that alone explained everything.
Sirel's attention snapped back to himself. He was badly injured—obviously, inevitably. He couldn't feel his limbs, couldn't even sense his torso, couldn't feel his face. His entire body was numb, as if he'd turned into a lump of rubber, no part of it belonging to him anymore. Sirel desperately wanted to lift himself up, to confirm his limbs were still there.
He couldn't. Forget sitting up—he couldn't even lift his head. Sounds seemed strangely distorted, sights blurred as if shrouded in mist. His tongue felt numb, his eyelids sticky. Traces of that fire lingered everywhere. Pain and fever clung to him like ghosts, surfacing intermittently on his skin. Panic began to stir. How badly was he injured? Had he become a useless wreck? Had he truly been unconscious for over a decade? It was unimaginable, utterly unimaginable. Damn it, the pain was back!
Cyril let out a wail, his voice raspy as if sandpapered. Perhaps during his unconsciousness, he had screamed incessantly. The thought made him cringe, then he fought it fiercely. Impossible! Only fresh wounds could cause this much agony. If he were that badly injured, how had he survived that catastrophe? Let alone remain unconscious for over a decade—no casualty could endure that! Unheard of, unseen!
The other must be lying. The rage of deception fueled Cyril, driving him to struggle frantically. His numb limbs slowly stirred, his movements growing until he flung the sheets aside, kicking the thin fabric to the floor. The old woman stood, retreating to the doorway to call for the servant. When Cyril glared at her, her eyelids fluttered, her gaze skimming his face before darting away.
Now Cyril knew for certain: this woman could not be his mother.
His mother was a refined, dignified woman, always impeccably dressed and radiant, speaking with elegant diction, chin held high—the quintessential daughter, wife, and mother of a high-ranking official. Colleagues had once teased that Cyril's manner of speaking was carved from the same mold as his mother's, a compliment he gladly accepted. But the woman before him? Her spirit seemed drained, aged and haggard. Her hastily arranged hair was mostly white, with a few unruly strands escaping the bun and falling across her forehead. Cyril's mother would never look like this.
Her eyes were dull and unfocused, her gaze drifting repeatedly past Cyril to other places, as if she refused to look at him. How could his mother avoid her son's gaze?
"Get out of here!" he roared. "If you want to deceive me, at least find someone who looks more like her!"
Servants surged in from outside the door. The old woman finally, sluggishly, grasped his meaning, anger rising in her face. She snapped, "I am your mother!"
Cyril wanted to refute such a lie, but several burly male servants had already lifted him up as he nearly toppled to the floor, pressing him back down onto the bed. The door swung wider, allowing Cyril to glimpse the outer wall and the corridor stretching beyond. The scene stirred something within him, a vague sense of familiarity.
Cyril's gaze swept across the room—from the faded patterns on the ceiling to the ornate wardrobe, then to the courtyard beyond the window, where the statues overlapped with his memories. A flash of realization struck him. He quickly understood where he was: the ancestral home.
This place lay far from the capital, tucked away in some rural spot. When his father's father had made his fortune, they had moved to the capital, leaving this behind. Cyril had only lived here for a few years as a child. His father, facing setbacks in his career, had been forced to retreat here temporarily to lie low. When they finally departed, the entire household, servants included, had rejoiced.
This place bore no comparison to the capital's splendor—dilapidated, remote, almost a place of exile.
Why was he here?
If Cyril was in his father's old house, then he hadn't been captured by enemies. The person before him might truly be his mother. Countless questions surged into his mind, threatening to burst his already throbbing skull. An ominous foreboding lurked beneath his conscious mind, like an immense, unseen shadow beneath the sea. Anger felt far easier than trying to understand what it was.
"I've been exiled?" he demanded furiously. "Why? This is no treatment for a general who has earned his stripes!"
For the first time since the conversation began, his mother lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Meritorious?" she said sharply. "Erian hasn't suffered such a crushing defeat in centuries."
