A month later…
"Welcome to the Ocryphia Academy, students."
All around Ivan, on his right and left, stood students dressed in the academy's signature uniform—navy blue blazers, crisp white shirts, and navy blue trousers. The attire exuded wealth and privilege, a clear symbol of the status this academy represented.
A flood of memories rushed through his mind, one after the other. This wasn't the first time he had experienced this. In fact, it was the seventh, but somehow, it felt like the first time from the perspective of this body.
The initial memories that surfaced were those of Yvan De Rohan, a high school student from a peaceful world called Earth. But then, a second wave of memories washed over him—those belonging to this body. These were quickly followed by recollections from six other lives he had once lived, six other people who were all part of him now.
But at this moment, he was...
Ivan Zakharovich Kozlow.
"The Ocryphia Academy is the most prestigious Exorcist institution in Aurion. If you are here, it means you are the elite, the best of the best, with all the potential to succeed—"
Ivan lifted my gaze toward the woman addressing the crowd.
He knew her.
She was middle-aged, though she should have been well past sixty. Yet, her appearance seemed younger, as if she was barely in her forties. Her long greyish-white hair cascaded down her back, and she wore the distinct white robes of the academy staff.
Isabel Asterion, the acting Director of the Ocryphia Academy.
This feels strange.
Standing among students of a mere Academy.
And one of them was…
Ivan's gaze swept across the sea of students, searching. And then, he found him.
Messy brown hair, piercing ocean-blue eyes, and a black mask covering his mouth. His expression was serious, and he stood rigidly in the uniform like everyone else.
Travis Rivers from his true name, Mordred Pendragon.
The [Protagonist] of [The Fallen Prince].
And the man destined to kill him.
Ivan's eyes locked into him.
Mordred Pendragon was destined to kill him—but not for another five years. And when he did, he wouldn't be alone. He would have his harem, a group of the most powerful female leads in the story, and his entourage of loyal friends, each armed with legendary weapons. If he waited for the plot to unfold naturally, Ivan would be overwhelmed, outnumbered, outclassed.
No.
He wouldn't give him that chance.
While the director continued her speech, her words blurred into the background. Ivan had no interest in what she had to say. Slipping away from the hall, He weaved through the crowd of students. Many glared at him with thinly veiled contempt, but their opinions didn't matter.
He exited the hall and made his way outside, heading for the men's restroom.
Once inside, he walked to the basin, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water onto his face. The sensation was jarring but necessary, helping clear the heavy weight pressing down on him. With memories of 7 people in total, he felt overwhelmed and felt like his mind overheating.
Though a month managed to get himself together.
But now, he was clean.
He had sorted them all out by dividing them.
Resting his hands on the cold porcelain, he raised his head, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
The face staring back at him was an above average young man with dark brown hair and equally dull brown eyes.
"It's literally my face," Ivan chuckled a bit.
To avoid getting unnecessary attractions, Ivan had sealed all his strength in a disguise and let most of the control to Yvan's persona during his stay in the academy.
Yvan had also gone to highschool, he would be better at dealing with others though Ivan had the main control over the others.
The face reflected in the mirror was the disguise he had chosen but it was a familiar face, it was Yvan's face on Earth.
But here, in the academy of Ocryphia, he was Leon Cromwell.
As Ivan stood there, gazing into the mirror, something dark and twisted began to stir. It started at the edges of his reflection—his features warped, his hair lengthened and darkened, his skin paled. His very form began to shift, the mundane exterior unraveling as the illusion fell away.
After a few seconds, the morphing was complete.
The person staring back at him now was back to the real him. Androgynous features, delicate yet sharp ones. His hair, pitch black, shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights. His eyes were the familiar same depthless black, as empty and consuming as a black hole, reflecting nothing. His skin was ghostly pale, almost translucent, as if it were barely clinging to life.
Ivan Zakharovich Kozlow.
Ivan touched his face, feeling the cold, smooth skin beneath my fingertips. Each time he looked at his reflection, he was reminded of his mother. Her memory was etched into every shadow of his features, a ghost that lingered behind his black eyes.
That day—the day she was killed—still played vividly in his mind. He could never forget it. The last smile she gave him, weak and fragile as she lay dying, her final breath slipping away.
He would never forgive this world for what it had done to her.
To them.
Their lives were torn apart, simply because they worshipped a different God.
Seraphiel.
98% of the world branded them as heretics, outcasts, burned at the stake the moment they were discovered. They were hunted like animals, their faith despised and vilified. They sought to erase them, but Ivan swore to himself the day his mother died that would not let that happen.
The only way to change it—the only way to protect his people—was to change the world itself.
To tear down their worship of the Savior and replace it with Seraphiel.
And to do that, there was no choice but to use force. Diplomacy had long since failed. The world only understood strength.
Everything Ivan had done—every crime, every slaughter, every act of destruction—was to forge a better future. Not for himself, but for his people, mainly his Family. For those who were left, hiding in the shadows, surviving where they could. They needed him to lead them, and for that, he needed to create a new world. One where Seraphiel's Faith reigned supreme.
But for that world to emerge, the old one had to fall. Destruction was the price. And Ivan was willing to pay it.