The day before the Personal Disciple Ascension Ceremony refused to grant rest to anyone Lucas had already marked as his.
In the deepest hours of darkness, his private dormitory floor lay wrapped in silence. The luxurious space — once a symbol of everything he had clawed away from his old life — felt almost oppressive under the moonlight.
The air was cool, scented faintly with night-blooming jasmine from the private terrace, yet Lucas burned.
He lay sprawled on the massive four-poster bed, bare upper body glistening with sweat. The hard lines of his chest and abdomen rose and fell unevenly. His face was twisted in pain — brows furrowed deep, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
One hand twitched violently against the sheets, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.
Inside his mind, the nightmare had him trapped again.
He was small again.
Twelve years old, malnourished, barely three feet tall — a scrawny shadow of the man he would become.
The house was barely livable: cracked walls stained with mold, a leaking ceiling dripping steadily into a rusted bucket, and the ever-present reek of cheap alcohol and stale smoke. A single flickering bulb cast harsh yellow light over the cluttered kitchen counter.
Young Lucas stood on a rickety wooden stool, bare feet cold against the worn wood. His small hands trembled as he tried to flip the omelet in the dented pan. The stove hissed angrily. He was clumsy, inexperienced, but determined.
This was the only way she might eat. The only way she might stay awake long enough to look at him.
The pan slipped.
Sssst—
Hot oil splattered across the back of his hand. Pain exploded up his arm like fire. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out, but a choked whimper still escaped. Red, angry burns bloomed instantly across his skin. He stumbled off the stool and ran to the sink, thrusting his hand under the cold tap. Water hissed against the burn, but no one came. No footsteps. No voice asking if he was okay.
From the main hall, only silence answered.
Tears stung his eyes. He wiped them away with his good arm. He couldn't stop now. She hadn't eaten since yesterday. He turned back to the stove, ignoring the throbbing pain, and finished the omelet — lopsided, slightly burnt, but still food. He scooped it onto a chipped plate, added a small mound of leftover rice, and carried the tray carefully into the hall.
The couch was a wreck of empty bottles and stained cushions. His mother lay sprawled across it, one arm dangling off the side, an empty glass still clutched loosely in her fingers.
Her hair was a tangled mess, and her clothes were rumpled and reeking of liquor. She looked nothing like the woman who had once been beautiful enough to catch the eye of a Vanderbilt.
Lucas set the tray on the low table with a soft clink. "Mom… I made dinner," he whispered, voice small and hopeful. "It's not perfect, but… It's warm. Please eat something."
He reached out and gently shook her shoulder.
She stirred with a groan, eyes cracking open, bloodshot and unfocused. For a second, she stared at him like he was a stranger. Then recognition hit, and her face twisted with disgust.
"Get out of my sight, cursed thing. If I hadn't given birth to an abomination like you," she slurred, voice thick with venom and alcohol, "my life wouldn't be like this."
She shoved him away — hard. Lucas stumbled back, the burn on his hand screaming as he caught himself on the table. The tray wobbled. Rice and omelet spilled across the dirty floor.
"Go!" she hissed, turning her face into the couch. "Just… leave me alone. You ruined everything."
Young Lucas stood there, small and trembling, staring at the mess he had tried so hard to fix. His burned hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Tears finally slipped free, silent and hot, but he didn't make a sound.
He never did.
The nightmare didn't end.
It only dug deeper.
He was older now — fifteen — tall and already broad-shouldered, but still painfully thin from years of neglect. He wore the faded school uniform that had become his only constant, the sleeves too short, the fabric worn thin at the elbows.
The streets were dark and cold. Rain-slicked pavement reflected the flickering neon signs of cheap bars and late-night convenience stores. Lucas ran, chest burning, breath coming in ragged gasps that fogged the night air. His school shoes slapped wetly against the ground as he searched every alley, every shadowed corner, asking the same desperate question to anyone who would listen.
"Have you seen her? My mother — she's… she's drunk. Please, have you seen her?"
No one answered. Some looked away. Others shrugged. He kept running, lungs screaming, legs heavy, but he couldn't stop. Not tonight. Not when she had disappeared again.
"Why can't she just stay at home and drink whatever shit she wants?" he gasped between breaths, voice cracking with exhaustion and rage. "Why… why won't you let me live one single day without worrying about you?"
The words tore out of him like a curse. He hated her for it. He hated himself more for still caring.
Then he heard it — a scream. His mother's voice, slurred and terrified, cutting through the night.
He ran faster, heart hammering, turning the corner into a narrow alley behind a closed bar.
There she was.
Leaned against the graffiti-covered wall, barely standing, her clothes disheveled, hair matted to her face. Empty bottles lay scattered at her feet. A police officer stood in front of her, tall and broad-shouldered, his uniform crisp under the weak streetlight.
Lucas slowed, chest heaving, relief flooding through him like cold water. She's alive. She's just drunk again. Thank God.
