The afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows through the towering arched windows of the Imperial Academy's western wing. The final bell of the day had tolled a grueling twenty minutes ago, signaling the end of Professor Vane's secondary, advanced lecture on 'Theoretical Mana Displacement'.
Damien finally pushed himself up from the heavy oak desk, letting out a long, groaning exhale as he stretched his stiff arms high above his head. His spine popped in a series of satisfying, staccato cracks.
'Goddamnit,' Damien thought, aggressively massaging the tension out of his neck. 'If it wasn't for the residual academic memories forcefully crammed into my brain by the original Rudeus, I would have literally fallen asleep and face-planted on my desk in the middle of his class, I bet.'
He slung the expensive, leather-bound satchel over his shoulder, its weight feeling entirely disproportionate to his newly acquired, scrawny physique. As he joined the trickle of aristocratic students filing out of the lecture hall, Damien's mind immediately shifted away from magical theory and back to the terrifying reality of his own existence.
He walked down the opulent corridor, deliberately lagging behind the main crowd to ensure a wide berth of personal space. As he moved, he raised his right hand, staring intently at his pale, uncalloused palm.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, delving deep into the spiritual core of his being. He searched for the familiar, comforting abyss. He tried to summon the [Black Death].
He expected the immediate, agonizing sensation of his lifespan being violently siphoned away. He expected the dark, tribal markings to erupt across his skin, signaling the manifestation of his unique trait.
Nothing happened. No markings. No aura of absolute nullification.
And yet, it wasn't completely gone.
Damien clenched his hand into a tight fist. Deep within his chest, beneath the frail, unawakened mana core of Rudeus Blackfyre, he felt a dormant, terrifying thrum. It was a dense, localized singularity of power.
'It's there,' Damien analyzed inwardly, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. 'It is undeniably the Black Death. But at the same time... it's entirely different. It feels shackled. It feels conditional.'
He opened his hand, letting out a slow breath.
'Earlier today, when I confronted Aemond, I managed to leak a fraction of its killing intent. But the actual manifestation of the physical power didn't trigger. Furthermore, probing it now, I don't sense the parasitic drain on my vitality. This iteration of the trait doesn't seem to sip my lifespan away as a primary fuel source. Instead, it feels as though it requires some specific external catalyst or internal requirement for me to fully unleash it.'
Damien lowered his hand, slipping it casually into the pocket of his tailored slacks to avoid drawing attention. He was profoundly weirded out by the alteration of his fundamental power.
'What I truly question is how the hell I even have this power back in the first place?' Damien pondered as he navigated the labyrinthine hallways. 'When Nesmeranda manifested, she completely shattered the System interface. She corrupted the very code that governed my abilities. I was stripped bare. So how did the trait cross the dimensional boundary with my soul?'
A sudden image flashed in his mind.
A realm of impossible paradise. A man clothed in starlight, his eyes obscured by a silken white blindfold.
"It seems I need to tweak something onto your soul."
Damien stopped walking, his breath hitching as the memory solidified.
'It must be him!' Damien realized, his obsidian eyes widening. 'That blindfolded bastard! He was the one who physically manipulated my soul in the void. He must have somehow anchored the essence of the Black Death directly into my spiritual matrix before he threw me into this world.'
Damien's lips twitched upward into a dark, cynical smile as he thought about the cosmic meddler.
'Goddamnit. I suppose I really do have to thank him properly... right after I'm entirely satisfied with choking the ever-living life out of him for the sheer, unadulterated torture his wife put me through.'
His thoughts drifted back to the cryptic words spoken in the void.
'He explicitly stated before that the damn Demon God, Nesmeranda, was his wife, right? What kind of twisted, multiversal marital dispute did I just get caught in the middle of? And what the hell was with that Latin phrase he used? Meus Egomet.'
Damien turned the phrase over in his mind. Even though he had studied ancient history and favored tactical linguistics in his past life, he had zero practical knowledge of the deep, esoteric lore of the Star Stream or the higher pantheons. My own self. Was he an avatar? A clone? A backup drive for a god?
Damien violently shook his head, physically waving the headache-inducing existential crisis away.
'Ehh. Does it really matter right now? I should just be immensely thankful, right? I survived an apocalyptic execution, I got my youth back, and I still have a modified version of my ultimate weapon. I can figure out the mechanics of this newly reformed Black Death later. I could use this trait for my grand escape plan, and maybe—just maybe—use it to save my absolute favorite character from her doomed narrative arc.'
