'Hhmm… I can't… I'm already full.'
The thought drifted lazily through Lucas's mind like a leaf on a breeze. His body, curled against the warmth of the Wolf's side, didn't stir. But his mouth did.
He was chewing.
A rich, savory taste rolled across his tongue—something sweet yet strangely deep, like fruit soaked in sunlight and memory. Even in his half-conscious state, he felt it. Not just in his mouth or stomach, but in his chest, his veins… his very soul.
'What is this…? Why does it feel like I'm being fed?'
A slow flicker of awareness stirred behind his eyes.
He wasn't dreaming. At least, not fully. There was too much sensation. Too much presence.
His heavy eyelids parted slightly. Light leaked in—warm and golden, filtered through the branches of the glowing Tree above. His vision blurred, then focused in waves, shapes flickering like mirages.
A figure knelt before him.
Shrouded in a weathered, brown robe, they were crouched gracefully, one knee bent, the other foot planted firm. The robe's hood cast their face in shadow, but Lucas could make out pale hands—gentle, delicate fingers that moved with reverence.
Those fingers held the fruit.
The fruit.
One of the glowing, ethereal apples from the Tree of Light. Translucent skin glimmered faintly in the filtered sunlight. Silvery veins pulsed inside it like threads of moonlight trapped in crystal.
Lucas took another bite.
His hand never moved. His body never resisted. It was as though his will had been bypassed, or perhaps… willingly surrendered.
He wanted it.
'Why am I not stopping this? Who—what—is this person?'
As his eyes struggled to adjust, he tracked their movements in sluggish glimpses. The person was patient. Silent. They didn't force the fruit on him; they simply offered it, bite by bite, like a parent feeding a fevered child.
Each swallow filled him with a deeper warmth. A weight lifted from his chest. His fatigue lessened. His wounds didn't vanish, but the dull throb receded, replaced by something… serene.
And then, the fruit was gone.
The stranger brushed their hands together softly, as if sealing the act with some quiet ritual. They stood slowly, the robe rustling faintly like parchment caught in a breeze.
Lucas could barely lift his head, but his eyes locked onto their mouth.
Soft lips. Pale pink. Feminine.
And then, she spoke.
"The prophecy must be fulfilled."
The voice was low, clear, and devoid of urgency—yet the words hit like a thunderclap. A ripple of memory cracked through Lucas's fogged thoughts. His eyes flew open fully, the fatigue momentarily shattered.
'Wait—! I've heard that… That phrase—where?! When?!'
His heart thudded wildly as he chased the memory, but it remained just out of reach, like a shadow slipping behind a door.
She turned to leave.
Her movements were quiet, almost floating across the stone, yet every step left a strange gravity in the air—like the room itself acknowledged her presence.
Lucas's throat burned. His limbs still wouldn't respond. But the need to understand—to connect—pushed him beyond the pain.
He forced out a rasp.
"You… who… are you?"
The words scraped out like sandpaper. Barely a whisper. But she heard them.
She paused.
Slowly, she turned her hooded head over her shoulder. Though her face remained veiled in shadow, more of her features slipped into view: skin so pale it bordered on ghostly, and lips that curved into a small, knowing smile.
Her voice came again, mature and melodic—less like a command, more like a lullaby laced with prophecy.
"Your fate lies in the Empire. Go find the hidden heritage and prevent the great calamity, for it is our duty and our religion."
There was no pressure in her tone. No explanation. Just the calm finality of truth spoken aloud.
Lucas's heart pounded harder now. Heritage… Calamity… Empire… The words clanged through his skull, demanding meaning. But his body was unraveling again—gravity returning, drowsiness swallowing him whole.
She turned once more, and this time did not stop.
Her silhouette faded into the mist at the edge of the glowing chamber, swallowed by the vines and archways. The silence she left behind was impossibly deep.
Lucas's head slumped back onto the Wolf's fur. His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut once again, the final images seared behind his lids:
The Tree.
The fruit.
The woman.
The prophecy.
He fell into sleep, not like before—not with desperation or exhaustion—but with reverence.
***
**Huff… Huff… **
Lucas jolted awake with a gasp, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked in sweat. The air felt thick, but it wasn't heavy with heat—it was the kind of weight that came after a long, fevered dream. The kind that left your body restless and your mind scattered.
A sudden wave of memory rushed in, too fast to process all at once. His head throbbed as faces, names, and flashes of pain surfaced.
The mercenary camp.
Bandages on his arms and legs.
The doctor with tired eyes.
Reinfrey.
Seth.
Fragments of conversation. Smells. Footsteps in mud.
Blood.
Swords.
Orders shouted under torchlight.
Why does it all feel so familiar… like it's already happened to me?
It wasn't the first time something like this had happened—this sudden rush of memories, like someone had pulled open a curtain in his mind. He didn't panic. Not this time. He simply sat with it, eyes squinting through the fog, trying to make sense of what still lingered.
