Marcus woke with a gasp, his body covered in cold sweat despite the mild temperature of his dormitory room. The dream had been so vivid—not the usual half-remembered fragments that faded upon waking, but crystal clear images that remained burned into his mind even as consciousness returned.
A circular chamber with walls of obsidian stone. Seven pillars arranged in a pattern that matched the stars of the Sentinel constellation. His hands—both hands—pressing against a pulsing crimson barrier as darkness seeped through cracks in reality itself.
He sat up, running his left hand through sweat-dampened hair while his mind struggled to process what he'd seen. It hadn't felt like a normal dream. The details were too precise, the emotions too raw. He had felt the cold stone beneath his feet, smelled the ozone-like charge in the air, experienced the bone-deep weariness of someone who had fought beyond exhaustion.
Most disturbing was the overwhelming sense of déjà vu—as though he had personally experienced these events rather than merely dreamed them.
"You were talking in your sleep," Edwin's voice came from the adjacent bed, where his roommate was already awake and preparing for morning classes. "Something about 'sealing the breach' and 'not enough time.'"
Marcus frowned. "Just a dream."
"Sounded more like a nightmare," Edwin observed, adjusting his glasses. "You seemed... distressed."
That was an understatement. The emotional residue of the dream still clung to him—a profound sense of failure and resignation, as though he had known what was coming and accepted it as inevitable.
"I'm fine," Marcus assured him, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Just unusual dream clarity."
He pushed the experience aside as he prepared for the day ahead. After three weeks of Izzy's relentless morning ambushes, he had adjusted his schedule to begin training earlier—though this rarely deterred the Battle Princess, who simply adapted by appearing at increasingly unreasonable hours.
The dream continued to hover at the edges of his awareness as he dressed, fragments of imagery flickering through his mind with unusual persistence. He had experienced vivid dreams before, particularly after intensive study sessions, but none had maintained such clarity after waking.
To his surprise, Izzy wasn't waiting to ambush him when he emerged from the dormitory. The training field remained empty in the predawn stillness, offering a rare opportunity for solitary practice before his daily routine of dodging the Battle Princess's enthusiasm.
Marcus began his usual warm-up routine, focusing on left-handed movements adapted from Coltan's tribal forms. As he moved through the sequences, his mind gradually settled, the dream's unsettling vividness fading into the background.
Until he reached the eastern corner of the training field.
The moment his foot touched a particular stone in the field's perimeter, a jolt of recognition shot through him so intensely that he physically stumbled. For an instant, he wasn't standing on Eldavia's training ground but in that obsidian chamber from his dream, the stone beneath his foot identical to one of the seven anchor points where the barrier had been established.
The vision vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Marcus frozen mid-stance, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down at the unremarkable paving stone beneath his foot—a standard piece of academy stonework, indistinguishable from hundreds of others throughout the campus.
Yet he knew, with inexplicable certainty, that this exact spot held significance. Stepping back, he studied the stone more carefully. No markings distinguished it from those surrounding it, no magical signatures registered to his aura sense. By all observable measures, it was entirely ordinary.
Cautiously, he placed his foot on it again. This time, no vision emerged, but a subtle vibration seemed to travel up his leg—so faint he might have imagined it, yet distinctive enough to reinforce his certainty that something about this particular location resonated with him on a level he couldn't consciously identify.
"Curious," he murmured, committing the stone's exact position to memory before continuing his training.
The incident might have been dismissed as imagination had it remained isolated. But as the day progressed, similar experiences accumulated with increasing frequency.
During Dimensional Theory class, Professor Eldritch displayed an ancient text supposedly written by one of Eldavia's founders. The moment the weathered book was opened to display a particular diagram, Marcus felt a distinctive prickling sensation in his missing right arm—the phantom limb responding to something his conscious mind couldn't identify.
The diagram depicted a seven-pointed configuration labeled in an archaic script as "The Sentinel's Sacrifice"—a theoretical model for containing dimensional breaches through concentrated counter-magic applied at specific convergence points.
"This configuration was purely theoretical," Professor Eldritch explained to the class. "No documented application exists in academic records, though certain historical accounts suggest similar approaches may have been attempted during the Void Incursion of the Third Era."
