[You have killed an Essentor, Jooloo the Enchantless.]
The robotic voice echoed in Artham's mind, but he barely registered it. His attention fixed on Ofero, whose chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths. Still alive—unconscious, but breathing.
He'd seen it all—watched from the trees as the goblins chased them, as Ofero swallowed cixonberries in desperation. Every move observed. Every outcome predicted. Until now.
Now Jooloo lay dead, and the remaining goblins faced a new nightmare.
[Master, I'm still analyzing their language. Current comprehension at approximately 40%. Many words remain unclear.]
Artham's lips curved into a cold smile as fragmented goblin speech reached his ears. He couldn't understand most of it, but panic was universal.
"Jooloo... krzzk dead!" one goblin screeched, pointing frantically at their fallen leader with a trembling claw. The word 'krzzk' was completely foreign to him.
Another stumbled backward, weapon shaking in its grip. "Jooloo... vrakk fallen... skarrg impossible!" It stammered, eyes darting between Artham and the corpse. He caught 'fallen' and 'impossible' but the other words were gibberish.
The third goblin, wide-eyed with panic, barked at the others. "Zhrak! Korthak... king! Zhrak!" The urgency in its voice was clear even if the words weren't. Without waiting for a response, it turned and bolted for the trees.
"Not so fast," Artham muttered, his body flowing into motion like liquid shadow.
He moved between patches of sunlight and darkness, silent as death itself. The first goblin barely registered his approach before steel opened its throat. Its eyes went wide with shock before it collapsed, blood pooling in the dirt.
The second creature charged in desperation. Artham sidestepped effortlessly, letting momentum carry the goblin past him. His blade whispered through the air, finding the soft spot between neck and shoulder. The goblin crumpled without a sound.
The fleeing goblin had gained maybe thirty yards—not nearly enough. Artham drew his dagger, feeling its weight for a brief moment. Then he hurled it with practiced precision. The blade took the creature in the back of the skull, dropping it mid-stride.
[You have killed an unawakened nameless goblin.][You have killed an unawakened nameless goblin.][You have killed an unawakened nameless goblin.]
Artham stood in the clearing, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He surveyed the blood-soaked battlefield, counting the corpses scattered across the ground. A strange hunger gnawed at him—deep, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Strange, he thought. I trained for years in my previous world, but this body moves like it was born to kill. The power... it's beyond anything I expected.
[Master, the blood.]
His gaze shifted to the crimson pools soaking into the earth. The hunger sharpened, becoming almost painful. "Right. The blood."
"Let's try what you suggested," he murmured, extending his palm toward the nearest corpse. "All I need to do is open my hand and... Feed."
As his hand stretched toward the blood, he felt an otherworldly pull. The crimson liquid responded, rising from the ground in thin streams that flowed toward his palm like living things. The blood absorbed into his skin, leaving the three goblin corpses shriveled and gray.
[You have consumed the blood of three unawakened goblins. Your life countdown has increased by +1 hour 41 minutes 12 seconds. Well done, master!]
Artham frowned. "That's barely anything."
[Indeed, master. These goblins were weak. Their essence was negligible—they only extended your life minimally.]
His eyes drifted to Jooloo's corpse, the goblin who had wielded earth magic with deadly skill. "What about that one?"
[That one was different. He was an Essentor—an essence user. Consuming his blood should provide considerably more life force.]
The concept of essence still fascinated him. So much mystery, so much potential. Without hesitation, Artham opened his palm over Jooloo's body. This time, brown light tinged with dark crimson emerged from the corpse—the very core of the creature's being.
[You have consumed the blood of a low-tier Essentor! Your life countdown has been extended by 24 hours, 22 minutes, and 48 seconds. Excellent work, master.]
Artham's eyes widened. "What? Status!"
His vision blurred as a translucent screen materialized:
Status Conditions: Life until 26:33:36 remaining
He exhaled sharply, amazed by the vitality now flowing through his veins. "One goblin gave me over half a day?" His voice carried a mix of disbelief and wonder.
[Master, you should check on that man over there.]
Artham turned toward Ofero, still lying motionless against the tree. Blood seeped from multiple wounds, and his breathing remained dangerously shallow. "Right... almost forgot about him."
He approached the unconscious man and crouched beside him. "Mire, scan him. How bad is it?"
[Initiating scan...]