'Yeah. That's the priority. But first, I need to find a quiet place to meditate and truly figure out how this new power works. I need a controlled environment.'
Damien let out a satisfied exhale, feeling a rare moment of optimistic clarity. He looked up, expecting to see the familiar, heavily gilded mahogany doors that led to the East Wing Male Noble Dormitories.
Instead, his crimson eyes widened in absolute bewilderment.
Towering eighty feet above him were massive, wrought-iron gates adorned with the roaring lion crest of the Rosania Empire. Beyond the gates lay the bustling, cobblestone streets of the Imperial Capital, filled with horse-drawn carriages, merchants, and commoners going about their late afternoon business.
He was standing squarely outside the main entrance of the Imperial Academy.
'Shit,' Damien cursed inwardly, slapping a hand against his forehead. 'All of that intense, brooding internal monologue and deep philosophical thinking, and here I am, standing near the outer gate of the academy... when I was supposed to be navigating to my dorm room located literally on the opposite side of the campus.'
Damien couldn't help it. He let out a short, genuine laugh at his own sheer absurdity.
'Shit. My Dad and my Mom were absolutely right about me. I really do possess a terrifyingly terrible sense of direction whenever I get overly focused on a specific train of thought. Hahaha.'
He turned around, facing the massive, sprawling complex of the academy.
'Whatever. Let's try this again. Back to the dorms, Captain.'
***
The Imperial Academy.Male Dormitory, East Wing - Suite 404.Late Afternoon.
It took him another grueling forty-five minutes of asking incredibly confused underclassmen for directions before Damien finally arrived back at his private suite.
He locked the heavy oak door behind him, letting out a massive sigh of relief as the absolute silence of his private quarters washed over him. He dropped his heavy satchel onto a velvet armchair and walked directly toward the corner of the room.
Lying there on the floor, untouched since this morning, were the shattered remains of the gilded mirror he had destroyed in his initial fit of panic.
'I really should buy a new mirror next time I venture into the commercial district,' Damien thought, carefully stepping around the jagged shards of glass. 'Even though Rudeus is widely considered a defect and a bastard, he is still technically a recognized scion of the Blackfyre Duchy. He still receives a rather generous monthly allowance from his fucking father's estate manager.'
Damien crouched down, picking up one of the larger, triangular shards of mirror glass. He stared at his fragmented reflection.
'You know... Grand Duke Raemond Blackfyre is truly a monumental asshole. After experiencing the residual memories of this body, I honestly couldn't blame the original Rudeus for becoming a twisted villain. Seriously. The level of systemic, unchecked emotional and physical abuse in this household is staggering. Even at my absolute worst, my dad nor my mom would have ever treated me like that. To isolate a child, to label them a defect simply due to hair pigmentation... it's sickening.'
Damien traced the edge of the glass shard with his thumb, marveling at the sharp, aristocratic features staring back at him.
"Hmm," Damien murmured aloud, scrutinizing the reflection. "Even though the entire high society of the Empire calls him a defect..."
He turned his head slightly, catching the light in the reflection.
"Rudeus's facial structure is literally undeniably handsome. Even burdened with this scrawny, malnourished body, the raw aesthetics are top-tier. It must be entirely due to his mother's genetics. The commoner concubine must have been breathtaking."
Damien let out a heavy, nostalgic sigh.
"I mean, I was quite handsome too in my past life. Back before the apocalypse. Back before my eyes turned into pitch-black voids."
Damien stared deeply into the brilliant, crimson red eyes of his new body. They were striking, yes, but they felt alien.
"Man... I really miss my original amber eyes," Damien whispered, a profound sense of loss washing over him. "They were literally the exact same color as my late mother's eyes. They were the only physical trait I had left of her. And because of that goddamn Black Death trait—the power that constantly, hungrily sipped my lifespan away without my permission to fuel my survival—I lost them. The corruption bleached the amber right out of my irises, turning them into empty, terrifying black holes."
Damien dropped the shard of glass back onto the pile. He stood up, running a hand through his messy green hair.
"They were the most precious things in the whole world to me. And I lost them to the war."
He sighed again, a bitter, self-deprecating sound.
"And that exact trauma is the sole reason why I developed such a massive, psychotic inferiority complex when it came to eyes. Seriously. It explains so much. I really should try to break my habit of brutally gouging my enemies' eyes out in the middle of combat. It's unseemly. Although, it was highly effective against the Apostles."
