An impact rang out—hard metal striking flesh and the sound hung in the stagnant air. He stirred, dazed, as though the blow itself had jarred him awake. The murky stench of moss-covered stone and rusting iron filled his lungs, heavy and suffocating. Cold chains bit into his wrists, forcing his arms above his head, pinning him against the damp wall. The cruel restraint left him in a half-standing, half-collapsed position, a posture designed to deny rest and grind down any prisoner's spirit.
There he was, Lucid—conscious in that decayed and rotting cell.
Awareness returned all at once, not gently but like a flood. Memories crashed into him in a merciless tide, each one striking with the weight of years long buried. He remembered the ambush from behind, the person that nearly left him for dead. Yet beneath that surfaced something deeper, locked fragments of his past breaking free. Faces and names struck him in succession: Aika before her cold betrayal, Kaori's quiet laughter, Renji's snarky comments from their childhood days.
And beyond them all, the memory of his first, wretched encounter with the System. The rifts, the trials, the crushing despair of weakness. The vow he swore then—to fight, to grow, to never again feel that same helplessness clawing at his heart.
He felt different now. The oblivious comfort he once had in himself—those fleeting illusions of turning over a new leaf was shattered. His hands were already stained, steeped in blood, guilty with or without choice.
A sudden splash broke the haze. A bucket of cold water crashed over him, soaking into his hair, his hardened skin, and the black fabric of his shirt until it clung heavy against his frame.
"Hey… come on, show me some reaction~"
Ah, that's right… she was the one. The one who killed me. The one who crept up from behind.
Before him stood a girl. Her hair, long and pink, cascaded like silk down her back, framing a pale face made unnervingly bright by the shadows of the cell. Her pink eyes glimmered with malice, and her lips curved into a mischievous, sadistic smile. She wore a dark blue dress with puffed sleeves and a ruffled white front, a blue ribbon tied neatly at her throat. A black corset fastened with golden buttons pressed against her waist, and on her sleeve rested a stitched blue crest—its design faintly glowing in the dim light.
"Your mask," she murmured, stepping closer, her voice a taunting sing-song. "It's stubbornly hard. Almost as if it exists and doesn't exist. Like a veil of fog… hardened."
Her hand hovered near his face, fingers twitching as though tempted to tear at the invisible barrier.
"My brother would love to experiment on you," she whispered, a grin splitting wider. "But alas… you belong to me~."
His gaze shifted lower. Draped over her shoulders was a cape. Familiar. Too familiar.
A spark of recognition burned in his mind, his thoughts flashing back to Yannick, to the warnings he had spoken, to the brief but haunting encounter in Sector 5.
Oh… him.
He thought briefly of Themenos, but that wasn't his concern now—none of it was. Not because everything had gone to hell, not because there was no hope left against the Council, but because of his new suspicions. The moment he awoke, the fragments of truth had clicked together like pieces of a jagged puzzle.
The crystals. The absence of monsters. The sway over people's cognition. The madness.
It wasn't the crystals. It wasn't the Council. It was something else—it was right under my nose all this time.
It all made sense now. After all, it was exactly what he had fought against back on Earth.
There is a rift in this world… and someone is controlling it.
Even with only fragments of his memories restored, the conclusion felt undeniable—and with it came a swarm of new, unwelcome variables.
So then… what should I—
A steel bar came crashing down with a dull, bone-jarring thunk. The kind of blow that should have drawn out screams, that should have pulverized bone and drowned him in agony.
"Please," her voice cooed mockingly, sweetened with malice, "why are you so deep in thought? What could possibly be more important than your very existence… being tortured?"
Her arms were crossed tightly, her grip firm around the iron rod that still jutted from beneath her arm. She savored the moment, her breath quick, her pale face glistening faintly with sweat.
Knocked sideways by the strike, he let his head roll with the motion, his neck cracking faintly as he twisted it back into place. Slowly, he fixed his gaze on her. Then, with the laziest of gestures, he yawned—as though merely adjusting himself.
"Can you not? I'm thinking," he said flatly.
The pink-haired girl froze. Her eyes widened, stunned, as if she'd just been insulted in the worst way possible.
"Ugh! Silence, you peasant!" she spat, her voice trembling between outrage and excitement. "Oh, just you wait… I'll have fun with you. Yes… I'll start with your tongue. Such an unfitting manner you have for such a pretty face…"
"You have ten seconds to get me out of this cell before I blow your brains out."
His voice was flat, unshaken. "I don't want to kill you… but it's not like I have to hold back. Not like I have anything left to lose."
The girl tilted her head, her pink hair fluttering as she moved with deliberate grace. She stepped toward a rusted steel table, fingers brushing over grotesque torture devices long corroded by time. With a soft hum, she selected one and bit her lip, savoring the moment.
"I heard my brother was harmed in Sector Eleven," she murmured, her pink eyes glinting with cruel curiosity. "They said the man wore a glass mask." Her smile sharpened. "Never cared much for my brother, but harming noble blood… that's a crime, I suppose."
She leaned closer, the scent of rust and damp stone mixing with the faint sweetness of her perfume. "Oh, but don't worry. I'll be gentle—it's your first time, right?~"
"You're an awfully energetic one, aren't you?" he muttered, almost bored. The severity of the situation slid off him like water, as if her threats were nothing more than a sick joke.
