Dante's perspective
My footsteps echoed through the laboratory. Probably the most exciting thing to happen to the floor in weeks.
I stared at the egg inside the capsule. It floated there, like the star of a show no one was invited to. A dark, dangerous egg… with worse vibes than an exorcists' meeting without tea.
"When will it be ready?" I asked, eyes fixed on that apocalyptic cocoon.
"Probably in about twelve hours, Lord Dante. The egg will hatch in four hours, and the baby's growth will take six…" one of the scientists replied, handing me a clipboard full of numbers pretending to be important.
I couldn't read it well, but I understood it completely. That kind of genius.
"Perfect. Make sure the kid doesn't come out with three heads or something. I'll be back when it's ready. I need to report to Lord Vritra."
"Yes, sir."
I turned and walked away calmly. Then vanished. Because, obviously, walking is for amateurs.
I reappeared in a place darker than my sense of humor, where the light of a red sun barely filtered through the castle's massive windows. Lord Vritra's corridors… cozy, if you liked drama and gothic architecture.
From the shadows emerged a woman. Pink hair. A smile that hid blades. Selene.
"How's it going?" she asked, smirking.
I met her sky-blue eyes, as if the sky meant anything… then looked away.
"I guess there's still some time. Where's Lord Vritra?"
"Outside. Said he needed air. He's been too restless lately."
"Normal. Two of Paradox's creations just arrived in the world. Not easy to watch others have family while yours has been cosmic dust for millennia."
"Should I console him?"
"You think he'll listen? You've tried a thousand times, and neither your body nor your devotion seems to move him. Why not reconsider my offer?"
I touched her cheek and leaned in. Not subtle. But Selene pulled away with that "you again" air.
"That's why you're so annoying."
I chuckled under my breath because, yeah, I've got charm even when I'm irritating. Then I sighed.
"Why do you follow Lord Vritra, Wanderer?" she asked, approaching the window, gazing at the red sun hanging in the night like a soulless lantern.
"He promised me vengeance. As long as he keeps his word, I'll follow. Consequences matter to me as much as a leaf in the wind. Though… the Wanderer nickname doesn't fit anymore, does it? Just call me Dante."
"You're right…"
"And you? Why still follow him?"
"Love? Maybe that's it. I've been by his side for at least thirty reincarnations. No surprise I'm crazy for him by now."
"That's what I don't get, Selene. You're mad for a guy who barely sees you as more than furniture. Why stay?"
"I told you: love. It's weird. When you fall, you feel that person is everything, and if you drift too far, you're scared of losing them. Even if he doesn't see me as a woman or someone interesting… that feeling doesn't go away. It lingers, like a damn disease."
"Guess I won't get it… until I fall hard."
"Haven't you already?"
That question froze me. Like someone dumped a bucket of unwanted memories on me.
Because, yeah. I had. I fell in love. But that someone wasn't for me. They already had someone else. And they had someone else… because I showed up too late.
I ignored the question like a champ.
"Better go tell Lord Vritra about the egg hatching."
"Alright. See you later."
I nodded and vanished again. Because, yeah, drama and sudden entrances are my thing. This time, I appeared in the castle garden.
Lord Vritra stood in the middle, still, as if his presence alone was at war with the wind. He stared north, toward the Veloria continent. Or, more precisely, the sad, doomed kingdom of Millford.
"Any news?" he asked, with the enthusiasm of a rock.
Before answering, I stepped closer. Bowed my head, all formal, because sometimes you've got to play the soldier.
"Yes, sir. The specimen will be ready in twelve hours. Meaning Millford will have its fireworks… within that timeframe."
"Good. Thank you, Dante."
An awkward silence hung in the air. So, as usual, I broke it.
"Is it really necessary to do this so soon?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, turning his head slightly. His green eyes pierced me like they could read thoughts I hadn't even had. His long, dark hair flowed with that menacing elegance he loved to flaunt.
"I mean… it's only been twelve years since those kids were born. They couldn't even tickle Aldebaran or Capella. Aren't you pulling the trigger too fast?"
"Dante…" He turned fully, and with him came the scales. Dark. Solid. A living armor that said: hit me if you want, you'll lose anyway. His voice dropped, and with it, my body temperature.
"Yes, sir?" I raised my head. Not out of bravery, more to avoid looking like a melted statue.
Vritra walked toward me. Each step felt like gravity doubling just to mess with me.
"Those kids are more dangerous than you can imagine, even with your inflated ego. They carry Paradox's blood. You think this is rushed? If I don't act fast… I'll let those damn kids grow to their limit. And trust me, that limit is far higher than you can see from your cozy cloud of arrogance."
I bowed my head again. Sweat was already running down my back like it was training for a marathon. His presence had the pressure of a damn singularity.
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't apologize. It's normal you don't know. Even I don't have an exact measure of Paradox's true power. But I know enough. Now, prepare a small army. I want Millford reduced to rubble when the time comes."
"Yes, sir."
I stood, still drenched in sweat, and vanished before my dignity evaporated too. I reappeared in the laboratory, grabbed a chair—pretty uncomfortable, by the way—and slumped into it.
To wait. Because, obviously, there's no better way to prep for a massacre than watching a baby monster hatch.
