At dawn, Lucard woke as though everything that had happened to him had been nothing more than a dream.
The first thing that greeted his slowly opening eyes was a familiar ceiling—one he had not seen in what felt like an eternity. So long, in fact, that even the most delusional dreamer lost in an eighth-grade fantasy could scarcely imagine such a span of time.
He sat up on his mattress and slowly swept his gaze across the room, only to find himself inside his old bedroom.
'Was it all just a dream?'
The moment he looked down at his hands, the haze clouding his thoughts began to clear.
They looked foreign.
His fingers were longer and more refined than he remembered. His skin was pale and flawless, carrying a faint rosy hue. His nails were crimson—almost blood-red—and slightly sharper than normal. Rising from the bed, still naked, he hurried toward the mirror attached to his closet door.
'Is this… me?'
Lucard stared at his reflection in disbelief.
The person staring back at him looked impossibly beautiful, as though sculpted by some supernatural hand. His silky, wavy hair had grown darker than before—so dark it seemed to drink in the surrounding light.
Long eyelashes framed his almond-shaped eyes, whose once-brown irises had transformed into a bright shade of gray, bordered by thick limbal rings and touched by subtle gradients of faded yellow that blended into hints of blue.
His lips were fuller and carried a natural pink tint. Even his physique had changed, becoming leaner and more refined, with clearly defined musculature.
Small fangs protruded slightly from his upper teeth.
The only things that remained unchanged were his average height and his double eyelids, which somehow made him look even more attractive.
"…Whatever."
But how had such a young man ended up in such a situation, and why did he seem so confused?
The answer lay far before these events.
Before his change, anyone who saw Lucard would have considered him quite handsome, though nowhere near as beautiful as he was now. He had been an ordinary teenager, living much like everyone else. Like many people, he carried burdens of his own—struggles he concealed behind silence or a carefully worn smile.
Lucard was an orphan.
The only family he had ever known—his foster mother and parental figure—had been reported to have died in an accident.
Because of his background, he was often mocked, ridiculed, and looked down upon. Yet Lucard endured it all, silently swallowing every trace of bitterness and resentment that threatened to take root within his heart.
He was no fool.
If anything, it was he who fooled them by remaining silent.
He could not fight back. They were wealthy and influential, while he was nothing more than an orphan. Though his foster mother had once owned a small shop, it had eventually been driven into ruin by the cruelty of those who wielded greater power.
What could a poor young man do?
They possessed wealth, power, and privilege.
And because of that, they were favored—especially their children.
Lucard had once attended a prestigious school, but he eventually dropped out. While many teachers admired his talent and academic excellence, some of those in higher positions treated him unfairly.
Why?
Because they favored the children of the wealthy and influential.
Even those who recognized Lucard's abilities could do little against people who wielded such authority. He understood the reason well enough.
It was because of where he came from.
Yet despite everything he had endured, Lucard was no ordinary student.
He had been born with a genius-level intellect.
That was precisely why he had been accepted into such a renowned institution in the first place.
Lucard, still staring at the mirror, closed his eyes. The room was suddenly engulfed in flames.
Hahahahahaha! Hahahahahaha! Hahahahahaha!
Laughter was everywhere. It was mocking him.
Soon, the flames began to glitch. The surroundings distorted. The scenery flickered.
A burned house replaced the world. Ash-stained silence. Charred remains where reality had once been.
The mirror remained—filthy, cracked, broken, as if time itself no longer knew how to hold it together.
Lucard stared. Still. Unmoving.
A whispering wind kissed his back, cold and deliberate. In the mirror, a ghostly figure could be seen—faint, wavering, yet unmistakably watching from the other side.
Lucard turned around and saw an elf—a ghost of an elf. It stood impossibly tall, nearly eight feet, its presence filling the space like a silent omen. Clad in silver that glowed with a cold, spectral sheen, it looked less like flesh and more like a memory given form.
Its violet eyes burned softly in the dark, fixed on him without blinking, as if it had been waiting for him longer than time itself.