I don’t remember when the magic stopped.

  At some point, there was nothing left to draw on. No response when I reached inward. No pressure, no pull, no push—only emptiness. My mana was gone, scraped clean.

  So I kept fighting anyway.

  Steel against chitin. Breath against pain.

  Every movement was slower now. My arms felt like they were filled with lead, my legs barely responding when I told them to move. Wind no longer guided my blade. Light had faded to a dull glow, barely enough to track motion.

  The Mantid Overlord was worse off—but not finished.

  Its right forelimb hung uselessly, joint cracked and twisted. One leg dragged as it moved, balance compromised by a dozen precise cuts. Still, it advanced. Still, it adapted.

  I parried late.

  The impact rattled my bones. My grip slipped. The blade dipped for a fraction of a second too long, and that was enough.

  The Mantid reared back, mandibles spreading. Its remaining scythe-arm rose, angled for a downward strike.

  I couldn’t lift my sword in time.

  My body didn’t respond.

  This was it.

  The thought was oddly calm. No panic. Just certainty.

  Then something moved in front of me.

  Steel rang—sharp, violent, absolute.

  The blow never reached me.

  Lyra stood between us, her blade crossed against the Mantid’s strike, boots digging into the stone as she absorbed the force. The impact sent cracks spidering across the floor beneath her feet.

  She grunted. Blood splashed—hers.

  The Mantid screeched, recoiling as she didn’t retreat. She stepped into it instead, twisting her blade and severing what remained of the damaged joint. The limb fell, useless, clattering against stone.

  The fight ended in seconds after that.

  Lyra didn’t give it time to recover. One clean movement. One decisive strike. The Mantid Overlord collapsed, its massive body crashing to the ground, motion finally stilled.

  Silence followed.

  I dropped to my knees.

  My vision swam. My ears rang. I was dimly aware of Lyra turning toward me, of her steadying herself despite the blood running down her arm.

  I had fought until there was nothing left.

  And in the end—

  I had been saved.

  I woke up slowly.

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  Pain came first.

  Not the sharp, tearing kind from before, but a deep ache that sat in my bones and refused to leave. It reminded me of every mistake I had made in that fight. My body felt heavy, sluggish, but when I tried to move, it responded.

  I was alive.

  The wounds were gone.

  Cleanly treated. Bandaged. The faint metallic bitterness of healing potions lingered at the back of my throat. Someone had used more than a little on me.

  I turned my head.

  Lyra was sitting beside me. Not standing guard. Not watching the surroundings. Just sitting there, back against the stone wall, her posture loose in a way I had never seen during training.

  Her arm was wrapped in fresh bandages. Blood had soaked through part of it.

  The sight made something tighten in my chest.

  She had been injured because of me.

  Even knowing she was stronger, more experienced—it didn’t sit right. She was my teacher. My escort. She shouldn’t have had to put herself in danger for me.

  The question surfaced before I could stop it.

  “Why… did you save me?”

  She looked at me.

  Really looked.

  “Not even a thank you?” she said, unimpressed.

  I froze.

  The words felt inadequate now, lodged somewhere in my throat, tangled with guilt and something else I didn’t want to name.

  She sighed softly.

  “You’re my responsibility,” she said. “And anyway—”

  She paused.

  “I can’t let my little brother die.”

  I stared at her.

  The words didn’t register at first.

  “Little… brother?”

  She studied my face again, then shook her head.

  “That expression,” she said. “You didn’t know.”

  My thoughts scattered. Confusion, disbelief, a faint sense of something falling into place.

  “You would have,” she added quietly. “If you talked with your mother.”

  The words hit harder than the Mantid ever had.

  I looked away.

  In another life, I had wanted a family so badly that it shaped everything I became.

  My past life surfaced without warning.

  I had been alone then. No parents. No one waiting at home. Silence was normal, and routine was how I survived it. I studied because it filled the hours. Because if I stayed busy, there was no time to think about what I lacked.

  I learned early to act older than my age—not because I was wise, but because being childish meant being vulnerable. Maturity was armor. Control was safety.

  I wanted success. Not for pride. Not for recognition. I wanted it because I believed that if I reached high enough, built enough, proved enough—then I could finally have a family. Something real. Something that stayed.

  And then I transmigrated.

  Into a world where I was given exactly what I had wanted.

  A family.

  Yet I did the same thing again.

  I stayed busy. Books. Training. Control. Progress. I kept wearing the same armor, acting composed, distant, mature—forgetting that this time, there were people who would have stayed even if I wasn’t strong.

  Even if I wasn’t impressive.

  Even if I failed.

  A bitter thought surfaced, sharper than any wound.

  And in this one—

  I had been given one.

  And barely looked at it.

  Lyra pulled me out of my thoughts with a soft scoff.

  “Don’t dwell on it,” she said—not dismissive, just firm. Reassuring, in her own way.

  She leaned back against the wall again, eyes drifting to the dim stone ceiling.

  “I don’t know the details,” she continued, “but I heard you acted… distant after you recovered from your illness.”

  The word recovered felt heavier than it should have.

  “If that’s what you’re worried about,” she added, glancing back at me, “then make up for that time from now on.”

  It was an advice.

  I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

  “…I’ll try,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I intended. “No—” I corrected myself, tightening my grip on the fabric beneath my fingers. “I will.”

  Silence settled again, but it was different this time.

  Her expression shifted.

  replaced by something sharper—alert.

  “There’s something else,” Lyra said.

  I straightened slightly, sensing the change in tone.

  “It’s surprising you got caught in a teleportation trap and sent straight to the boss room.”

  I nodded. At the time, I had thought it was just bad luck.

  She shook her head.

  “That dungeon doesn’t have teleportation traps.”

  The words settled slowly.

  “It’s a known dungeon,” she continued. “Thoroughly mapped. Every layer, every corridor. The boss chamber is fixed—and isolated. There shouldn’t have been any forced transfer inside it.”

  I frowned.

  “And the boss,” she added, her gaze narrowing, “was stronger than it should have been for a C-grade dungeon.”

  The memory of the Mantid Overlord surged back—its speed, its resilience, the way it kept adapting even while injured.

  That hadn’t felt like a miscalculation.

  Lyra exhaled slowly.

  “It’s suspicious,” she said. “We’ll need to look into it after we return.”

  I nodded again, this time more deliberately.

  Whatever had happened in that dungeon wasn’t an accident.