—And Lucy's Legacy
For the next few weeks, Shawn Mercer's life returned to what seemed like normal.
His Thunder Core stayed quiet, as if it had never awakened. The memories of the battle—the clash between the O.S.S. and the Wyrm Guardians, the CP-Hub intervention—felt more like fragments of a fading dream.
But Shawn knew better.
It hadn't been a dream.
He buried himself in his studies as university exams approached. Despite the fierce competition, he remained effortlessly at the top—week after week, his name unmoving from first place, as if fate had sealed it there.
Dan and Judy, top students in their own right, couldn't accept it.
Dan, marked with the All-Seeing Eye. Judy, bearer of the Spectre Axe.
They studied harder, watched Shawn closely, puzzled over his quiet dominance.
"It doesn't add up," Dan muttered one evening.
"Maybe he's using something," Judy said. "Thunder Core?"
Dan still remembered the failed ambush weeks ago—the flash, the surge, the way the Thunder Core had flared to life like a living storm.
Now, they sat in the same lectures as if nothing had happened.
They weren't far off.
Sometimes, during exams, a faint current flickered beneath Shawn's skin. The answers surfaced before he even finished reading the questions. As if something inside him had already known them.
The Thunder Core wasn't just helping.
It was changing him.
And even he didn't know how far it would go.
Late at night, when the world quieted and only the faint hum of the city remained, Shawn's thoughts often circled back to Lucy—and that poem. Especially the final lines:
At Rift's Bridge, the Loop shall end—
Call my name, and time shall bend.
They sounded poetic, almost mystical. But what did they really mean?
What loop?
And how was he supposed to end it?
He had a feeling the poem was only part of it. Lucy had left something more—something he hadn't uncovered yet.
That afternoon, with school ending early before the May Day break, Shawn found himself with unexpected time and an old habit: returning to his grandfather's study.
It was a place of quiet thought, filled wall-to-wall with heavy books on history, ancient philosophy, and esoteric theories. Most were decades old. A few looked hand-bound.
As he moved slowly along the shelves, his fingertips brushed the familiar worn spine of a book his grandfather had read time and again: Meta I Ching Research.
He reached out to take it—but stopped. A sudden vibration came from the Thunder Core on his chest.
Not painful, but firm. As if urging him to pause.
Confused, he hesitated.
His gaze shifted—and that's when he noticed it.
Tucked behind the book, almost hidden in shadow, was a small wooden box. Its surface was clean, the grain smooth from years of quiet care.
The lock, though old, had been carefully maintained—no rust, no neglect.
He gently slid it from the shelf and turned it over in his hands. The surface was rough, with faint carvings worn by time. He didn't recognize the symbols—but they felt... familiar, somehow.
Before he could examine it further, the door creaked open behind him.
"Grandpa?" Shawn turned, still holding the box.
Elias stood at the doorway, his expression stiffening the moment he saw what Shawn had found. He stepped inside, his gaze never leaving the object.
Shawn tried to lighten the moment. "What is this? Some secret treasure you forgot to tell me about?"
Elias didn't smile.
Instead, after a pause, he walked over, his movements slower than usual, as if the air around them had grown heavier. He looked down at the box in Shawn's hands for a long time before speaking.
"It's time," he finally said. "You were meant to find that."
They sat down together near the desk. Elias rested his palm on the lid.
"This came to me on the seventh day," he said, his voice steady but distant. "The seventh day after Lucy vanished—and after you were born. A plain parcel. No name, no note—just this box and two sheets of parchment."
Shawn leaned in, listening carefully.
"I kept them hidden," Elias continued. "But when you turned six, I gave you one—the sheet with symbols—told you it was a birthday gift. You always liked puzzles."
Shawn remembered it well. → He had kept that parchment in his folders ever since.
"The other was the poem," Elias said quietly. "The one you saw not long ago—it was always meant for you."
"And this box?" Shawn asked.
"I never opened it," Elias replied. "I had the key, but... something always held me back. Maybe fear. Maybe instinct. Maybe... it wasn't meant for me."
He stood, walked to the desk, and opened a narrow drawer. From it, he retrieved a small brass key and handed it to Shawn.
"I think she left it for you. And now, it's yours."
The room quieted. A breeze stirred the curtains. The box sat between them—still locked, but no longer untouched.
Shawn stared at it, his fingers brushing the wood. His pulse quickened. Part of him wanted to delay—draw out the moment, keep the unknown intact. But the other part, the part that had carried questions for months, urged him forward.
He exhaled. Slowly, deliberately, he set the box on the desk.
His hand hovered over the key. Was he ready for what lay inside? Was anyone?
With a breath that felt both steady and uncertain, he inserted the key.
A soft click. Then—light. Not blinding, not showy—just a faint golden shimmer that seemed to rise from within.
Inside was one item: a notebook.
On its cover, a name written in looping, delicate script:
Lucy's Journal.