A Dream:

"Seo-jin, no. Please. No nononono!? Seo-jin!?"

His friend's frantic cries echoed in his ears. Seo-jin struggled to grasp the situation clearly. All he could focus on was Joo-ho, tears streaming down his desperate face as he clutched Seo-jin's falling body. Hazy vision allowed Seo-jin to register the blood on his abdomen as he lay in Joo-ho's arms, and then his gaze lifted.

Facing the brightness behind her, a silhouette stood darkened by the light. It was likely Joo-ho's stalker— a figure Seo-jin had encountered more than once.

Amidst the painful ringing in his ears, the silhouette blurred and was replaced by a rough-looking man with a crew cut. In his hands, he held a raised sword. Just as the sword began its descent, Seo-jin spotted the Emperor in the high seats, observing him with indifference.

Anticipating the impending pain, Seo-jin tightly closed his eyes. But the anticipated strike never came.

Slowly reopening his eyes, Seo-jin found his second cousin smirking viciously from across the table, his vision blurred. Glancing down at the glass in his hands, Seo-jin realized it was poisoned just before he collapsed.

Darkness enveloped him—pitch black and ominous. His hands and feet were chained, his clothes and skin in tatters. Almost piercing silence surrounded him until a cold female laughter shattered the stillness.

He looked up from the cold concrete floor, finding a dark smile and vicious indifference in the eyes of the lady with flowing pale brown hair and green eyes.

This dream seemed endless, painfully prolonged, and undeniably hurtful. It was extremely terrifying, a nightmare that would have left any other person scared silly and utterly traumatized.

Yet, it didn't affect him as much. It didn't instil as much fear. Instead, it made him melancholic and sad, hurting for his own misfortune and pathetic life. These were scenarios he had faced before, not the fabricated reality of a dream. They had all been true at some point in the rifts between times.

The thought left him exhausted and hopeless, with a myriad of emotions threatening to overtake him. Loneliness gripped him intensely, and the dream intensified his longing for his friend Joo-ho—the only person throughout his many lives who genuinely cared for him, even willing to sacrifice his life for Seo-jin's, now Lysander, sake.

It had been Lysander, however, who had first laid down his life for Joo-ho. He never regretted it, even though it subjected him to utter hell afterward. His decision remained unwavering.

Yet, the longing for his friend hit him hard, especially now. All the suppressed emotions threatened to spill over at any second.

His eyes slowly opened, uncertainty lingering about whether it was reality or still a dream. He couldn't discern his surroundings before a whimper escaped his lips, and his blurred vision hazed even further.

Uncontrollable tears streamed down his face. Lysander cared for nothing in that moment. As the tears fell, broken whimpers and hitched breaths erupted, a painful release. After such a long time, he had forgotten how to cry.

His head and ears throbbed, but the inconsistent and broken sobs persisted. In his stupor, he felt himself pulled into a warm embrace, and someone soothingly rubbed his head.

He couldn't make out their identity as he continued to cry for some time. Eventually, his cries dwindled into muffled sobs, allowing him to discern soft consoling murmurs in the distance.

Eventually, he calmed down. His eyes stung, and his head felt dizzy, but more than that, Lysander now felt petrified—too scared and utterly embarrassed to raise his head from the embrace. A low whisper reached his ears.

"Are you calm now, Lord Magnolia?"

The voice, belonging to the person who had been comforting him, briefly blanked his mind. Even more terrified to raise his head, Lysander sought to minimize the embarrassment by not lingering any longer. Hastily, he pulled away from the embrace and avoided the outstretched hand that had been soothing his head.

Seated on the sofa, face down, and eyes fixed on his trembling hands, Lysander refused to look elsewhere. His voice, coarse from crying, forced out a quiet, "I'm fine now."

Silence hung in the air before a shuffle indicated the two men in front of him had stood up, possibly taking seats on the sofa opposite him.

Nobody spoke. Lysander sensed they were waiting for him to talk, likely waiting for an explanation. But what was there to explain?

They weren't close enough for personal exchanges of feelings or thoughts. Perhaps, they were waiting for him to address the blood he had coughed up earlier. It was clearly not a matter to be taken lightly, especially for someone of his status and position.