Chapter 162: The Lost Man

The Flower Palace was silent, its grand halls echoing with nothing but the shuffling steps of a man lost in thought.

His movements were uneven, and unstable, as though the simple act of walking was a battle against the very air around him.

His skin clung to his bones, his once-powerful frame reduced to something almost skeletal.

The back of his head was stained with dried blood, a dark, cracked wound visible just above his nape—evidence of a heavy impact.

And yet, despite the pain, despite the dizziness clawing at his mind, he could not remember how it happened.

He could not remember who he was.

His fingers twitched at his sides, clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp at something, anything that might bring him clarity. But all he found was emptiness, a hollow void where memories should have been.

He murmured to himself, his voice raw and hoarse from days of hunger and dehydration.

"Why am I here?"

"Who... am I?"

His throat burned, and his stomach ached, but worse than the physical pain was the sensation of floating in nothingness, an existence without context or meaning.

Wealth surrounded him.

The palace was opulent beyond reason, its golden walls adorned with vibrant flowers that pulsed faintly with life, their petals shifting as though they breathed. Lavish furniture, precious gemstones, and artifacts beyond comprehension littered every room.

And yet, none of it mattered.

What was the use of wealth to a man who did not even know his own name?

He was starving.

The hunger gnawed at him like a beast tearing at his insides, and his limbs trembled from exhaustion.

The only reason he was still alive was because of his body's natural abilities—an instinctual knowledge buried deep within his flesh, even if his mind could not recall.

The transformations he could invoke—the shifting of his limbs into metal, the way he could reinforce his body for combat—were the only tools that had kept him alive since the moment he had awoken in this forsaken place.

But even those abilities came at a cost.

The leech on his body—an obscure, parasitic thing, latched onto his flesh like a festering wound—drained him with every use of his power.

He did not know how it got there.

He did not know if he had placed it on himself or if someone had done it to him.

All he knew was that every time he fought, every time he adapted to survive, the leech stole more of his energy. It fed, while he withered.

It left him in a net loss, every small victory in this hellish prison nothing more than borrowed time.

He was frustrated.

He was angry.

But who was he supposed to blame?

His past self? Whoever had brought him here? The gods? The universe?

He did not know.

And that was the worst part.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up from the gilded floor, his arms shaking from weakness.

He needed to eat.

Again.

Even if it wasn’t enough.

Even if he would wake up tomorrow just as weak, just as empty, just as lost.

He dragged his aching body toward the back of the hall, where the vast, twilight-lit gardens lay beyond the shattered remains of a crystalline balcony.

The only source of sustenance in this cursed place was the Daring Flowers—strange, living flora that flitted through the air like birds, feeding on the golden mist that lingered within the palace ruins.

They were fast.

Elusive.

But they were edible. And more importantly, they were his only hope for survival.

He hadn’t been able to catch one in the last few days. If he failed again, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stand up again tomorrow.

With a sharp exhale, he clenched his fingers and prepared to hunt once more.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He had to.

Because if he didn’t—he would die here. And he wasn’t ready to die.

Not yet.

Even if he had no idea who he was.

Even if, deep down, a whisper in his mind told him that he should already be dead.

The man paused mid-step, his sluggish movements growing still as a shiver crawled up his spine. Something was happening.

The ruined palace trembled, a faint hum reverberating through the golden walls like the whisper of a long-forgotten hymn.

A blinding radiance erupted at the center of the grand hall, so bright it banished the dim lighting of the palace. It wasn't ordinary light—it was ethereal, shifting in hues of deep blue, silver, and rose gold, spiraling into the shape of a portal that pulsed like a living thing.

And then—

A choir.

A voice without words.

It filled the space with something divine, overwhelming, like a chorus sung by the world. The sound wrapped around him like a forgotten lullaby, and for a moment, his weary soul felt weightless.

His knees buckled. He stumbled backward and hit the marble floor, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes watered, not from pain but from sheer awe.

