I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
________________________________________
Chapter 147: Echoes of the Past
Lucas had faced enough monsters, both human and otherwise, to know when something inside him wasn't right. But this — this didn't feel like memory, or trauma replaying itself. This was intrusion. A foreign thread woven into his own mind, brushing against his consciousness and leaving behind fingerprints that weren't his.
Lucas sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His breath came slow and uneven. Behind his closed eyes, more fragments sparked — Talia's claws slick with silver blood, Gerard Argent shouting something through the chaos, flashes of fire and a rage so consuming it barely felt human. A dying heartbeat. A scream cut short.
Then, silence.
He lifted his head and caught sight of his reflection in the darkened window — a faint outline, features blurred by the moonlight. On the surface, he looked composed, calm even. But beneath the mask, his eyes betrayed him — haunted, hunted.
Whatever these visions were, they weren't illusions. They carried weight. Texture. Smell. The grit of dirt under fingernails, the iron tang of blood on the tongue. He could feel the forest floor under his feet, the tremor of something ancient drawing its last breath.
But that couldn't be. The parasite was dead. He'd killed it himself. He'd watched it burn.
So why could he see through its eyes?
A shiver crept down his spine, subtle at first, then deepening into unease that coiled in his gut like something alive. Maybe it was just exhaustion — the mind replaying horrors it hadn't yet processed. Or maybe… something of that creature had survived.
Something that had refused to die.
Lucas stood abruptly, raking a trembling hand through his hair. The room felt too small, too heavy. He couldn't stay there. Sleep was no longer an option — not with those echoes still whispering in the back of his mind.
He crossed the floor in near silence, bare feet whispering against the cold marble as he stepped into the hall. The estate was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the tall windows. The air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of rain that had yet to fall.
He followed it to the garden.
Outside, the night greeted him with stillness. The breeze moved through the trees in soft sighs, brushing the grass with fingers of silver. Lucas closed his eyes, every sense reaching outward — listening for movement, for whispers, for anything that didn't belong.
But there was nothing. No threat. No voice. Only the rhythm of the wind and the distant rustle of leaves.
Still, something lingered — not a sound this time, but a sensation. A vibration under his skin, faint but clear. It pulsed once, twice, before resolving into something that wasn't quite a voice, yet spoke all the same.
We are not done.
Lucas opened his eyes, and for an instant, they glowed a deep, burning crimson.
Back at the Clinic.
The clock above Deaton's desk ticked past midnight, each second a pulse of quiet dread. The microscope hummed faintly, its lens trained on a slide that should have been lifeless — but wasn't.
The cells were still moving. Slowly. Purposefully.
They pulsed, twitching in faint rhythm, like a thought trying to form. Deaton's eyes narrowed as he adjusted the focus. Neural patterns. The thing was really mimicking neural tissue. Not regenerating — remembering.
His fingers hovered over the phone for a long moment before he finally dialed.
"Lucas," he said when the call connected. "You should come to the clinic. Now."
When Lucas arrived, the clinic lights were low, the air heavy with antiseptic and unease. He looked exhausted — not from lack of sleep, but from what he'd seen.
"I've been having flashes," he said without preamble. "Memories that aren't mine. Fire. Wolves. Screams. I saw… Talia Hale. Her last moments."
Deaton's expression hardened, though his voice stayed calm. "What exactly did you see?"
Lucas hesitated. "She was surrounded. The forest was burning. There was something — someone — talking to her, but it wasn't human. It felt like… it wanted to show me what it felt when it died."
He glanced toward the jar where Deaton had stored what was left of the parasite. The faint blue preservative fluid was rippling — just slightly, as if something inside was breathing.
Deaton followed his gaze, his stomach sinking. "I tested the cells again tonight," he said quietly. "They're showing neural activity. Meaning they might be… trying to reconnect to something — or someone."
Lucas's voice dropped. "The parasite."
Deaton didn't answer right away. His mind flashed through other possibilities — psychic residue, biological imprint, parasitic echo. None of them were good.
"Talia's final battle was… violent," he finally said. "Gerard Argent and his hunters were there. No one survived to tell what truly happened. But if you're seeing it, Lucas… something wants you to know. Maybe even through you."
Lucas folded his arms, tension coiling through him. "What do you make of this?"
Deaton studied the jar for a long moment. "I think," he said slowly, "the parasite's remains are like a remnant trying to reconnect what it lost."
Lucas exhaled sharply, the thought cutting through him like ice. "So it's not over."
"No," Deaton murmured, looking again at the quivering jar.
The clinic lights flickered once. In the reflection of the jar's glass, for just a heartbeat, something pulsed — like an opening.