Sylvain's body lay heavy, worn from the events of the night, as sleep gradually consumed him. His mind sank deeper into unconsciousness, but instead of restful darkness, he was pulled into visions—fragments of memories long buried.He found himself standing on a cracked, desolate ground, gazing at the sky. Clouds, dark and turbulent, churned overhead, shifting with a weight that felt suffocating. Across the horizon, something enormous loomed—shadowed, foreboding, something that stretched beyond the boundaries of the sky itself. The world trembled beneath its unseen presence, and the air buzzed with fear—an all-consuming fear that Sylvain had seen before.Around him, a crowd of people—each figure desperate and disillusioned—gathered, their eyes wide with terror. They screamed, cried out for help, their voices blending into a chorus of hopelessness. But there was nothing to be done. The meteorite, inevitable, hung in the atmosphere like a monstrous force, casting an unyielding shadow over the world.Time seemed to pause—a sudden freeze—where everything halted mid-motion. The crowd, the earth, even the wind stopped. And then, as abruptly as it began, everything rewound. The faces twisted, their mouths open in silent pleas. The sky shimmered, and once again, the scene played out—a loop of anguish, despair, and helplessness.This vision—the same one, repeated over and over. In each life, the world screamed, crumbled under the weight of its own fate, and then time spun backward.But in every one of those lives, Sylvain never rose beyond his quiet, solitary existence. He lived in shadow—quiet, unnoticed. A nobody in the Flamesworth house, consumed by the life of a servant, lost in the corner with his black cat, River. Each life, the same: destined to linger in the fringes of power, never ascending, never leaving behind a mark that could have saved anyone. He never fought. He never resisted. He simply watched—until time froze, and everything unraveled once again.The loop rewound, and every iteration of his life played out the same, each ending with the same fear—people pleading, desperate cries rising as something loomed in the sky. The meteorite.But then, the dream shifted—a subtle flicker, as if peeling back the layers of time itself. Sylvain found himself in a different place—warm, gentle hands around his small fingers. A tender smile before him, soft and loving. His mother. Her voice, soothing and steady, whispered words of comfort. They had been here before—when she was alive, when she held him close."I will always be with you," she murmured, brushing the hair from his forehead. Her warmth surrounded him, and for a fleeting moment, the world felt safe, whole.Then, a memory—fragmented but vivid—pierced through the dream like a dagger. Sylvain, small and fragile, sitting next to his mother. A sickness had swept through the household—a disease that knew no mercy, one far too brutal for adults to endure. It had claimed countless lives, and his mother was next.Faust had come then—cold, detached, his eyes hard as they scanned the frail woman lying in bed. He approached, but his gaze was devoid of sympathy. His lips curled with distaste, looking down at her as though she were beneath him—a burden, someone unworthy of help."She's not worth the effort," Faust muttered, almost bored. "Too much resource wasted on someone who contributes nothing to the Flamesworth legacy."Sylvain, a child, had clutched his father's leg, his small fists trembling as he begged—pleading, desperate to save his mother."Please, Father... she's my mother. She's... she's important." His voice wavered, tears streaking his face.But Faust's expression twisted into one of disdain. He shoved the child aside."She's nothing. A peasant—unworthy. If she were noble, perhaps it might be worth saving. But this... this isn't worth my time."Sylvain's knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably as he watched his mother smile faintly—weakly, but still with warmth. Her voice, calm and soothing despite the shadows creeping in, spoke softly."Don't cry, my little flame... It will be alright. Your father cares... in his own way."But Sylvain's eyes followed as Faust turned away, leaving, walking out of the room with calculated indifference. The last thing he heard was his mother's voice—gentle, sweet, yet breaking as she spoke those final words:"I love you endlessly, my sweet boy..."The dream twisted again, plunging him into a flood of recollection. The disease worsened—the cure so close, yet just out of reach. And soon after, her frail hand slipped away from his.Sylvain's breath hitched. The weight of that memory, so vivid—so raw—rushed through him like a tidal wave. His chest burned, and tears fell again, unbidden, as he felt the sharp pang of loss—the ache that had never left him.And as the dream reached its final moments, it shifted once more—into flashes, quick, fleeting scenes of his mother's death, of her hand slipping from his grasp. He saw it again—the first time Faust visited his concubine—a moment of repulsion, dismissing someone too far beneath him to be of any importance.Sylvain, a boy no older than ten, reached out to his father—begging him—desperate. "Please... save her. Please..."But the answer was the same—the cold indifference, the sharp rejection.Sylvain woke with a jolt, his hand stretched toward the ceiling, trembling. His eyes, still heavy from the dream, burned with unshed tears.He sat up slowly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room spun briefly, as if the memory had left him unsteady. He wiped his face, fingers stained with dried tears.But deep inside, something had shifted—something had awakened.A flame. A fire—not one of hope, but one of resolve. The past weighed heavily on him, but it couldn't control him anymore.He glanced down at his hand—the syringe still clutched in his palm. The copper liquid inside—it wasn't just a simple chemical. It was something else entirely—a key, a catalyst. A means to see the loops, yes... but only his life before, not the loops themselves.Yet, it had done more. It showed him what had been lost—his past, his mother, and the countless lives caught in the loop. It burned in his mind—visions of those faces screaming in fear, their eyes wide with helplessness.He tightened his fists, a low growl escaping his throat. Enough. No more. No more waiting. No