Blue light emanated from Mire's orb, washing over Ofero's broken form.
[Scan complete. He has several spinal fractures, internal bruising, and significant poison in his bloodstream. You have two options, master: use a healing potion to stabilize him, or... feed on him. His essence, being human, would be far more potent than the goblins.]
The suggestion hit Artham like a physical blow. He recoiled, disgust twisting his features. "Feed on him? Are you insane? He's not a monster—he's a person trying to protect his family. There are lines we don't cross."
[Master, I merely present the most efficient options. In a world like this, sentiment often conflicts with survival.]
Artham's grip tightened on the healing potion at his belt. "No, Mire. We keep him alive. He might have information we need—allies, knowledge about this world, something useful."
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Then: [As you wish, master. Though I must note... when you speak of morality, I detect no emotional fluctuation, no change in heart rate. Are you truly...]
"Enough." Artham's voice turned sharp as a blade. "Drop it."
[Yes, master.]
Artham uncorked a healing potion and carefully poured it down Ofero's throat. The man's wounds began to close slowly, though he remained unconscious. It would take time, but he would live.
"While we wait for him to wake up, let's free the girls. Mire, how do I break this earth prison?"
[Analyzing essence traces...]
Artham stared at the earthen dome, feeling the weight of this strange world's laws pressing down on him. The ground beneath his feet still hummed with residual essence from the dead goblin—a constant reminder that this wasn't his reality. Here, magic ruled instead of science and logic.
He could envision a future where essence users commanded fire, water, wind, and earth. But what about higher elements—light, darkness, life, death? He'd already witnessed wonders and terrors beyond imagination. His old world, with its mundane predictability, felt like a distant dream.
But here? He was a stranger in a strange land.
[Analysis complete, master. The structure is weakest at its base. Apply sufficient force there, and it will collapse.]
[The essence traces have weakened significantly since the user's death. You should be able to break through.]
Artham nodded, flexing his fingers. "Alright then. Here goes nothing."
He stepped forward, muscles coiling as he drew back his fist. The ground around the dome crackled under the impact of his blow. With a thunderous crack, his strike shattered the earthen cage. Dust and debris exploded outward in a cascade of crumbling stone.
As the dust settled, two wide-eyed figures emerged from the ruins. The girls clung to each other, faces streaked with tears and dirt, their clothes torn from the ordeal. They looked fragile and terrified—survivors of a nightmare.
"Are you hurt?" Artham asked, softening his voice. He studied their faces, trying to project calm despite the storm raging inside him.
The younger girl opened her mouth, lips trembling. "A—"
Artham raised an eyebrow. "A?"
Before she could finish, the older girl's voice broke through: "Arthanis!"
The moment the name left her lips, the world seemed to hold its breath. Birds stopped singing. The wind died. Even the blood pooling around the goblin corpses seemed to still.
Artham froze. "Arthanis?" The name felt like a key turning in a lock he didn't know existed. Something deep inside his chest recognized it, pulled toward it like metal to a magnet.
Then the pain hit.
It wasn't just a headache—it was like someone driving white-hot nails through his skull from the inside. He staggered, clutching his head as reality itself seemed to fracture. The forest around him began to blur and shift, as if he was seeing it through water.
[Warning: Severe neural disruption detected! Master, your brain patterns are—]
Mire's voice cut off abruptly as Artham's vision exploded into fragments.
He was seven years old, laughing as he chased two little girls through a sunlit meadow. "Can't catch me!" Ciyera giggled, her tiny legs pumping as she ran. Miyera was right behind her, braids flying in the wind. The air smelled of honey and wildflowers. Everything was perfect. Everything was safe.
The memory shattered like glass.
Now he was older, maybe sixteen, sword heavy in his hands. The meadow was a battlefield. Goblin corpses stretched as far as he could see, but they kept coming. Wave after wave of snarling, bloodthirsty creatures. His arms ached from swinging his blade. "Miyera! Ciyera! Stay behind me!" he screamed, but when he turned—
They were already dead. Their small bodies lay broken in the crimson-stained flowers, eyes staring at nothing.
"NO!" The scream tore from his throat, but it was too late. It was always too late.
The scene twisted again, more violent this time.
