"H-Hey…?"
This joke's gone way too far.
Eric was starting to panic—genuinely, deeply panic.
I was still on stage… wasn't I?
But no matter where I look, this place has nothing in common with the Paris Exhibition Center.
Did I faint? Was it the asthma?
Paralyzed, Eric turned his head in sharp, mechanical jerks, like a security camera scanning for answers, desperately trying to make sense of his surroundings.
I've never seen anywhere like this before...
And everyone's dressed like they walked straight out of one of those old historical films my dad used to love.
To anyone watching, he must've looked like some drunk lunatic who'd stumbled into the wrong place and had no clue what was happening—
Completely unaware he'd just been publicly disowned by the entire Asgard clan.
"This madman!"
The crowd sounded more irritated than worried.
This has to be a dream… but why would I dream of a place like this?
Eric's breathing slowed as a strange calm returned.
After all, who panics in a lucid dream they can probably bend to their will?
Exhale.
Tsk… I must've blacked out. Shit… in front of all those cameras… my career's toast.
Another sigh.
Then again, I was planning to call it quits today anyway…
Just not like this.
I lost to some kid who's barely half my age—
All because of this damn asthma.
…Seconds passed as he wallowed in defeat—
Until something snapped him back to reality.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum...
The steady, pulsing beat of his heart.
That sensation—?!
Eric's eyes flew open wide.
He placed his right hand on his chest…
forgetting he was still holding a bottle of liquor.
"Wait… My chest doesn't hurt anymore?!"
Crash!
The bottle shattered into countless shards, the sound echoing harshly through the hall.
But Eric didn't care.
Why worry about broken glass in a lucid dream?
"He's causing another scene again."
"He disgusts me."
"Banishment isn't enough. Stripping him from the line of succession is far too lenient."
"He doesn't even show a shred of respect for the patriarch…"
God… these people are so damn annoying.
They're giving me a headache.
Eric was simply overjoyed to be breathing normally again—
And of course, he had to express that joy in a way that suited him.
Convinced this was nothing but a dream, he casually cleaned his ear with his pinky finger, then…
"Shut up already. You're too damn loud."
His gaze lifted to the top of the hall.
"And you—yeah, you. Sitting there like you're better than everyone else…
Get off MY throne.
This is my dream, pal."
Christian—no, Eric—felt reborn. Rejuvenated. The pain of his asthma was gone.
A reckless grin spread across his face as he pointed straight at the black-haired man seated on the throne.
The stoic figure was none other than Marcus Asgard V, the clan's patriarch.
"Heh… Even if it's just for a moment, I'm gonna have some fun in this dream."
He felt like his younger self again—
Back when people used to call him a delinquent without hesitation.
That was before asthma came along and wrecked everything.
Everyone in the hall was stunned.
"Aaah!"
"Oh my God…"
"What the…?"
Even Finn Asgard and his daughters, seated beside Patriarch Marcus, stared wide-eyed in disbelief.
"Wow… This dream feels way too real,"
Eric chuckled under his breath, eyeing their stunned faces.
"Just look at those expressions!"
A mocking smirk tugged at his lips.
Suddenly, two figures in long white robes stood up.
A man in his thirties and a teenage girl with a strange, unsettling gaze calmly walked toward the exit.
Instantly, all attention shifted to them.
There was no mistaking it — these two were not ordinary guests.
The man in white let out a faint, sarcastic smile.
Then, just as he passed through the grand doorway, he muttered:
"So this is the legendary Asgard Sword Clan, huh?"
A whisper…
And yet, somehow, every soul in the room heard it.
They left without another word.
And not a single person dared stop them.
A few seconds of silence.
Then — like a tidal wave — the room erupted.
"Enough, Patriarch! You should execute him on the spot!!"
shouted the rotund man from earlier, red with rage.
"He just humiliated the Patriarch in front of members of the Magic Clan!!"
"Even if he's the Patriarch's son, he must be put to death!"
"If we let this go, we'll become the laughingstock of every clan!"
"Not even the Emperor would speak to Patriarch Marcus that way!"
"This is unacceptable!!"
Meanwhile, the source of the chaos wore a dramatically irritated expression.
"What are they yelling about now…?"
Eric sighed, completely detached from reality.
Even for him — still convinced he was dreaming — the fury in the crowd was starting to feel a little too real.
A faint chill ran down his spine.
"They want to kill me… in my own dream?"
A grin slowly stretched across his face.
"I heard that in a lucid dream, you can make anything appear, right?
Haha… This is going to be fun."
