Year 400, Duskrend Wildlands
Takaya's eyes cracked open to the smell of iron.
The world tilted sideways, his cheek pressed against frozen stone slick with something thicker than water. His arms refused to obey him at first. It was like waking from a dream and finding his body replaced with lead. Slowly, with a groan, he pushed himself up.
The sight that greeted him dragged the breath straight from his lungs.
Wolves.
Dozens of them.
Corpses scattered across the clearing, their fur matted with blood, their throats torn open, bodies bent at impossible angles. Steam rose faintly from the gore where the morning chill tried and failed to freeze it over. The air was heavy with the stench of piss and entrails, raw violence clinging to every surface.
Takaya staggered onto his knees, palms slipping in the mess. Blood soaked through his fingers—his own or theirs, he couldn't tell. His chest felt crushed, ribs aching with every shallow breath. He glanced down. His clothes were shredded into ribbons, claw marks scoring deep through the fabric and faintly into the skin beneath.
It wasn't possible. He should have been dead a hundred times over.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
The voice slithered in his head, smooth and jagged all at once. The Veyl. Always there. Always watching.
Takaya squeezed his eyes shut. His heartbeat thundered. "What… what happened?" His throat burned as he spoke, words rasping out more like gravel than sound.
"You happened," the Veyl purred. "You painted the snow with their insides. And oh, it was beautiful. All teeth and screaming, and then silence."
Takaya's stomach lurched. He bent over, gagging, bile mixing with blood on the ground. The memory was there, half-faded—flashes of teeth, hot breath, something surging through him like fire, then blankness.
"I don't remember," he whispered.
"Of course you don't. You weren't the one driving."
Takaya looked around the clearing again, desperation clawing at him. His sword—Solthar—was gone. The weapon that had been his one anchor in the chaos, his one lifeline… vanished.
"Where is it?" His voice cracked, panic creeping in.
The Veyl chuckled, low and cruel. "Back where it belongs. With me. You think you get to just swing it around whenever you please? No, no, no. You'll learn to call it. Or you'll die without it."
The cold bit deeper now that he noticed it. Wind gnawed through his torn clothes, finding every raw cut and bruise. Takaya wrapped his arms around himself, trembling.
All around, the forest loomed silent. Too silent. No crows came to feast on the carcasses. No insects buzzed. The world seemed to hold its breath, watching him.
Takaya forced himself to stand, swaying, legs weak but stubborn. His voice cracked the silence.
"I need… I need to survive."
"Yes," the Veyl said softly, almost tender. "You do. And survival, little human, is going to be such an ugly thing for you."
Takaya stumbled through the trees, half-limping, half-dragging his body forward. The forest floor was slick, roots twisting like ropes waiting to snare him. Every breath scraped his throat raw, and each step sent a dull ache rippling through his battered ribs.
The wolves' blood clung to him, sticky and freezing as it dried. His shredded shirt barely clung to his torso, more rags than fabric. His pants weren't much better—frayed at the seams, dark stains already stiff with gore.
"Pathetic," the Veyl murmured. "You're walking like a drunk after a funeral feast. If another pack comes, you'll collapse before you can even scream."
"Shut up," Takaya hissed, though the sound cracked with weakness. "I need… fire. Shelter."
"Ohhh, he remembers the basics. Bravo. Fire for warmth, fire for safety, fire to keep the night from swallowing you whole. And yet—" The Veyl's tone turned sharp. "Do you even know how to make one? Or will you rub sticks together until frostbite takes your fingers?"
Takaya ignored it, scanning the ground. The forest was damp with snowmelt, but here and there lay dry needles beneath the thicker roots. He crouched, wincing at the pull in his muscles, and scraped together a small bundle. His hands shook, fumbling the twigs and bark into something that might—might—catch.
He looked around for stones, found two sharp pieces, and smashed them together. Sparks spat uselessly into the air. Again. Again. His breath grew ragged, frustration boiling. Nothing.
The Veyl's laughter echoed inside his skull. "Oh, delightful. A warrior who can carve wolves into red ribbons, but can't light a spark. Did you plan to glare the wood into flames?"
Takaya gritted his teeth and struck again. Sparks flared, kissed the bark, and fizzled out. His lips drew tight. "It'll work," he muttered.
The Veyl hummed. "It would be faster if you bled on it. Blood is flammable, you know."
Takaya froze, then growled under his breath, "You're insane."
