The road stretched ahead like a scar across the pale earth.
Thin winter light seeped through the clouds, neither warm nor kind, casting everything in muted shades of grey. Bare trees rose like skeletal fingers on either side of the narrow path, their branches etched sharp against the sky. Frost clung to the ground, cracked underfoot, then vanished beneath the tread of three pairs of boots.
Kel walked at the front.
Reina and Landon followed a half-step behind, one to each side. They spoke little. Breath misted before their lips, pale ghosts that faded before they could fully form.
The world around them felt wide, empty, and strangely unfamiliar.
For the first time since waking in this world, Kel von Rosenfeld was walking somewhere that did not have a prewritten script for him as "the cursed heir" of Rosenfeld estate.
He was walking toward a location he knew—
Not from this life.
But from another.
From Destiny.
From twenty lifetimes of completion.
From the nineteenth, in particular.
His eyes remained fixed forward, but his thoughts slipped inward, carried along like dark water beneath ice.
The Letter He Left Behind
Marine will have gone to my room by now, he thought.
His fingers flexed slightly against the strap of his satchel. The leather creaked faintly in the cold.
She'll step in as she always does. Open the curtains. Check the water. Say "Good morning, Young Master" in that quiet voice that pretends she doesn't notice the dark under my eyes.
His jaw tightened.
And she won't find me.
He could almost see her there—standing beside his bed with its precisely arranged sheets, her calm expression shifting by the slightest degree as absence registered in the quiet organ of her instincts.
I left a letter, he reminded himself.
That would have to be enough.
He wished—briefly, dangerously—that he could have told her in person. That he could have said:
"I'm leaving to change the ending."
"This isn't childish rebellion."
"I'm going to find a lake that doesn't exist on maps."
But the more people knew, the more fragile his path became.
Words were cracks.
Cracks spread.
And he could not afford the estate—even those who cared for him—to turn worried eyes outward toward the road he had chosen.
He inhaled, cold air scraping the inside of his throat.
Next time, he told himself, if there is one… I'll explain.
If I return with the curse broken… then she'll understand why I left without letting her stop me.
He pushed the thought aside.
Emotions were weight.
He had enough already.
The Destination: Scarred Lake
Far beyond the horizon of his current path, beneath mountains of cruel frost and barbarian war songs, lay a place that did not exist in ordinary tales.
Not to people of this world.
But to him—
It was called Scarred Lake.
Or rather, as the game translated it: Scarder Lake—its name fractured in the original code, like the place itself.
Kel's eyes grew faintly distant as he walked, the rhythm of his steps syncing with the rhythm of old memory.
Destiny's one of the most mysterious late-game regions…
Even most professional players refused to touch it.
Not because it was unknown… but because it never forgave mistakes.
In Destiny, the Scarred Lake was a mid-to-late endgame area hidden behind absurdly convoluted conditions. Players called it cursed. Glitched. Unprofitable.
He had called it something else.
Potential.
He remembered how players, even the best-ranked ones, described it in heated forum debates:
"Scarder Lake is a joke. One mistake and you get full-party wipe from off-screen elites."
"Even if you reach it, the environmental debuffs make most builds useless."
"There's no stable roadmap—everything there feels like the game is cheating."
What they never realized was simple:
They were approaching it wrong.
They tried to reach it from below.
From known paths.
From visible entrances.
They thought of it as another dungeon.
It wasn't.
It was a consequence.
Kel's lips moved silently.
The true route isn't from the main regions.
The safest access lies from the northeast…
His gaze sharpened.
Toward a point far beyond where they were.
"…from the snow mountains where barbarians live."
Deep in those mountains, hidden beneath layers of ice, war, and isolation, there was a crevice—an unmarked rift that only opened under specific conditions of aura flow and environmental triggers.
The first time he'd found it, in his nineteenth run, had been an accident.
The second time… a design.
The mountain depth houses a portal.
Not magical in the obvious sense.
A distortion.
A crack in the world.
"…that links to Scarder Lake."