By now, every gaze in the room had shifted toward the only person with true authority: Marcus V. Asgard.
"Father, this has gone too far…"
murmured a black-haired, red-eyed teenage girl.
It was Ruth, Marcus's eldest daughter—after Eric.
"She's right, Your Majesty. That illegitimate child has crossed the line,"
added Finn Asgard, Marcus's official wife, her tone sweet but her smile dripping with satisfaction.
The other two daughters remained silent, but their stares said everything.
They felt exactly the same as their mother.
Marcus, however, said nothing.
He simply stared at Eric—expressionless.
Watching the defiant son who still dared to meet his eyes with such arrogant ease.
Eric, still convinced he was dreaming, stroked his chin theatrically.
"Hmm… What should I summon?"
He pretended to ponder the question seriously.
"Alright, let's try using—"
But before he could finish his sentence...
"Ugh…!"
A sharp blow struck the back of his neck.
His eyes rolled back, and everything turned to black.
"Huh? Already?"
"Damn it… It's over already? I didn't even get the chance to summon anything in my first lucid dream..."
"I really don't wanna go back to that crappy reality, damn it!"
To him, this was nothing more than the end of a strange dream...
and a reluctant return to the real world.
***
"Aaagh… My head…"
Christian—no, Eric— was slowly but surely regaining consciousness.
"Argh… It hurts..."
As his blurred vision began to clear, a voice called out to him.
"Oh! Young master, you're awake?"
Young master? Who the hell is this guy? Eric thought groggily.
"Ugh…" he groaned, attempting to sit up.
A sharp jolt of pain shot through his head.
Why does it hurt so much…?
His eyes were now open, though weak, as he fixed his gaze on the ceiling.
What are these decorations?
It looked like a luxury hotel straight out of some old fantasy drama…
This was definitely not a hospital.
"Where am I?" he asked absentmindedly, still trying to gather his thoughts.
He recalled hearing a strange voice nearby—like something out of a medieval play.
"You're in your room, Young Master Eric," the voice replied calmly.
"My room? Since when did I decorate my room like this crap…?"
But before he could finish his sentence, something clicked in his mind.
"You said… Eric?"
"Yes, Mister Eric."
"Who the hell is Eric?" he asked, his voice growing nervous.
But the voice, unfazed, answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world:
"That is your name, Young Master Eric V. Asgard, former heir of the Asgard Sword Clan."
Hmm…
Eric filtered this information inwardly for a few seconds, even though it was utterly ridiculous—because in reality, his name was Christian Girard, a 45-year-old French citizen, and he had never once been heir to any sword clan.
After a moment's thought, he came to his own conclusion.
"Ah… I suspected as much," Eric breathed out, a mix of resignation and dizziness in his voice.
In this lucid dream he had just experienced, he also seemed to be called Eric.
Was it the same dream, or just a strange replay?
But what were the chances, really, of having the exact same lucid dream twice in separate parts?
The answer was clear: none.
The only possible explanation was…
He placed his hand over his chest. His heart was pounding wildly.
But this time, it wasn't asthma.
It was… pure excitement.
At the time, I was skeptical... he thought.
But now...
A wide smile stretched across his lips.
"Young master?" the voice asked again, confused by the silence.
I am...
He jumped up suddenly, instantly forgetting the pain he'd felt moments before.
A memory resurfaced.
An interview he had once seen.
A Belgian patient had recounted being trapped in a coma for months.
She could hear the voices of her loved ones in reality but couldn't respond to the voices around her...
So, to survive, she created an imaginary world.
A world all her own.
"So... I'm in a coma too? And I created this world?"
It was foolish.
Irrational.
But... the seed of misunderstanding had just been planted.
His hand still on his chest, he listened to his heart pounding wildly.
And this time, he wasn't afraid.
No.
He was euphoric.
"Ah... ha... haha... HAHAHA... HAHAHAHAHA!"
He burst out in a satisfied laugh.
A powerful, strangely sinister laugh, as if he'd just won the lottery.
"I don't have asthma anymore, do I?
Yes... I'm sure of it. I no longer feel that prickling in my breathing."
His laughter subsided, replaced by a determined, almost sacred whisper:
"Without this damn asthma... I can reach the pinnacle of the art of baking... in my world.
Hahahaha... HAHAHAHA!"
The only downside is that I no longer have the vigor of my youth.
"Hahaha, who cares? We work with what we've got hahaha."
He hadn't yet realized that his body had changed.
Beside him, the man in the servant's suit watched him long and sighed inwardly:
"There's no hope left... He's definitely gone mad."