As the haze began to settle, a single sentence cut through the static.
"The prophecy must be fulfilled."
His eyes flickered wide.
That again… Why does it keep echoing in my head?
Where have I heard it before?
But just like before, the thought slipped through his fingers the moment he tried to hold onto it. He let out a breath and leaned back slightly, trying to calm the scattered rhythm of his heart.
That's when he noticed the clothes.
He blinked down at himself. No armor. No rough cotton. No worn boots. Instead, he wore a clean blazer, a white shirt underneath, and navy-blue school slacks. His school uniform. His fingers grazed the embroidered name stitched on the breast pocket—it was blurry, unreadable, like a half-faded memory. But he recognized it anyway.
This… This is from back home. My world.
I remember now.
Not everything, not in perfect detail, but enough to shake something loose. The twenty-first century. Phones. Cafeterias. Exams. The internet. Life before blades and bruises. It all sat in his head now, no longer behind a locked door.
That dream… or whatever it was before I came here…
Swords. Monsters. That Tree…
It really wasn't just a dream.
Lucas rubbed at his face, trying to ground himself. His palms felt clammy. The sweat cooling on his back made him shiver. It was a strange feeling—being somewhere so foreign, and yet starting to remember something so ordinary.
This world… It's real. As real as the bruises I felt back at the camp.
As real as that fruit. That woman in the robe. The Wolf.
The realization didn't bring fear this time. Just quiet resignation. Maybe even a little curiosity.
I don't know how I got here… but thinking in circles won't fix that. If there's any chance of going home, it won't come from standing still.
He let out a quiet sigh, then paused.
The word had hit him harder than expected.
Home.
He turned it over in his mind, slowly, cautiously. What was home, really? A place? A feeling? A person?
Cold dinners, late-night games, forgotten birthdays, empty living rooms… It all came back in fragmented impressions. Nothing stood out as bright or perfect.
Was it where I felt safe? Or where I simply existed?
His lips pulled into a small, tired smile—more thoughtful than bitter.
"Whatever. I'll make wherever I am my home, if I have to. Not like I've had a clear one before anyway."
It wasn't bravado. It was just… how he'd always survived.
He drew in a breath and finally looked around, his senses sharpening.
There was only darkness.
A soft, endless black that didn't feel threatening, just… isolating. Like floating in a deep pool with no shore in sight.
Still unconscious, maybe.
That fruit… it must've knocked me into some kind of sleep. But why?
Why feed me only to make me pass out?
He let the question hang in the stillness, then gave a soft snort and shook his head.
"Like any of this makes sense…"
His voice echoed faintly in the void, a small sign that he was still here, still thinking, still Lucas.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
Far ahead, a faint light shimmered in the distance—soft and steady, like a flame burning in deep fog.
Lucas narrowed his eyes. The silhouette of the tree slowly came into focus, standing just as it had before: luminous, ancient, and impossibly still. Even from this distance, he could feel something from it—like a quiet hum threading through the silence.
There was a shape beneath it.
Someone was standing there.
He couldn't make out much, not yet. Just a figure, unmoving, hand resting on the wide trunk.
Guess that's something, Lucas thought, brushing the creases from his shirt out of habit more than need.
No sense wandering around in the dark.
With that, he began walking, the echo of his steps a soft pulse against the void. The tree's glow grew with every pace, and with it came a strange calm—tense, but focused. Thoughts pressed at the edge of his mind, but he let them go. One thing at a time.
He needed to wake up. He needed to survive. That came first.
No point unraveling the whole mystery if I bleed out in the real world.
The memory of his injuries surfaced—pain, blood, the weight of exhaustion—but he kept moving. The darkness didn't shift, but the ground beneath him felt solid now. That was enough.
As he neared the tree, the figure beneath it sharpened into view.
Wait… that's—
A young man stood there, one hand resting casually on the bark. His other arm hung loose by his side. His clothing was familiar: a fitted cotton shirt, the kind made for movement, tucked into sturdy pants that had seen their share of wear. Over it, pieces of light armor—functional, not decorative—were strapped tight. A longsword was sheathed at his waist, another one strapped across his back. Practical. Balanced.
His build wasn't imposing, but it was refined. No wasted bulk. Just quiet strength earned over time. His black hair was unkempt, falling over his brow like he hadn't bothered with it. He didn't seem to care much about appearances.
Lucas slowed his pace.
He had a feeling—stronger now—that he knew this man.
There was no fear, exactly. Just a growing certainty.
That posture… that gear… that hair…
The figure turned.
His gaze met Lucas's without hesitation. His eyes were a deep brown, so dark they almost seemed black at first glance. But the more Lucas looked, the more layered they seemed—complex, tired, and focused all at once. His features weren't striking in the usual sense, but there was a calm weight to his presence, the kind that drew attention without asking for it.
No smile. Just a firm, level expression.
Then, the man spoke.
"Took you long enough."