"He is my father," Lorian whispered to the empty room. This time his voice was thick with a newfound, trembling pride.
*Smack*
Lorian felt a sharp, phantom sting at the back of his head, as if an invisible hand had clipped him.
"Don't flatter yourself, boy," the familiar raspy voice echoed from the shadows, "You are nothing like him. Not yet, at least."
Lorian didn't scowl. Instead, for the first time since the world had ended in the Hall of Pillars, a genuine, albeit small, smile touched his face. He nodded in silent agreement.
"But jokes aside," Azal'Gul continued, his voice shifting into a lecture, "You humans are obsessed with lineage. You love to think greatness is a liquid you can pour from one vessel to another, but no two souls are identical. You share a trait here, a habit there- perhaps you have his nose or his stubbornness- but you will never be him. You are you. That is your only true weapon, yet you idiots spend your entire short lives trying to shed your uniqueness just to become a pale imitation of someone else!"
"Someone is getting remarkably preachy after being absent for so long," Lorian taunted, though his heart wasn't in the jab.
"I had to be!" the demon snapped back, "From the moment I saw that Bistro girl approaching that Imperial douchebag with a marriage proposal, I knew the threads were tightening. When Azgar arrived, the dice of this city's fate was already cast."
Lorian's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hissing rage, "Then why didn't you tell me? If you saw it coming... we could have saved him. I could have saved my father!" Lorian's voice broke, and he felt the heat of fresh tears stinging his eyes.
"I could not, partner," Azal'Gul replied, and for the first time, there was an audible note of regret in the demon's tone, "I cannot simply reach out and break the thread of destiny whenever it suits me. If the strands of this reality get too tangled by my direct involvement, the whole world could collapse into a void. Or worse, it creates anomalies- glitches in existence that even Elders cannot deal with peacefully."
"And the slot machine? Is that not a god's tool?"
"A minor blessing. A provision in the rules," the demon brushed the question aside, "I will explain the mechanics of the game later. For now, move! We need to get that letter from the Lucien fellow!"
"Right," Lorian said, wiping his eyes and tucking the Void Mirror into his hidden safe. He began the walk toward the dining hall, "But why the sudden interest in a piece of paper?"
"I have to verify a theory," Azal'Gul spoke mysteriously, "I'll tell you once the ink is in your hands."
When Lorian reached the dining hall, the atmosphere hit him hard. This room, which usually hummed with the spicy gossip of maids and the boisterous laughter of knights, was a hollow shell. The servants moved like lifeless clockwork.
On one side of the long table sat Elmsworth's old guard- men who had bled for the Throne for decades. On the other sat Lorian's own retainers. They sat face to face, but no words were exchanged. This was not due to any rivalry, but because of a shared, suffocating grief. The food sat largely untouched on their plates; they chewed slowly, as if even the act of swallowing was a chore.
As Lorian entered, the room felt awakened. They prepared to stand, but Lorian raised a hand, signaling them to remain seated.
Lucien Lehance stood at the head of the table. His eyes were still red, but his spine remained straight. It appeared he had been waiting. "My Lord," Lucien began in his gravelly voice, "I had not yet begun my meal, for I felt your arrival was imminent."
"Please, Lucien," Lorian said softly, for the weight of the night was making his voice thinner, "Do not call me Lord. Not tonight. I am not ready for the title, and I lack the energy to argue the point. So please... just the letter."
Lucien's jaw tightened, his loyalty was struggling viciously with his desire to comfort the boy. He opened his mouth to protest, to insist on the protocol that kept the city from falling apart, but Gravil reached out a hand, subtly touching the Commander's arm. Lucien exhaled, and reached into his doublet.
He handed the sealed parchment to Lorian with a stiff, formal bow, "As you wish, Young Master. Your father's final instructions."
Lorian lingered for a moment, for his presence would be acting as a silent command for his men to finish their dinner. He needed them fed; he needed them ready. Once the first few men began to eat, he turned and made a beeline for his mother's chambers to check on her before retreating to his room.
