A few hours had passed since the first day of training ended, and every muscle in Zay's body ached with a relentless, throbbing pain. The exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but he continued to walk through the mansion despite the pain. His limbs felt like lead, but his hunger drove him forward. After a few minutes, he found the kitchen—a large, well-lit space with polished countertops and an array of tools neatly organized. He stepped inside and began to prepare a meal for himself.
He had just pulled some fresh bread out when the sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. The door creaked open, and a maid stepped inside, her eyes widening slightly as she noticed him.
"Don't worry about the meals," she said with a gentle smile, her voice soft yet firm. "I'll be preparing them for all of you for the remainder of your stay. Just tell me what you would like."
Zay gave a slow, pained nod, his neck stiff with discomfort. He hesitated for a moment before replying, his voice a bit rough from the training. "Just some bore meat, bread, and some water. That's all."
The maid smiled warmly, nodding in understanding. She turned toward a large white cabinet, its surface covered in intricate frost-enchantment runes, designed to preserve meat. She opened it carefully, revealing a large hunk of bore meat. She slid it out and placed it on a white wooden plank, allowing it to thaw for a few moments.
With a practiced motion, she held her hand over the ice, and the seal she carried, [Flame], activated. A small flame ignited in her palm, casting a soft glow across the kitchen as the heat melted the ice. As the frost dissipated, the maid hummed a quiet, soothing tune to herself, her fingers dancing in the air, guiding the flame to melt the last remnants of frost.
Zay watched for a brief moment, his mind still spinning with the events of the day. Without another word, he turned and left the kitchen, his body protesting with each step.
He wandered through the mansion, his eyes drawn to the various paintings that adorned the walls. Each was locked in place with enchantments from Seals, their frames enchanted to keep the works from being tampered with. The paintings were beautiful, each scene a glimpse into the mansion's history, but they only added to the oppressive feeling that hung in the air.
One particular painting caught his attention. It depicted the mansion from a bird's-eye view, the grand structure standing proudly above the front doors. He studied it for a moment before glancing around the hallway, his gaze lingering on the red carpet that led up the stairs.
The soft creak of the floorboards beneath him echoed as he climbed the stairs, the deep red carpet cushioning his footsteps. With every step, the weight of the mansion seemed to grow, as if the walls themselves were watching him. His legs burned with each movement, but he pushed on, his curiosity pulling him toward the second floor.
Zay reached the second floor and continued his exploration, the ache in his body only growing with each step. He moved down the long, silent hallways, the soft echo of his footsteps, and the rumble of thunder in the distance filling the emptiness around him. His senses were on edge, and every creak of the floorboards made him feel more uneasy, like the mansion itself was alive and watching him.
The first door he opened led to a spacious room with a large, marble bath—a welcome sight after the grueling day of training. With a brief glance, he closed the door behind him and moved on.
His next door led to an entirely different atmosphere. Inside, the room stretched long and wide, with seven neatly made beds positioned around the perimeter. The crimson walls loomed like a heavy, oppressive weight. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room in harsh, jagged bursts of light. Shadows writhed and shifted across the floor, making the beds appear almost haunted. Zay didn't linger in the room for long. He closed the door behind him and moved further down the hallway.
As he continued exploring, he turned a corner and saw the corridor extend into the darkness, with a set of stairs at the far end leading upwards. His curiosity piqued, Zay approached the stairs slowly, feeling an odd, increasing pressure in the air as he moved deeper into the hallway. The light from the distant windows grew dimmer with each step he took. It was as if the mansion itself was swallowing the light, pulling him further into the darkness.
The air grew thick, the pressure against his chest becoming more intense. It felt almost as if something was waiting for him, watching him, but there was no one in sight that he could see.
His senses were on high alert now, and the silence around him seemed suffocating in it's own way. He pressed forward, the darkness swallowing the light behind him. Every step deeper into the corridor seemed to draw him further. The oppressive feeling in the air was becoming overwhelming, but Zay couldn't stop now. He had to find the answers. He had to understand this place—why it felt so wrong, but also why it had this sense of familiarity even if it was only slightly.
Zay continued down the corridor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the crushing pressure lifted. His chest loosened, and he exhaled sharply as he reached the staircase at the end of the hall. With one last glance behind him, he began to climb.
At the top, he paused before a weathered wooden door, its surface splintered with age. He hesitated—something about it felt off, like the air around it held a breath it never exhaled. After a few seconds, he grasped the handle and pushed it open.
Lightning split the sky behind him, casting flickering light into the room beyond. It was the only illumination.
Zay stepped inside.