"Hush, my little lamb…" she whispered, her tone dripping with anticipation. "I can't wait for you to beg—for me to stop, for me to kill you. Every scream… oh, I'll treasure them. I'll make them my pleasure—"
Her words broke off as she pressed a steel rod beneath his jaw, tilting his face upward until her eyes locked with his. She bent down, producing a small pocket knife. Without breaking eye contact, she dragged the blade across his thigh, slicing deep. Blood seeped through his pants, warm and dark, staining the floor.
No reaction.
She twisted the knife, burying it deeper. A smirk spread across her lips, her breathing quickening in excitement.
Still nothing.
"Oh… splendid!" she gasped, delighted. "I've never had a victim with such spirit. I will enjoy breaking you."
"Three." His calm voice cut through her delight.
She licked her lips, leaning closer. "How about this? I'll ask Father to keep you. A sturdy one like you is priceless."
"Two."
Her grin widened. "Most die after two days. But you—you survived a pierced heart. Tell me, how did that wound heal, hmm?"
"One."
The world erupted.
A thunderous bang ripped through the cell before she could finish. The blast tore apart rusted iron and shattered stone, the underground chamber convulsing as debris crashed down. Dust and smoke swallowed everything, choking out her words.
Lucid walked through the settling haze, boots crunching against broken stone. Around him, prisoners in their cells began to shout—some cheering, others screaming his name, their voices a ragged chorus echoing through the cavern. He didn't let it touch him. His gaze wandered, steady, dissecting every detail of his surroundings.
His eyes locked on the figure slumped over a mound of broken stone. There she was her pink hair disheveled, uniform torn and ruffled. She had once seemed to revel in every moment of that torture, but now the roles were reversed.
Lucid studied her carefully, taking in every detail. She was still alive—her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and even in unconsciousness, a faint smirk lingered on her lips.
"Warned you," he muttered.
But one question gnawed at him. Where… am I?
Hmm. Must be deep inside the royal sectors by now. I could probably escape… kill anyone I came across in this state. But—
He smirked faintly. That's no fun, is it?
The thought felt familiar. Too familiar. A remnant of the person he had been before—the selfish impulse, the reckless hunger that had once driven him to ruin. The very seed of guilt that had chained him to this endless fight.
And then, it came.
Before him shimmered a white shadow, letters burning across its surface in jagged black strokes, urging him to read.
[ Name: Lucid ]
[ Rank: Paragon ]
[ Soul Concentration: Emergent ]
[ Faith Essence: 46,000 / 80,000 ]
[ Trait: The Fourfold Bullet ]
[ Followed Path: None ]
[ Description: Marked by the gaze of a deity. Possesses clarity of mind and unyielding resolve. Faces adversity and hatred, yet continues along an unchosen, uncertain path without deviation. ]
Lucid let out a sharp laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Ah, the bloody Specter!"
He exhaled, shaking his head. "God, I hate this thing… but damn, I'm glad to see my stats back. At least I'm not fighting blind anymore."
Archmage this, Archmage that… None of it matters in the face of shadow creatures and the Enlightened.
I've only recalled a fraction of my memories, but at least now I can imbue Fate Particles into my trait—push them past their limits. There was a card… yeah… that one.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"I'll keep it for a grand spectacle, perhaps…"
He pressed a hand to his temple.
"God, all of this is giving me a headache."
Fine. I'll bust these people out, make the guards actually do their jobs for once, and use the chaos to find the rift. Then I leave Andorrea. Easy, peasy.
The sound of metal giving way echoed through the cavern. Bars screeched and bent, steel tearing apart piece by piece, as if some unseen force was snapping them one by one.
I don't need mana or ether. All that matters is the physical strength of an Enlightened. I'm a Paragon—that should put me above most mages and swordsmen in this world.
His eyes narrowed.
If you forget about the Specter, everything resets to zero. But your trait… your trait doesn't vanish. That's why my cards remained. My strength and dexterity may have dropped to nothing, but the Fourfold Bullet never left me.
"How odd…" he whispered, frowning.
That's why I was so weak before. But still… it doesn't make sense. Faith Particles stay with you even if you're not aware of them.
His thoughts twisted inward, and a strange doubt rose.
Was I always this snarky and this egotistical?
It didn't match the man he remembered being when he first met Alice. Back then, he was reserved—cold, distant, but kind. Now, his words and thoughts carried a bite, edged with bitterness. Could it be frustration—years of pent-up fury at this cursed world for making him powerless? Or was it a mask, a shield covering the crushing guilt he still carried from that one fated death?
No… I could never forget.
His head lowered, shadow covering his eyes.
I will never wallow in despair. That boy… I should carry on for his sake. Even if I don't deserve to live… he's still with me.
A fragile hope stirred inside him. Maybe… with this damned system… if I gather enough Faith Particles… maybe I can bring him back.
The thought cut deep, leaving him hollow. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment his chest ached—not from wounds, but from memory.
All around him, prisoners and slaves burst free, their cries echoing through the grotto. Chains fell. Shackles snapped. Voices rose in shouts, in screams, in laughter—chaos pouring upward through the cracks.
Above, in the royal sectors, the palace loomed. The nobles, the guardians, the Archmages—even Themenos himself—remained blissfully unaware.
They had no idea what was waiting for them.
The revolt had begun.