Damien's brutal combat habit—his tendency to target the eyes of his foes, up to and including the Demon God herself—was not born of mere tactical efficiency or sadism. It was the subconscious, bitter retaliation of a man who had his own most prized physical feature stolen from him by a cruel twist of fate and magical corruption.
Pushing the dark memories of his past life aside, Damien walked over to the plush, velvet-upholstered couch in the center of the room and threw himself onto it. He sank into the cushions, staring up at the painted ceiling.
"Alright. Pity party over. Time for logistics," Damien stated to the empty room. "I need to meticulously plan my escape from this gilded cage. And more importantly, I need to formulate a concrete plan to save Rosetta Wisteria Arendelle. The woman destined to become 'Elsa, The Winter Monarch.'"
Damien closed his eyes, accessing the incredibly detailed, encyclopedic knowledge he possessed regarding the lore, timeline, and geopolitical landscape of The Chronicles of Adelina.
He began to rapidly mentally catalog the major canonical events scheduled to occur within this current month, and the subsequent months of this specific year. Even though his arrival had placed him exactly five years prior to the official start of the game's main narrative arc, Damien's obsessive teenage immersion in the game's backstory provided him with a clear roadmap.
"Let's see," Damien muttered, holding up a hand and ticking off invisible points on his fingers. "Based on the academy's standard curriculum and the fragmented memories of Rudeus's syllabus, there will be a highly publicized, mandatory 'First-Year Dungeon Simulation' occurring exactly three months from now."
His crimson eyes snapped open, gleaming with tactical calculation.
"Three months. That means I have exactly ninety days to physically condition this pathetic body, secure untraceable travel funds, and figure out the exact trigger mechanism for my dormant Black Death trait."
He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"I should absolutely use that simulation event as my primary window of opportunity. The chaos of a simulated dungeon break, combined with the sheer incompetence of the academy's security forces, will provide the perfect cover. I can fake my own death during a 'tragic accident' in the lower levels. Once the Academy declares Rudeus Blackfyre officially deceased, I'll be a ghost."
Damien stood up, pacing the room as the plan began to crystallize in his mind.
"Once I'm a ghost, I travel north. I cross the heavily militarized border and infiltrate the Arendelle Kingdom. The sovereign territory of the Northern Continent, and coincidentally, the bitter, historical enemy of the Rosania Empire."
He stopped, a cold smile touching his lips.
"And, more specifically... the sworn enemies of Grand Duke Raemond Blackfyre."
Damien perfectly remembered the overarching political plot of the game.
"As far as I remember, Raemond, as the 'Shield of the North', was constantly embroiled in brutal, bloody border skirmishes with the Arendelle vanguard forces. He was a warmonger who profited off the endless conflict. And, in the original timeline, what was his ultimate fate?"
Damien chuckled darkly.
"After the events of Arc 4, Grand Duke Raemond died an absolutely gruesome, agonizing death at the hands of Elsa and her older sister, Tatyana Arendelle. They froze his entire estate and shattered him into a million pieces as retaliation for his war crimes."
Damien nodded in approval. "Honestly? Good for them. The bastard deserves it. I won't lose a wink of sleep over my 'father' becoming an ice sculpture."
He walked over to the mahogany desk, pulling out a heavy, leather-bound chair and sitting down. He needed to write this out.
"Haah... right. How could I forget about Tatyana Arendelle?" Damien groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
Tatyana Arendelle. The First Princess of the Northern Continent. And universally regarded by the game's fandom as the most hated, irredeemable villainess in the entire franchise.
"The players despised her because she was literally the direct catalyst for Rosetta's immense suffering. Tatyana was the one who betrayed her, exiled her, and set her on the path of vengeance. But... that doesn't mean she was truly, inherently pure evil."
Damien sighed deeply, tapping his fingers against the polished wood of the desk. He was thinking critically about Tatyana's tragic, deeply buried backstory. He, too, had hated her violently during his initial playthroughs because her actions directly caused Rosetta to snap, assume the mantle of the Winter Monarch, and become the Final Villainess of the game.
But as he dug deeper into the lore, he realized the heartbreaking truth. He couldn't entirely blame Tatyana.
"The absolute anchor of both of their suffering... the true monster of the Northern Continent... was none other than their own mother. The current reigning sovereign, Queen Yekaterina of the Arendelle Kingdom."
