"This... this isn't me."

He leaned closer to the mirror, his trembling fingers brushing the cracked surface as if touching it would somehow change what he saw. It didn't. His reflection remained a broken parody of life. His skin was sallow, sickly. His body frail, wrapped in bloody, rotting bandages. He looked like a mummy pulled from its grave.

A sharp pain shot through his head, and he staggered back from the mirror, clutching his temples. The throbbing returned with brutal force, clouding his thoughts. Fragments of memory flashed before his eyes—images that made no sense.

Who was he? Who had he been before all this? He struggled to recall, but every time he reached for the answer, it slipped further away, dissolving into the haze of pain.

"Who... am I?" he muttered.

His mind was a jumbled mess, the pieces not fitting together. He remembered... death. Yes, he had died. That much was clear. But the details were scattered like ashes in the wind. How had it happened? And why was he here now, in this body that was not his?

As his fingers continued to trace the broken lines of the mirror, the flap of the tent rustled.

He turned slowly, his body still sluggish and weak, just as a woman stepped inside. Her sudden presence startled him, but he could barely react.

She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, with blonde hair tied back under a white cap adorned with a red cross. She wore a simple green dress that was dirtied at the hem, her hands gripping an old wooden bucket. Maybe she was a nurse, here to tend to the wounded. Maybe she knew what was happening.

But the moment her eyes landed on him, her face drained of color. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she froze in place as though she had seen a ghost.

Without warning, she shrieked and flung the bucket's contents at him. Cold water splashed across his face and chest, drenching him. The sudden shock of it forced him fully awake, the sting of icy water momentarily clearing the fog in his head.

She staggered backward, dropping the empty bucket, her hand flying to her mouth as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. For a moment, it looked like she might faint.

"You... you're awake?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes were wide with terror, as if she couldn't decide whether to scream again or run out of the tent.

"You were—" Her words caught in her throat, and she backed away, pale and trembling.

He wiped the water from his face, still disoriented. His heart pounded in his chest, the confusion deepening.

"What... happened to me?" he asked, his voice raspy.

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The woman didn't answer. She just stood there, eyes fixed on him as if she were staring at something that shouldn't exist.

The cold water dripped from his face, soaking into the bandages that clung to his skin. His heart slowed, the shock fading, but his gaze hardened. His eyes, dark and sharp, locked onto the woman standing before him. Her face was pale, her hands trembling. She had clearly heard his question but made no move to answer him.

"Who are you?" His voice was low, steady, despite the turmoil in his mind. "Where am I?"

The woman flinched, realizing her mistake. Her expression changed instantly, panic giving way to obedience. She quickly bowed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"I-I apologize, my lord!" she stammered, her voice trembling with fear. She glanced up only briefly before bowing again, her words hurried and unsure. "My name is Elise. You are... you are at the border of Raedoris, my lord. This is the front line of the Marsenna War."

The names felt foreign, yet familiar, like echoes of a story long forgotten. He narrowed his eyes, watching her closely, but said nothing. She, in turn, seemed desperate to explain herself, her words tumbling out in a rush.

"We're at war with the Kingdom of Vornak, my lord. You've been—well, you've been unconscious for days. The battle has been relentless, but... but you're safe now." She forced a weak smile, but it faltered. "It's all right now, Lord Lucian Ardent."

That name. Lucian Ardent.

The moment she said it, something in his mind clicked into place, like a key turning in a lock. His thoughts, once clouded and scattered, began to sharpen, focusing on that single name. It echoed in his head with increasing clarity, a name he knew all too well.

Lucian Ardent. The disgraced son of a duke. The character from a novel—one his sister had shown him years ago, a story they'd both laughed at for how bleak and hopeless it had been. It was a name that had been etched into his memory because of how tragic and pitiful the character's life had been. But now...

'Wait... my sister?'

The thought struck him like a hammer to the chest.

'Who... who was she?'

He knew he had a sister. He could feel it deep in his bones. But her face, her name—everything about her was slipping away, like sand through his fingers. The harder he tried to hold onto the memory, the more it blurred, until all that remained was the vague outline of someone who had once been important.

His hand tightened around the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

'This world... it can't be.'

His mind raced as he tried to grasp the threads of memory that eluded him.

'What was the name of that novel?'

The title danced just beyond his reach, like a fleeting shadow in the corner of his mind. He gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling to the surface.

He recalled the pages filled with despair, the cruel fate of Lucian Ardent—a boy born into a noble family but cursed to be a disappointment. Lucian, who had never inherited the powers that distinguished his lineage, was scorned and belittled by his family. He had been a mere shadow in a world that favored strength, endlessly mocked by his cousins and shunned by his father.

The story had depicted a relentless cycle of abuse and neglect, with Lucian enduring hardships that no child should face. The novel's heart-wrenching narrative detailed how he was cast aside, sent to the battlefield as a punishment, a pawn in a game that had never been his to play.

He remembered how his sister had cried as she read aloud passages that spoke of Lucian's struggles, his desperation, and the hopelessness that followed him like a dark cloud.

Suddenly, panic gripped him.

'No, this can't be happening. I can't be him!'

"Get out!" he shouted, his voice a raw edge of panic and authority.

The words erupted from him, startling Elise. She hesitated, her wide eyes searching his for understanding.

"B-but my lord—"

"Leave!" he barked, his tone harsher than he intended. The echo of his own desperation caught him off guard. He had no patience for explanations, not now, not when the weight of Lucian's memories bore down on him like an anchor dragging him into darkness.

Without another word, she turned and fled the tent, the flap rustling as it fell back into place. The silence that followed was oppressive, leaving him alone with the cacophony of his thoughts.

His heart raced, and the pain in his head intensified. Memories flooded his mind—snippets of Lucian's life. He felt the sting of rejection from his father, the haunting laughter of his cousins, the feeling of cold steel against his skin as he faced the harsh realities of the battlefield.

Each memory was a dagger, sharp and unforgiving, piercing through the fog of his own identity.

A cold dread settled in his stomach. He was trapped in Lucian's life, destined to walk the same path of misery. The very thought sent him spiraling into despair, and he pressed his hands against his temples, willing the memories to recede.

But they wouldn't. They surged forth, relentless, forcing him to confront the truth of who he had become, and who he had once been.

He sat on the edge of the makeshift bed, the weight of Lucian's memories pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. The tent felt stifling, and he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He could hear the distant sounds of battle, but they faded into the background as he focused inward, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

'What was that name?'

He closed his eyes, willing the title to surface. It was there, hovering just out of reach, teasing him like a whisper in the wind.

And then, it came to him—"The Beast Within"