A black-haired suddenly boy opened his eyes.
For a few seconds he simply stared upward, unable to understand what he was looking at. The ceiling above him was carved from pale stone, its arches shaped with careful artistry. Winged motifs stretched across the surface in delicate relief, their feathers etched so precisely that even the shadows looked intentional. Silk curtains hung near the tall windows, filtering the early morning sunlight into a calm golden glow that spread gently across the room.
The place felt familiar.
It was his own room.
He knew that instinctively.
Yet at the same time the recognition refused to settle comfortably inside his mind.
Something about it felt distant, as if the memory belonged to someone else.
He inhaled slowly.
The moment the breath filled his lungs, the illusion shattered.
Memories rushed into him without warning.
A hospital corridor filled with cold fluorescent light.
A cramped apartment where a computer monitor flickered through sleepless nights.
A grand noble banquet overflowing with laughter, wine, and shallow arrogance.
Images collided violently inside his mind, two entirely different lives pressing against each other until the boundaries between them blurred.
He sat upright too quickly.
The room spun slightly while his pulse stuttered.
This was not pain.
It was something worse.
His mind was drowning in information it could not process all at once.
He grabbed his head, fingers tightening against his hair as the pressure inside his skull grew unbearable. His mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out of it.
His voice refused to cooperate.
The boy forced himself to breathe slowly.
When the dizziness eased slightly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the carpet beneath him, sinking into thick fabric soft enough to swallow the sound of movement. Everything around him spoke of wealth without restraint.
The furniture was heavy and ornate, carved from dark polished wood. Tall wardrobes lined one wall. Decorative blades were displayed along another, arranged with ceremonial care.
The weapons were immaculate but they existed only as symbols. A symbol of entitlement.
This room was not built for survival.It was built for privilege.
He rose slowly and walked toward the mirror placed beside the window.
The reflection staring back at him made him pause.
Black hair framed a youthful face, interrupted by a single white streak near the front. His features were smooth and almost gentle at first glance, but the eyes carried a sharper quality that disrupted the illusion of softness.
There was a strange contradiction in that face.
It was not especially handsome.
Not remarkable enough to command attention.
Yet it still held the quiet arrogance of someone who had never known true hardship.
His shoulders were broad, but the build of his body revealed indulgence rather than discipline. It was the physique of a noble heir raised in comfort.
A life without consequences.
He lifted a hand and pressed his fingers against the surface of the mirror.
The glass was cool beneath his skin.
"Anthony…?"
The name slipped out almost unconsciously.
Speaking this particular name feels very wrong to him.
Another name surfaced immediately afterward.
"Lucifer."
That one settled naturally.
As if the body itself recognized it.
The sound of a door bursting open shattered the silence.
Several doctors rushed inside the room, their robes shifting hurriedly as they approached the bed.
Lucifer raised his hand before they could speak.
The motion was sharp enough to stop them instantly.
"Leave now," he said quietly. "Come back later."
The voice startled him.
It was deeper than he expected. Calm. Controlled.
It did not belong to the exhausted young man who had spent years alone in a cramped apartment.
The doctors exchanged uncertain glances with one another. Something in his tone convinced them not to argue. After a brief hesitation they bowed slightly and withdrew from the room without further protest.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Lucifer sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.
His breathing steadied.
The chaos inside his mind began to settle.
Gradually, the memories aligned themselves.
They did not fight for control.
They simply existed side by side.
He remembered being twenty-two years old.
He remembered being born into this body.
He remembered writing a novel inside a dim apartment while grief hollowed him from the inside.
He remembered humiliating servants simply because it amused him.
And he remembered dying.
There was no second voice whispering inside his thoughts.
No foreign presence intruding upon his soul.
His mind had not split into fragments.
He had not become someone else.
He had simply remembered more than he once could.
The name of the world surfaced naturally.
Abysscyra.
The word carried weight.
This was the world he now lived in.
In history records, the world had once been called Earth.
After its collapse and rebirth through centuries of catastrophe, the surviving civilization had renamed it Abysscyra.
The civilization that survived the Abyss.
The civilization that conquered it.
It was a world ruled by Sovereigns and threatened constantly by demons.
Anthony had once known this world in a different way.
Inside his novel, he had named the story Ashes of Divinity.
The idea had come from strange images that haunted him throughout childhood. Dreams that felt too vivid to ignore. Visions of wars and betrayals he had never witnessed.
He never spoke about them.
Children who described burning skies and demon kings were sent to doctors.
So he wrote instead.
In the novel, the story moved along a single path.
The narrative was tragic and unforgiving.
Victory always came at a terrible cost.
Even the hero survived only after losing something irreplaceable.
Later, when the story was adapted into a game, that certainty fractured.
Different routes emerged.
Different decisions created different endings.
Yet no matter which path players chose, one truth never changed.
The world remained cruel.
And Lucifer Obsidian Valcrest always remained expendable.
Sometimes he died early.
Sometimes he survived longer, only to become pitiful.
Sometimes he lived long enough to fall into disgrace.
But in every version of the story, he never mattered.
Lucifer stepped away from the mirror.
"So that Lucifer Obsidian Valcrest…" he murmured softly.
He let out a slow breath.
"That person is me."
The realization settled heavily in the quiet room.
He moved toward the window and looked out across the Valcrest estate.
Stone pathways stretched between carefully maintained gardens. Guards stood at distant posts, their posture disciplined and precise.
Everything about the estate reflected authority.
Structure.
Power.
Inheritance.
These were things Anthony Parker had never possessed.
They were also things Lucifer Valcrest had wasted without hesitation.
Lucifer raised a hand and touched the mark resting at the base of his neck.
The symbol was unmistakable.
A black bird with its wings spread wide.
Frozen mid-flight.
According to the traditions of this world, only those favored by the gods were born with such marks.
Lucifer had been one of them.
Unfortunately, in the story Anthony wrote, that blessing eventually became his curse.
In the game, it was nothing more than a branching variable.
But here, in reality, the mark was warm beneath his fingers.
Alive.
He exhaled slowly.
"So I'm not the hero."
He paused.
"I'm not even the villain worth fearing."
The truth was simpler than either possibility.
He was expendable.
A stepping stone for someone else's rise.
Anthony Parker had wished desperately for another chance at life.
Lucifer Valcrest had wasted the one he was given.
Now both sets of memories rested within him.
Two lives.
Two failures.
And one final opportunity.
He already knew what would happen next.
A scandal would soon emerge.
It would destroy Lucifer's reputation.
Strip him of status.
Strip him of protection.
Strip him of a future.
From there the path would continue exactly as the story dictated.
Disgrace.
Exile.
Death.
He knew every step.
He also knew how it ended.
And for the first time in his life, he stood ahead of the script.
Knowing the future did not make him stronger.
But it removed the illusion of safety.
Lucifer straightened slowly.
If the story demanded his death…
Then the story would have to change.
Outside the window, the wind passed gently across the gardens.
Inside the room, Lucifer Obsidian Valcrest stood quietly in the morning light.
He was not reborn.
He was not replaced.
He simply remembered.
And in this world, those who remembered the future were not meant to survive it.
They were meant to rewrite it.