"My dear brother... did you ever imagine that the little brother you abandoned to die in the wastelands would one day stand on the same level as you?"
This bombshell of a question instantly overloaded the mind of Allen, who was observing the battle from over a hundred kilometers away.
Allen silently stroked his chin. 'Should I just cut the feed and play dead?' he wondered.
But for Mercer, that word—"brother"—was like a key, violently smashing open the floodgates of his memory.
Long-forgotten scenes came rushing back like a flood tide.
...
Darkness. Dampness. And a strange, perpetual stench—a mixture of chemicals and rusted metal.
This was Mercer's only impression of his childhood.
No parents, no name. There was only a Black Wizard in a dark robe who called himself "Father," and dozens of "brothers" who looked almost identical to him.
They had been "manufactured."
