'How much information should I reveal regarding my goals and the nature of my magic?' Albion calculated, his mind running through dozens of potential outcomes.
On one hand, disclosing his goals to Juvia and Sheila offered advantages. They could provide guidance, advice, or perhaps even assist him in achieving them—though he assessed that final outcome as unlikely.
On the other hand, full transparency required total exposure. He would have to explain everything that had shaped himself including his connection to an ancient, eradicated bloodline.
And that presented a problem: he possessed no way to prove it. He did not understand the exact way behind his regeneration. only that it had occurred. Nor could he offer an explanation for him not being human. If he was not human, then what was he? That was a question he had yet to solve himself.
Yet, beneath his cold, calculated logic, a quiet desire lingered. He wanted to believe he was human. Because if he was human, then his right to hold the throne—to remain the King of his own mind—was absolute. It meant his life possessed inherent value. He wanted to believe that his core essence would remain human, regardless of what he was.
Because if he was neither human nor the King... did his existence hold any value at all?
Then there was the matter of his magic. While he could confirm its existence, revealing its true function was another risk entirely. Could he genuinely trust them? Codex Magic possessed zero offensive capabilities. It was purely support, utility, and analysis.
That was precisely why he viewed Juvia's Skywater Magic as superior. She possessed both absolute defense and lethal offensive capacity. Her magic contained few weaknesses—weaknesses that could easily be mitigated with physical training.
A cascade of variables flooded his mind. What if they disbelieved him? What if they rejected him just as Gajeel had? What if they concluded he was unstable? What if they viewed him as weak?
Anxiety tightened in his chest, forcing a momentary hesitation.
'Can I... truly trust them?'
That was the central question. Could he trust Juvia and Sheila enough to expose his vulnerabilities? Could he trust them not to laugh at him, as the mages in the main hall had?
"Heh. What has you so confused, my King?" A soft, mocking voice echoed directly beside his ear.
The surrounding hallway faded into shadow, the ambient light dimming as the boundary between reality and his mind warped. The damp stone walls dissolved into an endless expanse of motionless black water.
"I'm right here whenever you require assistance," Amon whispered.
He stood beside him, a sinister grin tearing across his stitched, pale lips, causing faint trickles of dark liquid to leak down his chin. He was not a separate entity from another realm, but an alternate, fully realized will existing alongside Albion within the exact same consciousness—a darker, unrestrained counterpart born from his trauma.
In this mental domain, the title of King did not designate a ruler over the realm itself. It defined who held absolute dominion over the physical body in the real world.
Only one King could act in reality at a time.
If Albion remained the King, his control over his body was absolute, leaving Amon trapped as an observer within the Inner World. But if Amon ever seized the throne, the dynamic would invert—Amon would pilot his body in the physical world, relegating Albion to a powerless witness trapped in the dark expanse.
Albion's gaze shifted toward his double, his fuchsia eyes growing unnaturally flat. Unlike his outward composure in reality, he could not conceal the cold edge in his voice here.
"Why are you here?" Albion said, his tone quiet, measured, but laced with hostility. "Return to the inner world. I am the King."
"I am sensing weakness, King," Amon replied, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Do I require repeating what was established back then?"
"The moment I detect even the slightest hesitation or weakness in your spirit," Albion quoted, repeating Amon's past declaration, "I will not hesitate to drag you down and take the crown myself."
Amon nodded slowly, his grin widening to an unsettling degree. "Precisely." In a flicker of motion, Amon appeared directly in front of Albion's face, his amused expression vanishing into a dark, intense glare. The atmosphere around them grew heavy, distorted by his oppressive intent.
"So tell me... why is it that I am sensing so much weakness from you right now?"
For a second, Albion's posture broke. He took a subtle step back across the black water, an involuntary reflex of caution. But he caught himself instantly, forcing his frame to steel.
"I have not halted my progression," Albion stated, his voice dropping into a colder, lower register. "Not for a single minute. You are simply impatient for control."
"Perhaps," Amon conceded, stepping closer until their faces were inches apart. "Yet your mind is fracturing under hesitation. Why do you hesitate before those two? Is it because of that pathetic magic of yours?"
