I remember nothing of the world I came from, except that it was not this one. The sky here hangs low and blue, as if unsure whether to descend and smother or rise and vanish. The grass hums. The wind tastes like steel. Even my breath feels borrowed.
The god-like being who greeted me did not give its name. It did not smile. It did not ask for worship. It simply said:
"You have been placed here. There is power for you to use. But when you die, you will forget everything you've learned."
I asked if this was a punishment. It said:
"No. This is how it works for everyone."
And then it vanished.
The knowledge came to me like muscle memory I didn't know I had — how to touch the flow of mana, how to direct it, how to shape it in small, crude patterns. Not spells, not yet. Just movement. Energy like warmth between the ribs. Awareness without thought.
But then I noticed something the others did not.
When I used mana, it did not feel like an inert resource. It watched. It waited. It wrapped around my will and took something. Not from my hands, but from something deeper — the soul? The thread of identity?
I stopped.
I asked it what it was.
It did not answer in words, but in understanding.
It remembers what you forget.
This world believes mana is just energy. That to use it is a birthright, like breathing. They do not know what they give away when they die. They do not see the hollow looks in the eyes of those who return without memory — only instinct, only fragments.
But I am not from this world. My soul is not bound by its laws. Mana cannot reach into me as it does the others.
The god-like being returned — once, briefly.
It said:
"You are the exception. So you must choose: accept power and lose nothing… or offer memory willingly, and help mana learn."
I made a third choice.
With the being's help, I shaped the first storage spell — not to store items, not yet — but to contain my memory. I would record each use of mana, each movement of power, and upon death, I would offer it to mana as a gift, not a debt.
That is how I built the Codex.
It began as a single thought etched in my mind. Now, it opens as a library within me — empty shelves awaiting the weight of my existence.
I do not know how many lives I will live.
But I will remember them all.