"…Luce, my child. Wake up." Wilhelm's voice echoed through the dark.
Lucien stirred, blinking until the blur sharpened into his grandfather's relieved face.
He shot upright and flung himself into his arms, his voice quivering. "Grandpa! I thought you were—"
The words caught in his throat. Lucien closed his eyes, exhaling as the crushing weight in his chest finally eased.
Wilhelm chuckled, gently stroking his grandson's hair. "It's all right. We're safe now."
Another vision.
"I hate to interrupt," a woman's familiar voice cut in.
They turned. A figure with crimson hair and matching eyes approached, her red robe trailing like smoke.
"We need to move before the imperial knights catch us," she said, offering two masks: one shaped like a lion and the other a wolf.
Her voice. It was the same one that had commanded the werewolves.
The edges of the world dimmed, yet Wilhelm's words rang vivid. "…she helped us escape… your mother will awaken…"
And the void closed in.
…
When the crackling fire reached his ears, Lucien opened his eyes to a dimly lit world. Warm light danced across rough stone bricks overhead. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke.
His brows furrowed. An underground passage? A cell?
"You're awake?"
A woman's voice jolted him upright.
A pale figure in a red robe sat cross-legged beside his bed, arms folded. Fiery hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her cold, crimson eyes pinned on him.
The woman from the vision.
"What do you want?" he hissed.
Two hulking figures loomed behind her in black robes—fully transformed werewolves, marking nightfall. And no Mana in the air.
"Join us—the Akmé."
Lucien's lips quirked. "After you slaughtered all my men?"
She chuckled softly, tilting her head. "Why blame me? Their death was the price of your defiance."
His jaw tightened, fists clenching. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"But," her lips curved as she sat straighter, hand reaching toward him, "if they're dear to you, we can bring them back."
Lucien slapped her hand away. "Don't talk nonsense. The dead stay dead."
Her laugh rang like silver before she gestured to the beasts. "Then explain them."
He followed her motion, eyes locking on their feral, slitted pupils.
Werewolves had never been a race in this world, nor crafted like chimeras. No one knew how they came to exist.
Returning his gaze to the woman, he found her lounging, an amused smile playing on her lips.
Was she implying that the cult could perform miracles—
Lucien's lips thinned as a passage from the banned book surfaced in his mind: power to resurrect the dead.
"So, what do you think?" Her voice pulled him back to reality.
Lucien regarded her in silence.
Miracle.
The word stuck. His heart raced as a question stirred: Could they know a way back to the modern world?
No.
He massaged the bridge of his nose. I need to calm down.
"It doesn't have to be just that," she continued, her smile stretched wide. "We can grant any wish you desire. The throne? The Vazquez household's annihilation? Name it, and it will be done."
If he were the real Lucien, he might have wavered. But the cult's infiltration of his knights proved their danger. He'd seen only two, but who knew how many more lurked in the court?
Joining them would bring nothing but trouble.
"I need time to think," he said at last.
"Very well." She rose, the beasts padding after her as she moved toward the iron-barred entrance. "Make sure to attend the sermon tomorrow morning."
His head jerked up. "I haven't joined your cult."
She halted, slowly turning back; eyes narrowing. "Cult?" The word dripped with disdain. "It's Akmé. Remember that."
With a flick of her cloak, she strode for the exit, pausing only to glance over her shoulder. "Attend, and you might meet the girl."
The iron door slammed shut, the echo rattling through the chamber.
Lucien exhaled a long, weary sigh. "Right…"
He'd nearly forgotten about Roschella.
Sermon, huh? What a polite word for brainwashing.
Still, he had to admit, the cult was frighteningly well prepared. And now, he had no choice but to attend if he wanted to ensure Roschella's safety.
Leaning against the cold wall, Lucien fixed his gaze on the brazier burning at the center of the room, replaying the vision. From the clothes Wilhelm wore, it must have been a continuation of his grandfather's execution.
Wilhelm had said, "She helped us escape," and "Your mother will awaken." It was clear that the cult was playing savior, dangling Roseanne's resurrection to lure them in.
In the novel, a notorious cult general bore the same wolf mask. That alone confirmed Wilhelm's allegiance, for by then, Lucien had already been dead.
Speaking of Lucien's death, the pieces finally fit.
Tristan hadn't killed him for the throne or power, as he once believed. He'd done it because Lucien joined the cult.