He was crawling now, both legs gone below the knee, leaving bloody trails in the dirt. A massive shadow loomed overhead—something vast and terrible that blocked out the sun. Claws the size of swords reached down for him. He was trying to reach the meadow, the safe place, but even that sanctuary had been corrupted. In the center of the white flowers lay his own headless corpse, blood pooling around the severed neck like a crimson halo.
The shadow spoke with a voice like grinding stone: "You failed them. You always fail them. You will watch them die again and again and again..."
Artham's eyes snapped open with a gasp that sounded more like a drowning man breaking the surface. His entire body was trembling, cold sweat soaking through his armor despite the warm afternoon air. The taste of copper filled his mouth—he'd bitten his tongue during the vision.
But what shook him most was the wetness on his cheeks. Tears. Arthanis's tears, for Arthanis's lost sisters.
"Brother?" Ciyera's voice was small, frightened. Both girls were staring at him with wide eyes, and he realized he must have been making noise during the memory surge. "You're scaring us."
[Master, your vitals just spiked to dangerous levels. What happened? For thirty-seven seconds, your brain activity was... unlike anything I've recorded.]
The memories were already fading, but the emotions lingered—overwhelming grief, guilt, and a protective fury so intense it made his hands shake. These weren't his feelings, but they felt real enough to drown in.
A translucent window materialized before him:
[WARNING: Memory Integration Detected][Foreign memory fragments accessing neural pathways...][Stabilizing cognitive functions...]
His hands trembled as he tried to process what had just happened. Those weren't his memories, but they felt real—more real than his own past sometimes. "The original owner of this body..." he whispered.
The name 'Arthanis' lingered in his mind, heavy with significance he couldn't grasp. He looked at the girls, seeing the hope and recognition in their eyes, and felt a weight settle on his shoulders.
I'm not who they think I am, he realized. But they need me to be.
"Why didn't you warn me about memory bleeds, Mire?" he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.
[The previous consciousness implemented strong suppression protocols. I had no access to those memory banks until the trigger event occurred.] Mire's tone carried what might have been regret. [A miscalculation. I will adjust future projections accordingly.]
Artham rubbed his temples, feeling a lingering headache from the memory surge. The situation was more complicated than he'd thought. This wasn't just body swapping—there were remnants of another life still embedded in his mind.
"Brother Arthanis... you look pale. Are you hurt?" The younger girl—Ciyera—stepped closer, genuine concern in her voice.
He forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. The wetness felt strange—foreign. In his previous life, his body simply couldn't produce tears, no matter how dire the situation. But now...
"I'm okay, just... tired from the fight." The words felt hollow. How could he explain that emotions he'd never experienced before were flooding through him? That these weren't even his feelings, but echoes of someone else's love and pain?
"Don't worry about me," he added softly, crouching down to their eye level. The gesture came naturally, though he couldn't say why. Some part of Arthanis's muscle memory, perhaps.
Ciyera stepped closer, her small hand reaching out to touch his face where a tear had been. "You were crying," she whispered. "Big brothers aren't supposed to cry."
The innocent observation stirred something in his chest—a warm, protective feeling that he recognized from the memory fragments but had never felt firsthand. It was overwhelming and confusing. Was this what caring for someone felt like? This strange tightness in his throat when he looked at their frightened faces?
"Sometimes even big brothers get scared," he said quietly, the words carrying emotions that weren't quite his own. "But I'm here now. You're safe."
Strange, he thought. I can feel what Arthanis felt for them. But are these feelings mine now, or am I just borrowing a dead man's heart?
"What about Uncle Ofero?" Miyera's voice broke through his thoughts, wide eyes brimming with worry.
"He's safe," Artham assured her, nodding toward the oak where Ofero rested. "I gave him a healing potion. He should wake up soon."
The girls exhaled in relief, tears slipping down their dirt-stained cheeks. "Thank you for saving us," Miyera whispered before throwing her arms around him. Ciyera quickly followed, their small frames shaking with emotion as they clung to him.
Caught off-guard, Artham hesitated before returning their embrace. His heart felt heavy with the weight of deception. He wasn't their brother—but for now, he had to be.
As their tears soaked into his shirt, one question haunted him: What happened to the real Arthanis?
He wasn't Arthanis. But as they clung to him like a lifeline... he'd wear that name if it kept them safe.
And more importantly—was the original consciousness still alive somewhere in this borrowed body, or was Artham truly alone in this strange, magical world?