The once tall spires that pierced the heavens, their shadows stretching over a city of cobblestone and graphite. At its heart stood a pace of silver, white as snow—a symbol of purity and opulence, watching overall.

  Those same spires y broken, their grandeur reduced to dust. The pace, once a beacon of power, stood in ruin—its silver tarnished, its brilliance lost to time. What was once a city of wealth and opulence had become nothing more than a graveyard of shattered stone and forgotten dreams.

  Sewage channels that once carried filth now ran thick with blood, the sluggish current dragging with it chunks of rotting flesh. Oozing, bckened sores marred the remains, necrotic tissue sloughing off in sickly ribbons, dissolving into the tainted flow.

  The grandeur and majesty of Moonveil Pace were nowhere to be seen. Its beauty, once eternal, now burned, offering the world one final, breathtaking spectacle.

  Amid the devastation, the world seemed to shift—the fallen spires wavered, bodies strewn across the ruined streets stirred like phantoms in the smoke. The pace itself flickered, its fiery remains bending and twisting as if caught between states of existence.

  A dull throbbing pounded in his skull.

  He felt the haze of fire stretch like a mirage, twisting reality itself. The shadows of spires and bzing infernos reached the pace grounds, its trees igniting like torches. Fmes fred, stretching across the city as the world blurred, swaying between shadow and light. Slowly, the haze of unconsciousness began to lift.

  Lucien jolted awake.

  "Huff… huff… hfff."

  His chest heaved as he sat up, a cold sweat clinging to his skin. He pressed a hand to his temple, fingers trembling slightly. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

  "…What was that?" he mumbled, voice hoarse.

  He swallowed, trying to shake off the lingering unease. A dream? No—it had felt too vivid, too real.

  "…Weird," he muttered. "I haven't dreamed since—"

  His breath hitched.

  Not since the angel fell.

  A chill crawled up his spine. His hair stood on end, instincts screaming. A sense of discord settled over him.

  His eyes widened, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.

  He sat on a grand-looking wooden bed, its presence imposing yet unwelcoming. The thin, rough sheets did little to provide comfort. Beside the bed stood a pin wooden drawer, a covered gss of water and a locket resting atop it.

  To his right, a rge bookshelf loomed, filled with neatly arranged volumes, their spines standing in rigid order. A full-length mirror reflected the dimly lit room. In front of the bed, a window stood open, allowing the turbulent night air to stir the room. Beyond it, the full moon hung high, casting a cold, silvery glow.

  Aside from the basic furnishings necessary for sustenance and management, the room cked any decoration. It was a pce devoid of warmth, its atmosphere heavy with a quiet, suffocating emptiness.

  His mind stuttered for a moment.

  He knew this room.

  Of course he did. It was his.

  Or rather, it had been—seventy years ago.

  Before he became an adult.

  But how?

  A sense of unease settled in his heart.

  His eyes drifted to his body. His right arm and legs were covered in bandages, deep purple and bckish bruises peeking through.

  His thin frame did little to shield him from the cold. His bones felt too close to his skin, every movement carrying an unnatural discomfort.

  He ran his hands over, his wounds stung at the touch.

  His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities.

  An enemy attack? An illusion? A relic?

  First things first.

  A voice—higher-pitched, softer than he remembered—broke the silence.

  "…Status."

  Lucien froze, then instinctively covered his mouth. Wow… my own younger voice feels peculiar.

  Shaking his head, he swept his gaze around the room. A flicker of unrest settled in his body.

  What?—Where the hell is my status?

  This— He sucked in a cold breath.

  Even if he was trapped in an illusion, the System should still show his status.

  Some relics or skills might be able to hide it, but…

  What's happening? Even if my opponent is strong, maniputing the System is nearly impossible. Unless…

  They are either Overlords….considering they don't need to go that far to kill me, the only possibility left is.

  They have a powerful Relic.

  His eyes narrowed.

  He shifted, the rustling of bedsheets breaking the silence as he moved toward the drawer.

  The sensation of wounds stings a little, he winced.

  Moving around the bed, he arrived in front of full length mirror, cloudy patches of moisture and smudges and streaks of uneven clear marking distorted the reflection of silver moon, It wavered as if caught between two states, shifting like a mirage in the heat.

  His fingers brushed across the surface, tracing the distortions, a small smile tugging at his lips.

  A mid-teen boy stared back at him.

  Messy, deep brown hair streaked with ashen strands, as if time had left its mark prematurely.

  Dull, stormy gray eyes with faint traces of gold near the pupil—like dying embers of something once brilliant.

  Pale skin, not sickly, but untouched by the sun, as if he had spent years hidden away from its warmth.

  Bandages wrapped around his face, concealing deep, long marks—greenish-yellow bruises staining his skin.

  These marks were given to him by his older brothers—wounds dealt in the name of practice. Some came from the relentless strikes of wooden swords, others from the countless times he had colpsed from exhaustion.

  The Waren name stood for wealth, power, and prestige—but not for him. A bastard born of a nameless maid, despised by his brothers and sister, scorned by the Baroness. To the household, he was nothing. The servants looked past him, unwilling to acknowledge the son of a woman who had dared to use her body to climb beyond her status.

  The Baron had no interest in raising a son who couldn't even wield a sword.

  His years in this pce had been nothing but suffocating.

  Day after day, he pushed himself to the brink, chasing a recognition that never came. No one spared him a gnce. No one cared. He worked until his body gave out, hoping—begging—to be seen.

  Yet, when night fell and the exhaustion settled deep in his bones, doubt crept in. Alone in the darkness, he would curl into himself and whisper:

  Am I doing the right thing?

  Why won't they look at me? Even when I try so hard…

  More than once, the thought of ending it all crossed his mind.

  But every time he stood on that edge, his mother's face returned to him—soft, warm, filled with love. Her voice, distant yet steady, always reached him, a quiet reminder of the promise he once made.

  He let out a slow breath.

  His fingers lingered over the bruises a second too long. A bitter chuckle escaped him—what was the point in dwelling on the past?

  Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair.

  "I'm getting mencholic… for no reason."

  "So… how do we get out of here?"

  Zexusgo