"My dear brother... did you ever think that the little brother you left to die in the wasteland would one day stand on the same level as you?"
This bombshell of a question caused the brain of Allen, who was watching from over a hundred kilometers away, to instantly overload.
Allen silently stroked his chin, contemplating whether he should cut the feed and play dead.
But for Lysander, that word, "brother," was like a key, violently ramming open the floodgates of his memory.
Sealed-away images surged forth like a tidal wave.
...
Dark, damp, and forever permeated by a strange odor—a mixture of medicine and metallic rust.
This was Lysander's only impression of his childhood.
No parents, no name. There was only a black-robed Wizard who called himself "Father," and dozens of "brothers" who looked almost identical to him.
They had been "manufactured."