Marcus stared at the diagram, unable to shake the conviction that he had seen it before—not merely seen it, but used it. The pattern matched the pillar arrangement from his dream with perfect precision, triggering an echo of that same bone-deep weariness he had experienced upon waking.
When class concluded, he lingered, waiting until other students had departed before approaching the professor's desk where the ancient text still lay open.
"Sir, may I examine that diagram more closely?"
Professor Eldritch's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "Unusual interest in theoretical containment configurations, Mr. Phoenix? Most students find these ancient approaches rather dry compared to modern dimensional manipulation principles."
"Something about the pattern seems... familiar," Marcus admitted carefully.
The professor's expression shifted from mild surprise to sharp interest. "Familiar? In what sense?"
Marcus hesitated, unwilling to describe his dream or the strange response it had triggered. "The configuration appears to have practical applications beyond what's described in the text."
"Indeed?" Eldritch studied him with unexpected intensity. "Most interesting. Feel free to examine it, though I must ask you to use protective gloves. The text is quite fragile."
As Marcus carefully donned the archival gloves and leaned closer to the ancient pages, the professor continued watching him with an evaluative gaze that suggested more than casual academic interest.
The moment Marcus's gloved fingers touched the page, the sensation intensified dramatically. Not just familiarity now, but absolute certainty—he had drawn this exact configuration, had arranged focus points in precisely this pattern, had channeled crimson energy through these specific nodes.
More disturbing, he found himself mentally correcting elements of the diagram before consciously registering any flaws. The third node was positioned slightly incorrectly. The flow direction indicated by the arrows would create instability in the southeastern quadrant. The counter-rotation suggested for the central nexus would weaken rather than strengthen the containment field.
Without thinking, he murmured, "The third anchor point is misaligned. It should be offset by seventeen degrees to properly balance the counter-flow."
"What was that, Mr. Phoenix?" Professor Eldritch asked sharply.
Marcus blinked, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud. "Nothing, sir. Just examining the theoretical framework."
"Indeed." The professor's penetrating gaze suggested he had heard perfectly well. "And how would you know the precise alignment requirements for a theoretical configuration never implemented in practical application?"
"I... wouldn't," Marcus replied carefully. "Merely speculating based on counter-magic principles."
"Hmm." Eldritch's expression remained skeptical, but he didn't press further. "When you've satisfied your curiosity about this particular text, you might find the Arcanum Collection in the restricted section contains additional theoretical frameworks from the same period. I could arrange access, given your... obvious interest in the subject."
The offer was unexpected—the Arcanum Collection was typically reserved for advanced researchers and faculty, not first-year students regardless of rank. "That would be very helpful, Professor. Thank you."
"Academic curiosity should be encouraged," Eldritch replied, though his tone suggested motivations beyond mere educational support. "Particularly when it aligns so... precisely with historical patterns."
The cryptic comment lingered in Marcus's thoughts as he departed for his next class. The professor's reaction suggested his interest in the diagram had triggered some specific significance beyond ordinary academic enthusiasm.
The day's strange occurrences continued during combat practicals. While demonstrating arsenal manifestation techniques, Marcus found his weapons automatically arranging themselves in a formation he had never consciously designed—a complex interlocking pattern that Professor Voss immediately noted as unusual.
"Interesting configuration, Phoenix," she observed, circling his position with analytical focus. "The asymmetrical distribution creates overlapping fields of influence I haven't seen in standard arsenal techniques. Where did you study this approach?"
"It's an adaptation I've been developing," Marcus replied, though the truth was more complex. He hadn't planned the formation at all—his crimson constructs had simply materialized in this specific arrangement without conscious direction, as though his body remembered patterns his mind had never learned.
"Effective for both offensive and defensive application," Voss noted with professional approval. "Continue development along these lines. The innovation shows promise."
Throughout the day, these moments of inexplicable familiarity and unconscious knowledge accumulated. A passage in an ancient text that he found himself able to translate despite never having studied the language. A particular corner of the library that drew him without conscious intent, where he discovered a hidden alcove behind a bookshelf as though he had known exactly where to look.
By evening, Marcus had catalogued seven distinct incidents—seven moments where knowledge he couldn't possibly possess had surfaced with perfect clarity, only to submerge again leaving him confused and increasingly disturbed.
The pattern's significance wasn't lost on him. Seven incidents. Seven pillars in his dream. Seven points in the containment diagram. The number appeared with suspicious frequency in contexts related to dimensional barriers and convergence theory.