Albion's breath hitched slightly, his unblinking gaze faltering. "How do you... know about that?"
Amon's grin returned, sharp and merciless.
"I am you, remember?"
Amon took a slow, measured step backward, his demeanor flattening into something calm, absolute, and deeply reflective.
"I am Amon. The Hidden One," the voice resonated, echoing not merely in the damp hall, but through the vast, dark expanse of Albion's inner realm. "The shadow that walked beside you when no one else remained. Every wound you suffered... I witnessed it. Every grief you buried... I carried it. Every victory you claimed... I remembered. There is nothing within you that remains unknown to me."
Amon's crimson eyes burned through the dimness, locking onto Albion with absolute focus.
"Because I am you," he continued, his tone low, deliberate, and unnervingly quiet. "I was born from the emotions you could not bear. From every unspoken fear. From every swallowed hatred. I am the darkness cast by your soul—the truth you buried beneath silence. I am what remains."
A faint, cruel smile spread across his stitched lips. The threads pulled taut against his pale skin, and thin trails of blood slowly traced their way down his chin, dripping soundlessly onto the black water below.
"Should your will ever falter... Should your heart ever break... Should the Inner World reject the one seated upon the throne..." Amon leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Then I shall become King."
He held up a hand before Albion could speak, silencing him with sheer presence.
"Not by conquest. Not by theft. But by right. I have claimed the very principle of growth from the heavens themselves. Every hardship that tempers your spirit tempers mine. Every battle that sharpens your edge sharpens mine. The distance between us can never grow."
His eyes narrowed into sharp, luminous slits.
"For I rise alongside you."
He turned his gaze slightly, as if looking past the physical realm entirely.
"I laugh at those who worship strength, and I despise those who surrender to weakness. Both are slaves—one to pride, the other to fear. I reject them equally."
The crimson glow within his irises deepened.
"I reject good. I reject evil. I reject every chain mankind has forged to divide the world into convenient lies. I am the manifestation of the inhuman blood flowing through your veins. The enemy of the heavens. The contradiction that refuses to cease existing."
Amon slowly placed a hand over his chest, his voice flat, steady, and devoid of desperation.
"Remember this, Albion. I care nothing for gods. I care nothing for fate. I care nothing for the judgments of men. There is only one thing I will never tolerate."
The stitched smile widened, fresh blood glistening along his jawline.
"A weak King."
Albion's small hands curled into tight, trembling fists at his sides. His jaw set hard, a rare heat breaking through his calculated demeanor.
"Mind your tongue, Amon," Albion commanded, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous register. "I have not grown weak. I stated it once, and I will state it again—you will never claim the throne."
In an instant, the sensory feedback of the physical world bled back into Albion's consciousness, though heavily distorted. The stone corridor of Phantom Lord lost its color, washed out in muted shades of gray as if submerged in dark glass.
Amon did not vanish. Adhering to the absolute rules of the Inner World, he could not physically interact with reality, but he drifted effortlessly through it. He manifested right beside Sheila, hovering in the air like an intangible specter, leaning casually beside her shoulder.
Albion could see Sheila's lips moving. "Are you alright?" she seemed to ask, her expression marked by quiet concern, but no sound reached his ears. His focus was entirely locked on the entity floating beside her.
"Why are you contemplating telling them?" Amon asked, his tone dripping with dry, mocking curiosity. "You do not require their aid. You do not require their presence. Was it not your objective to consume everything in your path? To utilize every available resource to ascend? What happened to that logic? Do not tell me your goals have changed."
"Sheila said I don't need to walk this path alone. It would only bring sadness." Albion said back, directing his mental voice straight at the phantom."I will continue to advance, but I don't need to do it by myself. Can't I keep moving forward at a slower rate? One that lets me move with people?"
"You do not need allies," Amon scoffed, floating downward until his feet hovered just above the stone floor. "You require only yourself—and by extension, me."
He gestured lazily toward Sheila's grayed-out figure.
"Are you truly naive enough to accept her advice? Have you already forgotten the outcome of your previous bond with an adult? A bond you so desperately sought to protect that the resulting betrayal manifested me?"