Most monsters never patrolled that exact vector.
Their aggro paths in-game followed certain predictable routes—range checks, sight cones, AI loops. In nineteen playthroughs of obsessively testing patterns, Kel had found a way to thread through their blind spots.
It had taken him weeks of trial and death.
In the game.
Now he had only one body.
One curse.
Two companions who did not know just how far beyond safe tactic this plan was.
Yet…
His eyes darkened.
If I can reach that mountain pass and trigger the portal…
Then I can reach Scarred Lake with minimal or almost harmless encounters.
Not no risk.
Risk was a given.
But minimized.
Controlled.
He would not charge into the front gates of hell when a side door existed that no one had mapped.
The Lake That Cures and Revives
In Destiny's lore, Scarred Lake was ancient.
Older than constellations.
Older than the first Emperor.
Players had called it many things:
"Lake of Reflected Sins."
"Blood Mirror."
"The End of Curses."
In mechanical terms, it was broken.
It held a unique passive:
[All curses can be overwritten here]
Not easily.
Not cheaply.
But possible.
The lake's waters could be drawn with special vessels crafted from specific materials, then used as components in high-tier rituals.
Combine its water with certain Divine-class abilities—or, on rare builds, with late-game Constellation Override functions—
And in-game, it could do what most systems forbade:
Revive a dead character outside standard revival rules.
Not a reset.
A defiance.
Kel's hand drifted unconsciously toward his chest, where beneath cloth and bone, the cursed foreign presence pulsed faintly.
In this world… I don't have Divine-class players.
I don't have Constellation mechanics unlocked.
But the lake—
If it existed here as it did there—
The core lore might still hold.
If Scarder Lake truly rewrote maledictions…
It might not simply delay his curse.
It could crush it.
Tear it free.
Rewrite his destiny string.
A faint, sharp smile touched his mouth.
Barely there.
If there's even a ten percent chance…
It's worth two years of life.
Back in Rosenfeld Estate – The Maid Who Woke a Ghost
At that same time, in a room now emptied of its occupant, Marine stood at the threshold with her usual morning tray.
Steaming tea.
Light breakfast.
Small vial of herbal tonic she pretended not to notice he never finished.
Her uniform was as precise as the rest of her—black dress, white apron, dark stockings, soft shoes that made no noise on stone. Her hair was tied back into a clean bun. Not a strand out of place.
She nudged the door open with practiced quiet.
"Good mor—"
The word never finished.
The room answered with stillness.
Not unusual at first glance.
The bed was made.
Curtains mostly drawn.
The faint trace of last night's lamplight scent hovered near the desk.
Had she not been who she was, she might have set the tray down and assumed he had woken earlier for training.
But Marine von Albrecht had served Kel since he was small.
She knew his patterns better than most.
And something was wrong with the silence.
It felt… emptied.
Not as if someone had stepped out.
As if something had departed.
Her eyes, a calm deep blue, flicked across the room once.
Bed.
Neat.
Desk.
Ordered.
Wardrobe.
Closed.
Window.
Curtains half-drawn, as if someone had parted them earlier and then decided they preferred the dimness.
She moved inside, closing the door behind her.
Her expression did not change.
But her shoulders straightened the slightest degree.
She set the tray down on the small table.
"...Young Master?" she called softly.
No answer.
She crossed to the bed and touched the sheets.
Cool.
Not slept in since they were made.
She did not gasp.
Did not stiffen visibly.
But her lashes lowered a fraction.
She turned then toward the desk.
A folded piece of paper lay upon it.
It was placed too precisely.
Kel was orderly—but not ceremonially so.
This…
This was deliberate.
Marine approached.
Her footsteps made no sound.
She picked up the letter.
On the front, in thin, neat script:
To Marine.
Her fingers held the edges carefully, as if the parchment might shatter.
She unfolded it.
Her eyes moved, line by line.
Kel's handwriting was restrained, controlled. No wasted strokes.
The words were simple.
