Chapter 279 — Memories I

Darkness.

Complete and absolute darkness surrounded him, the kind that made distance meaningless, that made up and down irrelevant.

Damian’s consciousness floated in that void, aware but disconnected, present but not anchored to anything physical.

’W-where... am I?’

The thought emerged slowly, confused, his mind struggling to grasp context through fog that seemed to resist understanding.

He tried to remember what had happened before this darkness.

Images flashed through his fragmenting awareness – creatures with white eyes, students screaming, Lysa’s broken body held in a massive claw, his own desperate charge...

’I was... fighting in the portal...’

The memory solidified slightly, becoming clearer despite the void around him.

The small child-like controller, the desperate final battle, using the Devourer Art until his mind degraded to almost nothing.

Then... Lysa.

About to be eaten alive.

His consciousness lurched with sudden panic, the memory bringing clarity through horror.

’D-Did I... save her?’

The question hung unanswered in the void, his fractured mind unable to provide certainty, only the terrible images of what he’d seen.

Then the darkness shifted.

Not disappearing, but transforming, becoming something else entirely.

A scene materialized before him like watching through a window – not his memory, but vivid and real nonetheless.

****

A young man stumbled through an alley, his clothes torn and bloodied, his face showing exhaustion beyond what a body should endure.

He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen at most, his frame thin and his movements desperate.

Behind him, distant shouts echoed – angry men hunting with their weapons firing, the sounds of pursuit that meant death was close.

The young man’s foot caught on debris and he fell hard, hitting concrete with force that should have broken bones.

But he pushed himself up immediately, driven by survival instinct that overrode pain.

’I... need to keep on running... They’ll kill me...’

His thoughts were simple and focused, the kind of clarity that came when death was the only alternative to forward motion.

Then headlights cut through the alley’s darkness.

A car – expensive, black and gleaming even in the dim light – pulled to a stop directly in his path.

The young man froze, trapped between the vehicle ahead and pursuers behind, his hand moving automatically toward his waist where a gun should have been.

But he’d lost it hours ago, dropped during the fighting, left behind when his entire organization collapsed around him.

The car’s back door opened.

And a woman stepped out.

She was beautiful in a way that demanded attention – not young, maybe in her late thirties or early forties, but carrying herself with the kind of confidence that made age irrelevant.

Her long coat was luxurious, dark fabric that caught light and seemed to absorb it, cut to perfection over an elegant suit that spoke of wealth beyond what the young man had ever possessed.

Her face showed intelligence mixed with something calculating, dark eyes assessing him with the precision of someone who’d evaluated countless people.

She looked at the bloodied, desperate young man for several long seconds.

Then spoke to someone behind her without breaking eye contact.

"Take him."

Men emerged from the shadows – her guards, all wearing similar expensive coats and hats, their weapons visible but not drawn, their movements professional.

The young man tried to run, tried to resist, but exhaustion made his struggles meaningless.

They lifted him almost gently, carrying him toward the car despite his weak attempts to fight.

The woman watched this with an expression that revealed nothing, then gestured once.

Her men placed the young man in the back seat carefully, almost respectfully, then closed the door.

The woman settled beside him, her presence filling the space, and the car pulled away smoothly.

Behind them, the pursuing gang members reached the alley entrance just in time to see the expensive vehicle disappear around a corner.

They stopped, recognizing the car’s significance, understanding that whoever owned it was far beyond their ability to challenge.

****

Damian watched all of this like a ghost, invisible and intangible, his consciousness observing without ability to interact.

His eyes tracked the young man’s face, recognition hitting with devastating force.

’It’s... me.’

Not Damian Valcor.

But... Alessio D’Rossi.

The person he’d been in his previous life.

Then his gaze shifted to the woman, and something in his chest clenched.

’No... not again... not another memory... I don’t want to see...’

His protest went unheard, the scene continuing regardless of his wishes, the memory playing out with the inevitability of something that had already happened.

****

[Unknown Location - Days Later]

Alessio’s eyes snapped open, his body jerking upright with the violent awareness of someone who’d learned that sleep meant vulnerability.

His hand moved automatically toward his waist, searching for the weapon he always kept close.

Nothing.

His clothes were different – clean, expensive and unfamiliar against skin that had only known rags and stolen goods.

Panic flooded through him as memory returned.

’The car... Where am I? What do they want?’

His eyes scanned the room rapidly, cataloguing exits, potential weapons, anything that could be used for escape or defense.

The bedroom was luxurious beyond anything he’d experienced – proper bed with clean sheets, furniture that looked handcrafted, windows showing daylight through expensive curtains.

"Well well... looks like I picked up a criminal after all."

The voice came from the doorway, cultured and amused, carrying an edge that suggested the speaker missed very little.

Alessio spun, his body tensing for violence despite having no weapon, his mind already calculating angles and distances.

The woman from the alley stood there, still wearing elegant clothes though different from before, her dark eyes studying him with the same assessing intelligence.

She walked into the room slowly, her movements deliberate, giving him space rather than crowding.

"You’ve been unconscious for two days. My doctor treated your injuries – broken ribs, severe lacerations and signs of prolonged malnutrition... You’re lucky to be alive."

She sat in a chair near the window, crossing her legs, her posture relaxed despite being alone with someone who was clearly dangerous.

"So... who are you running from? What did you do to make someone hunt you so desperately?"

Alessio said nothing, his face becoming carefully blank, years of survival teaching him that information was currency and silence was armor.

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, processing his lack of response.

"Not much of a talker, are you? That’s fine... I can wait."

She stood, walking toward the door, then paused.

"There’s food downstairs when you’re ready to eat and clothes in the closet that should fit. You’re free to leave if you want – I’m not keeping you prisoner. But if you stay, there are rules. No stealing, no violence against my people, and you earn your keep through work."

She left without waiting for acknowledgment, the door closing softly behind her.

Alessio remained frozen for several minutes after she’d gone, his mind racing through possibilities and implications.

’Why save me? What does she want? Nobody does anything for free... There’s always a price.’

But his stomach was cramping with hunger, and the smell of food drifting from downstairs was impossible to ignore.

He moved to the closet, finding clothes that were expensive but practical – the kind that allowed movement while maintaining appearance.

He dressed slowly, checking every item for hidden trackers or weapons, finding nothing.

Then descended the stairs with silent steps, every sense alert for danger.