Within that infinite, formless void, No, not even void—a place I had come to recognize as 'nothingness'—there had once been peace.
Serenity.
Silence.
But then, a burst of radiant light shattered it all.
An alien concept intruded upon my eternal stillness. At first, it was just illumination, blinding and soft, and a few scattered particles drifting in the vast emptiness. Minor annoyances, nothing more. Fleeting specks of existence I tolerated.
I should've destroyed them the moment they appeared.
But I didn't.
I waited. Watched. Let them persist.
Over time, those specks—harmless as they were—began to converge. Not in harmony, but in chaos. They collided and contorted, forming uneven masses with jagged edges and erratic pulses.
With each union, they birthed more of their kind, expanding further and further like mold on a pristine surface.
And still, I allowed them to be.
Then they changed.
Their chaotic forms refined, sharpened. They claimed space, established order. Territories. Domains.
With every newly-formed light, with every flaring pulse and burning glow, my sanctuary crumbled. The peace I had once known, once cherished, now writhed beneath their overwhelming presence.
And from within me, something ancient stirred.
Hatred.
Unfiltered. Raw. Absolute.
The urge to destroy—to crush, consume, and reduce everything to nothingness.
I was on the cusp of obliterating all that had dared intrude...
But then—
My eyes shot open.
My body jolted upright, drenched in sweat. My chest rose and fell in rapid succession, each breath as sharp as a dagger drawn across glass.
I wiped my forehead, the cold dampness clinging to my fingers. Stumbling toward the mirror, I stared at my reflection.
What greeted me was not just a reflection, but a warning.
Anger. So intense, it radiated off me in waves. My jaw was clenched, my brows furrowed deeply. And across my body, veins of amethyst lightning crackled and surged, coiling like serpents just beneath my skin—furious and hungry for release.
It took everything in me to shut my eyes and breathe.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Each breath dulled the electricity, grounded the chaos swirling within. Eventually, the violent current subsided, retreating like a defeated beast into slumber.
Outside the window, the early sun was rising—soft golden hues bleeding into the sky.
Morning had arrived.
Still shaken, I shook my head, discarding thoughts of the dream like it was nothing.
Dragging myself into the bathroom, I peeled off the sweat-drenched suit. The cool water of the shower came as a sharp relief, grounding me further. The dream was gone, but its residue still clung faintly to my thoughts.
After getting dressed and fresh, I stepped out of my room. The corridors were quiet, the air crisp with the scent of polished wood and the subtle aroma of breakfast drifting from the main halls.
Following the scent like some noble bloodhound, I wandered into the dining area.
There, at the long, polished mahogany table, sat Isolde, Lucian, and Mia—my so-called family.
Each of them was engaged in quiet conversation, though the moment I entered, all heads turned.
Lucian, ever the first to notice, cast a side glance my way. He paused mid-bite, brow arching in that familiar, condescending way of his.
"You look exhausted, son," he remarked, setting down his fork with a smirk. "I suppose last night was... eventful, hmm?"
The implication behind his words hung thick in the air.
I resisted the urge to groan.
Art.
That silver-tongued bastard must've opened his mouth again. He told Lucian I'd run off in the night on some romantic escapade.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Isolde pause, her hand gently lowering her teacup. A soft, knowing smile curled at the edges of her lips—the kind of smile only a mother could give. Gentle. Invasive. Inescapable.
Mia, on the other hand, had no such restraint.
She stared at me with a gaze sharp enough to peel skin. Her expression screamed one thing: Tsk. Womanizer.
Wonderful. Just the narrative I needed.
Now, any normal person might've cleared up the misunderstanding then and there. Perhaps explained the strange dream, the insomnia, the mental exhaustion.
But where's the fun in that?
Instead, I strolled forward with the confidence of a man who had no regrets—and a smirk as smug as sin.
"Yeah," I said, voice dripping with implication. "It was very, very wild and exhausting."
Lucian raised an eyebrow even higher, but there was amusement flickering in his gaze.
Isolde gave a little hum of approval, sipping her tea like she was silently cheering on some invisible romance.
Mia?
She clicked her tongue and went back to her breakfast like she couldn't be bothered with my existence anymore.
I pulled out a chair and took a seat across from her, still grinning.
Sometimes, playing the villain had its own charm.
...
After we finished the meal, Lucian stood and casually motioned for us to follow. No words, just a subtle nod of the head toward the upper floors.
He went out first, we followed his direction in silence, our footsteps muffled against the finely polished floors as we ascended. The hallways up here were quieter, more refined.
You could feel the weight of time in the old wooden beams and the distant portraits—ancestral faces frozen in noble stillness, watching, judging.
Eventually, we reached the balcony.
