The Transmigrated Author

"How's your father doing?" Rel asked suddenly.

"…!"

Valencia blinked, surprised by both the question and the relief she felt at having the silence broken.

"He's been great, actually. He's been taking over some dungeon subjugations since the last time I saw him." A small, genuine smile formed on her lips.

"That's all I can really remember after these past months being here..."

"That's good to hear," Rel nodded, his eyes distant as if processing this information against some internal metric.

After a moment, he followed with another question.

"Does he ever feel like he misses someone by any chance?"

Valencia tilted her head, studying Rel with newfound curiosity.

"That's an odd question. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Rel shrugged, maintaining his casual demeanor.

In reality, he was carefully monitoring for signs of the inevitable transformation that would turn her father into one of the story's key antagonists.

The early warning signs would be there—increased isolation, fixation on past losses, growing resentment.

But he also asked out of a strange sense of pity; he didn't want Valencia to face the coming betrayal entirely unprepared.

"He does sometimes talk about my mother," Valencia admitted softly.

"Not directly, but I can tell when he's thinking about her. He gets this faraway look, and sometimes I catch him staring at old photographs when he thinks no one's watching."

Valencia looked away, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the concrete ledge.

"He even keeps a locket with her picture. I've never seen him without it."

"Sometimes I catch him talking to it when he thinks I'm asleep."

Rel nodded slowly.

Gerrard Freya, once hailed as the hero who could defeat any monster, solve any crisis would one day cross blades with his own daughter.

The signs were there, just as he'd written them to be.

The desperation, the inability to move forward, the willingness to sacrifice anything for just one more moment with his lost love.

"Do you think people can come back from death?" Valencia asked suddenly, her question hanging in the night air between them.

Rel felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

She was already suspecting something, whether consciously or not.

"No," he said firmly.

"Death is final. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something dangerous."

"I think my father believes otherwise."

This caught Rel's attention. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes I hear him speaking to someone late at night. A man with a strange accent. They talk about 'possibilities' and 'crossings' and things I don't understand." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking vulnerable. "Once, I heard my father ask about the 'price' for something. The other man just laughed."

Rel's expression remained carefully neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in his mind. Gerrard was already in contact with Vladimir Bane, much earlier than expected.

"Your father is a good man," Rel said carefully.

"But grief can make people desperate. Make them believe in things they shouldn't."

"I know…"

"I miss my mother too, but... there are boundaries that shouldn't be crossed."

Rel studied her profile in the moonlight, feeling a complicated mix of emotions.

He'd created her character to be strong yet vulnerable, determined yet haunted by her family's past.

But now, seeing her genuine concern for her father, he knew what she would go through.

She'd lose not just everything, but eventually she'll lose herself.

He knew it wasn't his role to fill that void for her but he'll happily be there to support the person that does it.

"If you ever need to talk about it—"

"I don't," she cut him off, her walls visibly rising again.

"My father's business is his own."

Rel nodded, respecting her boundaries while inwardly troubled by the implications.

Valencia cleared her throat, steering the conversation in a different direction.

"What about you, Rel? Do you have family waiting for you back home? Anyone you'll visit when we get out of this place?"

"…"

Rel's face changed instantly, as his carefully maintained composure slipped up for just a moment.

His features tightened, a mixture of troubled memories and disappointment clouding his eyes.

It was the expression of someone terrified to speak of their own past, as if the words themselves might conjure ghosts he'd long tried to outrun.

"No," he said finally, his voice unusually flat. "I don't have family or anyone to go back to."

The simplicity of his answer struck Valencia harder than any elaborate explanation could have.

She glanced at his direction and the moonlight shined down towards Rel's face.

That's when Valencia realized her suspicions had been correct all along.

This man had been completely alone in the world, even before they'd been thrown into this nightmare realm.

The weight of that revelation settled heavily on her shoulders.

She'd spent so many nights mourning her mother, clinging to the memories of what she'd lost.

But Rel had nothing—not even memories to comfort him in the darkness.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, genuine regret coloring her voice.

"That was a terrible question to ask. I shouldn't have—"

"It's not like I need family anyway," Rel interrupted, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the city's bizarre architecture melded with the night sky.

"I don't even remember what my mother or father looked like, but I'm still here. That's all that matters."

His words were casual, almost dismissive, but Valencia could hear the pain in his voice, the kind that comes from wounds so old and deep they've become part of who you are.

Without thinking, she shifted closer on the ledge until their shoulders nearly touched.

Then, in a movement that surprised even herself, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Rel stiffened slightly at the contact but didn't pull away.

"Even if you don't have family now," she whispered, "I'm sure you had lovely parents. You must have, to become who you are."

She glanced up at his face and was startled by what she saw.

His expression wasn't just sad—it was anguished, as though her words of comfort had somehow cut deeper than any blade could reach.

It was the face of someone experiencing physical pain, his jaw clenched tight against some unspeakable torment.

But Rel didn't look down at her.

He kept staring forward, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance, lost in thoughts she couldn't begin to fathom.