A cold, suffocating silence greeted Grey as he slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling of his humble room stared back at him, worn wooden beams veiled in half-shadow. His body ached. Every inch of him pulsed with a dull, persistent pain, as though some unseen force had pulled him through a wringer of reality itself.
He sat up with great effort, his head throbbing like an ancient war drum echoing across a battlefield long forgotten. The world around him was blurred for a moment, his vision struggling to adjust. The pale morning light slipped cautiously through the cracks in his window shutters, throwing jagged shapes across the floor.
Then he saw it.
His desk upright. The bookshelf neatly stacked. The chair whole, unbroken. Not even a scratch on the floor.
Grey's breath caught in his throat.
Everything was as it had been before. As if the chaos from the night prior the screaming winds, the floating furniture, the chilling whispers had never happened. As if it were nothing more than a fever dream conjured by madness.
But he remembered. Oh, he remembered far too clearly.
The formless entity, like a shadow wrapped in void, had swallowed him in the darkness of his meditation. He remembered the sensation of falling into nothingness. He remembered the words fragmented, unholy murmured from a maw that did not exist in the realm of flesh and blood.
He stood shakily, gripping the edge of his bed for support.
This room he thought, scanning the familiar surroundings with suspicious eyes. Is it haunted? Cursed? Or has something chosen to leave a mark on me alone?
The absurd thought of moving briefly crossed his mind but he dismissed it with a bitter chuckle. Rent in Corvous was merciless. A commoner like him could barely afford this tiny dwelling, let alone another.
He dressed in silence, the chill of the morning biting through his sleeves, and descended the creaking stairs to the ground floor.
In the small backyard garden, Aunt May was watering her flowers, her back slightly hunched but movements steady. The scent of damp soil mingled with that of fresh herbs, oddly grounding Grey amidst his turbulent thoughts.
"I'm sorry if I caused any disturbance last night," he said hesitantly. "I may have made some noise."
Aunt May paused, then turned to face him with a soft smile. Her expression, however, carried a strange undertone a flicker of confusion.
"What noise, dear?"
Grey blinked. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
No noise? he thought. No thunder of wind? No furniture crashing against walls? No whispering that would chill the blood?
The unease in his chest coiled tighter.
"Ah, I must've imagined it," he said quickly, masking his confusion. "Maybe I was dreaming."
Without waiting for a reply, he offered a polite nod and walked out into the street, the cobblestones clicking faintly under his boots.
The air was thick with morning mist, and the sun had yet to pierce it fully. As he walked, Grey replayed the events in his mind, over and over, like a ritualistic chant seeking clarity.
It all began after that thing—whatever it was that swallowed me. Was I inside a dream? Or another reality? And if it truly consumed me, why am I still alive?
He glanced over his shoulder, a reflex he hadn't known he had.
He buried himself in the university library again that day, combing the dust-laden shelves for even a whisper of truth about paladins, blessings, or entities that lurked in the void. But the tomes were fragmented, censored, sterilized by the hand of the Church. They offered stories, myths, but no truth.
Night fell.
With disappointment shadowing his thoughts, he took a lesser-known route home an alley where even the moon hesitated to cast its light. Tall buildings leaned in, their crumbling edges pressing down like silent watchers.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps. And laughter.
Not the kind shared over ale and firelight, but guttural, mocking sounds sharp and twisted. His senses sharpened.
From the corner of his eye, four silhouettes emerged from the darkness. Two carried chipped knives. One dragged a thick wooden staff with nails embedded at one end. The last was a grotesquely obese man with a protruding front tooth that hung over his lower lip like a curved dagger.
Grey stopped. His gaze flicked to the side, lips tightening. Trouble.
Without hesitation, he summoned the shadows within.
Time of Darkness.
A quiet hum vibrated through his bones. The world slowed, details crystallized tiny cracks in the wall, the twitch of a thug's fingers, the almost imperceptible narrowing of an eye.
His physical form did not change. But his perception of the world sharpened to a predatory clarity.
"Leo," one of them said, pointing his blade lazily. "This is the one. The boss said to make it clean."
The fat one Leo snorted, stepping forward. "Kid, you made a mistake somewhere, know who to mess with in your next life."
He lunged.
Grey moved like liquid shadow. Leo's punch swept through empty air, and before the thug could recover, Grey was behind him. A leg sweep precisely. A kick measured. Leo fell like a felled tree, groaning as his breath escaped him.
Grey turned, his eyes cold and calculating.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice like silk wrapped around iron. "Could you please grace me name of your boss please,Mr"
None of them answered. Their expressions were frozen somewhere between confusion and terror.
The alley seemed to grow darker around them, as if listening