The night was silent, save for the faint rustling of the wind against the wooden walls of Lucius’ room. The faint glow of a candle flickered beside him, casting long shadows that danced across the worn wooden floor. He sat cross-legged, his breaths steady but his mind storming with turmoil.

  The revelation from the night before still weighed on him like a phantom pressing against his chest—Elara had played a part in his return, but to what extent? Had she merely searched for a way, or had she succeeded?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Lucius shifted his posture, placing his hands gently on his knees, his fingers slightly trembling. He inhaled deeply, allowing the cool air to fill his lungs, then exhaled, focusing inward. The flow of mana pulsed through him, an invisible current guiding his consciousness deeper. His two mana circles spun with a faint glow, vibrant yet untamed, like a storm barely contained beneath the surface.

  His attention wasn’t on the mana itself, but rather on the fragile thread connecting his soul to his physical form. He had barely succeeded in detaching from his body before—now, he would push further.

  The world around him faded. His limbs grew numb, his heartbeat slowed, and for a moment, he felt weightless. Then, like stepping into an abyss, he fell.

  When Lucius opened his eyes, he was no longer in his dimly lit room.

  Instead, he stood within a vast chamber, lined with towering bookshelves and ancient artifacts glowing faintly with mana. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, decorated with floating sigils that pulsed with arcane energy. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and burning incense. A sensation of familiarity settled over him like a heavy cloak.

  He knew this place.

  Elara’s private laboratory.

  A soft hum of mana vibrated in the air, resonating with the intricate carvings along the walls. Scrolls and tomes lay open on a grand wooden table, their pages covered in hastily scribbled notes and complex diagrams. Strange, glowing runes floated above an iron cauldron, their inscriptions shifting as if alive. This room had once been a sanctuary of knowledge—but now, it was a tomb of desperation.

  Then, he saw her.

  Elara Dainhart.

  She stood before a massive crystal, her delicate hands pressed against its surface. Her long silver hair, once pristine, was now tangled and unkempt. Her once bright blue eyes were darkened by exhaustion. Shadows pooled beneath her eyes, and her normally pristine robes were wrinkled and stained with ink, soot, and dried blood.

  She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

  Lucius’ breath caught in his throat.

  "Elara..."

  She didn’t respond.

  This wasn’t real.

  This was a memory.

  He turned his gaze to the crystal—and his own lifeless body lay within.

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  His features were eerily still, frozen in time beneath the thick layer of translucent mana-infused stone. His silver hair floated around his face, his lips slightly parted as if caught mid-breath. His fingers were curled into loose fists, as if even in death, he had refused to surrender.

  "Wake up… Please, Lucien, wake up..."

  Elara’s voice cracked, and her knees buckled. She caught herself against the altar, her shoulders trembling violently.

  "You promised me... You said you'd never let anyone best you... So why...? Why won't you wake up?"

  Lucius clenched his fists. He wanted to reach out, to tell her he was here, alive—but he knew.

  The past could not be rewritten.

  For days, weeks, months—she fought against fate.

  He watched as she poured over forbidden texts, her hands shaking as she traced symbols onto parchment. She defied the laws of magic, bending the very fabric of the world in pursuit of a single miracle.

  He saw her carve runes into her own skin, sacrificing her essence to fuel spells beyond mortal comprehension. Each attempt took a part of her, breaking her bit by bit.

  But Lucien Velkaris never opened his eyes.

  And so, she believed she had failed.

  Lucius exhaled sharply, his chest tightening.

  She hadn’t failed.

  She had succeeded.

  But he had been reborn years later—long after she had given up hope.

  The memory shifted.

  Elara was no longer in her lab.

  She stood within the grand courtroom of the empire, her hands bound by enchanted chains. Her wrists were bruised, her robes torn, yet she held her head high. Defiant. Unyielding.

  Before her, the same council that had condemned Lucien to death now stared down at her with cold, detached expressions.

  "Elara Dainhart, you stand accused of practicing forbidden magic and attempting to defy the laws of life and death. How do you plead?"

  A tense silence filled the grand hall.

  Then, she lifted her head, her gaze burning with quiet fury.

  "Guilty."

  Gasps echoed through the chamber.

  "Do you understand the severity of your crimes?"

  "I understand it better than anyone."

  The emperor sat upon his gilded throne, impassive, watching the proceedings unfold. The same man who had sentenced Lucien to die now held her fate in his hands.

  "Then do you have any final words before your execution?"

  She smiled—a sorrowful, broken smile.

  "I would do it all again."

  Lucius’ vision blurred.

  The memory shifted one final time.

  He stood amidst a silent crowd.

  A familiar execution platform loomed before him—the same one where he had once stood, awaiting death.

  Elara was led forward.

  Her face was pale, but her expression remained unreadable. There was no fear. Only quiet acceptance.

  No allies spoke for her.

  No friends pleaded on her behalf.

  The world had abandoned her.

  Lucius tried to look away, but the memory held him captive.

  He saw the executioner raise his blade.

  Then—the blade came down.

  Lucius gasped as he snapped back into his body.

  The moment his consciousness slammed back into reality, he doubled over, his breath ragged. His chest heaved, his hands trembled, sweat dripping from his brow. His mind reeled, heart hammering against his ribs.

  "Elara was killed trying to bring me back."

  She had given up everything. Her freedom, her life—just to give him a second chance.

  And she never even knew she had succeeded.

  His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palm. His body tensed, his vision darkened as anger flooded through him.

  He had already been angry at the empire. At those who had betrayed him. But this...

  This was different.

  The cold hatred that had lingered in his heart—the quiet, calculating thirst for revenge—was now an inferno.

  "The Emperor. The nobles. Aldric Valstane. Every single one of them will pay."

  His resolve solidified into something unbreakable.

  "I will kill them all."

  Not just as an Archmage. Not just as a sorcerer.

  This time, he would be more.

  Magic alone hadn’t saved him before. He needed power beyond that. Strength that no one could challenge.

  "I will master the sword and magic alike."

  He clenched his fists, feeling the mana thrumming in his veins.

  "And I will reach the Third Circle in one week. Even if it kills me."

  The determination in his eyes hardened.

  He would not waste the second life Elara had given him.