Ashvale – Outskirts of Sector 5
Lucian's Room – 6:03 a.m.
BAM!
The door swung open with a bang.
"Brat, time to wake up! You're supposed to be at the Academy today for the Awakening Ceremony! You shouldn't be in bed at a time like this!"
Lucian's eyes shot open as the voice slammed into his brain like a shockwave.
His breathing was sharp. Shallow. For a moment, he didn't move. His hands clutched the sheets. Sweat clung to his skin.
Then he sat up.
The room was… small. Familiar. A single desk by the wall. The cracked mirror near the wardrobe. The old posters of Hunters on the wall, the ones he tore down years ago. The ones he remembered dying with this world.
"No way…"
His fingers trembled as he touched his chest—no wound. No blood. No pain. Just the rhythmic beat of a heart that shouldn't be beating.
He remembered it clearly—Garrick's blade stabbing through him, the poison in his veins, the cold dirt beneath his cheek. He was dead. Dead.
But then he heard the footsteps.
And the voice again, closer now, annoyed.
"Oi, Lucian! If you don't come out in the next ten seconds, I'm dragging your ass out of that bed and dumping you into the cold bath!"
He turned slowly.
There, at the doorway—
His sister.
Lucy.
Messy hair tied in a loose bun. A black tank top and sweats. The same annoyed scowl she always had in the mornings. Her arms crossed. Her voice full of bite.
But she was there.
Alive.
Lucian blinked—hard. His mouth fell open. His throat tightened. This wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. He could feel the weight of the blanket. The smell of the old wood. Her mana—unmistakable. Familiar.
This was ten years ago.
His eyes darted toward the mirror. What looked back at him wasn't the cold-eyed man who had torn through monster hordes and died betrayed—it was a 16-year-old boy. Slim frame. Black hair untouched by war. Eyes wide. Untainted.
He was back.
Back to the day it all began.
Lucian turned back to Lucy.
She raised a brow. "Why're you looking at me like I've grown two heads? Get dressed already. The ceremony starts in less than an hour."
His lip trembled.
She was scolding him. Just like before. Just like always.
And she was alive.
He didn't wait. He got up, stumbled over the bedframe, and wrapped his arms around her tightly.
"I missed you."
The words broke from his mouth before he could stop them.
She froze. The annoyance dropped from her face.
"…What?"
Lucian held her tighter, his voice cracking. "I missed you so much…"
Lucy blinked, stunned. Then a small, crooked smile crept onto her face. "What are you saying, dumbass?" she said softly, tapping his head. "I'm always here. Well… except when I dive into the gates, sure—but I always come back, don't I?"
He didn't answer. He just buried his face into her shoulder. She smelled like cheap shampoo and lemon-scented mana spray.
Home.
Warm.
Lucy frowned a bit, but her voice lowered. "…Lucian, are you okay?"
He let out a slow breath and pulled back, rubbing his eyes like he'd just woken from the worst nightmare in history. "Yeah… I just… had a weird dream."
She squinted. "Was I dead in it?"
He paused.
"…Yeah."
She smacked his head lightly.
"Idiot. Don't go killing me off in your dreams, brat."
Lucian laughed, a small broken thing, but real.
She stepped back, hands on her hips. "You better hurry up. Today's big. You only awaken once. And I swear, if you come out looking like a disaster, I'll personally light your hair on fire."
He gave a short nod, still shaken, but calm.
"I'll be ready soon."
"Good." She turned on her heel. "Breakfast's on the table. Don't make me call you again."
She walked off.
Lucian stood in silence.
Then looked back into the mirror.
Sixteen years old.
Today was the Awakening.
The first day of his path as a Hunter.
The first day of being assigned an ability, stepping into the Academy, and entering the path that would eventually lead to the monster raids, Garrick, the betrayal, and…
He inhaled sharply.
Not this time.
This time, he wasn't just a clueless kid.