Behind closed doors, Lorian broke the seal. The letter was exactly what the projection had promised: Elmsworth's voice captured in ink, concise and precise, cold and efficient. It was less a letter and more a set of strategic guidelines. At the very end, however, was a set of detailed directions to a safe house in the lower districts- the hiding place of Timothy Selmus's family.
"So," Lorian said, leaning back in his chair, "Tell me, demon. What was the theory?"
"I wanted to see the safety net," Azal'Gul said, sounding satisfied, "A man like Elmsworth... I wondered if he was truly arrogant enough to base his entire legacy on the gamble that you could activate that crystal. What if he was wrong? What if you truly had no spark? Would he let his last words die in a piece of glass? I see now that I was right to respect him. This letter is his backup. He was a magnificent architect, leaving nothing to chance."
"He was," Lorian whispered, his heart was swelling with a sense of pride sipped with pain.
"If you wish to surpass him, you must adopt that trait," the demon warned, "Currently, you are shallow. You scratch at the surface and call it progress. You are reactive, Lorian. You wait for the world to punch you, and then you try to figure out how to dodge, if not bleed gracefully. That is why you never have the upper hand."
Lorian stared at the flickering candle, unable to argue.
"I have watched your past life as Adrian as thoroughly as I watch this one," Azal'Gul continued, as he was sounding more like a harsh critical tutor, "You have a recurring error. You are ambitious, yes. You are intelligent. But you are easily distracted. You take on more than you can chew. No, not like the goal you set is too high, but because you take on too many goals at once."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Think of the games you played in your old world," the demon chuckled, "You were the type of gamer who would start the Main Quest, see a shiny side-quest in the distance, and spend forty hours collecting herbs or killing bandits in a cave while the world burned. You never finished anything, did you? You'd get bored, quit, and move to the next game or rerun."
Lorian sat in stunned silence. It was a perfect, precise critique of his entire existence. He felt like a failing student being counseled by a teacher who saw through every excuse.
"But life is no game, partner," Azal'Gul's voice turned uncharacteristically sincere, "There is no respawn point here. No save file to load. It is a permadeath run. You are among the rarest beings in the multiverse- one who was given a second chance. Do not squander it by being mediocre."
"Wait," Lorian's mind caught on a detail, "You mean there are others? Other people who have been brought back like me?"
"Aah!" Azal'Gul sounded genuinely frustrated, "Do you see? This is exactly what I mean! I am giving you the secret to ruling a kingdom, and your attention shifts to a trivial curiosity because it sounds 'interesting.' You lack focus. It crippled your potential in your last life, and it will kill you in this one if you do not change. I have wasted enough time today. I'm leaving."
The presence in the room vanished, leaving Lorian alone with his thoughts. He didn't have long to dwell on the demon's insults before a sharp knock sounded at the door.
It was Zara.
Lorian didn't waste time. He sat at his desk and penned a letter to Timothy's widow. He thanked her for her family's supreme sacrifice and advised her to leave for someplace else, with an option to return under a new identity once the storm had passed. He sealed the parchment and prepared a heavy purse- 500 Solars, 500 Shines, and five bars of solid gold. It was a fortune enough to build a new life in any corner of the continent.
"Find them," Lorian commanded, handing the burden to Zara, "Deliver the funds and the letter. Then, personally escort them beyond the city gates tonight."
Zara, as was her nature, asked no questions. She gave a quick, silent nod, took the items, and vanished into the night.
Finally, Lorian dropped his exhausted body onto the bed. He felt the weight of the crown pressing down on him, even though it wasn't yet on his head. He replayed his father's words and the demon's harsh critiques in his mind. They were both right. He was a man playing catch-up in a world of giants.
Tomorrow, Lorian thought as sleep finally began to pull at him. Tomorrow, with the first ray of sun, the side-quests end. The Main Quest begins.