"Where am I?" Elian asked, but his voice didn't carry. It didn't echo, didn't even ripple through the space around him. A question cast into the void — and the void gave no answer.
His eyes were closed — or at least, he believed so. He tried to open them, to lift his brows, to force his lids apart, but nothing happened. It was as if there were no eyes, no face at all. As if his very body had ceased to exist.
There was no ground beneath his feet. No weight on his shoulders. No boundary between what was him and what was the world. Elian couldn't feel the warmth of his mother's arms where he had collapsed. He couldn't hear Emanuelle's desperate cries, nor Elise's voice echoing as it had before. Everything was gone.
Swallowed by absolute silence.
Not the kind that brings peace — but the kind that crushes. A silence that presses down on the spirit like the world is mourning. So deep that even time seemed to have stopped. There was no wind, no scent, no texture in the air. Just a suspended space — cold, colorless, unmoving.
He tried to move his arms. Nothing. Tried to breathe. No lungs. No throat. No chest. Everything physical, tangible, alive… it had all been left behind.
"Am I paralyzed?"
The thought cut through his mind like a dull knife. But it wasn't paralysis. It was dissolution — as if he were nothing but a drifting awareness in a vacuum. No shape. No direction. No shelter.
And then the thought came.
Cold. Merciless.
"Did I die again?"
It didn't strike with panic. It came with resignation. The kind you reserve for an old, familiar shadow.
Because this was exactly how it had felt the last time — when Rodrigo died and was swallowed by the same darkness, the same absence of sound, body, and time. There was no doubt. That feeling had returned to consume him once more.
And with it, sorrow — deep, voiceless sorrow — surged violently to the surface.
"It was so short…" he thought.
"I barely lived with them… and it's over already?"
The thought dragged across his soul like broken glass. He had wanted more. To watch Emanuelle grow up. To see Anthony become strong. To see Maria smile without that frightened look in her eyes. He wanted to help with the harvest. Hear his father tell stories on the porch. Fall asleep to the sound of crickets. He had wanted a simple life.
But maybe… not even that had been allowed.
And then, guilt. Always guilt.
"Dying from anxiety… what a pathetic way to go."
The bitterness came hot, scorching what remained of him.
"I caused another death. I destroyed another family. All because I wanted to be stronger…"
For some, that endless guilt might seem repetitive — a tired refrain. But for Elian, it was the truth: raw, living, and pulsing.
Because he was the one responsible.
He had killed Luciana — even if in a fit of desperation, even if he was just a child, even with tears in his eyes. He hadn't protected Emanuelle when he should have. He was the one who brought death to this family's doorstep.
"So what now?"
The question dissolved into the void, like everything else.
Perhaps the attack on his home really had been carried out by bandits — as Arthur once feared when they returned from Brumaria. But Elian knew. Deep down, he knew.
It was the Baron.
He was certain. The same certainty one feels when standing at the edge of a cliff and the ground trembles beneath them.
"It was me. I brought this upon them."
The silence around him seemed to echo his thoughts. Not in sound — for there was none — but as a vibration in the air. As if the void itself responded to his grief.
For a time he couldn't measure — minutes, hours, an eternity — Elian simply existed. Or ceased to exist.
Until… something changed.
A faint pulse. Barely there. A subtle breath on the edge of nothingness.
The darkness began to take shape, shifting into thin shades of gray. The complete absence of light gave way to a translucent haze, as if contours were trying to be born. And then his eyes — if he still had them — finally opened.
And what he saw was a place with no ground, no ceiling, no end.
Grey.
Silent.
Like a still mist blanketing a lake of glass.
But there, in that space that was neither sky nor earth, Elian was not alone.
Before him, wrapped in a silence that seemed woven from time itself, was the owl.
Its feathers bore three distinct colors: white as fresh snow, red like dried blood, and black as spilled ink. Its golden eyes — still and unblinking — stared into him with intensity void of emotion. No judgment. No pity. Just… presence. The kind that can't be explained with words.
Elian — or Rodrigo, in the form he now wore — felt suspended in a place without form, without time, without sound. He tried to move his fingers, but there were no fingers. Tried to breathe, but had no lungs. Everything around him was darkness, as if trapped in the pause between one heartbeat and the next.
The void didn't frighten him. But it disturbed him deeply — like being in a windowless room, never knowing whether it was day or night. And in that stagnant space, the owl was the only unmoving point of existence.
The body he'd had as Elian now felt far away — dripping like pitch, dissolving at the edges of reality. That identity was fading, melting… while Rodrigo, who he once was, returned in form and memory. His face, his hands, his chest scarred by past pain… it was all there again.
And with it, came the crushing doubt:
"Was it all just a dream?"
"Maria, Emanuelle, Anthony… were they just visions before death?"
But something deep inside him knew the answer was no. It wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. It had been too vivid. Too vast. Too painful.
The owl tilted its head slightly, as if reading his thoughts. And then, in the same voice he had heard after his first death — that voice which was neither male nor female, neither living nor mechanical, but something older than sound itself — it spoke:
"Elian."
Just hearing his name spoken in that voice echoed through his soul. Every cell in his being seemed to recognize it. As if the universe reaffirmed: he was still Elian — even while wearing the flesh of Rodrigo.
"Everything you experienced was real," the owl declared.
The words fell like a hammer. Elian felt his throat tighten.
"Then… why am I here again? Did I die?" he asked, voice trembling, loaded with anguish. As if part of him already knew the answer, but couldn't bear it.
The owl's tone remained neutral. Unshaken.
"At your father's request."
The words stole his breath — or the illusion of breath. His eyes widened. His thoughts flew immediately to the man who had raised him.
