Chapter 7
The way to where my brother lived was far—far enough that I had to leave without attending a single lecture today.
I took the car first.
Not that I enjoyed public transport, but I feared running into knights on the road.
Trains, for all their faults, had fewer eyes and less chance of being ambushed by those who might be looking for me.
It wasn't a guarantee, but it gave me some comfort.
Thankfully, Olivia had agreed to come along.
If she hadn't, this entire thing could've spiraled into a problem bigger than I could handle.
The trip took nearly an hour, the kind that stretches not just in distance, but in silence.
Olivia spent most of it focused on her connection—probably messaging someone or lost in her own world of thoughts.
The screen's faint glow painted her face in cold colors.
She didn't look angry, just… distant.
I, on the other hand, buried myself in a book, not because I wanted to read but because the act of reading gave me something to do with my hands.
Something to distract me from the tension that hung in the air like fog.
But the truth was, the atmosphere wasn't something unbreakable.
It could be softened, lessened.
I was just too lost in my own worries—thinking about the possibility of being attacked—to realize that maybe, just maybe, she was waiting for me to speak.
The silence between us wasn't comfortable.
It wasn't the kind that lovers or old friends could sit in.
It was a silence that grew heavier by the minute, and I knew—if I let it continue—it would carry consequences.
She needed something.
Anything.
A word.
A nudge.
Even a reason to shout at me.
Because if she didn't get it from me, she'd look elsewhere.
And if she found comfort in someone else, then the last threads of love she had for me would fade.
Or worse, someone would give her a twisted idea—one that would push her further away from me.
So before we arrived, before the train screeched to a halt and forced us both into another new situation, I had to say something.
Anything.
I turned to her and spoke, my voice quiet but clear."What is your sword style called?"
She looked at me, blinking once as if caught off guard.
Her brows furrowed slightly. "Why do you care?"
I met her eyes and smiled just a little. "Because I find it interesting. I've seen you swing your sword so many times. There's something beautiful about it. Each step you take, each motion—it's like watching a flower bloom on the battlefield. Fluid, adaptable… graceful. It's more like a dance than a fight. You're painting the air with your blade."
She didn't reply right away.
Her eyes dropped for a second, as if weighing my words.
But I knew—even before I spoke them—that I wasn't the only one who felt that way.
Even the previous Lucas, the one whose body I now occupied, used to wake up early just to watch her train.
Not just because she was beautiful.
Well, partly because of that, sure.
But mostly, it was her technique.
The way she moved—deadly but poised, elegant but lethal—it caught your attention and refused to let go.
Even I, before my morning run, find myself pausing, just to watch her go through her forms.
That was before… everything.
Finally, Olivia turned her head slightly, her face unreadable. "It's called the Snow Flower."
A thoughtful expression crossed my face. "Interesting. Most flower are described in pink—soft, fragile. But yours is called snow. That tells me it adapts. It takes on the form of the user. Cold, clear, untamed."
She gave a small, almost reluctant smile. "Yeah. How did you know that's what it means?"
I shrugged casually. "I've been studying swordsmanship. After watching your technique for this long, you start to understand it. Or at least… feel it." I paused, then tilted my head. "But what's the painting for, then?"
Her face lit up slightly.
It was subtle, but it was there—the faint gleam of someone being seen.
Someone whose work wasn't just admired, but understood.
"Well, that's the part most people miss," she said, her voice gentler now.
"I move like a brush. I paint my flower into what I see fit. It's not just about the color—it's about intent. It's about vision. The vision of what you believe to be beautiful. The color of the flower is how you see the world, how you wish it to be."
Her eyes looked away again, but this time it wasn't distance—it was thought.
Reflection.
"Sometimes," she continued,
"I keep brushing and painting without even realizing what I'm doing. And then, when I step back, I see it. The reflection of my true self on the canvas I carved through air and steel. Swordsmanship is an art made for killing—but it's still art. It still holds the soul. Your heart, your mind, your memories—they're all placed on the blade."
She paused, and her voice softened to a whisper.
"Like an eternal flame… burning brighter and brighter, the more you paint and move in that way."
