Chapter 15 — The Message & The Dream
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Night had fallen.
The great towers of Galactus Academy shimmered under the twin moons, their lights reflecting like silver blades across the floating walkways.
Cyrus sat by his desk, his sharp eyes scanning data fragments, piecing together any trace of the Hollow Vault of Serathis.
Nothing.
The dungeon Adrien spoke of simply… didn't exist.
> Either hidden beyond access, or buried by forces I don't fully grasp.
As his mind ran countless silent calculations, his wristwatch suddenly vibrated — a soft pulse of light and sound.
Ping.
A message appeared on the projection:
> "Midnight. North Plaza. Come alone."
No sender ID. No insignia. No traceable link.
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"Tch..." Cyrus narrowed his eyes.
He didn't need to think hard to know where it came from.
Adrien.
> But how... how does he know?
Cyrus leaned back in his chair, staring into the soft glow of the watch interface.
For the first time in a long while, something disturbed him—not fear, but discomfort. A sensation he rarely permitted himself.
> He knew I would search.
He knew the precise moment I would search.
Is this random prediction? Or something else?
Cyrus' mind ran through possibilities:
Precognition? Possible. But to this precision? Rare.
Surveillance? Unlikely. I cleared my room daily.
Behavioral algorithms? Advanced but not this accurate.
No solid answers.
> He's either extraordinarily skilled... or he's playing by rules I don't understand yet.
And that… was new.
"Interesting," Cyrus whispered to himself in a low tone, a slight glint in his eyes.
"I dislike gaps in my understanding."
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But for now, he shut the analysis down.
Control had always been his greatest weapon — even over his own body.
His breathing slowed. His thoughts quieted.
His heartbeat obeyed.
In seconds, sleep took him.
Artificial. Precise. Like flipping a switch.
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The Dream
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It wasn't an ordinary dream.
It was lucid — fully aware, fully controlled.
The ancient halls of the Dominion Nexus spread before him.
Blood stained the marble floors.
The former Heads of the Twelve Families lay dead or dying — their faces twisted in horror, betrayal, and hopelessness.
Their once-proud banners fell in pools of crimson.
Their cries echoed:
"We trusted you..."
"Mercy... Cyrus, mercy!"
"Please!"
But mercy was never part of the equation.
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At only ten years old, Cyrus stood calmly in the center of the carnage, untouched by the chaos.
The final surviving Head knelt before him, head bowed in utter surrender.
"Why...?" the man gasped.
"Why destroy your own blood?"
Cyrus, even as a child, wore his usual neutral face.
"Because you were already dead the moment you underestimated me,"
he said in a cold, emotionless tone.
"I merely arranged your burial."
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He had played them masterfully.
Pitting them against each other, seeding suspicion, planting false information, forcing betrayals to spiral.
They tore themselves apart.
He only nudged the pieces.
The puppet master — even as a boy.
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As the dream lingered, Cyrus stood silently, looking at the scene as both participant and observer.
His older, present self whispered softly inside the dream:
"People forget misfortunes not because they forgive…"
"But because remembering would break them."
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The image faded slowly into blackness.
The crimson pools reflected the words that no one would ever speak aloud:
> "The Aurelius bloodline… died by its own genius."
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Morning
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The sun pierced his windows.
Soft wind carried the chimes of magical wards activating.
Cyrus opened his eyes — fully rested, fully composed.
Another day. Another mission.
The past was done.
The present remained.
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He followed his routine like the perfect machine he'd built himself to be:
10-mile run along the outer circuit of the academy.
30 minutes of breath control meditation.
Targeted calisthenics.
Nutrient-rich breakfast optimized for his metabolism.
Daily mental exercise: 1,000 rapid memory recall drills.
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Later, in class:
As the instructor lectured on dimensional spatial ruptures, Cyrus barely listened.
His mind calculated, dissected, watched others.
Observing behavioral patterns.
Watching reactions.
But one thought hovered behind everything:
> Adrien. The dungeon. The unknown.
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End of Chapter 15