"Correct."
But he kept at it. Strike. Strike. Strike. Each spark felt like a heartbeat, each failure like a slap. His fingers numbed, the skin splitting in tiny cuts. Finally—mercifully—one spark caught. Smoke curled thinly from the bark, and Takaya bent low, blowing, coaxing it like something fragile.
A flicker.
A tongue of flame.
And then—fire.
The relief hit so hard he nearly sagged into it. The glow painted his face in orange, warmth seeping into frozen bones.
"Congratulations," the Veyl drawled. "The caveman evolves. You've created fire. Next, perhaps, you'll learn to scream convincingly at predators."
Takaya ignored him, feeding the flame with trembling hands. Small sticks. Bigger ones. Slowly, it grew steady, crackling life into the silence.
The forest remained still, but less hostile now. The fire pushed shadows back, carved out a fragile bubble of safety. Takaya sat close, hugging his knees, staring into the flames.
His body screamed for food, water, sleep—but for now, he was alive.
The Veyl's voice slipped in softer this time. "Don't get comfortable, boy. This fire is the only thing that keeps you warm. When it dies, so will you."
Takaya didn't answer. He just stared at the flames, jaw tight, as if he could burn his doubts along with the wood.
The fire crackled down to embers by morning, but Takaya didn't sleep. Every rustle in the trees had him jerking awake, every gust of wind carrying phantom growls from the night before.
Now hunger gnawed at him worse than fear.
His stomach clenched, a hollow ache that seemed to echo through his ribs. His tongue felt swollen, mouth dry, throat scraping. Every step felt heavier than the last as he stumbled farther from the clearing.
Food. He needed food.
"You look like a drunkard searching for spilled wine," the Veyl purred. "Is this really what it comes to? A mighty little wolf-slayer, staggering around because his belly whines?"
Takaya rubbed his arms for warmth, scanning the ground. He found nothing but snow-caked roots, dead leaves, bark. A few berries, shriveled black and sour-looking, clung to a bush. He eyed them.
"Don't," the Veyl said sharply. "Those will turn your insides into soup. Not the good kind."
Takaya dropped them, breath frosting in the cold air. His vision blurred as the hours dragged on. Birds taunted him from the trees, their wings flashing, their songs bright. Once, he spotted a rabbit bounding through the snow—quick, silent, gone before he even thought to chase it.
By midday, his legs buckled. He hit the ground hard, palms sinking into the powder. His stomach snarled, a low, animal sound. He pressed his forehead against the cold earth, shivering.
"Pathetic," the Veyl crooned. "This is what you are without me. Weak. Soft. A sack of bones waiting to rot."
Takaya gritted his teeth. "Shut up…" His voice broke halfway.
"Oh, I'll shut up when you're dead. Until then, let's talk about how amusing this is. You've killed beasts that eat villages in a single night—yet you'll die to an empty stomach. Perhaps I should leave your body for the crows this time."
Takaya forced himself up, staggering toward a frozen stream. The water glimmered beneath a thin sheet of ice. He smashed it with a rock, cupped the frigid water into his hands, and drank greedily. The shock of cold hit his teeth, his chest, his stomach, but it was something. His hands trembled as he drank again, ignoring the pain.
The forest stretched endless around him, barren and uncaring. His fire from the night before was long behind him. He needed something else now—food, warmth, strength. Anything.
His head drooped, eyelids heavy. He wanted to collapse, to let the snow swallow him.
And then the Veyl spoke, voice lower, steadier. "Listen. You are going to die unless you learn to hunt. Properly. No more fumbling. No more luck. You will learn—or you will starve.
Takaya clenched his fists. He forced himself upright again, swaying, the hunger clawing deeper with each heartbeat.
"Fine," he rasped. "Then teach me."
The Veyl chuckled, dark and satisfied. "Oh, gladly."
Takaya crouched low, his breath steaming as he pressed a hand into the snow. The Veyl had been whispering in his head for hours—pointing out faint trails, broken twigs, places where the frost had been disturbed.
"There," it hissed. "Rabbit. Small, fast. A morsel at best, but better than chewing bark."
Takaya's eyes followed the faint prints. Tiny ovals leading into a brushy thicket. His stomach growled so loudly he was sure the creature would hear it.
He picked up a rock, turned it over in his hand. It felt clumsy, heavy, stupid. Still, he crept closer, each step slow, deliberate, just as the Veyl instructed.
