Cold gray morning light seeped through the cracked window in a thin line, catching dust as it drifted lazily through the air.
The mansion smelled of damp wood and old ash.
The floorboards complained under Vincent's feet—under Gabriel's will—each creak too loud in the wrong, peaceful silence. No armor. No sword. Only this fragile body that fit like an ill-made coat: shallow breaths, stiff joints, muscles that had forgotten how to obey.
On the wall, the Aldebaran crest stared back.
Once a starburst.
Now it was clawed, gouged, ruined—someone had taken deliberate joy in grinding a family's pride into splinters.
Vincent lifted a hand. His fingertips brushed the scratches.
Rough grain bit his skin.
Cold threaded into his chest—not from the air, but from what the damage meant.
My home.
What did you do to it—
A voice came from behind him, so soft it sounded afraid one word might break the world.
"…Lord Vincent?"
For a fraction of a second, instinct snapped him back to the battlefield.
Turn. Create distance. Find a weapon.
Vincent spun. His hand reached for a sword that wasn't there.
In the doorway stood a young woman carrying a tray.
Not a blade.
Warm porridge, steam curling in thin threads. A small glass of something hot—water or tea—its gentle scent clashing with rot and dust.
What shook her wasn't the tray.
It was Vincent—standing.
Her eyes widened as if she'd walked in on the impossible. The tray dipped, then steadied by sheer discipline.
"L-Lord…?" Her voice trembled. "You're… standing?"
She took half a step forward, then stopped, like coming closer might make him collapse.
"My Lord—how are you? Are you alright? Your head—your body—"
Vincent didn't answer.
Because he was staring.
The way she held her worry behind duty. The way her feet landed quietly, trained to never announce themselves. The way her hands didn't shake until she thought she wasn't being watched.
That wasn't Vincent's memory.
That was Gabriel's.
And before he could stop it—
"Aeryth…"
The name slipped out.
The young woman jolted. Steam above the porridge trembled.
"W-What…?" Her voice cracked, small. "Why did you say my grandmother's name?"
For an instant, something flashed behind Vincent's eyes—an old kitchen smell, iron and soap; a woman's posture like a spear; a flat, unwavering voice saying, "Lord Gabriel. Eat. Then bleed."
The image vanished as quickly as it came, leaving his pulse unsteady.
Panic sharpened the young woman's breath. "Did something happen to you, my Lord?"
Vincent forced his face still.
This body was weak.
Weakness could be a shield.
"Easy," he said softly, lowering his tone until it sounded worn. "I… lost some of my memories."
She went rigid.
"Lost… your memories?" she echoed, almost a whisper.
Vincent nodded once. "I remember older things. Names I shouldn't."
His gaze flicked to the ruined crest and back to her.
"But recent years are empty. I don't remember what happened to this house."
The woman swallowed hard, then stepped in properly—like duty could keep her from breaking.
She closed the door gently. Not because there was danger outside, but out of habit, as if even wind didn't deserve to enter uninvited.
She set the tray down on a table with one crooked leg. The porridge steamed in the cold air.
"My Lord…" she said carefully, "if that's true… then you really don't remember…"
She hesitated, then dipped her head—not too deep. Respectful, but not disappearing.
"I am Julia de Lucretia, my Lord."
The surname rang in Vincent's skull like a struck bell.
Lucretia.
Aeryth.
Something tightened in his chest—heat trying to climb into his throat.
"Your grandmother… Aeryth?" Vincent kept his voice flat.
Julia nodded quickly. "Aeryth de Lucretia. She served Lord Gabriel."
Not Hero.
Not Savior.
Just Lord.
That was how the old loyalists spoke—as if the world still had an order and Aldebaran sat in it.
Vincent swallowed the sharp edge rising in him. He needed footing. He needed facts.
Julia pushed the porridge toward him.
"Eat first, my Lord," she said—firm enough it hurt with familiarity.
Vincent lowered himself into the chair. The wood groaned. He took a spoonful.
Warmth spread.
This body thanked him the only way it could: his breathing steadied by a thread, his hands shaking less.
Julia watched him like she still didn't believe her eyes.
"My Lord… usually you…" She stopped, swallowing a sentence that clearly pained her. "Usually you can't stand."
"I don't understand it either," Vincent said. Honest, but safe. "But I'm standing now."
Julia blinked, then nodded as if accepting a miracle she hadn't dared to ask for.
Vincent lifted his gaze to the defaced crest.
"Tell me," he said. "Just a little. What happened to House Aldebaran?"
Julia stiffened. Her eyes flicked to the crest, then away—like looking too long would make her cry.
"I… didn't live through all of it," she said quickly. "I was small. What I know is from my parents. From the servants, before they left."
