He woke up gasping.
The dream was already slipping away like mist — two figures in a plaza, one kneeling, broken and bleeding. A girl. The other standing tall, looming like judgment carved from flesh. Then the blade. Her head bowed. A single motion. Then laughter — cruel and calm.
His own.
Lucifer blinked. Sweat on his brow. Breaths short. The wooden ceiling above was still. Light poured in through slitted shutters in golden beams. For a moment, silence reigned.
Then came the pain.
His head pulsed as if someone had rammed a spike through his skull. He groaned, clutching it — not from shock, but from pressure, memories rushing in like floodwater.
Then both arms burned.
The left bicep flared like fire. The right followed, not searing but cold and sharp, like etched glass. His body convulsed slightly.
Then—
Gone.
As if it had never happened. The pain vanished. Just a headache's echo remained, and a weight behind his eyes.
He sat up, slow.
No fear. No trembling. Instead, thoughts moved like gears — methodical, unrelenting.
Name: Lucifer. His own voice echoed in his mind. Lucifer what? There was no surname. None he could remember. None that felt real.
He remembered the orphanage. The stone walls. The soft murmurs of the priest and the calloused hands of the old nun. He had protected five children there. Killed for them. Stolen for them.
Border village. Forgotten. Hidden. Survival above all.
He remembered hunger gnawing at him like a dog. Remembered the look of guilt on the Father's face when there wasn't enough food. Remembered stealing into the forest with only a rusted knife.
He had killed his first beast at 9.
Came back and orphanage gone, Father gone. Everyone Dead.
Silence.
Then travelling, surviving from one town to another for more than a year. Barely hidding from Death.
He remembered everything up until two days ago. Then — black.
He stood.
Frowned.
The room was dim. Dust floated in golden light. His body didn't feel weak. His mind was sharper than he remembered. The pain had left clarity in its place — the fog gone. In its place, crystal thoughts, silent and clean.
"I'm… calm," he said aloud. The voice was steady. Too steady.
Something was off. He felt like he had just lived two lifetimes and woken up on the edge of both.
He moved to the mirror near the wash basin and stopped.
His breath caught.
Not because he was horrified — but because the reflection staring back was not ordinary.
Two eyes. One black. One crimson — deep red like the last light before night. Not demonic. But wrong. Beautifully wrong.
Hair like shadow, black and shimmering, with streaks of crimson like fresh blood woven through. Skin pale, untouched. No scars. No signs of hardship, though he remembered them all.
And that face — too sharp, too perfect. No one should look like that. No one from a border village. No one raised on rot and war.
He turned slightly, raising his left arm.
The bicep held a marking — not glowing, but felt. A progress bar. Quarter full, filled with inky black like poisoned glass.
Above it — a name. Not "Lucifer."
Letters he didn't recognize, written in a language that made his spine crawl. Ancient. Lost. But he knew, somehow, it was his.
He touched it. Cold.
Then looked to the right bicep.
A dot.
Just a single, faintly glowing dot. Harmless.
But when he focused — when he concentrated — the ink shifted.
Like liquid shadow, it flowed down to his forearm, forming symbols, clean and minimal. Three tabs appeared:
- Skills
- ???
- Quests (faintly pulsing).
He blinked. It felt natural. Like breathing.
He tapped Skills with a thought.
A line formed, clean script glowing white:
- Swordsmanship (I ●)
- Calm Mind (I ●)
- Bloodlust ( ? ? )
"...Interesting."
The sword skill made sense. He had learned in the shadows of beasts while travelling.
Calm Mind — that explained this eerie stillness. The thoughts that didn't panic.
But Bloodlust?
It was there. Unranked. But the word pulsed faintly. Something old. Something chained.
He closed the tab.
Clicked ???
Nothing. All lines were filled with question marks. Inaccessible.
He focused on Quests.
One line appeared:
> [ Quest: ACADEMY ]
Just that.
No details. No reward. But a pull. He could feel it tied to something.
He looked back at the left arm.
Progress bar.
And he knew — the quest, if completed, would push that bar further.
He didn't know how. Or why. But the certainty was absolute.
"…So I'm a pawn in someone's game," he muttered.
But the voice wasn't angry. It was amused.
Calm. Calculative. Narcissistic, almost.
Like he was reading the script of his own life, and choosing where to rip the page.
With a flicker of will, the ink receded, pulling back into the dot on his right bicep. Everything vanished.
He stared at himself one more time.
The look in his eyes and constant small smile.
Not kind. Not cruel.
Just… knowingly.
He turned.
And walked down to get breakfast.