The officer turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. His face was kind — warm brown eyes, gentle smile, the kind of face that made lost kids feel safe for once.
"Did you know this person, kid?" the officer asked, voice soft and concerned.
The moment Lucas looked at that smile, the world shattered.
Horror slammed into him like a blade to the gut. His face drained of all color. His legs buckled. He stumbled back, slamming into the alley wall, eyes wide with raw, animal panic.
"No… no…" His voice cracked, barely a whisper at first, then rising into a broken shout. "How can you be alive…? I killed you… I killed you!"
The officer's kind face twisted in his mind, morphing into something else — something from a night he had tried to bury forever. Blood. Screams. The feeling of a knife in his small hands. The certainty that he had ended it. That he had finally made the pain stop.
The alley blurred. The walls closed in. Lucas's knees hit the wet pavement as the deepest layer of trauma swallowed him whole — the memory he had locked away even from himself.
"LUCAS!"
Yuna's voice sliced through the nightmare like a blade.
His eyes snapped open.
He bolted upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face and bare torso. The silk sheets were tangled around his waist. His heart thundered so hard it felt like it would crack his ribs.
Yuna stood at the edge of the bed, her nightdress slipping off one shoulder, pink eyes wide with worry. She reached out, hesitant but urgent, her fingers brushing his sweat-slicked arm.
"Lucas… you were screaming," she whispered, voice trembling. "You looked like you were dying."
He stared at her for a long second, chest still rising and falling rapidly, the nightmare's claws still digging into his mind. Then the mask slipped back into place — slow, deliberate, cold.
He ran a hand through his damp hair and forced a small, tired smirk.
"Just a bad dream," he said, voice rough but steady. "Nothing more."
But in the dark of the room, his eyes still held the ghost of that alley — the kind-faced officer, the blood, the knife, the lie he had told himself for years.
**
A few minutes back...
Yuna sat curled in the oversized armchair of her private room, the soft glow of a floating mana-lamp bathing the pages of the book in her lap.
How to Possess Your Man and Make Him Yours Forever.
A self-help guide she had secretly bought with Lucas's merits. Her lips curved in a small, satisfied smile as she turned the page, legs tucked beneath her, the sheer black nightdress riding high on her thick thighs.
The words blurred — scent-marking, soul-binding — but the thought of Lucas belonging to her completely made her pink eyes sparkle with dark delight.
Then pain slammed into her chest like a hammer.
Thump.
Her heart seized. Through the Contract of Ruin that bound her soul to his, she felt it — raw, jagged, bleeding. Lucas's pain. His nightmare. His agony was tearing at him like teeth in the dark.
Yuna gasped. The book slipped from her fingers and thudded to the floor. She was on her feet in an instant, nightdress fluttering around her long legs as she rushed barefoot down the short hallway.
She burst into Lucas's bedroom without knocking.
He lay sprawled on the massive bed, black silk sheets tangled around his waist, bare upper body glistening with sweat that caught the moonlight like liquid silver. His chest heaved in tortured breaths. His face was twisted in agony — brows furrowed deep, jaw clenched, lips parted in silent suffering.
One hand twitched violently against the mattress, fingers curling as if fighting ghosts only he could see.
"Lucas…" she whispered.
She climbed onto the bed, hands reaching for his shoulders, shaking him gently. "Lucas, wake up. It's just a dream—"
He mumbled something broken and guttural, body jerking again. Yuna's pink eyes flashed with desperate resolve. She couldn't let him stay trapped there.
She activated her bloodline skill — Succubus Whisper.
A faint pink mist bloomed from her skin, sweet and intoxicating, wrapping around him like invisible silk. It sank into him gently, pulling him back from the abyss.
Yuna exhaled in relief and started to pull away, intending to fetch water and a cool cloth.
But before she could move, a strong arm shot out.
"Ah!"
Lucas's hand closed around her wrist and yanked her down. In one fluid motion, he pulled her thin body flush against his, curling around her from behind like a man drowning who had finally found something solid to hold.
His bare chest pressed hot and damp against her back. One thick arm locked around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over her stomach. His face buried into the crook of her neck, breath ragged and hot against her skin.
"Stay with me here," he rasped, voice rough and broken from the nightmare, yet laced with that same commanding edge he always carried.
Yuna froze for half a second, heart hammering wildly. Then a dark, possessive warmth bloomed inside her chest.
She melted back into him without resistance, letting his larger frame envelop her completely. Her nightdress had ridden up, bare thighs brushing against his. She could feel the hard heat of him pressed against her ass through the thin silk.
A soft, satisfied purr rumbled in her throat.
Mine, she thought, pink eyes half-lidded with dark delight. Even in your nightmares… You reach for me.
She didn't speak. She simply laced her fingers through the hand resting on her stomach and held on tighter, letting her succubus aura wrap around them both like a warm, protective blanket.
The nightmare might still linger in the shadows.
But tonight, Lucas had chosen to keep her close.
And Yuna had no intention of ever letting go.
**
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