Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!

Art stuttered, his lips trembling. "W-What do you mean by that? How could these… beings make the universe—"

But the moment the words left his mouth, he faltered.

Silence crept in, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He realized how idiotic the question sounded. Why couldn't they have created the universe? What did he actually know about them? About the cosmos? About any of this?

His breath hitched. The weight of his ignorance settled like a stone in his chest.

Fyudor, who had been watching him with that infuriating calmness, let out a snicker. It wasn't mocking. More amused. "You're smart, Art. Smarter than most. You should've figured this out from the beginning. Anyway… like I said, these Great Old Ones they're the architects of everything. They made the world, the stars, the void. That's the truth."

He paused for a moment, leaning forward.

"And the one who glimpsed that truth… the only human who ever did… was the man who created the ★ System. The strongest being in our history. The one who laid the very foundation of what we now rely on."

Art's eyes widened. A chill ran down his spine. He had come here to understand history. But this—?

This wasn't history. This was despair. Each passing moment, each passing knowledge was dimming his hopes of defeating those incomprehensible beings.

He mumbled without thinking. "Then… there's no hope…"

Fyudor looked at him with a strange softness in his gaze. "I heard from Celia what happened… what Cassius did." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "It was a foolish mistake on his part. But it's done. We can only lament now."

Art didn't respond. His throat had gone dry. Because he felt the person who had oppressed him all his life, acted like a high and mighty figure all through his life… Dreading. He could feel it in the way Fyudor's posture tensed, in the pause before he continued speaking.

"Once Lucian and Isolde return," Fyudor said, his voice grim, "Cronica will descend into chaos. A war unlike anything we've seen. One that won't leave survivors… only ruins. That's why I need you to get stronger. You, and your friends. If we're going to stop them we need power. And unity."

Art's body stiffened at the mention of them.

If—no—when they found out about Cassius's death, it would be the end. They wouldn't listen to reason. They wouldn't care about mercy or nuance. Every being on Cronica would be slaughtered without hesitation. A massacre beyond comprehension. One that would make the Great Wars look like child's play.

Fyudor sighed deeply, running a hand through his blonde hair. "Art… the situation with the Rift has grown far worse than any of us expected. We've practically lost every continent. The only one that remains intact is the Northern Continent. So we're left with no choice but to begin global evacuation."

Art swallowed hard, his chest tightening.

Still, he tried to hold it together. Tried to think logically. "But can the Northern Continent really house… everyone?"

Fyudor didn't respond immediately. His eyes flicked away, his expression unreadable. Then, with a detached calmness, he said, "We'll evacuate everyone useful. We need those who can carry their own weight—not the elderly or the weak. We need fighters."

Art frowned. "But they're still people…"

"They are," Fyudor admitted. "But sentiment won't win us this war."

His voice lowered as he continued, eyes narrowing. "The Rifts aren't just chaotic portals. They're gates—pathways connected to entirely different worlds, different realities. And the terrifying part? Those other worlds are suffering too. Many are overrun. Monsters spill out into their world just as they do here. Yet, not many of them are friendly."

Art's mind reeled at the thought. Entire worlds... consumed.

Yet something about Fyudor's words struck him as odd.

He narrowed his eyes. "Wait… you said many. Meaning, not all?"

Fyudor nodded. "There are two exceptions. Two worlds that haven't fallen. The first is a place called Earth. The second, X-32. Both have agreed to ally with Cronica in the fight against the Rifts. They're not our enemies."

"Are they strong?" Art asked, hesitant.

Fyudor smiled faintly. "Individually? They're stronger than most of our people. Especially those from X-32. Their technology and power systems are… strange. Earth, meanwhile, is slower to adapt, but its potential is undeniable. Still, even with our combined strength, we can't rely on raw power alone."

Art's curiosity sharpened. "Then what's the plan?"

"We're building a new Rose Academy." Fyudor's eyes lit up slightly. "Not just for Cronica's elite anymore. This time, it will be the convergence point of all three worlds. The best young talents from Cronica, Earth, and X-32 will gather and train there. Learn to fight. Learn to survive. Learn to lead."

"And I'm guessing the academy will be built there," Art murmured, "in the Northern Continent."