His mind—tired, fractured, lost—ached at the beauty of it. Was this salvation? An escape?

For the first time since waking up alone, starving, and hollow, something like hope bloomed in his chest.

Then—a shadow.

A figure stepped out of the portal, their silhouette shifting as they passed through the ethereal light, the glow casting long, distorted shadows over the golden hall.

The moment the figure’s form fully materialized, Hector’s body tensed. Every instinct screamed at him to be cautious.

There was something dangerous about the way he carried himself.

His robe was dark and it billowed slightly as he stepped forward. His eyes gleamed with undisguised amusement, though the smirk that played at his lips held something deeper, something unreadable.

And then, the man spoke.

"Hector?"

Hector’s breath hitched.

That name.

It felt familiar.

Like an echo in the void of his mind, a whisper of something he should remember—but couldn’t.

He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as a sharp, ringing noise filled his ears.

"Do you… know me?" Hector’s voice was hoarse, uncertain. He barely recognized his own voice—let alone this stranger.

The man cocked his head slightly, studying him with a look of intrigue and skepticism.

"You don’t remember?" he murmured as if confirming something to himself.

Hector shook his head, frustration bubbling beneath his confusion. Should I?

But the stranger didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached into his robe, fingers wrapping around something small and metallic.

A moment later, a pocket watch emerged, dangling from a chain.

The casing was intricately designed, polished, its surface glimmering with a subtle pink glow.

The moment the watch moved, Hector felt his entire body freeze.

A pull.

It was as if something deep inside him was attracted to the object, as though an invisible thread had suddenly yanked at his very soul.

His vision blurred, his breath hitched, and the deep, suffocating void in his mind trembled.

He didn’t know what it was.

He didn’t know why.

But something about that watch made him feel like the world was about to change.

The pocket watch spun slowly. The subtle pink light that pulsed from its center bathed Hector’s dazed face, his hollow eyes reflecting the soft glow like a man entranced.

Abel watched him carefully.

His fingers tightened around the watch, his skepticism sharpening into something colder.

This was Hector Murman—the same man who had stood against him, the same arrogant heir of a bloodline soaked in schemes and darkness. And yet…

The man before him wasn’t the Hector Murman he knew.

This Hector was thin, weak, his once-strong frame frail from starvation. His ragged breath, the way he trembled, and—most damning of all—the sheer terror in his eyes…

It was unnatural.

"No memories?" Abel finally asked, his voice steady but laced with quiet doubt.

Hector’s hypnotized gaze flickered, as if something in his mind had cracked open at the question.

His body jerked forward, his knees hitting the cold marble floor with a thud.

"I don’t know," Hector gasped, his voice raw, desperate. His hands clawed at his own chest as if trying to rip out the answer that wouldn’t come. His breath hitched, his shoulders shook, and then—

He wept.

Tears streaked down his gaunt cheeks, his entire body curling inward like a man lost in the depths of despair.

"I don’t know who I am!" he sobbed, his hands clenching into fists on the marble. "I woke up here—I don’t remember anything! I don’t know why I’m alone, why I feel like something inside me is missing—"

His fingers dug into the stone, his entire frame quivering.

"Please… just tell me what’s happening."

Abel didn’t move.

He simply watched.

This wasn’t an act.

There was no deception in the way Hector collapsed under the weight of his own emptiness. No Murman—not Ike, not Hall, not a single one of those wretched leeches—would ever show weakness like this.

It was pathetic.

It was pitiful.

And yet…

A slow grin curved across Abel’s lips.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, voice smooth as silk.

Hector’s teary, wide-eyed gaze lifted.

Abel crouched down.

"I know you well."

Hector sucked in a breath, desperate, hopeful.

"You’re Hector Murman," Abel continued, his tone dripping with amusement, as if savoring each syllable.

Then, with a mocking warmth, he added—

"One of my most devoted followers."

Hector’s breath hitched.

"I have come to rescue you."

And with that, Abel smiled—a predator’s smile.