One fact.
Vincent accepted it.
"Then start with what's closest," he said. "Why is the mansion empty?"
Julia drew in a breath.
"This morning… the other servants left, my Lord."
This morning.
So the house had bled its last voices only hours ago.
"They said they couldn't endure anymore. No wages. Not enough food. And… they have families."
Vincent glanced at the porridge. It suddenly felt heavier than steel.
"And you didn't go," he said.
Julia shook her head.
"There was a charge," she answered softly. "From my parents."
Her fingers gripped the edge of her apron like she needed something to hold.
"They said… the Lucretia family exists because of Aldebaran. The 'de' isn't decoration, my Lord. It's the mark of being under Aldebaran's protection."
Julia lifted her eyes.
"It's not something I can throw away when life gets difficult."
That explained it—exactly where it belonged: at the moment loyalty is tested.
Vincent breathed in slowly.
Aeryth…
He could almost hear her: flat voice, unwavering spine.
He set the spoon down.
"Thank you," he said.
Julia flinched as if he'd stabbed her with kindness.
"Don't say it like that, my Lord."
Before Vincent could answer, a sound cut through the quiet.
A distant knock.
Not on this room's door—somewhere far below, near the front of the mansion.
Julia froze.
The color drained from her face so fast it looked practiced.
Vincent's spine stiffened, instinct rising despite the weak body.
The knock came again.
Two beats. Patient. Official.
Julia moved without thinking. She crossed to the window and lifted the curtain a finger's width, peering out.
Vincent watched her shoulders go tight.
Her whisper was barely breath. "Someone's outside."
"Who?" Vincent asked.
Julia swallowed. "I can't see well… but they're wearing gray. Like clerks."
A third knock echoed, firmer.
Vincent's heartbeat stumbled—too hard, too fast—and the world tilted a fraction. His hand gripped the table edge.
Clerks.
Documents.
Seals.
Debt.
The words Julia hadn't said yet, but his instincts already dreaded.
Julia dropped the curtain and turned back, trying to be calm and failing at the edges. "It might be the Merchants' League."
Vincent caught the name.
Not the Association from the battlefield.
A different kind of parasite.
"Merchants' League?" he repeated.
Julia nodded quickly. "People call them the Merchant Association sometimes. But it's not the Association."
Her eyes sharpened on the word, as if afraid it would summon the wrong monster.
"The Hero Association—the one that wears star badges—that's who people mean when they say the Association."
Vincent's jaw tightened.
Star badges.
Clean capes.
Salvage custody.
Narrative.
"Whoever is knocking," Vincent said, voice low, "do they come often?"
Julia's silence answered first.
Then, quietly: "Too often."
Another knock.
This time it was followed by a muffled voice from downstairs—polite, loud enough to carry.
"House Aldebaran. We have documents requiring your seal."
Julia's fingers trembled. She clenched them into her apron.
Vincent forced air into his lungs. He needed to stand. To move. To put himself between this fragile house and whoever thought it could be claimed.
He pushed the chair back.
Pain flared through his legs. Not sharp—deep and sick, like a joint remembering it was supposed to fail.
He took one step.
The room swam.
A hot wave rushed up his throat as if his body had decided emotion was poison.
Vincent's vision narrowed at the edges. His heartbeat hammered once, twice—then stumbled.
He tried to pretend it wasn't happening.
He tried to keep his face still.
He failed.
His knees buckled.
Julia was there instantly—tray forgotten, duty becoming muscle memory. She grabbed his arm, braced her shoulder under his, and held him up with strength that didn't match her size.
"My Lord—!"
Vincent swallowed hard, forcing the world back into place.
"Fine," he rasped. A lie that tasted bitter. "Just… dizzy."
Julia's eyes flashed—fear and anger tangled together. "You're not fine."
The knock downstairs sounded again, impatient now.
Julia tightened her grip and guided him back to the chair. "Sit. Please."
Vincent wanted to argue.
He didn't have the breath.
He let her push him down.
Julia leaned close, voice a sharp whisper. "If it's them, they'll want your seal. They'll want proof you're alive. Proof you can still be made to sign."
Vincent's fingers curled around the edge of the table.
"So we don't give it," he said.
Julia's mouth tightened. "Then they escalate."
Another sound joined the knocking: the scrape of something being dragged across stone—maybe a crate, maybe a chair, maybe just a clerk making a point that they could wait all day.
Vincent's gaze flicked to the door.
He didn't have a sword.
But he had a name.
And a house that still breathed, barely.
"After the war," he said, forcing his voice steady, "what happened?"
Julia hesitated, then chose her words like stepping across rotten boards.
"After the great war ended… demons vanished," she said. "At first, House Aldebaran lived quietly. People came to pay respects. Everything… looked calm."