Because Lucien became a villain.
He clicked his tongue, bitterness permeating his mouth. Guilt clawed at his chest upon recalling how cruelly he had treated Tristan, how blind his prejudice had been, only to face the truth that his brother's love had been genuine all along.
Lucien raked a hand through his hair.
He felt… wretched.
Exhaling sharply through his nose, he swung his legs off the bed and stepped toward the brazier. Heat licked his skin as he stared into the flames until they blurred into a burst of crimson—Kyle's torn heart flashing before him. His jaw clenched, fists curling hard at his sides.
He had seen death countless times on the battlefield, yet it never dulled the pain, especially when their shared moments flickered through his mind.
Would it have been different if he had just surrendered to the cult?
He didn't know…
But regretting what was done would change nothing.
Was he cold for thinking so? Perhaps.
But life went on.
Lucien picked up a log and tossed it into the fire, watching sparks scatter like fleeing fireflies.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. When I escape… I'll give you the proper rites you deserve.
His cerulean gaze fell to the embers smoldering at the bottom of the brazier—the first ingredient of his escape plan.
He could use his Aura to fight, true, but with the underground crawling with hundreds—or maybe thousands—of werewolves, it would be no different from suicide, especially with no knowledge of the layout. He couldn't afford to jump blindly.
Whirling around, he marched toward the entrance. Time to find the second ingredient.
As he stepped closer, the two towering, broad-shouldered werewolves turned their glowing eyes on him.
"What?" one growled.
Lucien arched an eyebrow. It speaks… the imperial tongue?
He had assumed they were nothing more than monsters. But that was not the case?
Brushing the thought aside, he ordered, "Show me the latrine."
The first beast narrowed its gaze, then turned with a guttural growl. "Follow me."
Walking down the corridor, their footsteps reverberated. Torches lined the walls, casting an orange glow that painted the stone in shifting light and shadow. After several minutes, they halted before a heavy wooden door.
The werewolf shoved it open, the hinges groaning. A damp stench of earth and waste wafted out. Lucien's nose twitched, but he kept his face impassive.
The beast jerked its head toward the darkness within. "In. Be quick."
Lucien entered the narrow chamber and closed the door behind him. A crude pit yawned at the center. A single torch sputtered in its bracket, casting more shadow than light.
He crouched near the pit and peeled off his gloves. Diving his hand into the pit, he pressed his fingers against the inner wall; the damp grit clung to his skin. He brought it closer; faint, grayish-white grains caught the flicker of the firelight.
Saltpeter.
The second ingredient.
Taking out his handkerchief, Lucien scraped the powder onto it and tucked it into his pocket as much as he could. When he stepped out, the guard instantly pinched its nose, catching the acrid tang of saltpeter.
"Did you foul yourself?!" it barked.
Lucien rolled his eyes, tone flat. "None of your business."
The beast grunted and led him back to his chamber, grumbling all the way. Well, it wasn't his fault werewolves had such sensitive noses.
Now, with charcoal and saltpeter secured, only sulfur remained. Commonly used in medicine, it might be stored in an infirmary—if the cult had one.
But even if it did… how was he supposed to get it?
The groan of iron cut through his thoughts. The door swung open, revealing his chamber.
"Meal's ready," another werewolf guarding the door announced.
Lucien's eyes drifted to the table where the food had been laid. Ah. Never mind. I know how.
The beast shoved him inside and slammed the door shut. On the table sat a bowl of thin soup, two slices of bread, and a glass of water. Lucien stared at it, conflicted. This was the first time since transmigrating that he had truly seen what a commoner's supper looked like.
Had five months of living as a prince already raised his standards without him realizing it?
Whatever.
He sat down, the bread crumbling in his hand like chalk. Breaking off a piece, he dipped it into the watery soup and shoved it into his mouth. The soggy lump dissolved into a gluey paste, like glue mixed with phlegm.
"Unf—!" Lucien gagged; his stomach lurched in revolt.
He knocked the table aside; plates and cups shattered against the stone as he collapsed to his knees, hacking and retching so hard his chest ached.
"H-help!—Cough, cough!"
The door burst open, werewolves rushing in. "What's wrong?!"
Lucien spat the last of the soup, then reached toward them with a trembling, desperate hand.
"Infirmary… my stomach…"
He'd meant to fake it, but—no, the food really was that bad.