Throughout her explanation, Olivia had started smiling—truly smiling.
A rare, genuine expression of happiness quietly bloomed across her face like snow melting beneath the sun.
The calm, cold mask she usually wore had slipped, replaced by something warmer.
Her eyes shimmered with passion, her voice steady but alive.
It was in that moment I realized she wasn't just wielding a sword—she was living through it.
It was her language, her art, her soul made motion.
And then, just like that, the moment passed.
As if catching herself mid-bloom, her smile faded.
Her features smoothed back into the emotionless cold she often carried, and she turned her eyes back toward the window.
A beat of silence.
Then, as if needing to turn the attention away from herself, she asked with a measured tone, "And you? What about your magic?"
I closed my eyes, falling into the depths of two sets of memories—those of the former Lucas, and the ones I'd gathered myself.
They felt separate and intertwined all at once.
"Magic, huh…" I murmured, letting the thought settle before giving it shape.
"Magic is… knowledge.
It's a path, not a tool.
A journey made of information, theory, failure, understanding, and imagination.
The deeper you go, the more you realize how infinite it is.
It's like standing on the edge of an ocean with no bottom, and diving in just to chase the feeling of discovering something new.
The excitement of understanding—it rushes through your veins like lightning."
I opened my eyes, gaze fixed ahead but seeing far beyond the train walls.
"The more you learn, the more you realize what a fool you are.
And it's in that foolishness you start to crave more.
You want to be foolish—because every fragment of understanding drags you closer to the edge of something grand.
You fall deeper into the abyss, not fearing the darkness… but recognizing it.
Accepting that what stares back at you is a reflection of everything you've come to know."
My voice dropped a little, soft but sincere. "And in that reflection… lies what I call True Magic."
Olivia tilted her head slightly. "True magic?" she echoed.
"Yes," I said with quiet certainty.
"It's just a theory right now, but it's the idea that everything—everything—is born from a single essence.
A root truth. A law that existed before laws were written.
I've only scratched the surface, and even then, all I've found are fragments.
Pieces of something ancient."
I smiled faintly, the kind of smile you wear when undressing a secret, unveiling something forbidden. "So far, I've only managed to understand a single phrase… a riddle, almost."
She leaned in slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "What is it?"
I took a breath, steady and deep.
"From him were all things created… and to him shall all things return."
She blinked. "Who's 'him'?"
"I don't know yet," I answered honestly, eyes narrowing with fascination.
"That's the beauty of it. The answer is hidden behind every layer of truth I tear away. And I plan to keep digging."
Olivia looked at me, her gaze lingering a second too long before she turned her head to the side.
A soft blush touched her cheeks—faint, but visible.
She said nothing, but her silence held weight, held warmth. It was the kind of silence that said, I heard you.
I kept my smile, though it turned bittersweet.
"Olivia," I said quietly. "I know what I've done. I know I can't change the past. I remember the day I was poisoned… lying there in my room, barely able to breathe. And in that moment, all I could think of was how I turned your beautiful smile into a frown."
She didn't look back at me.
"I was a smart idiot," I continued.
"A fool who thought he was something more. And in that arrogance… I forgot the promise we made as children. That we'd remain fools together. That we'd chase heights no one had ever reached—not in reality, but in dreams."
I paused. The train wheels hummed softly beneath our feet.
"If you want anything—anything—even if it's a divorce, or to leave, or never see me again… If it's within my power, I won't deny you."
She looked at me then, expression unreadable.
"Then kill yourself," she said flatly.
Her voice was cold.
Sharp.
It sliced through the air like a dagger without hesitation.
But I didn't flinch.
I just turned my eyes forward again, calm.
"That's not within my power," I replied.
A breath passed between us.
Then she chuckled, just a little.
It wasn't amusement—it was something else.
Something bitter, tired, cracked at the edges.
She looked away again, but not before I caught the faintest flicker of guilt across her face.
It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.
'I am sure of it. If it's not going then it's coming back. Even my Fate lines and Fortune Pool are saying the same thing. But it seems like Fate is changing.' I thought.
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Author's Note
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