Then he saw it. A rabbit, its fur mottled gray and white, nibbling on brittle shoots.
His heart thundered. His arm tightened around the rock. He shifted his weight—
The rabbit's ears flicked.
It bolted.
"Now!" the Veyl barked.
Takaya hurled the stone. It struck the snow with a dull thunk a meter behind the rabbit, which vanished into the underbrush like smoke.
Takaya stood frozen, breath ragged, his arm numb. His stomach roared in protest.
"Pathetic," the Veyl purred. "You throw like a child. At this rate, you'd starve in a city full of bakeries."
Takaya didn't answer. He just dropped onto his knees, pressing his hands into the snow, shaking with hunger and failure. His throat tightened.
The Veyl chuckled. "Do you want to know what men eat when they fail the hunt? Grass. Bitter, choking grass."
Takaya's jaw clenched. He didn't want to believe it—but his body screamed for anything. He clawed at the frozen ground, tearing up patches of stiff grass, dirt clinging to the roots. He shoved it into his mouth, chewing.
The taste was rancid. Bitter earth, tough stalks, fibers scraping his throat raw. He gagged, spat half of it out, then forced the rest down. His stomach accepted it like a starving prisoner—silent, unsatisfied.
By nightfall, he lay curled by a feeble fire, lips stained green, jaw aching from chewing. His body trembled with weakness.
The Veyl's laughter was soft now, almost pitying. "You're learning. Slowly. Patience, little wolf. Tomorrow, you will do better. Or you won't, and I'll watch you fade into the snow."
Takaya shut his eyes, hunger still gnawing at him, the taste of dirt and grass lingering on his tongue.
The second night crept over him with the same gnawing hunger. His stomach twisted so sharply that it felt like it might fold in on itself, each pang stabbing harder than the last. The grass from last night hadn't done anything—just sat in his belly like a cruel joke, making him nauseous without easing the emptiness.
When the light broke again, Takaya moved slower, his steps heavy and unsteady. The cold had lost some of its bite as he neared the base of the mountain, but weakness clung to his limbs like chains. He muttered under his breath, forcing himself forward, eyes scanning the undergrowth for the slightest movement.
Hours passed before luck finally flickered his way. A rabbit, brown-furred and small, darted from one bush to another just ahead of him. His heart spiked. He froze. His fingers twitched, gripping a crude stick he'd sharpened with a jagged stone earlier. It was pathetic compared to the blade he dreamed of summoning, but it was something.
He crouched low, mimicking the hunters he'd only ever seen in stories or faint memories from another life. Every sound—the crunch of leaves, the whisper of wind—sounded too loud in his ears. He stalked forward, one shaky step at a time, breath shallow.
The rabbit's ears perked. It turned, nose twitching. Takaya's muscles coiled. He held his breath.
Then he lunged.
The rabbit bolted, but Takaya's sharpened stick shot forward in desperation more than skill. By some miracle, the tip caught the animal's side, knocking it off balance. It thrashed wildly, a squeal tearing from its throat, but Takaya didn't let go. He pounced, hands clamping down with a frantic strength fueled by starvation and instinct.
It struggled against him, claws scraping his arms, but he pressed down harder until the tiny body stilled. Silence followed, broken only by Takaya's ragged breathing.
He stared down at the limp creature in his hands, chest heaving, mind blank. Relief surged through him so hard it made his eyes sting. He'd done it. Finally. He had food.
"…Sorry, little guy," he whispered, voice low and hoarse. His stomach overruled any hesitation. He didn't waste time. Using stones and kindling he'd gathered earlier, he sparked a fire the clumsy way he'd practiced all day, flint against rock until the faintest ember caught. It felt like forever, but finally the flames took, small and precious.
The rabbit roasted slowly over the crude spit he rigged together. The smell nearly drove him insane. His mouth watered, his legs weak as he sat by the fire, waiting, eyes fixed on the meat as though it might vanish if he looked away.
When he finally tore into the charred flesh, it was rough, burnt on the outside, barely cooked in the middle—but to him, it tasted better than anything he had ever eaten. Each bite dulled the agony in his gut, each swallow bringing warmth and strength back into his bones.
By the time the carcass was nothing but bones, Takaya leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, firelight flickering against his tired face. For the first time in days, he felt alive.
And with that small victory, another thought returned—one he had been pushing aside since he woke in this world. The voice. The sword. Solthar.