Her eyes were as piercing as her tone, a fleeting glimpse of the woman she once was in the haggard old woman before him.
General Syril, undefeated until now, had lost to the alien race.
The former general's face burned like he'd been struck by a heavy blow. Images from before he lost consciousness replayed relentlessly in his mind—what would happen after the explosion? Had those soldiers fallen to the alien? Utterly useless! Yet he too bore responsibility. Syril should never have touched that control panel, causing the explosion and the commander's absence. Admitting failure felt utterly dreadful, even if only in his own mind, even if only to himself.
His enemies would surely laugh triumphantly; his mistake would bring shame upon his family. Who would replace him? He hoped it would be Lister—anyone but Norman.
"Who is the replacement?" Cyril ground his teeth, struggling to ask after a long pause. "Who was the one who secured the final victory?"
"No one," his mother said, reverting to her lifeless expression.
"No replacement?" Cyril demanded, bewildered. "Impossible. If I'm absent..."
"They didn't win," his mother said hollowly. "Erian didn't win."
Cyril sprang to his feet again, servants scrambling to restrain him. "What are you saying?!" he shouted, overcome with emotion. "The armies of the Erian Empire cannot lose! They were merely a handful of alien creatures!"
"We did not lose, only failed to win," the old woman sighed. "The truce has been declared."
"...What does that mean?" Cyril asked mechanically, too bewildered to even register an expression.
He had assumed the war's end meant victory was assured. Cyril thought the phrase "over a decade ago" was the biggest surprise, never imagining this sentence concealed such earth-shattering news. Every war should have a clear outcome—either victory (which should have been a sure thing) or defeat (a one-in-a-million chance). But a truce? How could humans possibly shake hands with the alien race!
"A lot can happen in over a decade," his mother replied. "Rest now."
She turned away, seemingly losing patience for further conversation.
Sirel couldn't believe she'd simply left him behind—a newly awakened son facing a gaping void of over ten years. Mercifully, she'd left several servants behind. Through them, Sirel pieced together the major events of those lost years.
He almost regretted asking.
The lost decade was compressed into a single conversation. The concentrated barrage of bad news struck him like a bullet through the head. He repeated "Impossible!" countless times, questioning and cursing, yet every servant gave the same answer. After his defeat, warfare ceased. The siege turned into a standoff, the standoff into cooperation, interspersed with absurd rumors. Cyril's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. He'd been abruptly thrust into a world separated by a decade, yet the upheavals felt like centuries had passed.
This world was too bizarre; not a single word could be trusted.
Sirel ordered his servants to repeat it, again and again, dozens of times. Those bizarre phrases remained unchanged. "Enough!" he shouted, cutting off yet another retelling, commanding them to find his father. His mother's words might not be true—what could women and servants possibly know? There must be crucial, hidden truths. He had to see his father.
His demand wasn't immediately granted. After being cast aside here, he was no longer the general whose orders were obeyed without question. Cyril had to repeat his command countless times, finally resorting to threatening a hunger strike before he received a vague message. Two days later, he saw his father. The retired official, Ogden, appeared as tall as ever, aged yet still commanding.
"What is it?" he said, gripping his cane.
Without a word of greeting, Old Ogden cut straight to the point, as if facing not a son who'd lain unconscious for over a decade. His furrowed brow deepened, his gaze toward his son carrying disdain and impatience—which, oddly, reassured Syril. His father had always been this strict, always appearing stern and angry. In a world gone utterly wrong, it felt strangely comforting to see something unchanged.
"Father, is it true?" Syril asked urgently. "The Empire is collaborating with those alien species? Claiming their extermination was a mistake?"
He had too many questions, but considering his father's limited patience, he chose the most pressing one first.
"That's utter madness!" his father roared, as if his son's words ignited long-suppressed fury. He slammed his fist onto the table.
