The vivid flashback of the attack, the chilling separation from Ren, left Rex shaken. The idyllic peace of Everwood felt fragile, a thin veneer over a deep well of unresolved trauma. He sought solace in his training, the rhythmic movements of Crimson Flow a balm for his troubled mind. Each precise strike, each perfectly executed maneuver, was a small act of defiance against the chaos that haunted his dreams.
He pushed himself harder than usual, his body a vessel for the pent-up emotion, his sweat a testament to his struggle. The physical exertion provided a temporary escape from the crushing weight of his memories, but the respite was fleeting. The images of the attack—the flashing steel, the terrified screams, the agonizing separation from Ren—continued to haunt his waking hours.
He spent hours meditating by the village pond, attempting to piece together the fragments of his past, searching for any clue that could unlock the mystery of his amnesia and the brutal attack that had separated him from his brother. He focused on the details he could recall: the opulence of the house, the scent of expensive perfume, the expressions of fear on the faces of the people present before the violence erupted.
The more he searched within himself, the more he realized the depth of his amnesia. He was a stranger in his own mind, a man living a peaceful life while burdened by a past he couldn't fully grasp, a past that held the key to his identity. He had no memory of his life before Everwood, only these fleeting and fragmented glimpses of another world, a world of wealth, power, and unimaginable violence.
He questioned the villagers about the symbols he'd seen carved into the wood, but no one recognized them. He searched the village archives but discovered nothing. The feeling of helplessness intensified. He was trapped between the peaceful present of Everwood and the violent chaos of his unknown past. The more he discovered, the more deeply he understood he was losing.
That night, as he slept, the dreams returned, but with a twist. The usual chaotic images were still there, but they were interspersed with flashes of a different scene—a meeting, clandestine and secretive. He saw a group of shadowy figures, their faces concealed, whispering amongst themselves, and saw his symbol displayed in their meeting. They spoke of Everwood, of a rare medicinal fruit, a fruit he knew only as the Blood Peach, a fruit he knew only from Hemlock. Their tone was not one of surprise but of confident anticipation, almost a sense of inevitability.
He saw a map, a detailed depiction of Everwood Island, with a specific location marked in red. The scene dissolved, leaving him once again in the midst of chaos, the screams of the attack echoing in his mind. He woke with a start, his heart pounding, sweat slicking his skin.
It wasn't just random; someone had known about Everwood, about the Blood Peach. The attack had been meticulously planned. This wasn't the work of simple pirates. This was something far bigger, far more sinister, a meticulously planned operation that had ended his life of serenity and forced him into a dangerous and uncertain future. A cold fear gripped him—a fear not of the unknown but of the chilling realization that the quiet peace of Everwood had been deliberately shattered. The dream had shown him a conspiracy, a meticulously planned scheme that now called for his involvement.