Albion's expression darkened, a bitter weight settling in his chest. He knew precisely who Amon was referring to.
"I have not forgotten," Albion replied internally, forcing his thoughts to remain structured. "However, Sheila is not like hers. She's not a bad person. She is the first person to treat me as a child despite her barely knowing me."
"Everyone's intentions become malicious under the correct conditions," Amon countered coldly. "Have you forgotten what transpired the last time you offered vulnerability to someone?"
Amon stepped closer, raising a hand to his own face. As his fingers brushed across his features, his form shifted, the pale skin and stitched mouth blurring into a familiar, imposing figure with wild black hair and metal studs for eyebrows.
"Gajeel..." Albion's eyes widened
Amon's transformation was a capability he used as a weapon of psychological pressure. He wore the mage skin with perfect precision.
Amon cleared his throat, exhaling a dry, raspy breath. When he spoke, it was Gajeel's exact voice—abrasive, heavy, and laced with absolute disdain.
"I wanted to see if you were the kind of kid he always mentioned. Someone actually worth watching. Someone with real steel in their spine."
Amon leaned down, Gajeel's dark, red-slit eyes staring directly into Albion's soul, his voice echoing with brutal clarity:
"You're just a waste of space. Even your own mother didn't want you."
Albion said nothing, but his face contorted into a tight, grimace.
Amon began to close the distance, still wearing Gajeel's rough features. "You can reject me all you want, but you cannot reject your own weakness. You must face reality. And the reality is—"
Amon's hands suddenly gripped the sides of Gajeel's scalp. With a sickening, tearing sound, he pulled in opposite directions. The illusion split down the middle in a gruesome display of shifting flesh.
Albion's stomach turned, an involuntary wave of nausea hitting him as he watched the visage tear apart.
From beneath the ruptured illusion, a new face emerged—a woman of average height with a lean, athletic build. Her long, black, shaggy hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. Her eyes were deep, unyielding pools of cold, observant black. She wore a matte-black stealth bodysuit fitted beneath a short, sleeveless white hooded cloak that ended at her waist, casting a sharp shadow over the upper half of her face. A matte-black cloth mask concealed her mouth and nose.
Albion stood paralyzed, speechless in utter shock at the figure Amon had chosen to mirror. His frame trembled, a rare display of raw distress breaking through his cold exterior.
Amon, wearing his mother's exact likeness, stepped forward and placed both hands gently against Albion's cheeks.
"That innate magic of yours?" Amon spoke through the black mask, her voice smooth and chilling. "Its constant accumulation of information creates a massive burden. Think about it analytically—why else would it strain your mind so severely? It provides an explanation for your erratic behavioral spikes since leaving the library."
Amon smiled beneath the mask, the fabric tightening slightly. "So what if you become a 'bad person'? No one possesses the authority to judge you. They aren't even worthy of your trust. Only I am. Because I will never abandon you. After all... you are me, remember?"
"Get... out of my head," Albion spat, his voice trembling slightly.
The grayed-out world around them began to contract, the edges of his vision dimming into severe tunnel vision.
"Stop attempting to play the noble child," Amon whispered, wrapping her arms around Albion's shoulders, pulling him into a tight, suffocating embrace. "Kindness has never ensured your survival. Did you not resolve to grow stronger? Even if it required walking a path toward destruction? So what if you manipulate those around you? Who cares? You have no obligation to value them."
Amon's breath brushed against his ear. "No one has ever understood you. They are not the ones who stand beside you in the dark. The only one who will ever stand beside you... is me!"
Albion's breathing became ragged. The thunderous cadence of his own heartbeat filled his ears, drowning out all external ambient sound. Within the dimming hallway, his fuchsia eyes began to glow with an intense, eerie light.
'I must acquire power,' Albion thought, a dark, toxic logic flooding his mind like venom. 'To survive within Phantom Lord... I must continue to advance.'
Amon's hand gently caressed Albion's hair, the smile beneath the mask stretching unnaturally wide. "Exploit them to accelerate your development. Fulfill your goals. A true King relies on no one."