This rare affirmation energized Cyril. Everyone he'd encountered lately had been strange; no one agreed wholeheartedly when he cursed the alien races anymore. When he cursed all the Heretics and traitors, damning them all to be burned to ashes in the Abyss, some actually looked unimpressed. In the past, Cyril would have demanded these scum be dealt with for treason—and he still demanded it now. Yet the order went unfulfilled, as if everyone considered such atrocities trivial.
It seemed as though everyone had accepted, even endorsed, the Empire's decisions—including every utterly misguided policy toward the alien races.
"Yes! It's sheer madness!" Syril nodded emphatically. "How could they announce such insane news? How did this resolution even pass?!"
"It's all those incompetent fools!" Ogden gritted his teeth. "Those corrupt, complacent slackers couldn't care less about the consequences! All they care about is how many magic stones they'll get from the alliance—enough to light their lamps, ride in cars instead of carriages, soak in hot baths all winter long! We've only been on Level One Combat Readiness for a short while, and they're already complaining! How dare such people meddle in state affairs? And those cowards! They're afraid of a mere Tasmarin Province, threatened by a fifth of its population!"
"By the alien race!" Seryl corrected with disgust. "They're not human."
Ogden continued his impassioned rant, completely ignoring the interruption.
"It's not just fools, scum, and cowards! Among those sitting at that table, there are spies from the other side, bought-off lackeys!" Ogden sneered, pacing the room. "To hell with the majority! The Führer has no clue who to trust! They actually compromised with that monstrous woman, making such an utterly foolish, short-sighted decision! Didn't they consider the consequences? We should have stuck to our guns and denied everything! Can the people on the other side of the wall run over and convince everyone? They can't! The populace will inevitably believe us, not them! As long as we keep blaming it on alien conspiracies, people will unite in hatred against the enemy, not sink into chaos like this!"
Sirel, who had been nodding incessantly, slowly stopped.
"Those idiots who made the decision should be hanged! They're all traitors to the Empire!" Ogden waved his hands wildly, oblivious to his son's unusual behavior—or perhaps choosing to ignore it. "They threw away a winning hand! We had so many opportunities! Now? The populace never needed to know so much. They weren't meant to think—foolishness breeds reverence. But now everyone knows! And it's fucking official news! The steel army we forged is being destroyed by our own hands. The very foundations of the Empire may shake! The murmurs of doubt have begun. When those mobs storm through their doors, let those short-sighted fools weep over their past decisions!"
The decision to release the research findings had been a protracted battle.
Opposition never ceased. Before finalizing the collaboration, factions had wrestled for control for ages. When the research concluded and it came time to execute the agreement, complex disputes, buck-passing, threats, and inducements... all played out once more among the high-ranking officials on both sides. At its peak, the Nightfall Front was thick with the acrid smoke of tension, war seemingly imminent. Even now, with the information finally released, figures like Ogden remained convinced this was a profoundly misguided decision.
Yet, however narrowly, the advocates for disclosure prevailed.
In matters of vital future consequence, Tashar stood as the sole ultimate decision-maker for the Dungeon faction. The Imperial hierarchy, however, was far more convoluted. The military was the most powerful faction, but not the only one. A century of peace had granted increasing influence to other sectors. Collectively, they could already rival the military—especially since the military itself was not a monolithic entity.
Even in the relatively militarized capital, few could endure perpetual readiness. Resources were diverted toward the military, all luxuries eliminated, and every magic stone channeled into weaponry. Those enjoying the most privileges suffered the greatest impact. The capital's high officials, who once reveled in the conveniences of magical technology, now acutely felt the constraints of restriction.
A day or two could be endured; a year or two tolerated. But ten years? Decades? An endless stretch of years with no end in sight? When commoners across the border could enjoy the very comforts they once possessed, certain unspeakable thoughts began to surface in some minds.
Others focused not on living, but on surviving. In the clashes between the Dungeon and the Empire, the Empire certainly hadn't fought at full strength, yet the Dungeon showed no signs of exhaustion, leaving its true depth impossible to gauge. Various analyses suggested that the Empire should have easily crushed a province with only one-fifth its population and territory. A seasoned, established power facing a newly risen, disorganized force should have won hands down. Even without magical weapons, sheer numbers should secure a bloody victory—had they not defeated dwarves and orcs before?