more suffering.This world—this endless cycle of pain, the manipulations of the elites—he was done. The meteorite wasn't the real enemy. It was them—the Houses, the ones who controlled everything.Let it burn.He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. If humanity was set to end, then let it. Let it end. Let them suffer the consequences of their own actions.With a sudden, fierce conviction, Sylvain's gaze sharpened. He injected the serum into his hand again—his skin burning as the copper substance flowed through his veins.In an instant, his vision blurred, and the world twisted around him—flashes,scenes of lives long past, lives intertwined with his own, collapsing into one. The weight of it all—a flood of memories, too much, too soon. His head throbbed, pain lancing through him, his mind unable to handle the onslaught.And then, it came—the moment he couldn't escape. The visions overtook him—memories of his mother, those brief moments of comfort, now so far away—dead in the original timeline.The images burned, seared into his mind—her hand in his, the warmth, the tenderness, the words... I love you endlessly. Those words made his hand stretched upward toward the ceiling, reaching—searching—longing.And in that moment, he knew. His past, his mother's death, the lives before—none of it could be undone.But he could carry it forward.Sylvain stirred, his body heavy and aching, his mind still foggy from the overwhelming memories that had crashed over him. He sat up slowly, blinking away the dizziness as his gaze fell to the worn note beside his bed—crumpled and hastily written. The ink smeared slightly from sweat and tears, but it was there—his only connection to what he had discovered in his dream.His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the paper. He unfolded it carefully, scanning the words—jotted down quickly in a frenzied attempt to capture everything the serum had revealed. He began to list what he remembered—events from his previous lives, pieces of knowledge he could use now.The political shifts—the alliances forged, the betrayals hidden beneath noble smiles. The files—those secret documents that showed not just the family's dealings, but the things that were meant to be erased—discarded as though they had never existed. Sylvain's pen scratched rapidly across the page, listing key moments—the movements of powerful individuals, the shifting power within the noble houses, the mistakes made that led to the downfall.Faces blurred in his mind—figures he couldn't quite place, but the patterns remained. Memories of whispered conversations, brief glimpses of dealings that were never meant to be seen. He wrote it all down—every scrap, every detail—things he hadn't dared to commit to memory before. Information now meant to be retained, analyzed.He noted the names—people from those past lives, fleeting figures whose movements had impacted the loops. Their relationships, their alliances, their betrayals—all the pieces that had shifted over time. Sylvain's gaze narrowed as he recorded each name, each piece of knowledge. With each note, his mind sharpened, more focused. His intellect, long dismissed by his family, became his only weapon. He analyzed every fragment—every secret, every hidden truth—and wrote them down as they came to him. The political maneuvers, the alliances forged in shadows, the power struggles between noble families. Every event, every maneuver, every failure from past lives—Sylvain meticulously documented it all.He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching, craving something—anything—to release the anger building inside him. His eyes drifted toward the vial he had taken from the hidden room—the serum still half-full. His heart thudded in his chest. He couldn't forget what it had shown him—couldn't ignore what it had unlocked. The memories—the visions—of his past lives. But more than that, it was the knowledge it held—the key to understanding everything.Suddenly he thinks to himself ''Wait... why is this time different than the others ? why didn't I find the secret room on the past loops ?''He leaned back for a moment, then started to write diagrams and lines to bring forth a theory he had thought of.'' If I remember correctly, the same situation with that servant Raven happened in the old loops, but it only led to her tripping over.''He pets his cat while addressing her ,''River wasn't following me on the past loop...She only followed me in this loop because she was hungry, and that is what triggered her to rip off that painting, so all of the small shifts in the past six timelines accumulated to result in me finding the room—a butterfly effect across timelines.''His mind raced, piecing it all together—the details he had uncovered, the web of events that had shaped every life he had lived before.Sylvain sat up straighter, his hand reaching toward another sheet of paper. He began writing again—every event, every detail he could remember from his previous lives, every scrap of knowledge he had retained. He needed to keep it all somewhere—secure, hidden. Not to remember the loops themselves, but to understand what had happened before. What mistakes were made. Every piece of information—every person—every political movement—every fleeting event he could recall— His mind burned with the effort, his thoughts racing faster than his pen could keep up.His fingers hovered over the ink, then drifted to another thought—something more immediate. His eyes. The serum had turned his eyes orange—impossible to hide. He couldn't risk being seen like this—not now, not when he was still vulnerable. He needed something to cover them—something that would keep him safe.Slowly, he began searching through his belongings—rummaging through old drawers, pulling out spare lenses. He found a pair—plain, brown-colored ones. They would serve to mask his eyes, to keep him hidden from anyone who might come too close. He had to be careful—every step must be calculated. One mistake, one revealing act, and it could all crumble. The end of the loop might come for him.Sylvain adjusted the lenses carefully, the discomfort pressing against his nose. He stared into the mirror, watching his reflection. The orange glow hidden beneath brown lenses—a temporary solution, but it would have to do for now. He couldn't afford to be seen—couldn't afford to slip up.Not yet.