The first of the Fallen Lord's memories was also the first time Adam gazed upon the royal Academy.

  Before him stood the institution where Vasco and Aspreay had learned to use their Lord powers. Ciro's Imperial-funded Academy was a noble, extravagant building. It was too luxurious to feel reminiscent of an Earth college, yet too extravagant not to.

  'Most impressive, Young Gaspar!' said one of the Professors. 'I've yet to see someone else who can produce a Realm that moves alongside them – and without the need for Reconstruction!"

  'Such praise is unbecoming of me,' Gaspar replied. 'What use would there be for moving your Realm in such a manner? It should always be positioned over your city; a protective shield for those within.'

  Were it not the man's own memories, Adam would have questioned if the person whose eyes he saw the past through was truly Gaspar. Everything from his clothes to his mannerisms were different, showing a stern, calm man, as well-mannered as he was well-dressed. The kind of person so accustomed to stoicism you couldn't even imagine them frowning, much less smirking.

  A young woman slapped Gaspar's back and laughed enthusiastically. 'Just take the praise, mate,' she advised. Her name was Ode, Adam instinctively knew, and there was a bittersweetness in the memory of her.

  'Come on now,' Ode continued. 'You shattered half the records in the Academy – be proud! No one's achieved that many since...uh...the guy who did that a few years ago. He's before our time? Damn, almost got it, his name was–'

  –

  'Aspreay,' Gaspar greeted, from inside a large hall. 'It is my honor to meet you...but I'm afraid we cannot afford to share any Orbs with Penumbria.'

  'Speak not of honor,' Aspreay told him, in a tone bridging between disdain and outright disgust. 'Not when you brag so much about breaking my records.'

  Suddenly Adam understood why Aspreay appeared to dislike Gaspar so much more than the other Frontier Lords.

  'I only broke about half, and the others still stand tall. And I do not brag.'

  There was no note of apology, regret, or even politeness in his tone – but neither was there rudeness. Gaspar spoke with complete, professional impassivity. 'Ode is the one who boasts on my account. I hardly speak of it to anyone.'

  'Control your whore!'

  'Would that I could.'

  Blink.

  –

  The next memory was set a bit before that, when Gaspar was in the midst of being crowned Lord of Asteria. The ceremony itself was unremarkable, with the Young Noble receiving numerous gifts from fellow Frontier Lords – including, ironically, Aspreay – and having a short feast. He promptly retreated to his chambers afterwards, having scarcely touched his drink.

  'What's wrong?' Ode asked, sitting beside him in bed. She threw an arm over Gaspar's shoulder, poking at his blank expression. 'Wouldn't hurt you to crack a smile once in a while. This is your feast, you know?'

  In his memory, Gaspar said nothing, but thought plenty. He thought of his responsibilities as Lord. He thought of what perils the future might hold. He thought of how he could honor and live up to his father's legacy.

  Gaspar often wondered about living up to his father, Adam noticed. It was always in the background of his mind, no matter what he did, an ever-present, sometimes-malevolent shadow.

  On that point, Adam could strongly relate.

  Gaspar dearly missed his father. Every day, sometimes more than once a day. He wasn't sure if there was ever a time he didn't miss him, only times he became more acutely aware of its sting.

  The only thing that soothed that pain, however little, was the quiet dignity he felt for his father, who'd died overexerting himself to protect the City from Rot. It was a death worthy of the title of Lord. The shadow of Gaspar's grief followed him everywhere – but so did his pride.

  On that point, Adam could not relate. Not even slightly.

  The Young Lord had taken over the throne in a hurry after his father's untimely death, far too young for the responsibility, the fears and hopes of his people all too apparent. Gaspar faced it with what he always had – a solemn expression, still as stone, and with consistent effort that he wished would create peace in the hearts of the people.

  'There is nothing wrong at all,' he told Ode.

  –

  Judging by the dates on the documents, this next memory was only a few months before Adam's own arrival in the Painted World. The City of Asteria was throwing a feast to celebrate their valiant Lord Gaspar, who'd fought back an onslaught of Stained Monsters that rained down on the city, led by the Ghost of Wind.

  The hero of the hour felt less than heroic, however. He declined to partake in the celebrations.

  'I didn't win,' Gaspar grunted. 'I only managed to push the Ghost and the monsters away from our city.'

