CHAPTER 53: CHAPTER 53

A full month had passed since Lucien’s extravagant birthday celebration. The days that followed had unfolded in a surprisingly tranquil rhythm, filled with the soft laughter of his younger siblings, the rustle of leaves in the Velebrandt gardens, and the occasional distant echo of knights training in the courtyard. Lucien had, for the most part, avoided pushing himself to investigate the nature of his awakened power. Though his mind occasionally drifted toward curiosity, he chose instead to indulge in the calm—a precious reprieve from the storm he knew was waiting ahead.

That morning, Lucien sat at a finely carved table of obsidian lacquer, enjoying a luxurious breakfast. Golden-crusted croissants laced with silver dust and drizzled with dew-honey from the rare Glacier Bees of the Northern Peaks rested on his plate. There were also slices of flame-grilled mana-venison, tender and soaked in a smoky crimson sauce made from sunberries grown under concentrated sunlight. A bowl of chilled snowmelon cubes sat beside it, shimmering faintly, each bite said to boost mana circulation.

He had just finished feeding his infant sister Amanda, gently patting her back as she cooed in his arms, her tiny fingers gripping one of his locks like it was the most important thing in the world. Emilien, meanwhile, was off with a few veteran knights, training under strict supervision. The boy had taken to the sword with almost stubborn zeal, no doubt wanting to be like his older brother.

After handing Amanda off to the nursemaids, Lucien strolled leisurely through the mansion’s opulent corridors, a dessert glass in one hand and a spoon in the other. The dish wobbled slightly with each step, a shimmering mana-jelly made from silvershade fruit and starlight petals. It glowed faintly in the sunbeams that pierced through the grand windows. Several maids passed him by, bowing respectfully while stealing glances. Their cheeks bloomed with color as Lucien returned their greetings with his usual polite charm.

He soon reached the estate’s famed garden, where stone-paved paths curved through hedges, flowerbeds, and elegant fountains. Towering bushes formed natural mazes, while blossoms of every shade and mana-signature glowed subtly with magical life. The gentle scent of lavender and manarose lingered in the air.

In the shade of two sprawling manawillow trees stood a large, cushioned swing suspended by silky ropes engraved with runic patterns. Lucien seated himself upon it, the swing creaking faintly as he pushed off gently with his foot. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of rustling leaves, dancing in golden specks across the swing and the boy’s silver hair.

He took a slow bite of his dessert, the chilled jelly melting against his tongue. It had a subtle sweetness—flavored with the nectar of frost-dappled starberries grown in the northern greenhouses, finished with the citrusy hint of golden duskroot. Refreshing. Light. Faintly nostalgic, for no reason he could name.

Lucien leaned back slightly, the swing creaking beneath him. A gentle breeze brushed his cheek. Above, the interwoven branches filtered the sun into a lattice of golden warmth and shadow. The air smelled faintly of dew, cut grass, and blooming narcissus.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Four years and a few months had passed since his arrival in this world. At first, the memories of his past life—of being Kazuki—had been vivid. Too vivid. The pain of separation, the shock of reincarnation, the utter disorientation... all of it had stayed with him. But now?

He frowned faintly.

He still remembered the broad strokes. The click of a train door. The glow of a monitor screen. The smell of rain on concrete. But when he reached deeper—

Kazuki blinked. He could recall routines. Vague impressions. That feeling of standing on a convenience store floor, holding a plastic-wrapped onigiri, or the weight of a school bag slung over one shoulder. He even remembered the texture of cheap futons.

But faces?

He tried to picture someone. Anyone.

There was one person. A presence, more than a figure. Warm hands. A gentle voice humming while rinsing rice. A cardigan hanging by a kitchen door. The faint smell of shampoo clinging to soft hair as she leaned down and whispered something into his ear.

His heart ached unexpectedly.

"...Mother?"

The word came unbidden. Soft. Unsure. As if he wasn’t certain it still belonged to him.

Kazuki sat up slightly straighter on the swing. No, Lucien. Lucien. That was his name now.

Still, he pressed harder into the memory.

But the moment he tried to grasp it, the face slipped away. Like sunlight refracting on water, the image rippled and vanished. Panic didn’t set in—but a strange, silent pressure did. Like trying to hum a familiar tune and forgetting the next note halfway through.

Why couldn’t he remember her eyes? Her voice?

He touched his chest instinctively. There was a hollowness there he hadn’t noticed until now.

Then, his vision fuzzed slightly at the edges. The kind of gentle blur that came with too much sunlight or staying up too long. He rubbed his eyes, expecting the feeling to pass.

But it didn’t.

His limbs began to feel heavy. His head dipped forward slightly. The spoon slipped from his hand, clinking softly against the stone path before bouncing into the grass.

"Ah... that’s strange..."

His words slurred, carried off by the breeze.

Lucien—no, Kazuki—tried to sit up, but a thick drowsiness crawled up his spine. His arms fell limp at his sides. His head tilted back, resting against the swing’s cushion. It was like a curtain slowly falling over his mind.