His eyes swept the small space. Dust blanketed everything, disturbed only by his arrival. In the center of the room sat a chest, thick chains bolted to the floor wrapping tightly around it. They pulsed faintly with an eerie light as if warded or sealed.
'What the hell is this? Some sort of ritual box?' he thought, taking a cautious look around.
A chair sat abandoned in the corner, webbed over and sunken with dust. Nearby, a desk sat under the weight of time, its surface hidden beneath a fine gray coat. Against the far wall stood what looked like a mirror, shrouded by a heavy cloth, dulled and grey with age—but lightning revealed a faint glint beneath it.
Gold.
"A gold-threaded blanket, a dust-covered chair, and what's probably a mirror... then the chest." He muttered under his breath. "An odd setup for a room sealed like this."
He took a slow inhale, then coughed, waving a hand in front of his face as the air thickened with disturbed dust. The swirling particles caught the lightning, dancing like ghostly ash.
Zay waited a moment for the air to settle before stepping forward. The wooden floor groaned under his weight. One step. Another. On the third, the board beneath him creaked ominously, threatening to split.
Cautiously, he reached the chained chest and lowered himself to one knee. The chains hummed. As his hand neared them, a pale glow surged from their surface, and with a soft crackling sound, they fell away—undone by his touch alone.
He froze. Brows furrowed, he reached out again and slowly opened the chest. Inside, nestled carefully, were several objects: a blackened journal, a sealed jar containing ink and a feathered quill, and something else—something jarringly out of place.
A small, rectangular device. A voice recorder. From Earth.
Zay's breath hitched as he stared at it. With slow fingers, he removed the journals first, setting them gently aside, then reached in and wrapped his hand around the recorder.
It was cold.
He pressed the play button.
Silence.
He pressed it again.
And then he heard it—his own voice. Raspy, tiredness was clear in the tone.
His eyes widened. He blinked several times, heart pounding in his ears. It didn't make sense. He had no memory of ever using something like this. No recollection of recording anything.
Zay set the recorder on the dusty wooden floor, the faint static still crackling from the tiny speaker. Then, with trembling hands, he opened the blackened journal.
The first page was written in thick, bold ink. The letters jumped out at him.
His eyes scanned the words slowly, then widened. His lips parted.
His heart nearly stopped. "How the hell... is this here?" he whispered.
His gaze darted back to the page.
He read the name again. And again. And again. "No... that's not possible."
"Why the hell is that name here?" he muttered, his voice low and sharp.
Knowles.
The name stared back at him from the journal's first page. Then the voice recorder clicked again.
And his voice—his own voice—continued to echo from the recorder, low and distorted, words he couldn't remember ever saying. Words that clawed through the dust-thick silence, each one colder than the last. A distant rumble of thunder cracked through the static, and faint sounds of running water whispered beneath it all, like a stream too far to reach.
"If… If you're hearing this… then something is wrong."
The voice was uneven, rattled by interference. Lightning cracked, briefly illuminating the room again as the wind outside howled through the mansion's walls.
"This message was recorded and placed in a box—sealed off. If the incantation held, it should have been protected by divine essence drawn from a slain god… a fragment of the Father Tree of Memories… a seven-leaf Moonfig… and… a piece of my own skin."
There was a short, awkward laugh on the tape.
"My name is Zay Yuso. Obviously… you know that. You are me. I am you. I recorded this on September 5th... the year is already slipping. I think it's been seven months since I started running."
Then came another burst of static, louder this time. A hissing roar filled the room like wind ripping through stone. Zay leaned forward, frozen.
The voice returned, lower, urgent.
"If you're hearing this... I hope you aren't. But if you are, it means time's slipping—again. And listen carefully: do not trust anyone tied to the following names..."
"Reveal Loss. Ember Valestone. Charlotte Wintersling. Rio Dane. Reaper of Six. Black Mist. Tree of False Hope. Or—"
CRACK! A bolt of thunder tore through the recording, silencing the list. Then: static. Longer this time. Gritty, dense. Zay almost stopped the tape—but then the voice returned, thinner, strained.
"I'm running out of time to record, so I'll explain fast. I don't know how many times I've done this. But the Fragments—they're starting to break. First Cycle of the Third Realm. If you're hearing this early enough… maybe you're still in the First Realm. Or maybe Second. If not… then none of this matters."
"I left breadcrumbs across"
More static flicked as the voice returned "There resides-"
Another wall of static hit—this one dragging on with a distant splash of running water, as if something fell into a lake far off.
The recording cut off sharply, like a blade to the throat of sound. Silence followed.
Zay stared down at the recorder in his palm, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His fingers trembled.
And outside, another flash of lightning lit the attic in blinding white—just for a second.