  Ode laughed. 'Ah, shut the fuck up already, will you?' The woman's smile was wide, and it soothed the Lord's heart. 'You've managed to save us from the monster that killed your father...Dragons burn me, mate, you held back almost a hundred of those with your Walls! I don't think most Lords could've kept their Realms up and survived without a scratch on them.'

  Gaspar gave a bitter chuckle. 'On that, I agree,' he said, his voice sarcastic.

  It was so rare for the man to express emotion at all that Ode practically fell backwards in surprise. 'Well look at that! Finally feeling proud of yourself. Which makes you the last person to realize how amazing you are, asshole.'

  At times, in his childhood, Gaspar had cursed himself for being serious to the point of apathy. He just couldn't laugh like other people did. It wasn't that he was incapable of it, just that nothing ever seemed actually funny enough for him to laugh at, or pleasant enough for him to smile over. Those things didn't come naturally to him; they were practiced, rather than reflexes.

  Now, however...now he was glad of his inability to emote.

  Or else Ode would've seen the flicker of fear pass through his face – the pang of guilt that would betray what he hoped to keep secret.

  Oh, Adam thought, as he gradually understood the memory. Oh no. He felt the aching pain that Gaspar had immortalized within his soul, sensed the corruptive wrongness in his chest. He had driven the Ghost away, true, but that victory had come at a heavy cost.

  Gaspar was infected with Rot.

  –

  'Do you think the Emperor's aid will arrive soon?' Ode asked casually. She didn't seem legitimately concerned. 'Not that I don't think you can handle it alone. Just hoping you don't overwork yourself much.'

  'I'm sure it'll be here shortly,' Gaspar lied. In truth, the Emperor had sounded noncommittal about supplying Asteria with either Orbs or troops, and Gaspar had already exhausted its treasury by holding out for this long already. 'I can handle things until then.'

  He had to. Ashes to ashes, help would have to come. And if it didn't, he'd endure anyhow. Someone had to.

  Who else, if not him?

  He ignored the vile sensation spreading inside his chest. To his surprise, even his Talent of a Lord – an ability that could cure even death – had proven unable to heal it. This was a wound inflicted upon his very soul.

  Didn't matter. Gaspar would deal with it, he would live up to his duty, to his legacy, to–

  'Just don't pile your burdens too heavily, alright?' Ode said, her smile warming the cold rot within his chest. 'No point in saving the world if you can't enjoy it.'

  –To the man Ode thought he was.

  –

  Gaspar peered at the city from his balcony and felt his efforts rewarded. His father's people – his people, now – lived peacefully. They were blissfully unaware of the chaotic battles he'd fight with the monsters outside, and the even harsher battles in meeting rooms as he pleaded with the Empire for more financial support.

  By Imperial protocol, a lord was not to inform his citizens of how close the Rot was to their home city. Officially, this was to prevent unnecessary panic amongst the common folk.

  Cynically, Gaspar had always believed its purpose to be so that the Empire's economy wouldn't be disrupted. So that the masses would keep spending as usual while their demise inexorably approached. The Imperial policy had likely been enacted for such a reason.

  Still, as he gazed down at the people walking through the market, seeing their happy smiles, watching as they chatted with neighbors like there wasn't anything wrong in the world...he found that he had a different reason for following this policy.

  I want to protect their daily lives. Their routines. Their chance to go to work, come home every day, and not think about how close death truly is. Worrying over such matters wasn't their job.

  It was Gaspar's.

  –

  He was alone in the throne room. Gaspar was surrounded by a darkness that was thick, foreboding, relentless – and most of all, a choice. The palace servants would've lit candles, had he not demanded solitude and ordered them away. While this darkness was unkind to his spiraling thoughts, it demanded no explanations from him.

  Just what he wanted.

  Just what he could take.

  "Burn it all," he cursed in a hoarse mutter, coughing out a dark substance onto his palms. "It matters not how many I kill, they – they keep coming back. Every day." Once, his heart would have answered with 'And so shall I.'

  Once.

  Each breath seared his lungs. Each movement salted his wounds. His throne room loomed large around him, cold and unyielding. Not long ago its grandeur had inspired him; now it simply felt mocking, like a taunt from an unknown, uncaring divinity.

  The throne creaked beneath his weight. It was the only witness to his solitary anguish. Pain clawed at him, but he didn't fight back. Not anymore.

  "Forgive me," said a new voice. "You suffer due to my mistake."

  Gaspar didn't recognize the newcomer. He demanded explanations that he would never receive. But Adam, looking through his memory, knew exactly who that man was – and what 'mistake' he was referring to.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Lawrence. The First Painter.

