Lucien Graves could still perceive the position of his primary consciousness. Yet alongside it, he became acutely aware of an abnormal extension—his spiritual body now tethered to a second vessel in an entirely different time and space.
In that distant place, he was seated atop the corpse of a monstrous, otherworldly beast. The sensation was deeply surreal—reminiscent of the absurdities within the Fog of History.
Am I dreaming?
Lucien blinked. His primary self lay buried in a cold, shallow pit. Raindrops, sparse and chill, mingled with the metallic clang of a shovel scraping against soil. Mud mixed with water slid down his cheeks, sticky and vile.
Raising his head slightly, he saw it—the crimson crescent moon, partially veiled by roiling clouds. The blood-colored luminescence pierced through the gloom like a divine omen gone mad.
The moon… why is it red?
Where am I?
Clarity returned with brutal abruptness. Lucien realized that his consciousness was genuinely split in two—operating two bodies simultaneously. Worse still, his primary vessel was in the process of being buried alive.
What in the name of the Celestial Worthy…? What kind of lunatic ritual is this?!
Lucien's first thought wasn't even that he had transmigrated—again—but that the long-feared death aura, the kind associated with tragic protagonists and divination-averse "Conan-types," had finally struck someone near him and ensnared him as collateral. But no—this wasn't some ordinary curse or divine misfortune. It felt more like a second, simultaneous transmigration—one consciousness split across two vessels.
Damn it! I just destroyed the Cult of the Black Vine yesterday. All that effort—wasted!
A shadow surged toward his face. Instinct responded faster than thought. Lucien braced with his elbows, rolled to the side, and narrowly avoided the descending shovel that would've crushed his skull. As he twisted upright, he saw the attacker clearly.
A tall, gaunt man in a retro-style high-collared trench coat. Graying hair at the temples. About forty years old. His eyes flashed with surprise—no, fear.
Is this the assassin this time? Don't even get the courtesy of choosing from three suspects—just straight to execution? Figures.
Lucien pushed down the sarcasm and scrambled upright. Only then did he notice the terrain: a dense forest, overgrown and desolate. Not a soul in sight. The perfect location for an unceremonious grave.
The man dropped the shovel and reached into his coat—clearly going for a weapon.
Lucien had seen that motion a thousand times in his previous life.
He lunged forward. His elbow sank into the man's gut, knocking the breath from him, and he simultaneously ripped the revolver free from his attacker's coat. One fluid spin—a whip kick—and the man flew back three meters, colliding with a tree trunk with a bone-rattling crack before collapsing, motionless.
Lucien wasn't surprised.
He approached cautiously and checked the man's vitals. Alive—but unconscious.
Raising his hand to deliver a second strike to ensure compliance, Lucien hesitated mid-motion.
Wait… This isn't a scientific world anymore. What if one more knock renders him brain-dead? Or worse—accidentally kills him?
Though Lucien wasn't particularly burdened by moral compunctions, he had no intention of committing murder mere minutes into his arrival. What if there were divine laws here he didn't know yet? What if he was immediately caught by a Seer or a Red Gloves team?
Not worth it.
Instead, he tore strips from the man's coat and bound his limbs tightly.
With the immediate danger resolved, Lucien turned his gaze to the revolver. A six-shooter—primitive, but solid. Victorian-era design, perhaps?
"How charming," he muttered, disassembling it in seconds to check for arcane modifications. There were none.
Even as he examined the parts, Lucien's attention split—returning to the second vessel.
The child's body—no more than seven or eight years old—sat on the corpse of a grotesque monster. And in those once-empty eyes, a flicker of awareness returned. But it was quickly blanketed by a chilling madness.
Lucien looked down.
A massive wound gaped beneath his feet. Blackened blood and red sinew spilled across the forest floor. Some of the flesh still twitched—writhing like it obeyed a will not yet extinguished. A few tendrils even bore twisted, tentacle-like mutations.
To any rational mind, it was a nightmare made manifest. But to Lucien—he felt nothing. No fear. No revulsion.
Only calm calculation.
He examined the corpse and made a logical deduction: this malformed creature had given birth to him.
This… is my mother.
And yet, she had not died by his hand. The grotesque wounds raked across her form bore no resemblance to the feeble body he now occupied.
She died… before I was born.
More disturbingly, the corpse's bloated abdomen bore another bulge. Something else was still inside.
Another one?
As he considered this, a faint sob echoed from within the mass. It was muffled, but unmistakable.
A child's cry.
Lucien stared at the source of the sound, unmoving, his gaze devoid of emotion.
Even as the cries weakened.
Even as death closed in on the one still trapped inside.
...
Wait. What am I doing? Why am I just… watching?
Lucien blinked. Something shifted within him. The cold indifference—the madness—retreated, if only slightly. Reason resurfaced.
He frowned. Without pausing to analyze further, he rushed forward and tore at the flesh—pulling open the gash that marked his own unnatural birth. Only then did he truly grasp the disparity: this body was small. Child-sized.
But it wielded strength far beyond expectation.
As he ripped the flesh open to glimpse what lay inside, a sudden flare of flame erupted. Lucien reeled back instinctively.
The fire sliced the wound clean open.
And from it, a child crawled.
Larger than an infant. Broad-shouldered for his age. His eyes blazed bright red.
The child looked around—eyes cautious, predatory—then finally settled on Lucien. A moment of silence. Thoughtfulness. Calculation.
And then—
His body ignited.
Flames roared upward, swirling like a summoned spirit. In mere seconds, the fire coalesced into the form of a child—no older than Lucien's current form. Red-haired. Crimson-eyed.
He looked human. Almost.
If his features developed as expected, he might one day become strikingly handsome. But his expression…
It was insufferably arrogant.
The sort that invited a punch.