Darkness.
A cold, choking void stretched endlessly, suffocating in its stillness.
Then—light.
Searing, blinding light burst through the nothingness, and with it came pain. The boy gasped, lungs burning, eyes fluttering open as if waking from a dream too deep. He coughed violently, every muscle in his body rebelling.
A wooden ceiling. The faint scent of herbs and incense. Bandages wrapped tight around his chest and arms.
He was alive.
A rustle beside him.
A teenager—taller, with messy black hair and gentle brown eyes—leaned forward, relief etched across his face. He held a wooden bowl filled with steaming herbal soup.
"You're awake! Thank the heavens... I wasn't sure you were going to make it."
The boy tried to respond, but only a dry rasp escaped his throat.
"Easy," the teenager said, lifting the bowl to his lips. "Here, drink slowly. My name's Lance. I found you just outside the southern ridge—barely breathing, covered in glowing cracks and half-burnt. Thought you were some poor soul cooked by a spatial rift."
The words washed over him, but little sank in.
His mind was a haze. His body ached down to the marrow.
Then, without warning, a low hum echoed in his skull—a presence neither loud nor soft, not mechanical, but cold and ancient, like the whisper of cosmic winds.
[Critical Soul Damage Detected.][Stabilizing Host Soul: 37%... 52%...][Breath of the Soul: First Movement — granted.][Objective: Soul Stabilization in Progress.][Task: Practice guided breathing to accelerate recovery.]
His eyes widened, and he jerked slightly, surprising Lance.
"Hey—hey! You alright?"
The boy clutched his head, trying to steady his breath. "A voice… inside my head."
Lance's brows furrowed. "You're not… possessed, are you?"
Despite the pain, a faint chuckle escaped his throat. "No... I don't think so."
The presence returned, speaking plainly, its tone stiff and measured, like an artifact just beginning to understand speech.
[Arthur. Do not be alarmed. I am the Inheritance Nexus, created by the sacrifice of the Divine.][Your soul is unstable. Full awakening is not possible. Initiating partial integration for survival.][Commencing task: Soul Recovery. Begin the First Movement.]
As though moved by instinct, he obeyed.
Breathe in. Slow. Hold. Release. Again.
Warmth crawled across his limbs, dulling the worst of the pain. The pressure in his skull began to recede. Still, the name the voice called him echoed faintly in his thoughts.
Arthur...
Lance tilted his head. "Arthur. Is that your name? Or someone else's?"
The boy blinked, staring into the distance before whispering, "I think it's mine. It… feels familiar."
"Well, Arthur it is, then. Until your memory returns."
Arthur nodded slowly and closed his eyes again, the name feeling like an anchor in the swirling fog of his thoughts.
Days passed.
Lance tended to him with quiet patience, never asking for explanations. When he wasn't running errands for outer sect disciples, he returned with food or sat nearby, sharing idle stories about life in the sect—grumbling about chores, bragging about distant heroes, and occasionally whispering rumors about legendary techniques he'd never seen.
Though Arthur couldn't recall anything beyond the Nexus and the void, Lance never pried. He simply stayed.
All the while, the voice within continued to guide him.
[Soul Stabilization at 71%. Continue Breathing.][Do not stray. Spiritual collapse remains a risk.][Core Inheritance is sealed. Premature access is fatal.]
The guidance never overwhelmed. It offered just enough. The breathing technique—more spiritual than physical—soothed the splitting headaches and anchored his presence within his body.
Although the technique dulled the pain and gave him clarity, it couldn't silence the dreams.
The nightmares still came.
Visions of collapsing stars. Of celestial cities burning. Of ancient gods consumed by the Void. Screams etched into the very bones of reality. The last moments before something immense shattered the heavens—and the spark that lit the flame within him.
Every night, they returned.
And every morning, he woke gasping, drenched in sweat, clinging to fading images of destruction too vast to comprehend.
One night, he stood before the cracked mirror in the corner of the room. Just for a second—his reflection shimmered.
Eyes like twin galaxies stared back at him. His skin pulsed faintly with strange golden lines that faded as quickly as they came.
[That which is hidden stirs. Strengthen yourself, Arthur. You are bound for greater things.]
The voice was the same. But something in it had changed—just a shade less artificial, as though slowly learning emotion.
Arthur touched the mirror's surface, exhaling slowly. "What am I...?"
The Nexus gave no reply.
Outside, the world spun on.
This was Veluria, a planet scarred by chaotic energy flows and spatial instability. Once thriving, now hostile, it was plagued by dungeons—aberrations in space and spirit that warped the environment and birthed monsters from corrupted essence.
These anomalies defied natural laws, tearing open rifts to isolated realms. Many collapsed once their cores were destroyed. But others lingered—fused with the world itself. And over time, changed it.
Sects called them trials. The desperate called them salvation.
No one truly understood what they were.
Not yet.
And certainly not Arthur.
Despite the uncertainty, Arthur focused on healing.
The breathing technique gradually restored color to his face. The glowing cracks along his arms faded day by day. His soul—which had felt like a frayed thread—began to stabilize, however slowly.
Lance occasionally commented, impressed. "Most people take weeks just to recover from core backlash. You're bouncing back fast."
Arthur only smiled faintly. He didn't explain that he had no core. Not yet. Not even a single awakened root.
Still, the Nexus continued its subtle instructions, never forcing, never revealing more than necessary.
[Spiritual synchronization increasing.][Progress satisfactory.][Awaiting Host soul resilience threshold: 93%.]
One morning, as the sun rose over the jagged peaks beyond Blackflame City, Arthur stepped out of the hut for the first time.
The air was crisp. The earth thrummed faintly beneath his bare feet.
In the distance, he could see the city—a fortress of black stone and spirit-forged steel, rising above swirling mists. Sect disciples soared overhead on spirit-gliders, their robes marked by clan crests and cultivation levels. Beyond the city, the lands stretched wild and broken—cracks in reality itself visible as faint shimmering veils.
Veluria was beautiful in the way of dangerous things—untamed, unknowable, vast.
Arthur stood silently, breathing it in. Somewhere, deep in his soul, something stirred.
It wasn't memory. Not yet.
But it was enough.
He would survive.
He would grow.
And in time, he would remember.