Meanwhile a flash back had occurred in Hector's mind. Memories. Faded. A group of warriors, they resembled humans, held spears similar to his and Surrounded a tomb. In the tomb strange inscriptions were written in a language that felt so Distant yet Familiar. He could understand the words of the men around him. He began to notice a few differences, these men spoke to him informally which made hum feel uncomfortable. Or did it? He felt smaller than them. Like he was a Child, or a teen. His muscles Smaller, his knowledge of the spear felt tormented. He'd remembered how to efficiently use a spear but on the other hand it felt like his body wouldn't keep up.
"Naran" a man spoke, Hector saw the man staring at him. He tried to ask what he said but was quickly interrupted by his own voice coming through. He didn't understand the situation but he got a clear glimpse now. He was in a memory. He wasn't sure why but it was Faust's memory. But is he Naran? "Naran, dear child, your father has perished defending our tribe from the Devils hand." A dragon kin man said, "If we remain As we are we will die Naran." Another man continued for him
You are the next candidate but you are still too weak, this is the tomb of the first warrior. To inherit, you shall drink your fathers blood before its too late and summon the sacred dragons to bless you with their mark. In the midst of the talking, the memories went blank and for a few moments he was in the dark until the vision became clear, it was a field, mixed with blood, limbs and Broken weapons. This time, Hector felt, empty. His arms were hollow covered in blood as if gripped by something, someone, a man. He was breathing in exhaustion but that was it. His body looked sticky, covered in blood but he looked like he felt no pain. What was going on here? He thought to himself, he turned to face the man once more, an echo in his head rang, "this is Wrong Tarquinius, what shall you do? I can sense that there are more on the way and while you are not yet injured, there will be little to no energy left for you to battle." That voice, it was Faust, he sounded younger, and he seemed to be speaking to someone. The face of the man looked familiar to Hector. Tarquinius Priscius. The first wind Dragon warrior according to the murals. This must be when he was murdered. The records said, he was killed in a court room, with axes Buried into his head. But currently they were in a field. That must mean he wouldn't die yet. Perhaps due to his connection with Faust, Hector felt the fading Life of Tarquinius, he stood strong but fighting assassins of that caliber and being ambushed must have taken a toll on his health. That must be how they took advantage and ended his life. He was also the pioneer to the first 5 steps of the wind Dragon's Movement. Whispering Gale, Soar, Phantom, Cyclone, Tranquil and Coil. They used the basis of the Wind Dragon's steps Faust was known for but he couldn't help but wonder, "is Faust truly Naran?"
His vision went blank again, however the time it seemed like flashes, phases of different memories, deaths, Battles, pleasure, struggles of growth, betrayals, deep connections to friends of old. It was asif Hector was truly becoming one with Faust. Hector hadn't noticed, but his subconscious was Falling. The flash of memories wasn't Faust's life flashing through his eyes but Faust losing the witness of memories... and Hector's curiosity and oblivion to the outside world was his will losing its purpose. He didn't have a reason to live. He had lost his connection to his sister a long time ago and even in rebirth, had lost his friend. At this moment where the emotions were no longer his own, he had become the witness to Fausts memories. But strangely enough, a seed was buried in that subconscious. A seed that couldn't be uprooted, a memory. Her voice was a soft whisper that rang through the dark space and the slide show of memories. It started soft and yet despite the cluster of Voices emotions and memories to witness, it had become as clear as day without a shift in its pitch. Hector remembered that sound anywhere. Perhaps it was the only memory of his past life that he had left. It was him in Heloisa's arms, cuddled as hers bloodied yet warm held him close. And he felt it. That warmth from her touch. It was all he needed to be aware of his reality as he space around him fell. Desperate to Relive that memory, he'd tried to gather himself, "FAUST, FAUST REGAIN YOURSELF" he screamed, with no response back. He needed to stabilise the mental state or else they would crumble like the consciousness without any hope of returning. Hector leaped through, running through the dark space, holding on to that warmth tighter than ever as he could feel his will dying. Meanwhile in the real world, he'd began convulsing, the blood poured out of his mouth, as Lucien tried to stabilise his blood levels. Valeri Logan and Armand still struggled to keep Gale's loose power in check and Lucien, who wasn't skilled in Healing magic focused his all to keep him in check. He voice in his head whispering gently what he should do and how he should. "There's too much impurities in his system" Lucien thought to himself. His veins began to bulge from his skin, giving a faint Green glow, his eyes Going white and his spear attaching yet detaching itself from him as if it was an extension of his body. Looking at his ki channels and Mana circulation, Lucien had realised where it truly went wrong. Hector had forced himself to the mastery point he had been in prior to the raid. Using a technique known as soul layering where you divide your aura into pieces giving them specific perma tasks and piecing them back like they were pieces to a puzzle. It was a risky Technique as even Excessive aura depletion could cause deviation and instant death and too little could deplete itself chipping away at the very life itself, memories, emotions, will and mist importantly Life essence. Hector had sacrificed Half its soul to perform this technique. The other half he'd split and stretched to compensate meaning any soul attack would instantly kill him. And as if that wasn't enough he performed the technique again mid fight to Supplement his lack of power for Faust. Meaning what exists of Hector now is Nothing but fragments. And what Exists of Faust is being chipped away from lack of a Soul connection. All Lucien can do is Stabilise Hector's body, ki channels and Mana to slow down the process. Everything else is upto him.