Marine,
Sorry, but I am going to roam in the world. This is only known to the Duke and me. After reading this letter, you also.
I request you not to tell anyone about this letter. After reading it, burn it down and pretend you never saw it.
— Kel
There were no explanations.
No mentions of curses, lakes, or game-world logic he could never convey without sounding insane.
Just decision.
Just trust.
Just a request.
Marine stood still for a long moment.
The sounds of the estate felt far away.
Servants bustling somewhere along other halls.
Carts moving in the distance.
But in this room…
Only parchment.
Only breath.
Only a choice.
Her fingers tightened once upon the letter.
Then relaxed.
Her eyes closed, just for a heartbeat.
If anyone had been there to watch her closely, they might have noticed the faintest tremor at the corner of her mouth—as if some emotion punched through, struck, then was immediately buried.
When she opened her eyes again, they were as calm as the surface of a still well.
She moved to the bedside table, where a small lamp still held a half-burned candle.
She took a breath.
Lit it.
The flame flared, small but steady.
Marine held the letter above it.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the corner curled.
Browned.
Caught.
Fire began to climb the parchment.
The words Kel had written blackened and devoured themselves, turning into delicate ashen fragments that drifted down toward the tray on the table.
She held it until the last of it had burned.
Only then did she drop the brittle remains into the empty teacup on the tray.
She watched them crumble.
No sound.
No tears.
No bending of the shoulders.
"You always do troublesome things quietly, Young Master," she murmured, voice as soft as the shroud of smoke fading in the air.
There was no anger in it.
Just a tired familiarity.
Her Decision
He had written:
Pretend you don't know.
For anyone else, that might have been impossible.
For Marine—
Pretending was part of breathing.
She took the tray again, now with one teacup holding the ashes of a letter no one else would ever read.
She smoothed the sheets of his bed.
Adjusted one fold of the blanket.
Drew the curtains halfway, the way Kel liked them in the morning.
Anyone stepping in would see:
An empty room prepared for a Young Master supposedly in "seclusion".
Exactly as expected.
She paused at the door.
Her hand rested on the handle.
Her eyes swept the room once more.
Then she whispered, so quietly that even the walls barely heard:
"Then I will pretend, Young Master."
A faint, almost invisible smile touched her lips.
Sad.
Proud.
Resigned.
"I will pretend you are still here training in secret."
She opened the door.
Closed it behind her.
And just like that, the estate had one more person maintaining the lie the Duke had woven.
Marine walked down the corridor, tray in hand, expression composed.
But inside, she made a quiet vow:
If anyone comes asking… I will say you are exactly where they expect you to be.
And when you return—with curse or without it—I will scold you for leaving without breakfast.
Her lips almost curved again.
Almost.
Then the mask settled fully.
By the time she reached the servant halls, she was nothing but the efficient head maid again.
On the Road – A Name for the Future
Back on the frost-bitten road, Kel's thoughts drifted briefly to Marine.
To the quiet way she moved.
To the way she never asked what he could not answer.
To the way she had always respected his silence.
He exhaled.
She'll cover for me.
He believed that as firmly as he believed the sun would rise tomorrow.
Up ahead, the path wound slightly north.
The wind grew sharper, carrying with it a faint, distant cold—the kind that lived in high places where snow never melted.
The direction of the snow mountain range.
Kel's grip tightened on his satchel strap.
"Scarder Lake," he thought, the game-name echoing through his mind, mis-typed, mis-coded, but real. The place that drinks curses and spits them back as possibility.
Reina glanced at him once, reading the set of his jaw.
Landon adjusted his cloak, looking from him to the distant horizon.
They did not know yet where he was leading them.
They would.
In time.
For now—
Three figures walked beneath a hardening sky.
Behind them, the Rosenfeld estate continued its morning rituals, unaware.
Ahead of them, beyond mountains and monsters and a world that refused to bend—
A lake waited.
Silent.
Dark.
Patient.
A place that could cure a curse.
Or drown those desperate enough to seek it.