This time, he had ten years of experience. Knowledge. Strategy. Pain.
And most importantly—he had Lucy.
He ran his hand through his hair and looked out the window. The sun was rising over the broken skyline of Ashvale. Distant airships moved across the clouds like metal birds. The barrier walls around the city shimmered faintly in the morning mana.
Lucian smiled.
"…I've got work to do."
A few minutes later
Lucian stood in front of the wardrobe, hand resting on the door for a second longer than he needed to. The air still felt surreal. His heartbeat had finally steadied, but his mind was anything but calm.
He opened the wardrobe.
Inside were clothes he hadn't seen in years—his old uniform folded neatly, the dark-blue jacket with the silver trim and the Ashvale Academy crest barely faded from wash. He remembered how he used to hate it.
Now, just touching it made him feel something strange.
Like reaching through time and grabbing hold of the version of himself that never had a chance.
He slipped the shirt over his head. Buttoned it slow. Then the jacket. Pulled on the pants. Socks mismatched, like always. He chuckled to himself. Some things didn't change.
Last, he reached for the mirror and adjusted the collar. He looked like a kid trying to play adult.
But inside—he wasn't.
He looked at himself again. This time, no disbelief.
Only focus.
"Let's do this right."
The table was small, metal-legged, and chipped at the corners. The same wobbly chair waited for him, pushed halfway in.
Lucy was already at the stove, hair tied tighter now. She moved fast, flipping something in the pan with her left hand while stirring tea with her right. The smell of eggs, toast, and slightly-burnt mana crystals hit his nose.
God, he missed this.
"Took you long enough," she said without turning. "Was starting to think the cold bath was the only option."
Lucian sat, grabbing a slice of toast from the plate she dumped in front of him.
"Still threatening me with torture. Nice to know time doesn't mellow you."
"Brat," she smirked.
He bit into the toast and almost laughed. Dry. Way too much butter. No one could ruin toast like Lucy. And yet—it was the best damn thing he'd eaten in years.
She sat across from him, grabbing her own cup. "So. Nervous?"
Lucian shrugged. "A bit."
She nodded like she expected that. "Makes sense. The Awakening Crystal's not exactly gentle. It pulls everything from your soul. Like digging into your bones and memories at the same time."
He sipped the tea. Lukewarm. Slightly metallic.
Still perfect.
She leaned forward, her tone softening just a bit. "Look, whatever happens—don't take it too hard, okay? Not everyone gets something flashy. A lot of people get normal stuff. Support class. Enhancer types. Even no-cast abilities."
Lucian looked at her.
That face.
The one that used to look worn down but kept smiling. The one that didn't survive past his first year after Awakening. The one that kept him going long after she was gone.
He smiled faintly.
"I know."
Lucy blinked. "Wow. That's it? No dramatic 'I'm gonna be the strongest' rant? No empty confidence?"
He shook his head. "Nope. Just… I'm ready."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're acting weird today."
"I had a weird dream, remember?"
"Still."
They sat in quiet for a while. Just the faint hum of the neighborhood generators outside. The occasional clang of the stove cooling.
Lucian finished the toast and downed the last of the tea. Then he stood and grabbed his Academy satchel from the side hook, slinging it over one shoulder.
Lucy stood too. She was slightly taller than him still, but just barely. "Alright," she said, looking him over. "Hair looks alright. Uniform's straight. You don't look like a homeless raccoon for once."
Lucian smirked. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me."
"Don't get used to it."
He moved toward the door, hand on the knob.
Before stepping out, he turned back. "Hey, Lucy."
She raised a brow. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
She looked confused for a moment. Then just gave him that same half-smirk, half-sigh she always used when she didn't understand but didn't want to push.
"Whatever, loser. Go awaken your weird power or whatever."
Lucian gave a small wave, then stepped outside into the soft golden light of the morning.
The layout. The people. The pressure.
But now he wasn't some nervous sixteen-year-old.