Even the sternness in his voice faltered as his gaze froze on the white-haired boy standing in dirt-streaked armor.
"...No," he muttered under his breath, almost inaudibly. "It can't be..."
Vincent stared, bewildered, his grip on the sword slack, its tip nearly brushing the earth. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling as a strange flicker pulsed behind his eyes—a flash, sudden and sharp.
There, in the haze of memory, he saw the man again.
That same man from the fragments of the lost life, a voice both stern and warm, a towering presence he could never quite name until now.
His brows drew together.
White locks tousled by the wind framed his blood-red eyes, and across from him, the older man stood frozen, a mirror of those same eyes—aged, weary, yet unmistakably the same hue.
Vanheilm's gaze dropped, catching on the detail he had missed at first—the polished steel, the subtle stitching along the cloak's hem, and then, there it was.
The crest of Triton. Emblazoned on the boy's chest.
A silence fell between them, dense and pressing. The duke's breath caught in his throat.
He took a slow step forward, his voice swallowed by the sudden weight of certainty.
All of a sudden, the carriage door swung open.
"Van—" came a soft, trembling voice.
Marianne descended the steps, her white-gloved hand lifting the hem of her gown as she hurried forward. Her hair, white as the driven snow, bounced lightly with each step. Worry had shaped her voice, but it vanished the instant her gaze fell on the boy standing beside her husband.
She froze.
Her breath hitched. Her gloved hand rose to her mouth in a slow, delicate motion, as though holding back the gasp that escaped anyway. Her eyes widened—glassy, searching, stunned.
Vincent wiped the blood from the corner of his lip with the back of his hand. As he straightened, a sudden warmth enveloped him—an arm, gentle and trembling, curled tightly around his frame.
"Marianne," Vanheilm called softly behind them, but she did not respond.
Her body shook.
"Vincent..." she breathed, the name cracking through her sobs, "...I thought you were..."
She couldn't finish.
Vincent stood motionless. The world seemed to blur around him. Her embrace, her scent, her voice—it was all so strange, and yet...
He'd seen her before.
Not here. Not now.
But in those scattered fragments of memory, in glimpses of laughter and a warm kitchen hearth, a smile just like hers had existed.
Somewhere deep inside, something in him stirred.
Amidst the tender embrace, a thunderous roar shattered the moment like glass.
The beast.
"Vincent!!" Arthur's voice rang out, urgent and commanding.
Vincent pulled away from the woman holding him—his motions reluctant, but swift. Her arms loosened, her hands left grasping at nothing.
"No..." Marianne whispered, a fragile breath caught in sorrow. She watched, helpless, as the boy ran from her embrace once again—just like before. Just like that day.
Vanheilm stepped forward, placing himself protectively in front of her as the trees split and the monster emerged. His eyes narrowed as he watched the sword in the boy's hand. The way it glowed. The crimson trail it left as Vincent dashed toward the beast.
"Van! Our son!" Marianne cried, trying to run after him, but the duke held her back, his voice a strained hush.
"Marianne... he is not our Vincent."
She stared at him, confusion and pain crossing her face.
"What are you saying?!"
Her voice broke through the growing chaos as battle erupted ahead of them—steel against fang, men shouting commands into the growing dusk.
"Waltkin, take her to the carriage—now," Vanheilm ordered. The coachman nodded, gently guiding the weeping duchess back.
And yet the duke's eyes never left the battlefield.
As his wife was led away, a red mist began to coil around his arm—wrapping like a serpent of flame. It slithered down to his hand, shifting, shaping, solidifying.
A sword—etched in the same glow that danced behind Vincent's strikes.
Ahead, Vincent fought with fluid grace, parrying blow after blow, his movements a symphony of precision. Around him, his comrades held their ground.
"It's a curse!" Gradion bellowed, cleaving into the beast's leg with a mighty swing of his axe. "We've been fighting Thau'ron's summon!"
Blood burst from the creature's wound, black and thick like tar. A flash of red light cracked the air, deafening. The force sent the beast crashing into a colossal tree, splintering it at the base. The trunk moaned before falling, earth shaking in its wake.
"What was that?!" Rynard gasped, stunned by the display.
And through the haze of settling dust, a silhouette emerged—walking slowly, calmly.
The glint of crimson steel in hand. his coat trailing behind him like a shadow of war.
"D-Duke Vanheilm?!" the knights cried out, eyes wide.
But the duke said nothing. His gaze was locked ahead—on the beast. And the boy.
"Why is this beast here?" Vanheilm's voice sliced through the tension, his blade already poised.
"There must've been a dungeon break, Lord Vanheilm!" Arthur replied, stepping beside him, readying his weapon. Across the clearing, the beast stirred again, groaning as it pushed itself upright, towering, snarling.
The duke's gaze turned to Vincent—his expression unreadable, but his crimson eyes locked onto the boy's, recognizing something... haunting.
"Young man," he called firmly, "on the count of three, make it bleed on its chest. I will strike from the opposite side."
Vincent, his breath ragged and warm against the cooling air, gave a short nod. His head throbbed, blood still running from where the beast struck him earlier. Yet his stance was steady, and his grip on the sword never wavered.