Yet according to all analyses, the dungeon should have been crushed long ago. If it defied logic to win repeatedly before, no one could guarantee it wouldn't defy logic again.
Conservatives urged caution, recalling how the Abyss and the Celestial Realm had been utterly vanquished from Eryan's stage precisely because they had underestimated the mortal realm. The complacent faction dismissed the notion of narrow victories altogether; for them, having amassed sufficient resources, a pyrrhic victory equaled defeat. Better to preserve the status quo. The idealists supported the decision to reveal the truth, arguing that humanity shouldn't compound its mistakes. As Eryan's long-standing savior of justice and world police, humanity should swiftly rectify its errors and continue saving the world. Indeed, those with ties to the southeast were either pushing hard for disclosure or muddying the waters to smooth things over. The fence-sitters wavered, watching from the sidelines, ready to align with the victors.
Things have ultimately unfolded into their present state.
"Wait, Father!" Cyril stiffened as his voice rose. "Admit? Announce?"
Old Ogden, now stripped of real power, seemed to have been holding back for ages. He was far from finished, still itching to curse further, and when interrupted, he shot his son a hostile glare.
"You speak as if this news were true," Cyril laughed nervously, his voice betraying fear despite his intended mockery. "The notion that everyone carries alien blood, that killing aliens and spellcasters will only worsen Erian's plight... How could such a thing be real? It's absurd! Clearly an alien conspiracy, right?"
"It is true," his father said coldly. "Conspiracy theories are useful for persuading others. Sheep need ignorance; sheepdogs do not."
Syril heard him clearly.
His father's anger had always been directed at the empire's upper echelons for choosing an open policy, believing it would undermine the empire's rule. Old Ogden was a politician, not a soldier. He wouldn't grieve or rage like someone whose faith had been shattered—he had no faith at all.
"Don't be a fool, Syril," he said.
"Am I supposed to believe this utter nonsense?!" "Sirel erupted. "Believe that noble humans actually interbred with outsiders? Believe our great cause was a mistake from the start? Don't be ridiculous! It was humans who drove the gods from the heavens and the demons from the earth! It was humans who slew greedy dragons, mad mages, rabid dwarves, and savage orcs! Humans are the crown of creation! Our bloodline is pure and unblemished!"
Ogden looked at him.
His father gazed at Cyril as though he were an eight-year-old boy who'd done something utterly foolish and was now puffing himself up with pride. That look of contempt was like staring at a speck of dust, like watching a clown—it had always been that way, since childhood.
Then, within that gaze, a flicker of pity emerged.
Sirel thought he might say something, but he said nothing. Ogden merely shook his head, turned, and walked away, leaving his son stranded in this bizarre, mad new world.
After that, Sirel received no visitors. His colleagues and old friends seemed to have forgotten him entirely. He had his servants write letters, but received no replies. He suspected the letters might never have been sent at all. Shirell began his rehabilitation with astonishing determination. When he could finally stand, trembling, he discovered he was under house arrest.
They didn't even bother to hide it from him.
Shirell smashed everything within reach to the floor. He hated everyone. He trusted no one. Every word spoken sounded utterly insane. Only fury sustained Cyril, enabling him to confront the loneliness and agony. The pain never receded; the burn scars remained a permanent mark on Cyril. His exposed skin bore a horrific blackish-red hue. Even without seeing his own face, he knew he must now be hideously disfigured.
The headaches only intensified. Sometimes he'd curl up on the floor, clutching his head as agony radiated from his skull, as if something were trying to burst out.
But one day, when the fury and pain receded, Cyril found himself running through the courtyard.
