Albion crossed his legs in the center of the large bed, sitting in a neat, meditative posture. He let out a long, slow breath, closing his eyes as the quiet of the room settled around him.
He took another deep breath, letting his awareness turn inward, sinking into his own consciousness. Within the silence of his mind, a single thought resonated over and over like an unyielding heartbeat:
'I'm going to save you, Amon.'
'I'm going to save you.'
In the past, descending this deep into his inner psyche would have been a struggle. But thanks to his time with Sheila and his rapidly maturing magic perception, his focus had sharpened drastically. The mental clutter faded away smoothly, allowing him to plunge straight toward the floor of his inner world.
Yet, as he sank deeper into his mind, a persistent question gnawed at him.
'If Amon really wanted to protect me deep down… why didn't he just say so? Why did he act the way he did?'
He tried to look back through every interaction, every terrifying encounter, searching for something he had missed. And then, a memory echoed up from the dark—words Amon had spoken to him long ago that he had completely brushed aside at the time:
»I'll carry the burdens. All the sins. All the hatred. So your soul doesn't have to suffer anymore. If you fall... if you truly aren't fit to hold the throne... then I'll fight for both of us. I'll protect both of us.«
Albion's consciousness faltered slightly as the memory took hold. Amon had told him. He had explicitly stated his intentions. Albion just hadn't been willing to listen.
A heavy weight of guilt settled over his heart, but instead of crushing him, it burned away his remaining doubts. He didn't just need to save Amon; he owed it to him.
When Albion opened his eyes, the physical world was gone.
He stood in a cold, surreal landscape. A short distance away, a young boy lay curled on the floor, leaning against a damp, freezing wall. The child's eyes were completely hollow, devoid of light, and his clothes were little more than filthy, tattered rags.
'Is that… me?' Albion thought, staring down at the image.
It was his past self—the Albion who existed before joining Phantom Lord.
The past Albion sat in silence, holding a worn book in his small hands, staring blankly at the pages. Albion looked at the memory, speaking aloud into the empty space.
"When I lived with my mother..." He paused, his tone shifting as he corrected himself. "...my caretaker. I used to pass the time by reading."
He had been completely isolated back then. He had no friends, no bonds, and no understanding of the outside world. Reading was all he had when he wasn't being forced through whatever harsh regimen she put him through.
"Reading was the only thing that kept the isolation in my heart from becoming unbearable," Albion murmured softly.
It was through those books that he had first encountered the concept of a 'guild.' He didn't know what magic was, what magic items were, or what it meant to be a wizard, but he understood what a guild represented. Most of those books were simple fantasy books for children.
It was through those stories that he first encountered dragons—specifically, Eastern dragons. He hadn't known whether they actually existed in the world, but he held onto those tales. They were one of the few comforts he had.
Staring down at the child, a surge of intense irritation welled up in Albion's chest. It felt like looking into a ugly, distorted mirror. He had grown so much since then. No one wanted to be confronted with their past, pathetic self—even if he knew it was just an old memory taking shape in his mind.
Then, a figure appeared in the memory right beside the boy.
It was a woman. She had shaggy, unkempt black hair and dark, empty eyes. She wasn't particularly tall, but her frame was lean, almost athletic, and she wore the same dirty, ragged clothes as the child.
The irritation tightening Albion's chest instantly doubled. His caretaker. His mother.
"When I was younger," Albion said, his voice cold as he addressed the memory, "she constantly brought up that old man. My supposed father. Looking back, it's obvious she was trying to manipulate me for whatever reason. But I didn't know what to do with her words back then. I couldn't remember him at all."
He still didn't understand why she hated him so much, or why she claimed his father had loved her only to end up using and assaulting her. Being a child, he couldn't comprehend what any of those words meant.
A faint, mocking sneer touched Albion's lips as he looked at her ghost.
"Thanks to my innate magic," he continued, "I remember everything I've ever experienced in excruciating detail. I will never forget anything."
Every single word, every page of every book he had seen in the Phantom Lord library was locked permanently in his mind down to the minute details. And because of that perfect memory, he knew the truth now.
"Looking back, it's completely clear that 'father' never existed," Albion said flatly. "That's why I have no memory of him. The very first memory I have in this life is being inside a laboratory."
His relationship with her was a complex, tangled mess. Part of him wanted answers.
Why did she hate him so much? Why did she sell him to Phantom Lord? Who was she, really? Why did she keep him isolated from the world and refuse to teach him about magic? Why did she take him from that laboratory, and why did she kill her allies?
Where was she now?
He had countless questions for her, and he knew he wouldn't get those answers all at once.
Then, Albion's posture shifted. The irritation faded, replaced by an expression that was terrifyingly cold and menacing. He stared directly into the eyes of the memory.
"You are my enemy," Albion declared, his voice dropping into a dangerous, steady whisper. "You will always be my enemy. And I will find you one day and make you pay for everything you put me and him through."
He was referring to Amon.
"I could choke the life out of you," Albion added, his fuchsia eyes glowing with detachment, "and I wouldn't feel a single thing. One day, I am going to return every bit of the curse you gave me. That is why I reject my last name with every fiber of my being. It seems you and I are destined to cross paths until the day one of us dies."
The moment the words left his mouth, a sharp crack echoed through the space.
Spiderweb fractures spread rapidly across the memory of the room, his younger self, and his caretaker. With a loud sound like shattering glass, the illusion burst into countless glowing shards, dissolving into nothingness.
When the dust cleared, the space was empty—save for a single figure standing ahead of him.
Amon stood there with his eyes closed, silent and motionless. Slowly, Amon opened his eyes.
Albion took a small step forward, his voice quiet. "Hey, Amon."
Amon didn't have his usual sadistic, mocking smirk on his face. He simply stared back at Albion, his expression unreadable and cold.
"You," Amon said.