Hastora fell silent.
Not because he was searching for a lie, but because the question itself had nowhere to land.
The last thing he remembered before that night?
His gaze lowered to the wooden table in front of him. The surface was worn, its grain scarred with old scratches—marks left by objects placed there, dragged across it, or slammed down in moments of emotion that no longer lingered.
There were no memories tied to this body.
No "before."
No past he could reach for.
All that existed was a consciousness that had awakened without warning—in a world he did not recognize, wearing an identity that was clearly not his own.
Telling the truth would only invite danger. He came from another world, and if Hann learned that fact, Hastora had no way of predicting the outcome. One thing, however, was certain—it would not end well.
Hann did not press him.
He simply sat there and waited—patient in a way that made time itself feel heavier. His gaze never left Hastora's face, yet it did not pierce him. It was the look of someone observing a reaction, not seeking an answer.
Several seconds passed in uncomfortable silence.
Finally, Hastora spoke.
"…I cannot remember anything about the events of the night you are referring to, and I also know nothing about what you are talking about," he said slowly.
Hann narrowed his eyes, his expression seeming to confirm something. He stared at him for quite a while.
The hanging lamp swayed gently, casting slow-moving shadows on the walls. The sound of his heartbeat was barely audible, yet loud enough to mark that time kept moving forward.
Finally, Hann spoke.
"I have suspected there was something odd about you since the first time we met earlier."
Hastora furrowed his brow.
"Something odd about me? What do you mean by that?"
Hann steepled his fingers on the table.
"If what you say is true," he continued,
"then there are two possibilities."
"First," he said, "your memories have been forcibly erased."
Hastora tensed involuntarily.
"Second," Hann went on, his tone remaining the same,
"Could it be that your mind has been manipulated by someone?"
Hastora remained silent, unmoving. Hann's words forced him to confront the implications.
"I am not certain," Hastora replied. "But it is possible that one of those explanations is correct."
Hann stood up from his chair.
"If that is the case, there may be only one way to directly access your memories."
Hastora furrowed his brows.
"How?"
Hann snapped his fingers.
"Lyra, you may come in now."
The room door opened to reveal a red-haired woman with emerald eyes that glinted slightly under the hanging lamp.
Lyra stood slightly behind Hann—visible, yet positioned in a way that made it clear she was not a mere attendant.
A long, dark-colored cloak wrapped around her body; the fabric was thick yet fell lightly, as if made for moving quickly without making a sound. The inside of its collar was lined with silvery-gray fabric that was only visible when she turned her head—a small detail, yet too precise to be merely aesthetic.
Her clothing did not follow any city fashion.
There were no logos, no insignias, no bright colors demanding attention. All the cuts were simple, almost plain, but clearly designed with purpose. Thin gloves covered her hands, even indoors, while her low boots were clean and almost unmarked—a sign of someone who avoided leaving traces, not one who often walked casually.
The only thing that felt strange was the narrow belt at the back of her cloak.
It did not look heavy, yet its position was too precise. Not an accessory. Not an ornament. Something was hidden there—not to be displayed, but to be retrieved without hesitation.
Lyra looked so calm.
She also did not look like an ordinary person.
And precisely because of that, Hastora knew—the woman had not come as an observer.
She had come as a last resort.
"Look into the child's memories," Hann commanded, pointing toward Hastora.
"Very well."
Lyra stepped forward.
Her movements were calm and measured, as if the distance between them was nothing more than formality. She stopped right in front of Hastora, then slowly raised her hand, palm open toward his head.
"Vortex Excavation."
Red energy appeared, swirling gently around her fingers. Not wild, not explosive—but controlled, like a surgical tool designed to peel away layers of thought one by one.
As her palm nearly touched Hastora's head, the flow of energy seeped inside.
For a moment.
Hastora's mind felt empty.
Not because he was asleep, not because he had lost consciousness—but because there was nothing there to be reached.. No memories were lifted up, no emotions were pulled out, not even faint fragments that usually appeared when memories were dug up.
Empty.
Completely empty.
The red energy swirled once more, then slowed down.
Lyra furrowed her brow.
This made no sense.
Vortex Excavation should have at least caught an echo—a trace of emotion, a shadow of an event, or mental resistance. Yet all she felt was empty space, like trying to dig for something that had never existed.
She pulled her hand back.
The red energy vanished just like that, without an explosion, without a rebound.
Several seconds passed in silence.
Lyra stared at Hastora with an expression different from before—not sharp, not cold, but full of calculation.
"…I see nothing," she said finally.
Not in a tone of doubt.
But in the tone of someone who had just confirmed that something was not supposed to be this way.
The emptiness inside Hastora's mind began to crack.
Not because memories returned—but because consciousness slowly emerged again.
The first sound he picked up was distant, muffled, as if coming from behind a thick layer of water. The cold sensation on his scalp faded, replaced by the weight of his own body that felt real again.
He drew a sharp breath.
Air filled his lungs suddenly, making his chest rise and fall unevenly. His fingers moved reflexively, pressing against the side of the chair, as if making sure he was still in the same place.
His vision blurred for a moment.
The hanging lamp above the table seemed double before finally merging back into one. The lines of the room became clear one by one—the wooden table, shadows on the floor, and the figures before him.
Hastora slowly lifted his head.
Lyra had stepped back half a pace, her gaze fixed on him.
"…What just happened?" Hastora's voice sounded hoarse.
His question came out without excessive emotion. Not panic, not anger—just honest confusion.
For a moment, no one answered.
And in that silence, Hastora realized one thing very clearly:
Whatever Lyra had just reached—
was not something meant to be accessed by ordinary people.