Darkness... again.
But this time, it wasn't a silent and cold void like before. This darkness burned—it pulsed... it hurt. It felt as if my soul was being dragged through a raging torrent of foreign memories and emotions that were not mine... but would soon be.
It was like falling endlessly into a pit of liquid fire and fractured echoes.
Then—I breathed.
I gasped for air, as if I had risen from the grave itself. I coughed and panted. My chest burned, and my fingers trembled like they had awoken from an icy slumber. I opened my eyes, but the world was blurred, veiled behind a crimson mist that tinted everything in blood-red hues. My senses returned one by one, each reclaiming its place in a body teetering on the edge of collapse.
I was lying on cold stone, soaked in dried blood. That metallic taste filled my mouth.
Around me, smoke blanketed a silent, cursed battlefield.
Mutilated corpses, severed limbs, scorched armor.
The stench of death was everywhere—stale blood, rusted steel, burnt flesh.
Columns of smoke rose into the gray sky like offerings of despair, while flies buzzed around the bodies and crows feasted on moist, lifeless eyes.
And then... I felt it.
A flood of memories crashed into me like a monstrous wave.
Broken voices, forgotten names, faces filled with hope, whispered promises beneath shattered stars.
"William Rosehart," murmured a distant voice deep within my mind.
"Protect your name. Avenge your kin."
I saw the faces of his parents, mercilessly mutilated. His sister's body, still warm when he found her, her empty eyes staring at a moonless sky.
The cruel laughter of the murderers echoed in my skull, mocking and inhuman…
And above the ruins, fluttering proudly—
The banner of a rival house.
My body trembled with rage… or maybe it was his.
Where did he end… and where did I begin?
Our thoughts intertwined like roots sharing the same soil, filling the voids left behind by the other.
This body had belonged to a young man named William Rosehart.
His family… his bloodline… was slaughtered in a single night by a band of raiders—pawns in a power struggle that had been simmering for centuries.
Rivers of blood washed away hundreds of years of legacy, and the echoes of screams still clung to the air, as if the land itself was grieving.
My vision sharpened.
I was lying inside an arcane circle, etched in stone with ancient symbols drawn in blood—so much blood.
Sticky and dark, it covered my arms, my clothes… even my face.
A second wave of memories slammed into me—more intense, more violent.
After the massacre, William had performed a forbidden ritual.
Desperate, shattered, with his soul consumed by the hunger for vengeance, he turned to the only legacy his family had left: ancient knowledge, forgotten rites.
Though this continent had long forgotten the existence of magic, his family preserved old traditions.
His grandfather, the last patriarch of the Roseharts, had taught him the language of the Ancients, old scripts, the foundation of lost power.
For fifteen years, every night, William memorized verses no one else remembered.
He had never cast a spell—not from fear, but because this land was barren. Mana, the lifeblood of the world, no longer flowed through this continent.
Still, he used blood as a substitute.
His grandfather's body, his parents', his sister's... all dragged into this place, this altar of death.
He mixed their blood with his own, carved the circle with trembling hands, and recited words long erased from memory.
The sacrifice was immense.
But the intent was clear: vengeance. Justice. Rebirth.
And then, the ritual activated.
The symbols glowed with a crimson light, nearly black.
The souls of the dead swirled like smoke, like trapped screams.
But there wasn't enough energy.
The ritual began to consume him.
I saw it all.
Felt it all.
His screams as his soul was torn apart—piece by piece—shredded by invisible hands to sustain the gateway.
The connection between worlds solidified.
And through it… I arrived.
My soul had been drawn from another universe, pulled by the echo of despair.
The body was left an empty husk.
William's soul, unraveling, branded itself onto mine like a scar.
And I… was bound to this vessel.
The circle faded.
Only smoke remained. The stench of rotting flesh.
And me—
Gasping upon the altar, shackled to a new existence.
The place was in ruins.
I knew I had to leave.
I began to run, guided by the memories I had absorbed.
During the time he spent dragging corpses for the ritual, William had scoured the area.
There was nothing of value left.
All I had was a pouch containing twenty gold coins given to him by his grandfather before locking him in the cellar to protect him.
A flamboyant robe adorned with golden embroidery.
And a sword that looked… plain. Too plain.
To the east lay the duchies of Redvale and Draymor—
The ones responsible for his family's destruction.
Which left only one path:
The city of Caerlin, a neutral port governed by House Caerlin.
Though part of Virelia, it welcomed traders from Drakenwald without hostility.
A haven for merchants, mercenaries, and exiles alike—
For anyone who could afford the price.