He looked around in disbelief. The night was deep, and the servants, not trained guards, never expected this invalid to be out at this hour. Cyril's feet pressed firmly on solid ground—no crutches, no trembling. He gasped for breath, clenched his fists tightly, then grabbed a nearby branch. The finger-thick limb snapped cleanly in his grasp.
The strength Cyril had believed lost forever had miraculously returned to him.
No, it wasn't a miracle. It was destiny. It was his "mission."
What kind of person could survive an explosion, awaken after decades of slumber, and regain their former strength? Such astonishing vitality and resilience belonged only to legendary heroes. Why had he awakened now, to witness this absurdly mad world? Because he had been chosen by fate to shoulder the mission of restoring order.
Throughout history, heroes had accomplished the impossible with mortal bodies. They saved the world, embodying humanity's ultimate strength and proving our superiority. Cyril's heart pounded wildly in his chest. He wanted to laugh, to shout in triumph at this long-awaited honor.
He had to leave this place.
Everyone here had been corrupted. They dared to keep him under house arrest. Sylere let out a silent, bitter laugh and began moving cautiously, slipping from the courtyard into a corridor, heading toward another room. During his childhood confinement here, he had explored every corner of the old mansion. He knew of an abandoned passageway beneath the dry well, a subterranean tunnel running through the entire structure that could bypass the guards and lead him out—the new servants would never know of it.
The passage beneath the well was exactly as he remembered.
Crouched low, Cyril squeezed through the opening. He was much taller now than in those days, forcing him to crawl for a long stretch. Dust tickled his throat. His temple throbbed in waves, as if a fresh wound had opened. Had he not grown accustomed to the constant ache throughout his body, it would have troubled him greatly. But it was nothing. A destined hero always faced many trials.
After crawling for a while, Cyril finally reached a spacious chamber. He surveyed the branching passages, trying to recall where the exit lay.
Bright moonlight streamed through a crack of unknown origin.
At first Cyril thought it was a pool of water on the floor, but then he realized the reflection wasn't from water—it was a mirror. Whoever had discarded it here, the mirror was thick with dust, only faintly reflecting the light.
Hesitating briefly, Cyril moved toward it.
The old house had never possessed a mirror—likely his mother's way of shielding him. But heroes never shirk their path. He resolved to treat this mirror as the first challenge of his journey.
He tried to lift the mirror but failed; the round surface seemed glued to the floor. Cyril wiped the dust from it with his sleeve. Fortunately, the moonlight fell at just the right angle. Even crouching low, he could clearly see the reflection within.
Cyril jumped to his feet.
He clenched his teeth to stifle a scream. Had he been holding the mirror just now, he would surely have dropped it and shattered it. His heart pounded so hard it hurt his chest. Cyril stood frozen for several minutes before crouching down again, clinging to the thought that he must have seen wrong.
Ah, he hadn't seen wrong.
If it had been a disfigured face, if it had been a face badly burned, that would have been something. But the face in the mirror was unmistakably Cyril's own. Aside from the skin tone, surprisingly little damage or aging was apparent. Yet those eyes, once emerald green, were now pitch black. From the pupils to what should have been the whites, everything was inky dark, the eyes like two black spheres.
Deceitful, he thought. This must be a wicked mirror, reflecting what never was. Shivering, Cyril reached up and felt two small protrusions where they should be in the mirror.
At his temples, a pair of tiny horns pierced through the skin, crusted with dried blood, like two buds breaking through soil.
Pitch-black eyes, sharp horns, dark red skin, tenacious vitality, astonishing regenerative power—the textbook description of a regressed Rage Demon descendant from the military academy compendium.
Syril smashed the mirror with a fist.
Shards pierced his hands, drawing blood, but he felt nothing. Even his rage seemed to vanish, leaving only an endless void. "I'm dreaming," Cyril murmured. "It must be a dream. A nightmare."
"It must be a dream," the blood-soaked mirror echoed in Cyril's own voice, its shattered reflection warped and distorted. "I want to have a good dream."
"Yes," Cyril repeated blankly. "I want to have a good dream."