"And then?" Vincent asked.
Julia's jaw tightened. "And then the Merchants' League came."
"For what?"
"Documents. Seals. Debt." The words came out clipped, rehearsed. "They demanded compensation for goods and artifacts destroyed during the war. They said a contract was still a contract."
A cold, clean anger settled in Vincent's ribs.
"And the head of the family?" he asked.
"Asked for help," Julia said. "From the Hero Association. From the church. From other houses."
Vincent's jaw clenched. "Did they help?"
Julia shook her head.
"No."
One word.
And the room got colder.
"The head sold valuables," Julia continued quickly, as if crossing the most painful part without stopping. "To pay part of it. To buy time."
Vincent looked around: torn portraits, broken chandelier, ash-choked fireplace.
Time had run out.
"And income?" he asked.
Julia met his eyes. "House Aldebaran was made for demons."
She didn't dramatize it.
Just stated it—like a verdict.
"Against non-demons… we are much weaker. When demons vanished, missions stopped."
"No missions," Vincent murmured.
"No income," Julia answered.
Silence—packed with the sound of history being abandoned.
Vincent shifted carefully. The weakness in his body reminded him he couldn't afford emotion without action.
"If my memories are gone," he said, "tell me about me. About… Lord Vincent."
Julia hesitated, then nodded.
"There were three siblings," she said. "The elder sister—the first child—left. She joined the Red Tower."
Vincent filed the name away.
"The younger brother—the third child—became a mercenary. He left with friends. There's been no word."
Julia swallowed before the next line.
"And you… the second child."
"You tried," Vincent said, coaxing.
Julia nodded. "You tried business. Letters. Numbers. Anything that wasn't a sword."
She glanced toward the corner of the room.
A writing desk, covered with cloth.
Julia crossed to it and pulled the cloth away. Dust rose, turning the gray morning light into thin fog.
On the desk: an ink bottle nearly dry. Stacks of worn paper. Lines of numbers. Lists. Places Vincent didn't recognize.
"It didn't work," Julia admitted softly. "Not fast enough."
Vincent stared at the handwriting.
Not his.
But stubbornness lived in every stroke.
"In the end… you fell ill," Julia said, voice softening. "In recent months you were weak often. Sometimes you fainted."
So this body wasn't just unfamiliar.
It was damaged.
Julia nudged the porridge closer as if she could feed him back into strength. "Finish it, my Lord."
Vincent obeyed.
Between spoonfuls, his eyes caught something beneath the papers.
A small leather-bound book, corners worn from too many nights.
Vincent pointed subtly. "That. What is it?"
Julia's expression changed—not fear.
Caution.
"A diary," she whispered.
Something tightened in Vincent's chest.
Without Vincent's memories, that diary was a bridge to the life he'd taken without permission.
"May I?" Vincent asked.
Julia hesitated, then nodded.
"You wrote it…" she said quietly. "When things became harder."
She handed it over like it was a wound.
Vincent took it with both hands. The cover felt cold.
He opened the first page.
Neat handwriting greeted him—not the writing of a legend, but of a man trying to save a house with methods no one respected.
The first lines weren't complaints.
Not self-pity.
They were attempts.
Names of people who refused him. Numbers that kept falling. Plans crossed out and rewritten.
Vincent turned a page.
Then another.
The entries became shorter. The ink shakier in places, as if written between fevers.
A date caught his eye—recent. Close to the end.
His breath hitched.
One line was underlined so hard the pen had torn the paper:
"THE HERO ASSOCIATION HAS CLAIMED OUR VICTORY AS THEIRS. THEY'VE SEALED THE RECORDS—ALDEBARAN IS NOW A FOOTNOTE."
Vincent's fingers went cold around the book.
The words didn't read like grief. They read like a verdict.
Those words didn't belong in a ledger of debts and failing plans.
Julia watched his face and paled. "My Lord… what is it?"
Vincent closed the diary carefully, like shutting a coffin on something that still moved inside.
He lifted his gaze to the ruined crest, then back to her.
A decision settled inside him—heavy and clean, like a sword finally finding its sheath.
There was no room for "Gabriel" here.
No room for a legend.
Only a dead house… and a name that could still be forced to live again.
Vincent drew a slow breath.
Then, in a calm voice that made Julia go still, he said:
"I am Vincent de Aldebaran."
Julia stared, not understanding why that simple sentence sounded like an oath.
Vincent pushed himself to stand—slowly, fighting the weakness that tried to drag him back down.
"And I will raise House Aldebaran again."
Downstairs, the knock came one more time.
Patient.
Official.
Like it owned the day.
Vincent's eyes hardened.
"And we start," he said quietly, "by keeping them out."