That night, rather than joining his classmates for dinner, Marcus made his way to Eldavia's museum of magical artifacts—a collection of historical items maintained for both academic study and preservation of the academy's long history. Something compelled him there, a nagging sense that answers might be found among the academy's historical relics.
The museum occupied a quiet corner of campus, rarely visited by students except when specific coursework required examination of its collections. At this hour, the space was empty save for an elderly curator who barely glanced up from his cataloguing to acknowledge Marcus's entrance.
He wandered the displays without specific purpose, allowing his instincts to guide him through glass cases containing enchanted items from throughout Eldavia's centuries-long history. Nothing particularly resonated until he reached the northwestern corner of the chamber, where a simple display contained what appeared to be a broken weapon.
The placard identified it simply as "Fragmentary Artifact, Late Third Era, Origin Unknown." The item itself was unremarkable—the shattered remains of what might have been a sword hilt, its material an unusual reddish metal that had oxidized to a darker crimson over centuries.
Yet the moment Marcus's eyes fell upon it, a wave of recognition so powerful it bordered on nausea swept through him. Without conscious thought, he found himself moving closer, drawn to the display as though physically pulled toward the ancient fragment.
"Interesting choice," came a voice from behind him, startling Marcus from his focused attention. The elderly curator had approached silently, now studying Marcus with the same evaluative gaze Professor Eldritch had shown earlier. "Most visitors overlook that particular artifact."
"What is it?" Marcus asked, unable to look away from the broken hilt.
"Officially? A fragmentary weapon of unknown provenance, discovered during renovations of the eastern tower approximately three centuries ago." The curator's eyes narrowed slightly. "Unofficially, there are certain... theories about its origin that never found their way into academic documentation."
"What theories?" Marcus pressed, some instinct telling him this conversation was more significant than it appeared.
The curator studied him silently for a long moment before responding. "Some believe it was wielded by the Guardian of the Third Convergence—a counter-specialist who sacrificed himself to seal a major dimensional breach. But such stories are more legend than history, of course."
The Guardian of the Third Convergence. The words resonated with disturbing familiarity, triggering flashes of that same obsidian chamber from his dream. Marcus found himself fighting the inexplicable certainty that he knew exactly how the hilt had broken—knew the precise moment when the blade had shattered against a entity of void-darkness, leaving only this fragment behind.
"May I..." Marcus hesitated, then continued, "May I examine it more closely?"
The curator's expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes suggested this request had been anticipated. "Academy policy typically restricts handling of artifacts to faculty and authorized researchers."
Marcus prepared to accept the refusal, but to his surprise, the curator continued, "However, exceptions can be made for students demonstrating specific academic focus aligned with particular artifacts. Do you have such academic interest, Mr. Phoenix?"
The use of his name without introduction confirmed Marcus's growing suspicion that these encounters were not coincidental. First Professor Eldritch's unusual offer of access to restricted texts, now this curator's apparent expectation of his interest in an obscure artifact—something was unfolding according to patterns he couldn't yet discern.
"Yes," Marcus replied simply. "I believe I do."
Without further comment, the curator produced an old-fashioned key and unlocked the display case. With ceremonial care, he lifted the fragment and placed it on a velvet examination pad on a nearby table.
"Handling gloves are required, of course," he noted, providing a pair of thin white gloves similar to those Marcus had used in Professor Eldritch's class.
Heart pounding with anticipation he couldn't fully explain, Marcus pulled on the gloves and reached for the fragment. His fingers had barely brushed the ancient metal when the world around him seemed to shift—not a full vision like his dream, but a disorienting overlay of perception, as though he were simultaneously in the museum and somewhere else entirely.
The weight of the complete sword in his hand, crimson energy flowing through channels in the blade as he faced a towering darkness that seemed to consume light itself. The sound of reality tearing like fabric. A desperate final strike as the dimensional barrier began to fail. The blade shattering against something too vast to comprehend, a single fragment falling as he poured his essence into maintaining the seal...
Marcus jerked his hand back, gasping audibly. The overlay vanished instantly, leaving him staring at the innocent-seeming fragment on the velvet pad.
"Are you quite all right, Mr. Phoenix?" the curator asked, though his tone suggested he had expected precisely this reaction.
