The first thing he became aware of was the sound of a safety being disengaged.
A sharp, metallic click.
Then another.
And another.
His eyes snapped open.
Rifles—at least five of them—were aimed directly at him, unmoving, unwavering. Brown uniforms. White insignia. A firing line arranged with professional indifference.
An execution.
For half a second, instinct screamed death.
Then pain flared behind his left eye.
Not pain—awakening.
A burning pressure surged through his skull, deep and invasive, as if something ancient and deliberate had just finished carving its mark into his mind. His breath hitched. His vision blurred as a crimson symbol ignited in his left eye, reflected back at him in the visors of his executioners like a curse made visible.
You desire power, don't you?
The memory surfaced instantly.
Green hair.
A contract sealed not in words, but in inevitability.
"Oh," he thought calmly, even as fingers tightened on triggers all around him,
"So this is where I wake up."
One of the soldiers stepped forward, clearly enjoying the moment.
"Too bad about the woman," he said with a crooked smile. "I'll have to inform the prince that the hostage was unfortunately killed by the terrorists before we managed to secure her."
He paused deliberately, letting the lie settle in the air, then continued.
"As for you, boy, this really isn't your lucky day. Prince Clovis ordered all witnesses to be eliminated." His voice hardened. "All units—on my command—open fire on the terrorist."
Several soldiers adjusted their stance at once. Fingers settled firmly on triggers. Barrels aligned with lethal precision.
No panic.
No pleading.
Just a strange, almost inappropriate sense of clarity.
He became aware of his body in the same instant—the unfamiliar weight of it, the way his limbs rested too lightly, too precisely, as if they belonged to someone better trained than he remembered being. He glanced down just enough to see slender hands, pale skin, a school uniform torn and dirtied by the chaos above.
Lelouch Lamperouge.
The realization didn't hit like a breakdown.
It hit like a promotion.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he thought, "this is an upgrade."
"Fire—"
"Stop."
The word cut through the air like a blade.
Every soldier froze.
Not hesitated—froze. Muscles locked. Breaths stalled. Eyes widened behind visors and naked gazes alike, fingers immobilized a fraction of a second before pulling the trigger.
Lelouch felt it then.
The Geass.
It wasn't effort. It wasn't strain. It was command—absolute and unquestioned—flowing outward the moment eye contact was made. He could feel its shape, its precision, the way it latched onto the will of another and rewrote it in a single, merciless stroke.
His left eye burned with exhilaration.
"Oh," he thought, amused now. "This is dangerous."
The remaining soldiers shifted uneasily, confusion rippling through the formation.
"What the hell did you just do?" one of them demanded.
Lelouch raised his head fully, meeting their gazes one by one, slowly, deliberately.
"Kneel."
The symbol in his eye flared brighter.
All the soldiers dropped to their knees in perfect synchronization, rifles clattering uselessly to the floor. The tunnel echoed with the sound, heavy and final, like a verdict being delivered.
Silence followed.
Lelouch inhaled slowly, savoring it.
No resistance. No struggle. No heroic last stand.
Just obedience.
"Interesting," he murmured. "I was expecting more friction."
A flicker of memory surfaced—canon Lelouch, panicked but defiant, gambling everything on his first use of the Geass. A child handed a loaded weapon and pulling the trigger out of desperation.
This wasn't that.
This was intent.
He stood, straightening his posture effortlessly. The body responded as if it had always been his—balanced, composed, commanding. He walked slowly among them, boots crunching against broken concrete and spent shell casings.
"You were going to execute me," he said conversationally. "Without trial. Without confirmation. Orders are orders, I suppose."
He stopped in front of the nearest soldier and leaned down slightly, ensuring perfect eye contact.
"Shoot the man to your right."
The Geass surged.
The soldier rose, lifted his rifle, and fired point-blank into his comrade's helmet. The shot was deafening in the confined space. The body collapsed in a spray of blood and shattered visor.
The others did not react.
Lelouch didn't blink.
"Efficient," he noted. "Let's continue."
He moved down the line, issuing commands with surgical precision.
"Shoot him."
Another crack. Another corpse.
"You—reload, then shoot the next."
The smell of gunpowder filled the tunnel, thick and acrid. Blood pooled across the floor, seeping slowly into the cracks of the concrete. The Geass pulsed rhythmically now—alive, responsive, intoxicating.
Not once did he hesitate.
These men had been ready to kill him only minutes earlier.
When only one soldier remained, shaking despite his absolute obedience, Lelouch stopped in front of him.
"You're afraid," he observed calmly. "That's good. It means you understand what's happening."
The soldier's breath came in shallow, broken gasps.
Lelouch met his eyes fully.
The soldier raised the rifle, pressed it under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
Silence followed.
Lelouch stepped back, surveying the carnage with a tactician's eye. No witnesses. No loose ends. No pursuit.
Efficient.
He touched his left eye as the Geass receded, leaving behind a dull ache and a sense of vast potential barely tapped.
"So," he said to the empty tunnel, his voice steady, almost pleased, "this is my board now."
He looked at the bodies, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Britannia had no idea what had just been born beneath its feet.
In the near future, a storm would rise—one that would shake the very foundations of the world.
And that was exactly how he liked it.