The poisonous words fed directly into the volatile instinct rising in Albion's chest.
'I must grow stronger. So what if my actions are that of a bad person? Who cares if I manipulate them?' His glowing eyes locked onto Sheila's grayed-out figure, a cold, bloodlust-filled grin spreading across his face. 'If I simply kill those who impede my progress...'
'I am—!'
Suddenly, a warm, soft pair of hands rested firmly on Albion's shoulders. The dark tunnel vision shattered. The dull gray haze dissolved instantly, flushed away by a surge of vibrant color as reality snapped back into focus. The force of the touch pushed the suffocating weight of Amon's presence backward into the depths of his mind.
"Albion, are you alright?" Juvia asked, her voice rich with genuine concern. Though they had clashed earlier, she held no personal malice toward him. Seeing his small frame shaking and his fists clenched tightly, she leaned down, her brow furrowed.
"You're trembling," she noted softly. "And you look frightened. Is something troubling you?"
Albion's gaze snapped up, locking onto Juvia. The world had returned to normal, though his eyes still held a lingering, faint glow.
"Juvia..." he breathed out.
Juvia looked closer at his face, her expression softening. "Your eyes are glowing. Is that an effect of your magic? It's actually pretty cool."
Albion's chest heaved as he struggled to stabilize his ragged breathing. His mouth opened, a desperate urge rising within him to articulate the storm raging in his mind, yet the cascade of lingering doubts held his tongue hostage.
"I have a..." He choked on the sentence. "I have a...!"
Every memory of his isolation, every cold experiment, and every painful interaction since joining Phantom Lord flashed through his consciousness in rapid succession.
"I... need to tell you something..." he finally whispered.
As the murderous intent drained from his heart, the dark, forced grin vanished from his face, replaced entirely by raw, childlike fear.
Juvia simply offered a gentle, comforting smile—one tinged with a quiet, reflective sadness. Keeping her hands steady on his shoulders, she spoke in a soft, even tone.
"A long time ago, I had a younger sister named Lilia. It was my responsibility to protect her. She would have been around your age now. I often wonder how she is faring... in the afterlife."
She paused for a brief moment, her eyes shimmering with distant memories.
"My father always instructed me to look after those younger than myself. Even though he is no longer here, I intend to honor his words. If something or someone is causing you fear, you should voice it. You do not have to carry the burden entirely inside yourself, you know?"
Albion swallowed hard, his throat dry. A hot tear welled in the corner of his eye, slipping down his cheek as his shoulders shuddered.
"I am not... I am not supposed to have these bonds," Albion stammered, his analytical speech pattern breaking under the emotional strain. "I cannot... I am not permitted this weakness. If I allow it... I cannot remain the King..."
Juvia tilted her head, looking at her younger guildmate with genuine confusion.
"Desiring connection with others is not a weakness," she said gently. "It is a demonstration of strength."
Albion's eyes widened.
Juvia's smile brightened, warm and completely devoid of judgment.
"If anything, I believe it confirms your humanity. If you wish to make friends, no one possesses the authority to forbid you. It is your life, is it not?"
Albion stumbled back slightly, his feet slipping against the cold water stone floor. Juvia was no longer floating on her water magic; she was standing firmly beside him, maintaining her grip on his shoulders to keep him steady.
"Can... Can I tell you something, Juvia?" Albion asked, his voice fragile and unsteady as tears trailed down his face. "If I tell you... do you promise you won't reject me?"
"Of course," Juvia answered immediately, her bright smile unwavering. "We are guildmates, aren't we? That is what we are here for."
A small, genuine smile broke through Albion's tears—a look of overwhelming relief and gratitude.
"...Yeah."
A short distance down the hallway, Sheila stood in silence, her sharp gaze fixed intently on the young boy.
'What was that?' she thought, her instincts on high alert. 'What did I just feel?'
For a brief moment, she had felt it—an oppressive, deeply malevolent presence leaking from within Albion's. It was dark, twisted, and unlike anything she had ever encountered.
Her eyes narrowed as she watched Juvia comfort the crying child.
'Albion... just who are you?'