Awoken by a strange voice echoing in his mind, the spirit stirred. He found himself chained against a crumpled slab of rubble, the iron links biting deep into his wrists as he thrashed. Sparks of frost and flame crackled along his skin, the clashing of energies inside him answering his desperation. With a final wrench, the chains snapped, shattering into fragments that clattered lifelessly onto the stone floor.
The spirit stumbled forward, gasping. All around him stretched a broken landscape—shards of collapsed pillars, shattered windows, and fragments of once-proud spires. The air was heavy, thick with corruption, and yet… Everything felt familiar. A haze of déjà vu washed over him, as though he had walked these halls in another lifetime.
The voice returned, hollow and resonant, neither male nor female but something ancient:
"Seek out the shards that threaten our existence. Beware the Exarches who silenced our screams. All is doomed—the corruption has spread here too."
The words seared into his chest like a brand. His knees buckled, but he slammed his fist against the fractured stone beneath him, forcing himself upright. His breathing came ragged, but the unseen force tugged at him—yearning, insistent—drawing him forward.
He moved through the ruin, staggering at first, then steadier, as though the path was carved into his non-existence bones. The voice grew louder with each step, reverberating in his skull like a chant. He did not know why, but he knew where he was going.
At last, he reached a vast corridor. The silence that followed was deafening, crushing. It was then that he saw her.
At the end of the hall stood a woman. Her form was statuesque, draped in flowing dark-grayish hooded outfit threaded with luminous blue details that pulsed faintly like veins of light and a blue pendant. Her skin was pale as moonstone, her short hair a deep oceanic blue that shimmered faintly in the dimness, framing eyes that glowed with an unearthly sapphire. She looked up at the spirit.
The female's voice was calm, yet carried a familiarity that unsettled the spirit.
"There you are," she said, her words like a sigh of relief. "It seems the awakening process was successful."
The spirit blinked, puzzled, unable to form a response.
Her sharp eyes softened with realization. "Oh… you can't speak, can you? Looks like the corruption stripped away your voice." She tilted her head, searching his expression. "But you can understand me, right?"
The spirit gave a slow nod.
"Good," she said briskly, though her tone carried urgency. "We don't have much time. I'd love to give you the reunion you deserve, but that will have to wait. Right now, we need to escape."
The spirit furrowed his brow, confusion plain in his eyes. She caught it but pressed on, her tone softening for just a moment. "Don't worry about the details yet. The Exarches of Shadow are on our trail, and I've already taken a few too many hits from their servant. Will you help me?"
Without hesitation, the spirit moved to her side, crouching so she could lean on him. When her body faltered, he lifted her fully onto his back.
"Thank you…" she whispered. A faint smile crossed her lips, but it quickly withered as she muttered under her breath, almost too quietly to hear. "Gods… I'm supposed to be your savior, and yet you're the one saving me."
The chamber rumbled faintly, and with a groan, a massive door behind her swung open. A draft of cold air swept through, carrying with it the scent of dust and decay.
"Through there," she urged, pointing with a trembling hand.
The two ventured down the narrow passage, their steps echoing off the broken stone. Outside, the ruins stretched wide beneath a sickly sky, and the spirit's mind churned with fragments of unfamiliar words: Exarches… servants… corruption. None of it made sense, but the weight of their meaning pressed down on him all the same.
"I can feel your confusion," the woman said softly, almost reading his thoughts. "Don't worry. I'll explain everything—" her voice faltered, hardening again, "if we survive."
The ground cracked underfoot. From the shadows ahead, a presence stirred, thick with malice. A cloaked figure stepped forward, its face veiled in darkness, but a cruel, jagged grin shone beneath the hood. Vast, skeletal wings—yellowed like ancient bone—unfurled behind it, scraping the air with a dry hiss.
The woman stiffened against the spirit's back, her eyes wide with terror. Her lips trembled as she forced the words out:
"He's… here."
swift punishment. You're immortal, after all. What is there to fear?"
A manic laugh bubbled up from beneath the hood. "No need to be scared."
His gaze drifted to the spirit. "What's this? Another one of your laughable weaklings?" he sneered—then froze. His posture stiffened as if struck. He leaned forward, studying the spirit.