Meanwhile back in the dream Hector's vision blurred as he was pulled into the memory. It wasn't his own, it belonged to Faust. But it was so real he could feel it.
The scent of blood and burning wood filled the air. The wind howled, but it carried something worse than the storm, the screams of the dying.
Hector stood in the center of a temple, its stone walls cracked with age. Torches flickered in the dim light, casting shadows over the scene before him.
A boy knelt before a corpse.
Naran.
Son of Arban, the great Wind Dragon Warrior.
The boy's hands were trembling as he pressed them to his father's still chest. The body was cold, lifeless, but power still lingered inside.
This was the ritual. The sacred passing of the warrior's strength to the heir.
But something was wrong.
The wind had stopped.
The temple should have been filled with the whispers of the departed, the gentle flow of power moving from father to son. But there was nothing.
Naran's face twisted in pain as raw energy burned through his veins. His body was too weak. The power rejected him, fighting against him like a storm tearing apart a house.
And then—
A boom.
The temple shook as an explosion tore through its walls. The sound of steel meeting flesh, of warriors screaming, filled the air.
The attack had begun.
Naran's father's killers had come.
Outside, the warriors of the village fought, but they were losing. Their guardian was dead, and his heir was breaking.
"Hurry! Complete the ritual!" an elder shouted.
Naran tried to push himself up. His legs gave out. He was failing.
Then—
The temple doors burst open.
A man walked in, calm despite the chaos around him. His golden hair caught the firelight as he stepped through the bloodstained floor.
In his hand, he held a shining rock.
No, not a rock.
A scale.
The elders froze in horror.
Before anyone could stop him, the man lifted the dragon's scale to his lips—
And swallowed it.
Silence.
Then, his body convulsed.
His veins glowed as something ancient awoke inside him. His muscles twisted, bones cracked, and then—
A roar.
It wasn't human.
From within his body, a dragon began to take form, its presence swallowing the air itself.
The villagers stared in disbelief.
This was the dragon they had worshipped. The very being they had served for generations.
And now—
It had turned on them.
"Why…?" an elder whispered.
The man smiled.
"Because I felt like it."
That was all.
No reason. No justice. Just cruelty.
The warriors faltered. Their faith, their strength—it shattered.
All except one.
Baatar.
Naran's grandfather.
His old hands clenched into fists, shaking with rage. He had sacrificed everything for the dragons. His wife had died for them. His son had fought for them. His daughter-in-law had been slaughtered because of them.
And now, their god had betrayed them.
Baatar stepped forward, his voice low, cold.
"You took everything from me."
And then—
He called the demon.
A deep, guttural whisper echoed through the temple. The ground split. Shadows crawled along the floor, twisting, laughing.
Faust had been summoned.
The demon's voice slithered into Naran's ears.
"Do you wish to curse the gods?"
The old man did not hesitate.
"Take my soul. But banish that dragon from this world."
And so—Faust did.
Darkness swallowed the temple, and the dragon's roar turned into a scream.
But before it vanished, it cast its own curse—on Naran.
A punishment.
A fate worse than death.
From that moment on, Naran would live again and again.
Each time, he would remember.
Each time, he would suffer.
Each time, he would die the same way—
Betrayed