Damien's disgust for the game's writers flared anew.
"If both Rosetta's and Tatyana's mother wasn't a sociopathic, power-hungry tyrant... if she hadn't intentionally fostered an environment of lethal paranoia... if she didn't literally force her own five children to engage in a covert, bloody assassination war against each other just to prove who was 'worthy' to inherit the throne..."
Damien gripped the edge of the desk.
"If they had just had a normal mother, neither of them would have been twisted into crazy, genocidal psychopaths."
He let go of the desk, leaning back in the chair and staring at the ceiling in pure exasperation.
"Sigh. Why is this entire goddamn world absolutely overflowing with catastrophic parental issues? Seriously, did the fucking lead developer of this game also have massive, unresolved parental trauma? Is that why they felt the overwhelming need to project their deep-seated anger toward their own parents and bake it into the foundational lore of literally every major character in their game?!"
Damien scoffed, crossing his arms.
"Fuck. This right here is exactly why I always fundamentally hated the overarching storyline of this game. It was too bleak. Too needlessly cruel to children. Seriously, if Rosetta didn't exist in this game... if her character design and her unyielding pride hadn't resonated so deeply with me... I would not have played that trash fire of a visual novel no matter what."
He shook his head, clearing his frustration. Anger wouldn't save Rosetta. Action would.
"Shit! The plan. I need to get these plans down on paper before I lose the thread."
Damien reached across the wide mahogany desk. He grabbed a thick, elegantly bound leather journal that belonged to the original Rudeus, intending to tear out the blank pages at the back to map out his escape route to the Northern Continent.
But before his fingers could even grasp the brass clasp of the journal...
"ARGH!"
Damien violently recoiled.
A sudden, blinding spike of pain drove itself directly through the center of his forehead, right between his eyes. It was a headache so intense, so instantaneous, that it forced him to his knees beside the desk, clutching his skull with both hands.
It wasn't the integration of basic memories this time. It felt like a massive, pressurized dam of suppressed emotions had just violently burst open inside his brain.
"What the absolute fuck was that?!" Damien gasped, panting heavily as the sharp pain slowly began to recede, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache.
He pulled himself back up into the chair, his hands shaking slightly. He looked down at the leather journal resting innocuously on the desk. It wasn't a standard academic notebook. The leather was worn from excessive handling, and the brass lock was unlocked.
It was a diary.
Driven by a sudden, inexplicable compulsion—a feeling that didn't entirely belong to him—Damien flipped the heavy cover open. He began to thumb through the thick parchment pages, his eyes scanning the elegant, slightly trembling cursive handwriting of the original Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre.
As he read the entries, Damien's heart stopped.
His crimson eyes widened to the absolute limit. The blood drained entirely from his face, leaving him as pale as a ghost.
"What... what the fuck?!" Damien whispered into the silence of the room, his voice trembling with profound horror and disbelief.
He flipped the pages faster, his eyes darting frantically across the ink.
"Wh-why is my name in here?! My real name?! Why is my whole damn life written in this book?! My parents' death... Mel's death! Even the tragedy of what happened in the Nevada Exclusion Zone!!"
Damien's hands shook so violently he nearly tore the parchment. He forced himself to stop flipping and read the entries chronologically, his mind struggling to comprehend the impossible reality laid bare before him.
Year 1021, Month of the Wolf, Day 1
I had a terrifying, profoundly strange dream last night. I was no longer in my body. I saw myself... no, I was watching a young boy with hair the color of blood and eyes like warm amber. The boy was crying hysterically over the ruined bodies of an adult male and an adult female. I saw the boy desperately hugging their torn, bloody bodies, his small hands clenching two tarnished golden rings while he screamed, calling them Mom and Dad over and over again.I was in absolute shock. The grief I felt radiating from him was suffocating. I wanted nothing more than to reach out through the dream, to hold that child, to comfort him and tell him he wasn't alone. And then... I saw the monster. A massive, horrific beast of pure nightmare, looming over him. That was the first time in my life I truly saw what horror looked like. I felt so much primal fear that my dream-body froze completely.
Then, from the heavens, a massive man with bright blond hair descended. He wielded a terrifying, golden hammer-like weapon that crackled with lightning. He smashed the massive monster's head with a single blow, creating a crater in its skull. Seriously, it was a truly bizarre, terrifying situation. I woke up screaming, but the sorrow in my chest hasn't faded all day.
- Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre's Diary
Damien stopped reading. He couldn't breathe.
That was his life. That was exactly how his parents had died in the Seattle Dungeon Break. That was exactly how Nicholas, the Titan of the West, had arrived to save him.
Rudeus hadn't just been dreaming. He had been looking across the dimensional veil. He had been watching Damien's life unfold like a horrific, tragic play.
Damien swallowed hard, forcing his trembling eyes to move to the next entry.
Year 1021, Month of the Wolf, Day 3
I had the strange dream again. The timeline had shifted. I saw the boy again, but this time we were at a funeral. It was raining. It seemed it was a burial for the child's parents. The massive blond-haired man from before—the hero—approached the boy. He knelt down and asked the child if he blamed the Hunters for arriving too late, if he blamed them for his parents' death.
The boy... his answer shocked me. He answered that he didn't. He said he didn't blame the Hunters, because he knew it wasn't their fault the monsters existed. It wasn't their fault they died.
I felt a sudden, irrational surge of anger. I wanted to somehow curse the blond man, to scream at him that they were too late, that they should have been faster! I wanted to protect the boy's right to be angry! And yet, it seemed I was nothing but a phantom; I couldn't control that body or speak into his world.But mostly... I am really, profoundly shocked. For a young child to possess so much wisdom, so much unwarranted forgiveness and kindness in his shattered heart... it is beautiful. If I had been born in that strange world, and if I had met that brave, tragic child, I would not hesitate for a single second to adopt him. I would become his big brother. I would protect him so he would never have to cry like that again.
- Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre's Diary
A single tear escaped Damien's eye, dropping onto the parchment, blurring the ink.
The boy the entire world called a "defect," the boy who was relentlessly abused and bullied by his own family, had spent his nights dreaming of Damien's suffering. And instead of feeling relief that someone had it worse, Rudeus had felt nothing but profound empathy and a desperate desire to protect a stranger across the cosmos.
Damien turned the pages, skipping ahead years in the journal, his heart pounding a heavy, agonizing rhythm in his ears.
Year 1023, Month of the Serpent, Day 32
I saw the man again tonight. But he is no longer a child. He is an adult now, a hardened warrior. And he was screaming.
He was crying over the lifeless body of a young woman. My eyes widened as I saw her. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She easily eclipsed Princess Veronica in terms of looks... no, in terms of everything. Her vibrant blonde hair and the fierce beauty of her purple eyes were breathtaking. She looked like a true hero.But what truly broke my heart was seeing the man crying over her. It seems the universe has decreed I will never become his brother, but rather a permanent spectator to his tragedies.He was clutching her, crying, begging her not to leave him. Begging her not to leave him alone in this hellhole of a world. Begging her not to leave him to drown in the darkness again. It shattered my heart. I couldn't take the sheer magnitude of his despair. Then, I woke up, my own face drenched in tears.I don't know why or how this is happening, but it feels as though our souls are tethered. I feel his sadness. I feel his devastating emotions. I feel the crushing weight of his grief and everything he has suffered. I... I really just want to reach through the void and comfort that guy. I want to tell him he did his best.
- Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre's Diary
Damien gasped, a sharp, ragged intake of air. He clutched his chest, the phantom pain of Melissa's death hitting him with the force of a physical blow.
Rudeus had been there. During the darkest, most agonizing moment of Damien's entire existence, when he thought he was entirely alone in the Twin Dungeons holding Melissa's corpse... this abused, lonely teenager in another universe had been weeping with him. Sharing his burden.
Damien's hands were shaking so violently he could barely turn the page to the final entry. The ink on this page was smeared, heavily warped by dozens of dried tear stains. It was dated merely a few days ago.
Year 1024, Month of the Griffin, Day 10
The nightmare reached its climax tonight. I saw the same man again. His name is Damien. I finally heard his name.