"Wait… you look familiar."
The grin drained from his face. For a heartbeat he was stunned. "No… it can't be."
The spirit eased the woman to the ground. The cloaked figure's expression snapped back into something far more dangerous—a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Laughter erupted again, colder this time, a wild, triumphant sound.
"You… fool," he snarled. "After ten thousand years, we've finally found you." He paced them like a predator circling wounded prey. "Look at you—deteriorated, pathetic… weak. A shell of what you once were. You're both in no state to fight. It's almost too perfect."
His voice dropped to a cruel whisper that blasted through the quiet. "Now—allow me to put you both out of your misery. Perish."
Althea stepped forward, planting herself between the spirit and the cloaked figure. Her stance was rigid, voice ringing with iron.
"I — Althea — swore on my duty as an Apostle to protect my master. You will not take another step."
She reached to summon her weapon, but nothing answered her—no blade, no light. Panic flashed across her face; stripped of offense, all she could do was brace to defend.
The cloaked figure scoffed, amusement curling beneath his hood. With a casual flick of his wrist he loosed a searing orb of energy. It tore through the air like a falling star.
Althea threw herself into its path, arms raised. The blast struck her full force. The world exploded into white noise; stone and dust sprayed outward as the shockwave hurled her from her feet. She skidded across the ground and then slammed onto the ground, coughing, blood flecking her lips.
The cloaked figure's expression hardened into contempt. "Pathetic. I refuse to believe an Apostle could be this weak." He shrugged off his disappointment as if it were an annoyance. "No matter." His voice went cold. "Once I've finished with you, neither of you will exist."
The spirit rushed to Althea's side, dropping to his knees. She lay battered, barely conscious.
The cloaked figure scoffed, raising his hand. "Worthless." Another sphere of energy crackled to life and shot forward.
Light consumed everything. The heavens themselves seemed to split—until a voice unlike any other rang out inside the spirit's mind.
"Synchronization complete."
When the spirit opened his eyes again, the battlefield was gone. He now stood in a vast, radiant hall where fragments of crystal floated weightlessly in the air. At the center pulsed a great pillar of light, its glow bathing the chamber in brilliance. Around the edges, towering doors loomed, sealed by runes and chains.
Althea sat at the base of the pillar, her presence calm and steady. She looked up at him and smiled faintly.
"Welcome, Master… to commencement."
The spirit staggered forward, confusion etched across his face.
"Ah," Althea said knowingly, "you must be confused about our situation, correct?"
The spirit nodded silently.
"We are inside your mind," she explained. "An alternate reality, reconstructed from fragments of your memories."
The spirit tilted his head, a flicker of worry in his eyes—as if asking about their bodies outside.
She raised a hand to quiet his fears. "Do not worry. For now, we are safe here. Time moves much slower in this space than outside. And thanks to our shared affinity in magic, I can communicate with you directly." Her tone hardened, urgency cutting through her gentle voice. "But we do not have much time, so listen carefully."
She pointed, and before them materialized three shimmering relics—each glowing with its own aura. A sword, sharp and gleaming. A grimoire, its pages fluttering though no wind blew. And a set of sleek, spectral guns humming faintly with mana.
"What you see," Althea said, "are not mere weapons. They are memories—echoes of warriors you once fought beside, against, or perhaps even as." She locked eyes with him. "Once you choose a class, your path will be bound to it. There is no going back. Choose wisely, Master."
The spirit drifted toward the three memory-weapons, each humming faintly with their own aura. But then—something else stirred.
A whisper. Cold. Cunning. Comforting in the way frost numbs the body, yet dangerous in its allure.
The spirit froze, eyes shifting. The voice called again, not from the weapons, but from above. A spiral staircase stretched upward toward a colossal sealed door bound in chains and glowing sigils.
His soul ached to answer the call. Frosted fingers seemed to crawl across his heart, tugging him closer with each step.
"Master, wait—!" Althea's warning rang out, but his body moved of its own accord.
He pressed his palm against the door. The moment skin met sigil, the seals shattered like glass, and a howling blizzard erupted outward. The storm swallowed him whole, its icy fangs gnashing at his soul. Breath caught in his chest as though the weight of the air itself sought to crush him. His body trembled, cracking under the sheer cold, until—
Silence.