The large double doors creaked open and a gentle morning breeze welcomed us. The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden hue across the marble-tiled floor. There, seated near the edge on plush sofas, were Isolde and Lucian.
But they weren't just sitting.
They were holding each other.
Isolde rested her head gently on Lucian's shoulder, and their hands were interlaced, fingers woven together like threads in a shared tapestry of time.
It was rare to see noble couples show such intimacy. Rarer still to see it without the slightest care for who's watching.
As I stepped onto the balcony, they gave me a few fleeting glances—eyes soft, knowing—but didn't break their embrace.
I raised an eyebrow. The urge to make a snarky comment itched at the back of my throat. Something about public displays of affection at their age. Something to slice the oddly tender atmosphere.
But before I could open my mouth, Mia walked in from behind.
I felt her presence before I saw her—calm, quiet, but alert. She didn't say anything either, just stepped up beside me with her arms crossed and that passive-aggressive aura she wore so well.
Isolde finally smiled and gestured toward the empty space on the sofas beside them. "Come. Sit."
There was a softness in her voice I hadn't heard before. Not even in the original game.
We sat down, side by side, Mia on my left, Isolde and Lucian on our right. The space between us was thin—but the tension hung thick in the air.
Then, Isolde reached out and gently placed her hand over mine.
Her skin was cool, soft, but there was a quiet strength in her touch.
She spoke gently, her voice like a lullaby cloaked in clarity.
"I know you're not my Cassius."
My breath caught. For a heartbeat, my entire body tensed. Muscles coiled, instincts flared. My hand twitched under hers, ready to pull Mia and bolt out of there if this turned hostile.
But Isolde... smiled. Blissfully. Almost serenely. As if what she'd just said was the most natural thing in the world.
"Don't worry," she added, "I don't mind that you're in his body."
I blinked, disoriented.
'She doesn't mind?'
'Someone like Isolde—someone fiercely possessive of her belongings—doesn't mind that her son's body is being possessed?'
That didn't make sense.
I narrowed my eyes, the unease crawling up my spine. Something about this wasn't right.
Lucian stepped in, his deep voice grounding the moment. "It's not that we didn't love our son."
I turned my head toward him slowly. His gaze was far away, not lost—but distant.
"He just... wasn't made for this world," he said. "Too kind-hearted. Too gentle. Couldn't even kill a pest in the estate without crying about it."
He gave a bitter chuckle, the memory clearly weighing heavier than he let on.
Isolde nodded beside him, her hand still on mine. "That's why we believe—just as you took over his body, he must have taken over someone else's."
Lucian picked it up. "And that thought... that's what gives us peace. The hope that somewhere out there, our son is still alive, still... happy."
That was the first time I'd seen it—vulnerability. Not just as characters in a scripted game, but as parents.
They were grieving in their own way. Not angry. Not in denial. But mourning with grace.
'So, this is how real parents are...'
I scoffed internally, mockingly. The thought still felt foreign. Alien.
Isolde's fingers brushed up to my cheek, gently caressing it like a mother to a child. "And now that you have his body... we can't bring ourselves to harm it. It's a part of him. We won't discard it. How could we?"
Lucian placed a firm, steady hand on my shoulder. "Besides... you're more suited to this world than our Cassius ever was."
I didn't respond. My throat felt tight. Not because of sentimentality—gods, no—but from the bizarre mix of understanding and guilt rising in my gut.
Then Mia spoke, breaking the silence.
"Because he's ruthless."
Lucian smiled knowingly, as if to just confirm her theory.
'Oh, I'm screwed.'
The old man was going to get me killed.
'Don't tell her, you bastard,' I thought, internally begging him to shut up.
Mia turned to me slowly, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. "And how exactly is he ruthless?"
Before Lucian could open his mouth and ruin my carefully curated image of indifference, I jumped in.
"How did you even know I was someone else?"
Mia looked away, her lips pursed.
I narrowed my eyes. 'Oh you little gremlin traitor—'
Isolde smiled softly, answering for her. "Because of how you acted. I suspected the moment your presence shifted. But yes, Mia told me everything. About how she appeared from nowhere... about the annulment... and the real reason why."
I sighed, deadpan. "So, she told you we were siblings."
Isolde blinked innocently. "Oh, siblings? And here I thought you two were... lovers."
My eyes nearly popped out of my skull.
"What? Me?! With her?!" I recoiled, pointing toward Mia. "Absolutely not. Not only is she my sister, but she's also not even my type!"
Mia kicked me under the table.
Isolde let out a gentle, amused hum.
Lucian laughed—loud and hearty. "Look at that, dear. You never wanted another child, and yet... the world saw fit to give me one anyway."
He smiled warmly, first at me, then at Mia.
"Now we have two children to be proud of."
The warmth of the moment was... uncomfortable.
Foreign.
But maybe, just maybe, not unwelcome.