He awoke in a stranger's bed, the wooden ceiling above him etched with fading carvings. His body still ached, but the sharpness had dulled into soreness. The wounds had been cleaned and bound, his skin warm beneath fresh bandages. The scent of bread, herbs, and something sweet drifted from outside the room. He was still alive.
He slowly sat up, letting the light from a nearby window strike his face. Unlike the burning skies of the ash world, this light was gentle. It made him squint, but not recoil. Outside, voices murmured. A hammer struck metal in a rhythmic pattern. Laughter bubbled somewhere nearby. Birds sang.
He looked around. The room was small but clean, furnished with rough wooden pieces—a chair, a table, a woven mat. On the table rested a bowl of water, a towel, a folded tunic. And leaning against the far wall: his axe.
He stood up cautiously. His legs were stiff, but strong. He approached the weapon slowly, as if unsure whether it was still his. The double-bladed axe gleamed faintly. Someone had wiped it clean. But its weight—its presence—still belonged to him.
He touched the hilt. A soft vibration ran through his hand. The memory of blood and death stirred, but he held his grip steady. The weapon had followed him through the worst. Now it was a relic from a world that no longer surrounded him.
He caught his reflection in a small mirror hanging near the door. The man who looked back was gaunt, weathered, unshaven. His eyes, once dull with fatigue, now held a deeper shadow. He did not recognize his own face.
A creak at the door. He turned quickly, instinctively stepping between the axe and the entrance. But it was the young man from before.
"You're up," he said. "You slept nearly two days. Thought you might not wake up."
He said nothing.
The young man stepped in, holding a wooden bowl. "Soup. You should eat."
He accepted it silently. The warmth of the bowl felt strange against his hands.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"I... don't know," he said slowly. His voice cracked from disuse.
The man blinked. "Well, you must've been through hell. I'm Kairen. You? " A moment passed.
"Call me... Ash," he muttered. The word came unbidden, instinctual.
Kairen tilted his head. "Fitting."
Later that day, Kairen took him outside. The village was quiet, humble. Stone paths wove through wooden homes. A few villagers paused to stare. Children peeked from behind barrels. But no one screamed. No one ran.
Ash followed him to a larger building near the center of the village—a guildhall, Kairen explained.
Inside, the walls were lined with weapons and maps. A large crystal hovered at the registration desk. Kairen explained the process. Ash listened.
He placed his hand on the crystal.
It cracked.
A loud shatter. Light erupted. People screamed.
The crystal exploded into fragments. The room fell silent.
Ash stood unmoving.
The receptionist stammered, "That—that has never happened before."
Kairen pulled him aside. "You're not normal. Whatever you've carried out of that place... it's still with you."
That night, Ash couldn't sleep. He sat on the roof of the guildhall, staring at the moon. The relic from the ash world—still in his possession—began to hum. It vibrated softly against his chest, unseen but alive.
He clutched it. A whisper curled through his thoughts. Not words—something older.
In the forest's edge, he saw movement.
A shape. Four-legged. Charred skin. Red eyes.
A beast. From the other world.
Watching him.
He stood slowly. The creature vanished into shadow.
He stared into the night.
"Even here," he whispered, "the ash finds me."