Fyudor confirmed it with a nod. "Exactly. It will be the last stronghold for the three worlds."

Art hummed, not particularly tense but focused. "Okay, so when is the evacuation starting? And what do I need to do?"

Fyudor let out a deep sigh, the kind that carried too many burdens. "There's still some time left. A month at most. During that window, I want you to venture out—with your team—to the ravines of the Northern Continent. Specifically, Yuelte Nation. That region's harsh terrain and unstable mana zones will serve as the perfect crucible. Train, fight, evolve… get stronger. When the Opening Ceremony begins, the strongest among our student combatants will be pitted against those from the other worlds. The winner's world gets the right to lead the other two."

Art tilted his head slightly. "Do I need to leave right now?"

Fyudor nodded once, curt and firm. "The sooner, the better. Every minute wasted is a chance lost. The stronger you grow, the more weight your name will carry. Also—if there's anyone else you want accompanying you, name them now. I'll teleport them to your location."

Art fell quiet. His thoughts churned, faces flashing through his mind like a fast-forwarded memory reel. Eventually, two remained—like unshakable thorns.

"Mia Lancaster and Verena," he said, the names rolling out evenly. "Both are among the top students. I want them with me."

Fyudor's gaze sharpened, narrowing into a glint that bordered on suspicion. "That girl Mia… she's a strange one, isn't she? Then there's Verena. That manipulative little thing knows exactly how to twist people around her finger. Her hatred for nobles runs deeper than the roots of the oldest tree. You seriously want them on your team?"

Art nodded without hesitation. "Mia's a healer. A decent one, too. If trained sufficiently, In high-risk combat zones, she would be practically a living second chance. And Verena… sure, she's a viper. But she's also hyper-aware of her surroundings and sets traps with surgical precision. A born scout. Her utility outweighs her instability."

Fyudor exhaled with a shake of his head. "If you say so… But understand, Art, this is your final shot. If you screw this up—if you come back empty-handed—I won't hesitate to use you as a bargaining chip. Whether that means offering your head or selling you off as a slave to one of the foreign world, I'll do what I must to keep this world alive."

Art remained completely unfazed, his expression unreadable. He had no retort, no outrage—just quiet acceptance. As if this was always the expected path. "I understand. I'll give it everything I've got. Whether I succeed or not… that's up to the future. I'm not a prophet."

Fyudor leaned back, his gaze darkening. "But your mother was… a pity she died. Her clairvoyance would've been useful right about now."

The world ground to a halt.

Art's mind blanked as the words sank in like rusted daggers. His lips parted in disbelief. "W…What did you say?"

Fyudor looked at him, perfectly calm. As if speaking about the weather. "Ah, I hadn't told you. Your mother died. Three days ago, in fact. Quite tragic. Nothing left of her. Not a single piece."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Art stood still, frozen in place, face neutral—but inside?

Inside was chaos.

He had hated his parents. Deeply. The hatred was cultivated, fed over years of neglect, manipulation, and control. They hadn't just been bad people—they had been sculptors of misery, carving him into an object without care for the cost.

Yet…

They were still his parents.

They had brought him into this world, shaped him, broken him, left him to pick up the pieces. And even if the rational part of him screamed that he should feel relieved, something in his chest cracked—hard.

But it wasn't grief.

It was rage.

Rage that the final blow hadn't been his.

'I should've been the one to kill her… Not some filthy monster or a human… not some unknown horror! Me!'

That thought echoed in the deepest crevices of his soul.

He wasn't sad because she died. He was sad because he didn't get to be the one to do it.

It should've been his justice. His closure.

His voice was rough, low, forced through grit teeth. "Who killed her?"

Fyudor tapped his chin, like he was recalling a market transaction. "Torn apart by a group of Rank ★★★★★★★★ Spawns of Vorr'Kael. They devoured everything. Ripped her apart until there was nothing left to bury."

Art lowered his gaze.

The room grew heavier.

A whisper of thought, subtle and venomous:

'Then I'll kill them all.

Every last one of Vorr'Kael's spawn.

I'll bury them in silence… and if I find the one that devoured her heart, I'll carve mine out and shove it down its throat just to hear it choke.'

This time, it wasn't some incomprehensible being but a spawn of Vorr'Kael. He could deal with them... After enough training.