The storm's fury ceased, and he found himself standing in its frozen heart.
There, upon a solitary pedestal, rested a bow. Black as midnight, its surface glistened with frost, and its curved frame almost seemed to smile at him with a predator's grin.
The spirit's pulse quickened. A need—no, a compulsion—rose inside him. The bow wanted him, and part of him wanted it just as desperately.
He reached out, fingers brushing the weapon's surface. The moment he closed his hand around its grip, a flood of memories poured into his mind—fragments of battles, of frozen landscapes, of eyes staring at him in fear and awe.
Blurred for now, but undeniable. The memories would return in time.
Vallas—the Mythical Frost Archer, traveler and warrior, infamous across the lands of Johannas—was a force of legend. His frost magic could freeze the very world, and his marksmanship rivaled the gods themselves. But his power was deemed too dangerous; he had been sealed away… and forgotten.
The spirit's hand slid along the bow, gripping the handle. At once, a frigid blizzard erupted, swallowing him in ice and snow. His body and soul trembled under the assault of frost, the cold clawing at his very essence.
Althea's eyes widened, worry etched across her face. "Please… be alright," she whispered, her hands trembling.
The storm finally subsided. The ice that had gripped him shattered, and from it emerged not the spirit, but Vallas.
A young-looking, tan-skinned male now stood where the spirit had been. He wore a black hunter's trench coat, a diamond symbol marked with a dot on the back, accented in deep blue. A black scarf wrapped his neck, and a quiver of frost-laced arrows rested across his back.
Althea's expression softened, relief flooding her features. "Looks like there's nothing to worry about," she said, her smile genuine.
As they faded into particles, the world around them shifted. Althea's voice lingered. "Seems we're being transported back. Remember, Master—we will meet both formidable friends and dangerous foes on our journey."
A radiant light flared, and a commanding voice resonated around them: Now… reawaken, and save our world.
Suddenly, the cloak figure appeared, now a massive enemy emerging from an explosion that churned into a mask of smoke. He turned his back, unimpressed. "Hmph," he scoffed. "How pathetic. What a waste of time."
The figure sensed a strong presence behind him and spun around. Standing before him was Vallas, the frost archer, resurrected and radiating a chilling aura.
"You… survived!? Not only that, you regained some of your power," the cloaked figure groaned, his composure faltering. "This cannot be… unbelievable! I have no time for this!"
He snapped his fingers, and an amalgamated creature appeared. "One of my many monsters—the Researcher—will deal with you."
As the battle unfolded, two head tentacles erupted from the creature's body, each wielding a menacing axe. The researcher let out a furious roar and charged forward. In response, the archer steadied his breath, exhaling a cloud of cold air as he prepared for the onslaught.
The creature swung its blade with ferocious speed, but the archer deftly dodged, using his hand to propel himself backward. In a fluid motion, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver and loosed it at the creature. The arrow struck true, encasing its arm in frost. As the creature retaliated with another swing, the archer narrowly avoided the attack.
From the shadows, a cloaked figure seethed in frustration. "What are you doing with your useless mongrel? Kill them!"
Ignoring the taunt, the archer surged forward, sliding beneath the creature. He swiftly drew another arrow, stabbing it into the creature's leg. The frost spread quickly, immobilizing it. Seizing the moment, he struck a precise pressure point, causing the lower part of its leg to shatter.
The cloaked figure sighed, disdain dripping from their voice. "Pathetic… Simply a useless construct after all."
With renewed determination, the archer leaped up, delivering a powerful kick to the researcher's face. The creature roared in rage, throwing itself into a frenzy. Vallas, the archer, rushed in again, dodging a desperate slash from the monster. He countered with a swift punch that disoriented it, using his unnatural strength to rip away its right blade and hurl the researcher into the air.
Seizing the opportunity, Vallas jumped high, landing on the creature's stomach. With a fierce kick, he knocked it down, then slashed downward with the blade he had taken. The creature blocked the attack, but Vallas pressed on, pushing back against the archer's assault until he finally cleaved through the monster's neck, severing its head from its body.