---
Lucius's perspective
Time passed with insulting speed. If I'm honest—and in this case, lying to myself doesn't help—two months vanished without me truly feeling them. One after another, the days blurred like dry leaves swept by the wind, and before I could grasp it, Supreme Grace Day arrived.
A new year's celebration, by this world's standards. A night of lights, rituals, and fake toasts. In my past life, I didn't go to parties. Never cared for them. In this life, it was no different. Mother showed no interest either, nor did Isolde. It was the first time I noticed her disdain for a social event. Curious. Almost unsettling. They never explained why.
Father, on the other hand, attended. He had to. The king was there, and someone needed to ensure his safety.
But setting that aside, the academy turned out less oppressive than I'd imagined. Still, there was something… uncomfortable. Like the air was filled with strategic stillness. An artificial pause, as if the institution itself was conserving energy for something imminent. Something that would devour us if we arrived exhausted.
Over these two months, the theoretical classes became a constant reiteration of basic knowledge. Recycled material. Names, dates, magical structures. We already knew it all. The truly interesting—and revealing—part started on the training field.
They gave us weapons. The unmistakable sign that academics were just a facade.
I was assigned a pistol. Isolde got a double-barreled shotgun. Gareth received a long, elegant, almost ceremonial rifle. Leonard rejected firearms and chose a crossbow. No one objected. It was clear it wasn't a whim. There was resolve, even history, in his choice. Later, he confessed he'd used it since childhood, hunting with his father in the snowy northern forests. That image stuck with me. The boy, the forest, the blood on the snow.
I never thought this world would mix firearms with swordplay. It seemed ridiculous. Incompatible. An aesthetic travesty. Until we tried it. And realized the ridiculous part… was not imagining it sooner.
Old Floiyo made it all make sense. Her instructions were precise. Every word measured. Every gesture exact. She taught like she'd transcribed the Paradox Scriptures herself. She made the difficult seem so easy that struggle became an excuse.
According to her, the truly demanding part would come later, when the official trainer could dedicate time to us. Until then, she'd handle it.
Adapting to the pistol wasn't too hard for me. In my past life, I never held one. Didn't need to. But something inside me—something buried and cold—knew how to use it. The problem wasn't shooting. It was aiming. My accuracy was erratic. Frustrating.
Isolde had no such issue. Her grip strength, her muscle control… shooting came almost naturally to her. Her face showed restrained satisfaction, though she hadn't reached perfection. She lacked technique. Time. But not will.
Gareth seemed experienced. And Leonard, with his crossbow, shot with the familiarity of someone who only trusts what they've tested under winter's threat.
Now it was theory. About the bullets. The soul of our weapons.
"So if I channel mana into the weapon, the bullet absorbs it and gets enhanced?" Gareth asked, inspecting one of his rounds like an amateur alchemist.
"Exactly," Floiyo nodded. "But if you don't hold the weapon firmly, it'll rip your hand off or fly out of your grip."
"Got it…"
I aimed at a wooden target, fifty meters away. I used Syrix, channeling it into the weapon. I fired. The bullet shot out with force but missed by centimeters. It only grazed the snow piled on the target. Not even a decent hit.
I looked at Isolde. She aimed, channeled mana, and fired. The bullets flew. One after another. Precise. Almost on target. Almost. She smiled. Deservedly. But perfection still eluded her.
I tried again. Another shot, another use of Syrix. This time I hit, but only the edge of the target. It wasn't enough. I felt disappointed. Ridiculous. Like each miss was another crack in the facade I was trying to hold up. I wanted to throw the gun. I didn't.
"You'll get it," Floiyo said, approaching me.
"I don't know…" I admitted. Three weeks had passed since we started this training. And I was still failing. Still failing.
With the tip of my boots, I drew circles in the snow. Circles that became metaphors: an impossible target, a centerless spiral, a path without arrival.
"Don't expect to be good at something without years of experience, Lucius. Don't despair."
"But…"
"It's fine. Come on. Aim."
I didn't want to. Not after failing so many times. But I obeyed. Not out of obedience. Something else. Something I didn't understand.
I aimed. Felt her hand adjust my posture. She raised my arm, corrected my neck, tweaked my line of sight. All with surgical precision.
"Breathe. Relax. Then shoot. If you can channel mana even in calm, you'll master this faster than you think. Now… shoot."
I inhaled. Exhaled. Used Syrix. Felt the energy course through the barrel. Orange sparks danced around the weapon. I gripped it tightly. Fired.
The recoil was solid. The energy burst, intense. The bullet streaked through the air like a lightning arrow. It hit dead-on. The target exploded in a flash of electricity. I felt the crackle of the impact in the air itself.
I smiled. Barely. But I smiled. For the first time in weeks.
I looked at Floiyo. She was smiling too. Not triumphantly. With certainty. As if to say: first step, but a good one.
I holstered the weapon and approached Isolde. Then Gareth and Leonard joined us.
"Guess we should head out," Gareth said.
"Yeah," I nodded.
"See you later?" Leonard asked.
"Of course, we'll be there," Isolde replied.
We parted ways. But Isolde and I headed back to Floiyo.
I don't know when it happened, but she'd become more than an instructor. A maternal figure, yes, but also something deeper. A constant presence. A guide. She corrected us firmly, helped us patiently, taught us with pride. She savored our progress as if it were her own.
According to her, we reminded her of our parents when they were young. When they, too, walked these halls. When they, too, failed and tried again.