He was fighting a terrifying, impossible being. A purple-haired woman with mismatched eyes of red and purple. She possessed a terrifying, divine aura. Damien suffered so much. He called her a god, which meant he knew he had absolutely zero chance to win from the very first moment. And yet, he fought.I felt so much physical and emotional agony bleeding through from him during this dream that I staggered and fell out of bed in the waking world. But what confused and terrified me the most is that the pain didn't wake me from the vision. It was as if a higher power—someone cruel and vindictive—was forcefully pinning my eyes open, forcing me to watch him suffer until the bitter end.I begged the darkness. I begged whoever was listening to stop it. To stop that monster of a woman who was kicking him mercilessly as he crawled on the ground.And then... my eyes widened, and I sobbed uncontrollably as the man, stripped of his arms and his hope, resorted to biting the woman's left foot like a desperate, dying animal. And yet, he was only ridiculed again. She kicked him, breaking his jaw.The view shifted. I saw the woman inexplicably heal him and return his weapon. I saw him gather the terrifying, dark power he possessed. He unleashed his ultimate attack. I thought... we both thought... he had won. I felt his fleeting triumph.
But to my absolute, crushing horror, the woman survived. She healed herself as if she were completely unscathed by an attack that shattered the sky.
My physical knees gave out in my room. I knelt on my floor as I watched the man in my dream receive a massive, fatal blow through his chest. I watched the woman crush his heart in her hand.Then... as my dream-self seemed to float down to approach the dying man, the impossible happened. The barrier broke. I heard his final, inner thoughts. I heard everything. I heard his hopes for a new era. A new era he dreamt of for his surviving friends.I reached out. I touched his body. For the very first time in fifteen years of dreaming, I finally touched him. He felt cold.And I cried. I cried so loudly I feared I would wake the guards in the hall. I don't know why, but it seems this man and I truly share a profound, cosmic connection. We are tied together like siblings born in different realities. Like twins sharing a single, tragic soul.I cried uncontrollably as I hugged the man's dead body in the void. I wish I had been there in reality. I wish I had been there fighting alongside him, helping him bear the weight of his curse, and dying together with him so he wouldn't have to feel so utterly alone at the end of all things.I wish to be with him. If there is a God, and if there is a next life... I really, truly hope we become siblings. Or friends, at the very least. He deserves a friend.
- Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre's Diary.
The heavy, leather-bound journal slipped from Damien's trembling fingers.
It hit the polished hardwood floor with a dull, heavy thud.
Damien's knees simply gave out. He collapsed to the floor beside the desk, the strength completely robbed from his legs. He leaned back, staring blankly up at the ornate, painted ceiling, his vision completely swimming.
The dam broke.
Damien, the hardened soldier, the Captain of the Wombat Squad, the man who had faced down a Demon God without shedding a single tear of fear... began to weep.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and fast, tracing the paths of the aristocratic cheekbones he now possessed. A choked, agonizing sob ripped its way out of his throat, echoing loudly in the lonely, opulent dorm room.
He brought his fists down, punching the hardwood floor with a heavy, muted thud.
"You... you shouldn't have seen it!" Damien choked out between racking sobs, his voice breaking entirely. "You... sniff... shiff... I'm sorry! I'm so goddamn sorry!"
He hit the floor again.
"I'm sorry, kid! You didn't deserve to see my suffering! You... you shouldn't have had to bear that weight! A kid like you... a kid who was already going through his own daily hell... you shouldn't have been forced to witness my nightmares!"
The sheer, staggering tragedy of it all crushed him. For five years, Damien had believed he was entirely alone in his grief. He believed the universe was a cold, indifferent void. But he wasn't alone. This boy—this "villain," this "defect" who the entire world despised—had been holding vigil for him across the multiverse. Rudeus had shed the tears that Damien had refused to shed for himself.
"Thank you..." Damien whispered into the empty room, his voice hoarse and raw. "Really... thank you, Rudeus."
He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, struggling to catch his breath.
"I really, truly hope that in this life, we could have been siblings. But it seems God is infinitely cruel. He let me possess your body. He let me overwrite your existence without your permission to save myself."
Damien looked at his own hands—Rudeus's hands.
"This world was really, truly not kind to you. I'm so sorry, kiddo. I... I really am."
Damien sniffled loudly, dragging himself forward on his knees. He reached out with trembling hands and gently, reverently picked up the fallen leather diary.
He didn't put it back on the desk. He pulled the book to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around it, burying his face in the worn leather cover as if he were embracing the boy who had written it.
The grief of two lifetimes collided in the silence of the dorm room.
Damien's eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears soaking into the binding of the diary.
"Rudeus," Damien whispered, his voice trembling with a profound, unyielding vow that echoed from the very core of his restored soul. "Thank you. Really... thank you."
He held the diary tighter, the final, tragic piece of the puzzle falling into place.
"My dear... little brother."