"One," the duke began.
And then it started.
From Vincent's armor, from between the seams and cracks of steel, a red mist began to rise—thick and writhing like smoke born of fire. It coiled around him, alive, pulsing. A slow, serpentine current of power.
Vanheilm's brows twitched upward, lips parting slightly in disbelief.
That mist—it was unmistakable.
From somewhere deep in his mind, a voice—one long buried—echoed like a whisper on a forgotten breeze.
"Young master sadly did not adapt your blessing, m'lord. Though he has such skill... he acquired her mother's instead."
The scene shifted in a flicker.
A sunlit balcony. Wind brushing past.
"Dad... am I a disappointment to you?" a younger voice asked.
Vanheilm turned, surprised. His son stood before him, uncertain, avoiding his gaze.
"Why would you say that?"
"Because... I didn't acquire your ability."
He knelt, hand resting on the boy's shoulder, voice low and firm. "My dear boy... I could never be disappointed in you."
The memory shattered like glass.
And the present rushed back.
The red mist deepened in hue around Vincent—its glow painting the trees around them in a crimson sheen. And for the briefest moment, Vanheilm saw it again.
"Two..."
Vanheilm's voice rang low, steady—but his heart thundered.
Across from him, the boy's—no, Vincent's—eyes flared. The scarlet within them deepened, dancing like fire caught in glass. And then, it manifested.
The familiar warmth. The unmistakable weight of that presence.
The Festival of Blood.
That cursed, sacred rite.
The mist no longer simply coiled—it flared. It pulsed outward in waves, painting the air in swirls of red like ribbons unfurling from the edge of a blade. The ground around Vincent cracked faintly beneath his feet, as if the earth itself felt the call of something ancient.
Vanheilm didn't breathe.
Because he knew this ability. He knew it better than most.
And now—this boy....was wielding it.
"Three—!" Vanheilm's voice was no longer commanding. It was reverent. A whisper to fate itself.
In a blink—no sound, no breath, no thought—just motion.
Two streaks of red tore across the battlefield, arcing like twin comets in perfect, deadly sync.
From one end: the Duke, crimson mist streaming behind him, blade angled with precision borne from decades of bloodshed.
From the other: the boy, his form low and swift, aura blazing, his sword humming with endeavor.
And in the center—time stopped.
The beast reared its head to roar.
Too late.
They crossed.
Vincent's blade carved upward, sliding into the belly of the creature and surging through bone and sinew—straight into the heart. Simultaneously, the Duke came down like judgment, his sword cleaving clean through fur, flesh, and skull.
A wet thunk echoed through the trees as the beast's head hit the ground, rolling in the dirt.
Its body staggered.
Wavered.
Collapsed.
And in the silence that followed, the mist began to fade—slowly, reverently—like a curtain falling at the end of a fated act.
"Where did you learn that?" the Duke asked, his voice calm but laced with something—curiosity, disbelief, perhaps even... recognition.
Vincent turned to him, his eyes still simmering faintly with crimson light. "I just had that," he replied plainly, his tone carrying no pride, no confusion—just truth.
With practiced ease, he gave his sword a slight flourish, the red-stained steel slicing clean air before slipping back into its sheath. Then he stepped forward, planting his boot on the carcass of the beast beneath him—a silent claim over death.
"You just had that... huh," the Duke muttered, a crooked smirk tugging at his cheek. His own blade shimmered, dissolving into curls of red mist that vanished into the wind.
And just then—soft footsteps, quickened by emotion—Marianne rushed from the carriage, her voice trembling as she called out, her silken gown fluttering behind her like a ghost chasing time.
"Vincent!" she cried out, her voice breaking with emotion as she reached him.
Without hesitation, she cupped his face with her gloved hands, eyes darting over every cut, every smear of dirt and blood on his skin.
"Are you fine? Are you hurt? Tell me—tell me where it hurts," she pleaded, her voice trembling, her thumbs brushing gently across his cheeks as if she could wipe the pain away.
"I... I'm fine," he answered softly, caught off guard by the warmth in her touch—the familiarity that stirred something deep within him.
"Darling... he's... not—" Vanheilm began, his voice low, steady, as he laid a hand gently on her shoulder.
"He's not our boy."
The words, sharp as steel, cut through Marianne like a blade. Her breath caught, but her eyes did not falter. She turned toward him, her expression unshaken, the flick of her brow resolute.
"He is... my son," she said, voice firm, conviction blooming in her chest like fire.
"Darling..." Vanheilm tried again, but she silenced him with a glance.
"It's maternal instinct," she said, her tone unyielding, as if daring the world to challenge her claim.
Vanheilm could only offer a faint, melancholic smile as he watched the scene unfold—the woman he loved cradling a boy they had long believed lost. But as his gaze lingered, drawn deeper by unease, questions began to stir in the silence of his thoughts.
That hair—white as the frost-kissed hills of winter. The same as Marianne's.
Those eyes—red as spilled blood on snow. The same shade he bore in his youth, proud and feared.
Who is this boy, really?
Where did he come from?
The wind whispered no answers, only carried the weight of growing doubt.