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

Suddenly, a thin veil of frost bled into his vision. It crawled along the edges of his sight like cracks forming on glass, shimmering faintly as it crept closer and closer. Dumbfounded, Art blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then froze in bewilderment.

The storm was changing.

His gaze flickered, confused, trying to hold onto the writhing sand that had been consuming him only moments ago.

Yet out of his periphery, the familiar maelstrom of grit and wind was bending into something else entirely.

The sandstorm's roar softened, dulled, until the grains of golden dust seemed to twist and shimmer, transforming into countless glittering shards of frozen white.

Snow.

Tiny flecks of frost drifted down at first, harmless as ash. Then they multiplied.

Shards thickened, multiplying with each passing heartbeat, until the storm was no longer sand at all but an entirely different world—a blizzard, wide and swallowing, an endless field of cold.

And it did not behave like any storm should.

The blizzard seemed to pulse, as though it had a will of its own, an attraction that pulled at his very consciousness. Its snowfall wasn't random but rhythmic, as if the flakes themselves carried intent.

Art stood rooted, his captivation devouring his fear. His bewildered mind, moments ago writhing in horror, now stared with a bizarre allure, utterly mesmerized.

He forgot the suffocating tendrils, the maggots, the suffocating cage of space. He forgot his skin peeling away. He forgot himself.

The cold touched him gently, like the caress of a breeze brushing bare skin. A shiver rippled through him—not of fear this time, but of something alien, enchanting. His chest loosened. His thoughts dimmed.

And before he could resist, his consciousness slipped, melted away, dissolving into the maelstrom of frost.

…

Back at the base.

Everyone was gathered now.

Zyon had gone out and brought them back one by one. Flames from the campfire licked the air, casting trembling shadows across their faces.

The silence was suffocating until finally, someone broke it.

"We should lay low."

The voice was calm, deliberate, but weighted with tension. Celeste's eyes narrowed, her words carrying the sort of sharp edge that left no room for false optimism. "Art has gone to save Leon. He will do so. Leon or Art shouldn't be our main concern right now. Who we should concern ourselves with… is her."

Her gaze drifted across the fire.

There, huddled low, knees drawn in tightly as though shielding herself from the world, was Evelyn. She sat close to the flames, yet her body still shivered.

Her lips pressed together, eyes shut tight, as if keeping them closed could drown out the strain clawing at her mind. The weight of her suffering was palpable, plain as daylight, no matter how much she tried to shrink into herself.

Amelia followed Celeste's stare and heaved a soft sigh. The sound carried exhaustion and helplessness in equal measure. "Yes… she's the one. But what can we even do? Her condition is bizarre, unnatural. The screams she keeps talking about—none of you heard anything. Not even a whisper."

"Are we sure about that?"

The interruption came sharp, cutting clean through Amelia's words. Verena leaned forward slightly, her tone deliberate.

Amelia frowned. "What do you mean? Explain it properly."

It wasn't Amelia who pressed further, though. Zyon spoke instead, his voice calm but laced with an unmistakable sharpness. "What exactly are you implying?"

Verena didn't flinch. She held his gaze and replied, "We don't know for certain that nobody heard it."

Celeste tilted her head, incredulous. "I'm not getting where you're going with this. Explain it in terms even a toddler could understand, because clearly I can't."

Verena's lips parted, but it was Mia who spoke next, her words landing like a quiet strike.

"It's not that complicated," Mia said. Her voice was steady, but beneath its surface was a tremor that made the others still. "There are two possibilities. First, none of us actually heard the scream. That's the simple explanation. But the second possibility…"

She paused, inhaled. "The second is that we did hear it. All of us. And we've simply forgotten. Suppressed or stripped of it. Some kind of interference."

The campfire crackled.

Mia's eyes swept across their faces, then dropped toward Evelyn. "There's more. Think about who was closest to the storm. Leon and Evelyn. Everyone else was further away. Which means this: if Evelyn heard something strange, something none of us can recall, then Leon must have too. Whatever affected her… affected him."

Her words were simple. Plain. But they struck with a resonance that shook the group in silence, each syllable threading unease through their veins.

Yes, it was possible that Leon had also heard it—that same incomprehensible scream Evelyn claimed was shredding her mind. Maybe right now, inside that storm, he was writhing just like her, trapped in a torment none of them could touch. But that wasn't the main issue.

The main issue was something far more terrifying.

"The memory loss."

Those words lingered like poison.

Celeste's expression darkened, her thoughts pulling inward. She herself had faced something similar, though she hadn't dared voice it until now.

She couldn't quite explain what had transpired, couldn't even grasp why. But in her mind there was a jagged scar—a blank space in her memory that gnawed at her every time she tried to probe it.

That was why Mia's theory had struck her so deeply. It wasn't just speculation. It resonated.

"She may be right," Celeste muttered, her tone heavier than before. Her hand tightened against her thigh, knuckles pale.

"Maybe we really did lose our memories of it. Because I… I do have this nagging feeling, a pressure in the back of my mind, that I've forgotten something. Something I shouldn't have. But no matter how much I reach for it, I can't place it. It's just… void. A hollow space." She grimaced, the weight of it dragging her features taut.

Her admission cast a silence over the group. The fire crackled, but no one dared speak.

Finally, Celeste exhaled sharply, shaking her head as though to cast it off. "But these are just theories. Don't let it eat at you. The real problem isn't whether we lost a memory—it's how we deal with something that can do this to us."

Mia's voice cut through next, clear and unflinching. "Which brings me to a question. Is any one of you proficient in mental manipulation?"

The response was immediate, and unanimous. Each one of them shook their head. Not a single hand lifted, not a single voice admitted to the talent.

Mia's lips pressed into a thin line.

Zyon broke the silence. His tone was grim, each word carrying weight like stone. "Mental manipulation is rare. Too rare. Not many inherit it, and those who do…"

He paused, his gaze lowering briefly before locking back onto the group. "They pay a steep price. They can't easily distinguish reality from illusion. They create a world of their own and then lose themselves inside it. That's why most of them end up taking their own lives. They simply can't survive the fracture between what's real and what isn't."

The fire popped, sending sparks into the air. No one moved to brush them away.

Verena's voice cut in next, sharp and unapologetic, her displeasure clear in every syllable. "Still… can't we call someone? Or are we really just thrown here like dogs to gnash our teeth and tear at each other in the dark?"

Her lips curled, her tone cold but dripping with disdain. "Not to be rude, but I think we're just bugs—insignificant, disposable. Pieces trapped in some grand plan His Majesty has already set his eyes on."

Her words rang with bitterness, and this time, no one rushed to correct her. Because deep down, the thought had already crossed every single one of their minds.