If I were trapped in an illusion, this kind of mental block wouldn't make sense.
His thoughts tangled in confusion. He had faced his fair share of mind-bending abilities—illusionists, tricksters, even monsters that could distort reality and deceive the senses.
But this… this was different.
Illusions had a pattern. A rhythm.
What kind of illusion would have a dey? That just kills its purpose.
If his mental strength had interfered, the illusion would have been distorted—not his body movements.
Then what could it be, if not an illusion?
There was only one expnation: His body and soul weren't in sync.
Lucien's gaze swept over himself.
This… isn't my body?
He clenched his fist, testing the sensation. His grip felt weak. He could feel the pressure of his fingers against his palm, the slight tremor in his muscles—real, tangible, imperfect.
It wasn't just his strength that was off. His breathing felt unfamiliar, his reflexes sluggish, his entire body moving just a fraction of a second behind his intent.
His breath hitched, his thoughts racing.
Then how do I expin this world ? Another reality? Regression?
He slid down against the door, clutching his head. His thoughts spiraled, questions piling atop one another.
The rough texture of the Maghanoy wood pressed against his back, cool yet unyielding. As he shifted, the door let out a low, creaking groan against his tunic, the fabric scrunching beneath the weight of his body. The sound was grounding—solid, unlike the uncertainty cwing at his mind.
Question…Questions…Questions…
His vacant gaze drifted to the ceiling. The wooden pnks above were unfamiliar.
"…If I'm in another world, or if time has turned back… what does that mean for me?"
He had already lost everything. In the end, he had fought simply because there was nothing else left. No purpose. No hope. Just the bitter inertia of survival.
A life where every battle was just another step toward an inevitable end.
But if time truly has turned back…
If I have regressed…
A small fire flickered in his chest, fragile yet stubborn. His fingers clenched into a fist.
It was foolish hope—thin as a thread, yet impossible to ignore. A time pse? A regression? Even if all five Overlords had worked together, the chances of success would have been slim.
Yet, his heart clung to that fragile hope—like a drowning man grasping at driftwood, desperate for salvation.
No matter how much logic argued against it, that tiny fme refused to die, flickering stubbornly against the storm of uncertainty.
His lips quivered. If I have regressed… would I be able to change anything?
The future stretched before him, an unrelenting storm of threats far beyond what both his past and present self could handle. He had seen the devastation before. Lived through it.
He knew what awaited—an apocalypse, pandemonium, chaos and mayhem, a cycle of ruin. A world spiraling toward destruction, unstoppable and merciless.
The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him, but fear would only keep him shackled. He exhaled, slow and measured. Doubt coiled around his ribs, whispering of failure, of inevitability. But if he let it take root, it would strangle him before the world ever had the chance.
No—if I have regressed, if this is my second chance, then I have to act.
There were too many ifs, too many unknowns.
But his mind refused to care.
Yeah… it doesn't matter if this is an illusion, another world, or if I've regressed.
He clenched his fist. As I am now, I don't stand a chance against the threats ahead.
I have to get stronger—far beyond who I was in the past.
Only then… maybe I'll find my answers.
His eyes burned with newfound resolve.***He stood up and stretched his arms and legs. They shuddered from the sudden strain of movement.
He clicked his tongue. "Tch… I should practice daily."
A sharp reflection of light struck his face.
He raised his hand to shield his eyes.
"…What… is that?" Stepping away from the gre, his gaze fell upon a polished bronze, oval-shaped locket, its aged bronze cord draped loosely on either side. It sat atop the wooden drawer, gleaming under the snted light streaming through the window. His eyes lingered on the locket. In an instant, the past came rushing back.
Images flickered—a lost loved one, a final memento, her smile, fragile with sorrow. Drawn towards it, as if enchanted, his fingers brushed against the locket.
The moment his fingertips met the cold bronze, something cracked inside him. A forgotten grief, buried yet never gone, surged forward like an old wound torn open.
The memories struck like a wave—vivid, inescapable.
His lips quivered, curving into a fleeting, almost forced smile—one that held more sorrow than warmth.
So…this is what I forget, huh.
He opened the locket. Inside, his mother's photo rested—slightly worn, its edges frayed by time. On the opposite side, an embossed design of a mountain gleamed, a waterfall cascading from its peak.
His throat tightened. The air felt heavier, like a thousand unsaid words pressing against his lungs.
He ran a finger over the photo, caressing its worn surface with quiet longing.
"I lost you once… I won't make that mistake again."
He clutched the locket tightly before slipping it over his head. The cool metal pressed against his chest—a weight both familiar and grounding.
He gnced around the room before colpsing onto the bed, both mentally and physically exhausted.
The thin sheet offered little comfort, its rough texture irritating against his skin. He shifted, brows furrowing in frustration.
"What an annoying thing…"
With a sigh, he sat up and rolled the sheet over itself, doubling its thickness. It made the fabric less practical, but that didn't matter.
He was leaving the Warren Family. Anyway.
Now, at least, the sheet wasn't so thin. It looked… comfortable.
Lucien nodded in satisfaction.
Sinking back into the bed, his thoughts turned toward the future.
I need to go there.
He opened the locket, his gaze settling on the embossed image—a shining mountain with a waterfall cascading down its side.
The Mountain of Origin.
Zexusgo
