Death is never quiet.
To Lucian, dying sounded like a scream sharp enough to tear fabric apart, followed by that endless, suffocating drop into nothing.
One second, his fingertips were still resting on the fragile fibers of ancient paper. His nose was full of the Museum's signature scent—old paper, mildew, and camphor.
The next second, the whole world shattered… then stitched itself back together.
When his senses came back online, Lucian—no, Lucian Ashford now—didn't feel pain first. He felt something far stranger: the heart-phase vision. His five senses had changed. He could see the veins and bones of magic itself.
Memory fragments crashed in: Ashen Manor, Obscurial, magic…
"I've crossed over… into the Harry Potter world?"
Then the agony hit, dragging his mind back into the body.
This eleven-year-old body was thin and deathly pale, like a porcelain doll drained of every drop of moisture. Inside his chest, an absurdly huge, violently raging black energy rampaged like a beast trapped in a glass bottle—thrashing, clawing, trying to tear its way out.
In the wizarding world, they called this an Obscurial. Or the backlash from some botched dark ritual.
The usual result was simple: explosion, then death.
The boy lay on the dusty velvet four-poster bed and slowly opened his eyes. Those once-cloudy gray irises were now terrifyingly clear.
It wasn't some nameless horror.
In his heart-phase vision, the conscious magical storm capable of killing adult wizards had been broken down into countless glowing, tangled threads. Their faulty connections and warped circuits were causing total collapse.
"…What shoddy craftsmanship."
Chaotic turbulence. Short-circuited magical pathways.
But to a master artifact restorer, this was just another broken piece waiting to be fixed.
"Stay calm," he told himself.
Lucian didn't scream. He didn't tremble like the original owner would have. With effort, he lifted his nearly numb right hand and began tracing slow patterns in the air, adjusting and mending the body on the brink of destruction.
Observe the object. Attain understanding.
He blocked out the searing pain and poured every ounce of his will into those raging lines.
To him, the black knot wasn't unsolvable.
"This thread is fear—way too much. Sever it."
"This flow is the magic source, blocked in the pericardial channel. Clear it."
"This strand… the Ashford family blood curse? Just faulty gene transcription code. Quarantine for now."
If anyone had been watching, they would have seen something both horrifying and strangely sacred:
The boy who should have died screaming in agony now lay perfectly still. His right hand moved through the air in slow, rhythmic arcs. As his fingers danced, the black mist that had been rampaging through the room—shattering vases and lamps—suddenly froze.
The violent magic calmed. The broken meridians reconnected.
Just like restoring that ancient sutra, he patiently smoothed every wrinkle and sealed every crack.
After what felt like forever, the last wisp of dark energy slipped obediently back into his heart through his fingertips. Lucian let out a soft, satisfied sigh.
The room fell deathly silent.
Outside the window, the cold London rain that had been pouring for weeks finally registered clearly again.
Lucian drew a deep breath. The sharp ache in his lungs told him he was still alive. He pushed himself up to sit, sweat soaking through his nightshirt, yet his pale face wore a strange, refined composure.
"Fixed," he murmured in slightly accented English. "Still a few hairline cracks, but it'll hold."
At that exact moment, the heavy oak door burst open.
A tall, gaunt man stood in the doorway, wand gripped so tightly his knuckles were white. The tip glowed with menacing green light, ready to fire a Killing Curse. It was the boy's father—Cassius Ashford.
Cassius had come to dispose of the "corpse." Or to execute the son before he turned into a monster.
The Ashford family couldn't afford one last rampaging Obscurial destroying what remained of their estate.
But the scene stopped the arrogant pure-blood wizard cold.
The room was messy—furniture toppled—but there was no blood, no slaughter.
The son who had always been timid and skittish now sat calmly on the edge of the bed. Lightning flashed outside, lighting his face as he stared quietly at his father.
No fear in those eyes. No filial longing. No emotion at all.
Only a cold, superior… understanding.
Lucian looked at the terrified man in the doorway and gave a perfect, ice-cold courteous smile.
"Good evening, Father."
His voice was soft and hoarse, like it came from somewhere far away.
"The noise earlier was a little loud. I was… reorganizing my thoughts. I hope I didn't disturb your evening tea."
Cassius Ashford's wand trembled slightly. As a dark wizard, his instincts for danger were razor-sharp.
The boy wore his son's face, but the ancient, deep, unnervingly calm presence radiating from his soul triggered pure primal terror.
Those were not the eyes of an eleven-year-old.
They belonged to a ghost who had just crawled out of the grave and was now studying the living world with quiet fascination.
"You… who are you?" Cassius rasped.
Lucian lowered his head and studied his own pale, long-fingered hand. The complex lines on his palm mirrored the tangled fate of this magical world.
"I am Lucian."
He raised his gaze once more.
At that moment, the gears of destiny ground to a brief halt… then started turning again—toward a direction no one could predict.