His gaze then shifted, locking onto the cloaked figure who had orchestrated this attack. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with tension. Vallas' eyes were cold, unnervingly emotionless, and the figure immediately recoiled, the confident facade faltering for a brief instant.
"You… how are you able to regain your powers so quickly?" the cloaked figure muttered, disbelief lacing his voice.
The figure's composure returned quickly, a sinister grin spreading across his hidden face. "It doesn't matter. You won't make it far in this world. My master will be delighted to hear of your awakening. I could finish you myself, but that would be… boring, wouldn't it?"
Vallas' eyes narrowed. Something in the tone of the cloaked figure screamed deceit. There was cunning there, a hidden agenda beneath the mockery. "I'm curious how many times you will fail," the figure continued, voice like ice and shadow. "You're merely a pawn in my master's game, and he is already winning."
Without warning, dark energy spiraled around the figure as he opened a portal beneath him, vanishing into thin air. The remnants of his presence left a cold, oppressive aura, the kind that lingered long after the source was gone.
Vallas' body shimmered violently, his physical form dissolving into his spirit as the clash of energies within him escalated. A deep, icy pain gripped every fiber of his being, forcing him to his knees. He slammed his fist into the hard ground, the impact echoing like thunder, as two opposing forces collided within him: the pure frost of his own essence and the dark, corrupting energy that had attempted to consume him earlier.
His spirit flickered between brilliant frost-white and a deep, ominous crimson, a battle for control raging in the very core of his soul. Something ancient and powerful, unknown yet familiar, surged through him, seizing control. Vallas' scream tore through the air, raw and primal, a sound that carried both anguish and defiance, shaking the space around him as his transformation into a new, more dangerous state began.
From a distance, a voice cut through the chaos. "Well, well, well… what do we have here?"
A figure emerged, a white man with sharp blue eyes and stylish hair hidden beneath a black fedora. He wore a sleek jacket, his hands relaxed in his pockets, the corners of his mouth curved into a confident smirk.
"It looks like I got here a little late," he said casually, surveying the berserker spirit.
Rage flared in Vallas' spirit eyes, his body trembling as he prepared to strike. With a roar, he lunged at the man, swinging with raw, unbridled fury.
The man tilted his head, smirking as he effortlessly dodged every blow. He stepped back lightly, one hand adjusting his hat, his movements graceful and precise.
The berserker spirit charged again, launching a flurry of attacks in a chain, weaving with relentless speed. The man's expression didn't change, though his defenses tightened slightly, blocking the onslaught with calculated effort.
Vallas attempted a sweeping kick, but the man sidestepped easily, leaving the berserker momentarily exposed. With a calm, almost teasing gesture, he gently pushed the spirit, sending him sprawling across the ground.
Hands still in his pockets, the man strolled past the fallen berserker, leaving his back wide open.
Like a wild beast, the spirit scrambled to all fours, muscles tensing, crimson energy radiating in violent waves around him. His eyes glowed with raw fury as he prepared to strike again, untamed and unstoppable.
The berserker spirit charged once more, heedless of previous failures. Squatting low, he vaulted over the man with raw, untamed fury.
He slammed his hands into the ground, ripping up a massive boulder and hurling it with all his might. The man barely shifted, raising a single hand. With minimal effort, the boulder shattered into pieces, rain of stone scattering harmlessly around him.
Before the berserker could recover, he launched one final, desperate attack. But the man had grown tired of the relentless, chaotic onslaught. With calculated precision, he sidestepped the spirit's flailing assault.
"That's enough!"
In a single, fluid motion, the man struck, chopping the berserker spirit's neck. Vallas' crimson energy flared briefly before fading as he went limp, bound in the air by the man, who held him effortlessly by the leg.
A flicker of worry crossed the man's face. "Oops… maybe I overdid it a bit," he muttered, already imagining Althea's wrath.
The smirk returned, sharper and amused. "You're really something, aren't you?"
He paused, glancing down at the unconscious Althea. "Now… let's find out if she made the right choice."
With effortless strength, he threw the berserker spirit aside, then bent to lift Althea. Holding her securely, he cast one last glance at the fallen spirit."This… will be an excellent path."