"Fine," Marcus managed, though his voice sounded strained even to his own ears. "Just... reminded me of something."
"Did it indeed?" The curator's expression revealed nothing, but his next words carried unmistakable significance. "Artifacts often speak to those with whom they share... history."
The implication was clear enough to send a chill down Marcus's spine. Before he could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much of his confused reaction, the curator continued.
"You might find it interesting to know that this fragment resonates with a very specific type of magical energy. In all my years as curator, I've only observed it react to one distinctive signature."
"What signature?" Marcus asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"Crimson aura," the curator replied simply. "Rather like your own, in fact."
The confirmation hung in the air between them, its implications too significant to dismiss yet too disturbing to fully embrace. Marcus looked back at the fragment, fighting the absolute certainty that he knew exactly how it had felt when the complete weapon shattered in his grasp—his grasp, not some ancient guardian's.
"Thank you for allowing me to examine it," Marcus said finally, stepping back from the table with deliberate casualness. "It's certainly an interesting historical piece."
"Indeed," the curator agreed, carefully returning the fragment to its display case. "History has a curious way of repeating itself, don't you find? Or perhaps not repeating, exactly, but... echoing."
The cryptic statement followed Marcus as he departed the museum, his mind racing to process the accumulating inconsistencies in his understanding of himself and his purpose. The dream, the diagram, the inexplicable knowledge of locations he had never visited, and now an ancient artifact that triggered memories of events he couldn't possibly have experienced—all pointed toward conclusions too fantastic to accept yet increasingly difficult to dismiss.
As he crossed the moonlit courtyard toward his dormitory, a familiar feminine presence brushed against his consciousness—that mysterious entity that occasionally manifested in his dreams and meditations. Unlike previous contacts, which had been fleeting and indistinct, this presence lingered, carrying with it a sense of both validation and warning.
No words formed, but the impression was clear: Remember what was forgotten. Find what remains hidden.
The echo of that message stayed with him as he entered his dormitory room, finding Edwin already asleep amid his usual scattered research materials. Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the empty space where his right arm should have been, contemplating the strangeness of his experiences throughout the day.
What did these flashes of recognition mean? Why would he feel such familiarity with places he'd never been, objects he'd never seen, knowledge he'd never studied? The broken weapon fragment had triggered something visceral in him—not just intellectual curiosity but a bone-deep emotional response that defied rational explanation.
When he tried to recall details from his previous life on Earth, the memories came in fragmented, disjointed pieces—more like half-remembered dreams than clear recollections. Had it always been this way? Or were those memories fading as these new, inexplicable ones surfaced?
The containment diagram. The stone in the courtyard. The broken hilt. Seven incidents that seemed connected by some pattern he couldn't fully grasp.
As Marcus prepared for sleep, a troubling thought occurred to him: what if these weren't random occurrences but pieces of a larger puzzle? Perhaps the mysterious feminine entity who occasionally guided him knew more than she had revealed about his true purpose in this world.
He closed his eyes, not knowing what answers the night might bring but certain that the dream would return—not random imagination but something more significant, something tied to these strange moments of recognition he'd experienced throughout the day.
Sleep claimed him quickly, carrying him once more toward the obsidian chamber with its seven pillars and the darkness that seeped through cracks in reality itself.
[Status Update] [Name: Marcus Phoenix] [Age: 15 years, 3 months] [Level: 80] [HP: 520/520] [MP: 870/870] [Class Placement: Advanced Class, A-Rank] [Right Arm: Missing] [Arsenal Manifestation: 13 simultaneous constructs] [Construct Arm: 19 minutes duration in simplified form] [Arm-Weapon Manifestation: Developing] [Left-Hand Swordsmanship: Level 18] [Skills:] [Left Hand Dominance - Level 2] [Construct Stabilization - Level 2] [Mana Efficiency - Level 2] [Arsenal Expansion - Level 1] [Weapon Integration - Level 1] [New Skill Unlocked: Memory Fragments - Level 1] [Remaining Skill Points: 1] [Quest Update: Strange Recognitions] [New Objective: Investigate the Seven Incidents]
[System Message: Weird dreams, mysterious artifacts, and déjà vu? Either you're experiencing stress-induced hallucinations from academy pressure, or there's something very strange going on with your past. Finding ancient weapons that make you feel funny isn't normal, even by magical academy standards!]