A small wind stirred the branches above. With it came a glittering dust—nearly invisible save for the faint shimmer it gave as it fell like stardust over his hair and face. It sparkled once, then faded.

And somewhere—so faint it could’ve been a trick of the wind—a whisper echoed.

"That was close. I’ll need to quicken the mind erasure process... but lessen the damage..... He’s stabilizing.... adapting... in this world... slowly."

Then—silence.

Lucien’s breathing slowed. His eyes closed. His body swayed gently with the swing, one arm hanging off the side, fingers brushing the grass. The sun above filtered through the trees, casting a golden aura around him, but the light did not disturb his rest. He slept, deep and unbothered, the mysterious residue of forgotten thoughts dissolving into the wind.

Unseen, unknown, the remnants of his past self continued to be quietly stripped away, piece by piece—a process that was far from over.

The garden remained tranquil, unaware of the quiet struggle that had just taken place. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and in the distance, the sound of approaching hooves signaled the arrival of someone important.

_________________________________

A warm breeze brushed against Lucien’s skin as consciousness slowly returned to him. At first, there was only darkness. A haze. A weight pressing gently on his limbs like the residue of a long, dreamless sleep. Then—a sensation. A gentle nudge against his upper arm.

"Young Master... can you hear me? Are you alright?"

The voice was soft, familiar, tinged with deep concern.

Lucien’s eyelids fluttered open, and a shaft of golden light pierced through the canopy of leaves overhead, making him wince. He instinctively lifted a hand to shield his face. Blinking away the blur, he turned toward the voice.

"Marie...?" he mumbled groggily.

Marie, the ever-diligent maid, knelt beside him with her shoulder-length brown hair slightly tousled by the wind, her deep brown eyes shadowed with worry. Her elegant maid uniform was dusted with a few fallen leaves from the surrounding trees, but she paid them no mind. Her gaze was locked on Lucien.

"Yes, it’s me," she replied, her voice tightening. "Young Master, what happened? I came out to look for you and found you sprawled like a lifeless doll on the garden swing. You dropped your dessert... and for a moment—" her voice wavered, "—you looked like you’d been poisoned."

Lucien’s eyebrows drew together. "Poisoned...?" he repeated faintly, trying to rise, only to stop short. A sharp, blinding pain stabbed through his head.

He clutched at his temples as a groan escaped his lips. It was as if his skull were being cracked open from the inside—like something inside his mind was resisting, pulsing violently against the edges of his thoughts.

"Ggh—my head...!"

"Lucien!" Marie cried, her hands hovering uncertainly. Then, with instinct overriding doubt, she swiftly scooped him into her arms.

Despite his size—taller than most ten-year-olds and with a build that leaned more toward adolescent than child—Marie lifted him with practiced ease. After all, she was not merely a maid. She was an awakener, trained and conditioned to serve the Velebrandt house in both etiquette and emergency.

She pressed him against her, steadying him. Her heart pounded in her chest. For a second, she considered screaming for help—calling the guards, the butlers, anyone. But just as she prepared to sprint, a quiet voice reached her ear.

"Marie... wait..."

Lucien’s voice was hoarse but clear. She froze.

"Don’t panic," he said, his breathing labored. "I... I think the pain will pass. Please. Don’t make a scene."

Marie hesitated, her arms still securely wrapped around him.

"Young Master, you—"

"Just trust me," he said again, softer this time. There was a pleading sincerity in his voice that made her chest tighten.

Reluctantly, she obeyed.

She found the nearest clean patch of grass beneath a tree where the sun only barely filtered through the leaves. With careful movements, she lowered herself onto the grass, her back pressing against the rough bark. Then, gently, she guided Lucien’s head onto her lap.

He didn’t resist.

His arms curled slightly against his chest as his knees drew up, the way one does instinctively in pain. One hand gripped the grass beside him, the other clutched his forehead as if trying to physically hold his skull together. But even through the discomfort, he didn’t complain. He simply endured.

Marie brushed a strand of silver hair away from his face. The warmth of his head resting on her lap, the vulnerability in his tightly drawn features—it pierced through her composure.

She began to stroke his hair gently, hoping to soothe him.

"It’s okay, Young Master," she whispered. "I’m here. Just breathe."

Lucien said nothing. His breath came in short, shallow puffs. But eventually, the pain began to ebb, like a receding tide. He felt it lose its sharpness, dulling into something bearable.

The chirping of birds returned to his ears. The breeze carried the scent of roses and fresh earth once more.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed like that—him curled in Marie’s lap, the sun shifting just slightly through the leaves above. But the pain that had nearly torn his head apart was fading. And in its place, questions.

What had just happened?

Why couldn’t he remember more about his past?

Why had it felt like something inside him had been locked away, forcefully?

He didn’t have the answers.

But for now, the warmth of Marie’s lap, the gentle hush of her voice, and the steady rhythm of nature lulled his senses. He let himself rest there, if only for a moment longer.

The wind whispered softly through the trees.

And the world turned quietly on.