Geal Elish woke in silence.
Not the silence of peace, but one so vast and consuming it drowned even thought — the kind found only in ancient temples or at the edge of death. The ceiling above him gleamed with gentle gold, carved in patterns he couldn't understand, and curtains of white silk fluttered like wraiths around a bed far too soft for someone like him.
He sat up slowly, the sheets rustling like water. The air smelled of lavender and starlight.
And then the pain came.
Like a blade drawn through the soul, splitting him open. He gasped, clutching his head as images surged into his mind — lives he hadn't lived, memories he'd never made, names and faces and emotions that weren't his.
A name floated up, tangled in grief and regret.
Geal Elish.
That was his name now. Not John. Not the boy who had once read a novel in a cramped apartment while nursing instant noodles.
Geal Elish.
But those memories — they weren't just the fragments of a new body. They were his.
Somehow… they had always been his.
As if part of him had been lost long ago, exiled across time and space, and now, in this golden room, the soul had returned to itself.
He stumbled to his feet, dizzy and breathless, his hands trembling as he walked toward the tall glass doors at the far end of the room. He opened them, and stepped into a garden bathed in moonlight.
It was silent here too, but a gentler silence — filled with the sound of rustling leaves, the whisper of wind over petals, and somewhere in the distance, the slow drip of water.
But then something changed.
The air thickened, and the world around him began to blur. The stars above bent and stretched, and the ground below his feet seemed to vanish. Darkness took him — not the darkness of night, but of infinity — and in the void, something stirred.
A book.
Not just a book — a structure, a monument, a thing so vast it defied comprehension.
Its cover was forged of starlight and shadows, and it radiated an aura so ancient, so overwhelming, that Geal felt his soul shrinking beneath it. He wasn't an ant. He wasn't even dust.
He was less than nothing.
The book opened without sound.
A page turned — blank and yet inscribed with truths no language could ever hold — and suddenly information rushed into him like a storm breaking over the sea.
He saw himself. His name, his soul, his paths — all catalogued within.
This book… it was his golden finger. His system.
But it wasn't mechanical. It didn't give quests or missions. It gave rituals.
And through these, it gave titles.
Titles that bent reality.
Sword Emperor. Flame Saint. Faceless Monarch.
Each one a culmination of concept, a throne atop a path.
He could not simply gain them.
He had to become them. Through dance, through battle, through sacrifice.
And with the book's awakening came a gift — no, a curse of potential.
Transcendent Understanding.
The True Eyes. Four pupils sealed behind spiritual locks. Too powerful for a mortal soul to wield… yet.
And then — he was back.
The garden was the same, but he was not.
He looked at his hands. They glowed faintly now, threaded with silver lines. Something pulsed beneath his skin. He didn't understand it — not yet — but he could feel the Mother River stirring in the distance, recognizing him.
"...Was it real?" he whispered.
A shadow moved nearby. A girl in maid's attire stood at a distance, half-hidden behind a stone pillar. She had been watching. He didn't care.
He turned, drawn by something deeper — a pull at the core of his soul.
There, beyond the garden hedge, stood a training ground: a ring of weapon dummies and stone statues surrounding a rack of swords.
He walked toward it, feet silent on dew-covered grass.
There were dozens of blades, some old, some new, but one in particular caught his eye — a plain longsword with a faded hilt.
His fingers brushed it.
And the world changed.
The book opened again — this time in his mind.
First Ritual Initiated.
Title: Sword Emperor.
Path of the Blade must be danced beneath the Moon.
Dance until the world bows.
He did not question. He simply moved.
The sword left the rack in a whisper. His body flowed like water, the movements slow at first, then faster — spiraling, cutting, rising. The night air parted with every stroke, and the ground beneath him hummed with rhythm.
His feet followed patterns he'd never learned. His arms traced sigils through the air.
He forgot himself.
He became the dance.
He became the blade.
The moon burned above, and the stars turned.
The wind carried his breath across the garden, across the estate, across the six realms.
And far, far away, old swords buried in forgotten tombs trembled.
Across oceans and mountains, beings of power turned their heads.
In hidden temples, kings and saints dropped to their knees.
In dream palaces of gods, great eyes opened.
The Mother River rose.
And as the dance reached its apex, all fell still.
A sigil of silver fire carved itself in the air above him. The world held its breath.
Title Granted: Sword Emperor.
You are the peak of swordsmanship, the throne atop the Path of the Blade.
The Concept now bows to your name.
The maid — who had watched in awe, her thoughts scattered like petals in a storm — fell to her knees. She could not comprehend what she had seen. Her soul trembled.
And Geal Elish opened his eyes.
Four pupils shimmered within — not yet awakened, but watching.
He had entered Sequence Zero.
The soul had become whole.
And his path…
had only just begun.