Training was brutal—of course it was! What kind of three-year-old gets forced to do push-ups? And that wasn't even the worst part. She made me swim across the lake and back, over and over, until I nearly drowned. Literally. She had to pull me out.
But at least the day was finally over.
Lucien flopped onto his back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Beside him, Clorinde did the same, equally exhausted.
Lucien was exhausted—he felt like he was dying. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he huffed and puffed, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
"Now listen, you two," Petronilla said, arms crossed. "In a month, we'll be heading to the heart of Fontaine. It's quite the journey—about three days—but I have a friend there with a little girl your age. Maybe you can even be friends."
Me? Friends with a child? Please, I'm not a predator, Lucien scoffed.
Wait, but I'm only three—almost four! Would being friends with someone my age be weird? Well, yeah, of course it would. Mentally, I'm like… what, a 19-year-old? I died around 16, so this whole situation is just bizarre.
But I do wonder how we're getting to the city. Lucien glanced at his master, his curiosity evident as he waited for an answer.
"Mas… Master," he panted, still struggling to catch his breath. "How… are we getting to the city?"
"By boat, of course," Petronilla replied. "Now, go take a bath."
He slowly pushed himself up, his legs trembling from exhaustion. Every muscle aches, reminding him just how sore he was.
They headed to the bathroom, but Clorinde got there first. With a sigh, Lucien sat down and started sketching a gun design. He wondered if he could build a revolver in Fontaine—just imagine how cool it would be to spin the cylinder. He had always liked fidgeting with things.
His eyes drifted to his Pistolet as he idly flicked the frizzen, enjoying the satisfying clink of metal against metal.
Maybe I could start a gun company here… he mused. Imagine a crazy AK-47—nah, this world doesn't need automatic rifles. But making one for myself? Now that's an idea. Actually… a shotgun would be nice.
Man ain't there already crazy machines roaming around? Like those damn Ruin Guards he had fought as Amber.
Now that he thought about it… just how advanced was Teyvat, really?
He made a mental note to ask his master later.
But my God, he missed his phone—mindlessly scrolling through YouTube, watching whatever caught his attention. He let out a sigh. What a man would do for some entertainment…
Maybe that was the problem with his generation. Phones were becoming a big deal back home, and he had been saving up for one with the money he earned from work. Of course, he had kept it hidden from his parents.
Back home, every kid had social media—even him—and it kept him entertained, distracting him from boredom.
But for now, he kept himself occupied by sketching gun designs.
Then, Petronilla's voice broke through his focus. "Oh, what do we have here?" Her curiosity piqued, she picked up the paper. "Mon Dieu, I've never seen a gun like this before."
Lucien perked up. "I called it a revolver. It can hold up to eight cartridges, but it's way too big for me to use. So, I'm designing a smaller version that holds five," he said, pride evident in his voice.
She handed the designs back to him with an approving nod. "They look stunning," she said, patting his head. But as she caught a whiff of him, her nose scrunched in discomfort.
"…Go take a bath. You smell horrible."
Lucien nodded, then quickly sniffed his armpit—yuck, he smelled awful.
Clorinde finally finished, and he wasted no time jumping into the bath. As the warm water soothed his skin, memories of the dreadful times Petronilla had tried to bathe him and Clorinde resurfaced, buried deep in his mind. He shuddered, thankful those moments were finally behind him.
As soon as he finished, he tried to stand up, but the soreness in his body betrayed him. A sharp pain shot through his muscles, and he lost his balance, slipping and landing back on his bare cheeks.
Before he could react, the murky bathwater sloshed into his mouth. He gasped—big mistake. The awful, soapy taste flooded his throat, making him gag. Coughing and sputtering, he scrambled upright, leaning over the tub to spit it all out.
"Ugh—curses! That was awful!" he groaned, wiping his mouth in disgust.
The dinner table was as good as it was going to get. They all ate in silence, the only sound being the occasional clink of utensils. The pork chops were amazing, and Lucien ate his fill, finishing with a satisfied burp.
His earlier thoughts lingered in his mind, and he figured now was the best time to ask Petronilla.
"Hey, Master, I've got a question. Are there any crazy machines running around here in Fontaine?"
"Of course," Petronilla replied. "Fontaine has many different machines—some are used for labor, while others enforce the law. The Maison Gardiennage employs Gardemeks for security and order."
Now he could hardly wait to reach the Court of Fontaine. The thought of seeing their machines in person sent a thrill through him—he was practically shaking in his boots.
"Alright, you two, time for bed. We've got more training tomorrow," Petronilla said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"What?!" Lucien's eyes widened in horror, his shoulders slumping. He slammed his face down onto the table, his enthusiasm evaporating in an instant. "You're going to kill me before I turn four!" he groaned, his voice dripping with melodrama.
Petronilla shot him a stern look, though the corners of her mouth twitched with amusement. "Lucien, stop being so dramatic. Now, get to bed," she ordered, waving them away with a gesture.
Lucien groaned in defeat but stood up, stretching. "Fine," he muttered under his breath.
Clorinde, with a small smile, turned to Petronilla. "Thank you for the meal, Master," she said politely, before following Lucien to their room.
Lucien slept soundly, his slow, steady breaths barely audible beneath the warmth of his sheets. But as he drifted deeper into sleep, his dreams stirred—dark, distant echoes from another time.
"You little bastard!" The harsh words rang in his mind, followed by the sharp sound of broken glass shattering across the floor.
"I told you to clean the damn dishes!" The voice was cold, venomous.
"But my homework…" Alex protested in the dream, his voice trembling.
"I don't give a damn! You'll never get anywhere with how stupid you are!" The words were harsh, like a slap to his soul.
In the dream, Alex, a young version of himself, stood there, eyes brimming with unshed tears, feeling helpless.
His mother stood nearby, avoiding his gaze, her face pale with fear. She didn't speak—only looked at the ground, unable to offer comfort.
Alex stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, quickly rushing to clean up the glass that littered the floor and began washing the dishes in silence.
His father's voice cracked through the tension in the air. "And you, bitch!" He shouted, slamming his fist on the dinner table with enough force to shake the room. "I told you to make me dinner!"
His mother flinched, jumping at the noise. "Yes, I'll order pizza tonight," she said quickly, her voice trembling as she tried to calm the situation.
"Piazza's fine," his father grunted, turning away. "Now I'm going to get my damn beer." The door slammed behind him with finality.
As soon as he left, his mother's composure crumbled. She began to sob quietly, reaching for a bottle of pills and swallowing them without hesitation.
Lucien trembled in his sleep, caught in the grip of a nightmare. His body shook under the covers, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Clorinde noticed her brother's distress and, unsure of what to do, quietly walked to his side of the bed. She gently placed a hand on his head, offering comfort. Slowly, his breathing began to calm, and the tension seemed to ease from his body.
Lucien's dream shifted, pulling him back to a memory from when he was just five years old. He was watching a police cartoon show, his eyes wide with excitement.
"Mommy, I want to be a policeman when I grow up! It's so cool!" he exclaimed, bouncing on the couch.
His mother had smiled down at him, her voice soft and loving. "You'll make a great policeman, my little angel," she had said, ruffling his hair with affection.
That's what he wished his mother had been like. Slowly, Lucien woke from the dream, the memories still lingering in his mind. The first part felt real—his mother being kind to him. But the last part, the idea of him becoming a police officer, felt distant, something he couldn't fully remember.
He tried to dig deeper into the memory, but it remained hazy. Maybe, just maybe, as a child, he had wanted to be a police officer.
His thoughts shifted to his mother's affection, lingering like a comforting warmth, a feeling he wished he could hold onto forever.