  He who had created the Painted World, attempting to freeze it like a snapshot of a universe. Lawrence wished for a world where none were born, none would die, and none would ever suffer the cruelty of impermanence. A land unchanging and eternal, free of pain or doubt.

  Only for the Second to act against his wishes. The Second Painter, the Sculptor of Mist, had brought Rot – brought death – unto this world. Lawrence's frozen snapshot of a universe was irrevocably tainted, like droplets of decay soaking into the fabric of reality.

  The Second Painter had even been responsible for bringing Adam to the Painted World as well.

  "I am no one," said the First Painter, "and yet everyone at once. Forgive me, for I cannot save you. But...I can stop the progress of your disease, at least."

  "What do you speak of?" Gaspar fired back. Rising from his throne, he staggered forward, his legs trembling beneath the weight of it all. Sweat poured from his hair, long and matted, glistening in the gloom as he collapsed to one knee.

  Lawrence slowly stepped towards him, the sound of his boots against the marble floor echoing across the empty room. "You were infected by the Rot while fighting the Stained Beasts, were you not?" he asked in a low voice.

  A confirmation of what Adam already knew. Which means that Gaspar is still infected, even now in present-day Penumbria.

  "I cannot forever halt your infection," Lawrence sang, "but I can grant you more time. Enough to give a more dignified ending for your city."

  "Wait," Gaspar managed weakly, "E–explain more. W-what do you...no! I don't want a dignified end! I want to live – I want to save the city! To be a lord worthy of my father's legacy, to–"

  His memory faded violently, a sudden blackness overtaking it as the First Painter reached out and touched his chest.

  The pain started almost ten seconds later.

  –

  "You seem to be doing much better," Ode observed, setting down a teacup. "I thought you were reaching your limit earlier, but you really are holding on strong, it seems."

  "Suppose I am." Gaspar studied the back of his palm as if it held the answers he sought. Who was that man? And what sorcery did he use upon me? Could that...could that knowledge help me save Asteria somehow?

  He had fully admitted – if only to himself – that Emperor Ciro would never send the promised aid. No miracle would come stampeding over the horizon to rescue their city in its hour of most dire need.

  Which meant that the task of protecting everyone fell to him, and him alone.

  Mercifully, Gaspar's Rot was holding steady, albeit for now. He still felt as much pain as the day before – which was a victory in and of itself. It's not progressing. If so...

  The Lord closed his palm into a determined fist. "I'm going to keep us safe," he promised, to both Ode and himself. "No matter what."

  –

  "Have the battles caused Lord Gaspar to lose his mind?"

  "Surely it isn't appropriate for a lord to speak so freely of evil sorcery like that, yes?"

  "Allow him some vices! Even if the man is crazy, he's been fighting nonstop to keep the city safe from legions of Stained Monsters!"

  "If you ask me, all this sorcery is why there's so many monsters lately! They're attracted by whatever unholy experiments he's concocting!!"

  "You think so?"

  "Yes, of course! I mean, the Emperor's Taboo exists for a reason. The Dark Sorcerer and–"

  "Silence! I think he can hear us!"

  Gaspar could, yet he found it difficult to care. Dragons of Old, let them speak ill of me if they desire. Let them hate me if they must. But let me keep those same fools alive, oh please!

  It occurred to him that the Dragons of Old might not approve of his doings any more than his courtiers. It also mattered not. He had to keep the city from falling to Rot – at any costs. And if that needed to be a lonely endeavor...well, what of it?

  "Hey," Ode asked him one day. "Can you tell me what's going on with that whole sorcery thing?" There was no subterfuge or hidden layers to her question. The woman was concerned, plain and simple; a fact that Gaspar knew well. "Please, I know something is going on. Let me help."

  The Lord forced himself to smile. "There's nothing to help with. Just enjoy life as you have been, old friend."

  –

  His next memory was incomplete. Adam immediately recognized why.

  Pain. The Painter winced as secondhand agony pierced inside his body. His past was so painful that his mind tried to erase it from his memory. To protect him.

  Alas, the human mind is rarely so perfectly efficient. It had butchered the memory, chopped it into pieces, smothered it in a cloudy haze of sorts...

  But there was still enough to remember. Still enough to invoke a sense of sadness so supreme that Adam felt his body trembling when he touched the fragmented recollection.

  He'd been dreading reaching this memory. The time had now come, it seemed.

  A Lord was running through a burning city.