"My father…?" he echoed in his mind, confused.
For a moment, he thought perhaps it was his father from his past life — the honest, hardworking man who taught him to hold a hammer, who called him "my boy."
He remembered his rough hands, his kind eyes hidden under thick brows, the scent of sawdust clinging to his clothes.
But that doubt vanished a second later.
From the dark void behind the owl — a blackness that oozed like thick ink — a figure emerged. Calm footsteps. Bare feet stepping on nothing and yet making the soft sound of weight and resolve.
And then he saw him.
Messy brown hair, as always after a long day's work. An unshaven face. Golden eyes. Yes — golden, just like his. And that face… it was Arthur's.
No doubt about it.
"Father?" Elian whispered, his voice choked with emotion.
Arthur walked slowly from the shadows. His expression was calm, though a deep sorrow rested in his eyes. And there was tenderness in his smile — faint, strained by grief, but real.
Elian wanted to run to him, to embrace him, to say how sorry he was. But his body didn't move. Nothing moved. All he could do… was feel.
And for now, that was everything.
The owl was still watching. Its white, red, and black feathers pulsed in the absence of wind. Its golden eyes pierced through the shadows — but this time, it did not speak. It didn't need to.
Elian — or Rodrigo, in that adult form, hardened by past sins — felt his chest tighten painfully. The presence that had emerged from behind the owl made his soul tremble.
It was Arthur.
The man who had raised him in this new life.
His father.
Arthur looked just as he always had — simple, worn clothes, calloused hands, and eyes filled with more love than any word could contain. But there was fatigue etched into his skin, a shadow of pain in his features. And when his eyes fell upon Elian, they hesitated — as if something about him didn't quite fit.
"Are you… Elian?" Arthur asked, his voice heavy. His eyes searched with a painful intuition, as if recognizing something that should not be there — and couldn't be ignored.
Elian didn't answer right away.
His whole being trembled. He was standing before the man who had carried him in his arms, who sang to Emanuelle at night, who taught him the names of the tools in the fields… but now, he was Rodrigo. A grown man of twenty-seven. Someone Arthur had never known. Someone Arthur might never forgive.
Still, Elian held his gaze. Inside, everything was crumbling — the shame, the guilt, the fear of disappointing the one person he most wanted to protect. And yet, he answered:
"Yes… I'm Elian."
He paused. Each word dropped like a weight onto his chest.
"But… before that, my name was Rodrigo. I… I lived in another world. A planet called Earth."
Arthur kept staring, silently, trying to understand, but listening — as he always did.
"When I was fifteen… a man named Lucius murdered my parents. I tried to chase the killers. I remember ripping the mask off one of them, but because of that… they killed my sister. They shot her in the throat… and I… took a bullet in the back."
Elian took a deep breath. That memory burned like acid in his bones. He didn't cry — the pain was dry, already woven into who he was.
"I survived… barely. Ended up in an orphanage. Stayed there until I turned eighteen. And when I left… I started killing."
Arthur said nothing. But his hand was clenched into a fist.
"At first… I thought it was justice. But then… it became habit. I felt pleasure. I liked it. I became everything I hated."
And then, as the silence between them became unbearable, Arthur stepped forward.
The punch wasn't strong — but it landed. The calloused fist struck Elian's face with a mix of anger and grief. Not like a man hitting an enemy — but like a father confronting a son who had lost himself.
"How could you…?" Arthur shouted, voice trembling. "How could you…?"
Elian didn't resist. He didn't flinch. He lowered his head, accepting the blow as if he deserved far worse.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered, breathless. "I'm sorry for hiding this. For not being… who you thought I was. For not being the innocent son you believed in."
And then, with tear-filled eyes, he finished:
"This is who I really am. Not that fragile boy… but a murderer. A wretched soul who was reborn into another world, another life."
Arthur was still breathing heavily, his chest rising with the weight of indignation. But something in him began to yield.
Slowly, he stepped closer. His hands — once strong — now trembled. And without saying another word, he pulled Elian into an embrace.
It was tight. Painful. Real. The pitch of Elian's guilt still dripped from his form, as if shame had its own substance — but Arthur didn't care.
"I can't say you weren't terrible in your past life," Arthur murmured, his voice sorrowful. "And I won't pretend to approve of what you did. But… there's something I can't forget."
He pulled back just enough to look Elian in the eye. The words came slowly, heavy with regret.
"On the day you were born… Maria almost died. She bled so much… and I… I wished you hadn't been born. I blamed her… and I blamed you."
Elian's eyes widened. His stomach dropped.
"I… I was the reason she suffered…?"
"No," Arthur cut him off, voice suddenly firm, his gaze burning with emotion. "You saved her, Elian. You saved her life… and her soul. She was drowning in sorrow because she couldn't have children. You were her miracle… and mine too."
He paused. His voice faltered, but he pressed on.
"And later, in that alley… you protected Emanuelle. I know. You had to kill again, didn't you?"
Elian nodded, silent.
Arthur studied him for a long moment. Then, at last, he smiled — a sad smile, but sincere.
"For all of that… I thank you. I don't understand everything that's happened. It's not easy to accept that you came from another world… that you've had memories since birth. But there's one thing I need to know."
He narrowed his eyes slightly, tone sharpening.
"Wait a second… You were checking out my wife's boobs?!"
Elian turned pale.
"I-I think so! But never with bad intentions! I swear! I never felt anything, I…"
Arthur burst out laughing. A genuine, warm laugh — a release in the form of sound.
"I know, kid. I know," he said, wiping the corner of his eye. "You've always looked at her with kindness… with respect. With a son's love."
Elian took a deep breath. A knot inside him came undone.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't being judged.
He was being accepted.