  Gaspar tore through streets set ablaze, his lungs burning with each ragged breath. The Rot churned in his veins, a molten tide threatening to overtake him, a monster that yearned to reunite with its brethren.

  Around him, the city had been transformed into a macabre carnival. Stained Monsters crawled and slithered, their misshapen forms dripping with viscous rot. They tore into the fleeing townsfolk, claws rending flesh, mouths full of gnashing teeth swallowing screams. The buildings were no better, their walls bubbling with corrupted growths, beams snapping like bones.

  Gaspar stumbled on a severed arm. He glanced back, seeing that the limb was twitching, blackened tendrils sprouting from its stump.

  My fault, was the thought that leapt to him. This – this is my fault!

  The heat was unbearable, the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of rotting flesh. Gaspar's feet slammed against half-shattered cobblestone, dodging twisted corpses and bodies that writhed with unnatural life.

  "Help me!" cried a young man missing both arms. "My lord – help me!"

  I cannot heal you. I lack the ability to do so. I'm sorry.

  "Please!" begged a white haired, frail man. "My child is still inside! Save her, my lord!"

  That building has been consumed by the Rot. It's too late.

  Voices rose and fell, each one representing a life he had failed to preserve.

  I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please...

  Please, forgive me.

  The Rot surged in him. It sang a cruel invitation – a primal desire, whispering for him to embrace the tranquil blessing of death.

  Not yet. He wasn't allowed to die just yet. How could he take the easy way out when buildings pulsated like breathing organs, their windows weeping with a noxious black sludge?

  I have to do something–to help people evacuate–to help–

  A child screamed, only to be silenced as a monster slammed it into a wall, the sickening crunch reverberating through Gaspar's ears.

  His vision blurred, but not enough to keep him from the horrors abound. A merchant's cart melted into a puddle of organic ooze, tendrils sprouting from its wheels to lash out at anything nearby. A man begged for help as a monster tore into his stomach, his entrails unraveling in steaming loops.

  The creature turned. Its too-many eyes locked onto Gaspar. He stumbled, the infection nearly breaking him, but terror and duty kept him standing upright.

  "Realm...Recons..tru..ction..." Useless words. His Canvas was hopelessly stained by now. There was little he could do. "I...have to...keep..."

  A pulsating liquid shaped like a nightmarish mantis approached him. The monster's limb raised high above its head, forming into a facsimile of a blade. It had no face, yet Gaspar would have sworn it was smiling.

  "–LOOK OUT!"

  Gaspar's memory flickered like a faulty film reel, the past overlaying the present with jagged, imperfect images. The sight of Ode cutting down the monster, her blade gleaming with impossible precision, froze his thoughts and sent his brain into overdrive. She was grinning – grinning like a damned hero, like this was all a game to her.

  "What are you...doing here?" Gaspar asked, with a weak, faltering voice. "I ordered you to evacuate first when–when–"

  "Like hell I was going to listen to that," Ode laughed. "To be certain, you're still in the habit of trying to solve everything yourself...but why should I let you do that?"

  Gaspar smiled. Heavens, he'd been foolish. He should've talked to Ode before, trusted her sooner. "Next time, I swear I'll rely on you a little more."

  Ode's cocky smirk shifted into something warmer. "I would like that, old friend. Even if–"

  An ink-black claw, slick and writhing, pierced through her chest.

  The jagged, unnatural limb twisted, pulling her backward with a sickening lurch. Blood spilled freely down her front, an unfinished sentence lost in a gasp.

  Ode's smirk never quite left her face as Gaspar's world was shaded in red.

  –

  Lord Gaspar gazed down at the ruins of his fallen city of Asteria.

  "My lord, please," said the messenger of Lord Edmundo, trying and failing to grab his attention. "I have orders to bring you to a safe location."

  "Why?" Gaspar asked bitterly. "Look upon my mighty city, and despair with me! Look at what I did to my father's legacy, what I did to...to the people who lived there."

  Could I have saved them if I'd learned more about the man who visited me that night? "Did Edmundo tell you why I should bother trying to live?"

  The Messenger hastily read out his instructions, stumbled awkwardly over his words. "Lord Edmundo says that you have no heir." I did have one. She died saving me. "And that it would be bad for the Frontier if you died without passing your Talent."

  With shaking hands, the messenger lowered his paper. "He...he said you have duties yet to fulfill."

  Duties. Obligations. Even now, I cannot rest.

  For the first time of his life, Gaspar laughed.