Maybe, just maybe, now that his stomach wasn't tearing him apart, he could finally try.
The fire had long since died down, leaving only faint embers glowing like tired eyes in the dark. Takaya sat with his back to the tree, his belly finally quiet, the bones of the rabbit scattered to one side. For the first time in days, he wasn't thinking about food—he was thinking about it.
The Veyl's voice slithered into his mind, sharp and mocking as always.
"A sharpened stick. Truly, the pinnacle of human ingenuity. Do you mean to fight beasts with driftwood until the end of your days?"
Takaya groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Oh, shut it. That stick kept me alive."
"Alive? Barely. You swatted at a rabbit like a child flailing at shadows. Solthar would have made the kill clean. Elegant. Divine."
Takaya clenched his jaw. He had half a mind to argue, but the words came out quieter than he meant. "…I don't know how to bring it out."
Silence. Then a laugh, hollow and cruel. "So that's it. The so-called bearer of the divine artifact that is The Veyl, and you can't even bring forth Solthar? A mere echo of the veyl? You're weaker than I thought."
Takaya snapped upright, fists tightening. "Then teach me! If you're going to sit in my head and keep calling me useless, the least you can do is help."
For a moment, the forest itself seemed to hold its breath. Then the Veyl sighed like a disappointed teacher.
"Very well. But remember—Solthar does not come to the unworthy. You will not grasp it by begging. You will earn it."
Takaya pushed himself to his feet, legs still unsteady. "Fine. Tell me what to do."
"First," the Veyl purred, "close your eyes. Solthar is not found in the dirt beneath your feet. It waits in the current of your soul. Feel it. Reach for it."
Takaya did as told, shutting his eyes. He expected calm, some meditative flow like in those martial arts movies. Instead, his head filled with static—frustration, exhaustion, the lingering ache of hunger.
"Nothing's happening," he muttered.
"Because you are flailing like an idiot. Focus. Stop thinking of food. Stop thinking of your pathetic stick. Breathe. Look inward."
Takaya exhaled, trying again. This time, he searched deeper, past the noise of his thoughts. And then—just barely—he felt it. A spark. A pulse, faint but steady, like something ancient asleep inside him. His heart skipped.
"I… I think I—"
"Do not speak. Reach."
He extended his hand instinctively, fingers curling as though to grasp something unseen. The spark flickered, brightened—then sputtered out. His hand closed on empty air.
Takaya stumbled forward with a frustrated growl. "Damn it!"
The Veyl's laugh cut through the silence. "Pathetic. You nearly had it, and still it slips away. Again. Until your body remembers what your mind refuses to grasp."
Takaya's chest burned with equal parts anger and determination. His hand shook, but he raised it again. He wouldn't quit now—not after everything.
The night stretched on, filled with failure after failure, the echo of the Veyl's cruel laughter pushing him harder each time. Yet beneath the mockery, Takaya felt something else—something dangerous.
Expectation.
Hours bled into hours. The forest had gone quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears. Takaya's throat was dry, his body sore from sitting in the same position, hand outstretched over and over. Each attempt ended the same: nothing but the cold night air slipping between his fingers.
He sagged against the tree, sweat dripping down his temple. "This is impossible."
"Oh, it is. For you." The Veyl's chuckle dripped venom. "Perhaps you should return to gnawing on bark. That, at least, you're competent at."
Takaya's eyes narrowed. He bit back a retort, forcing his focus inward once more. His breaths slowed, chest rising and falling in rhythm. This time he didn't reach with desperation. He listened.
And there it was again—that spark. Faint. Fragile. But there.
His heart hammered. He latched onto it, pulling, dragging the warmth from within toward his palm. His hand trembled as something shimmered in the dark—light, faint and translucent, like moonlight caught on glass.
A blade. Only for a heartbeat.
It vanished before he could blink.
Takaya staggered, gasping, staring at his empty hand. "I… I saw it. I swear I—"
"Saw? You nearly touched it." For once, the Veyl's tone shifted—less mocking, more razor-sharp. "Solthar answers. You are not entirely worthless, after all."
Takaya clenched his fist, grinning despite himself. "Then I can do it. I just need more practice."
"Hah. 'Practice.' As though this were archery or sword drills. You think Solthar will come because you try harder? No, boy. You must bind yourself to it. Tear the blade from within until it has no choice but to remain."
Takaya wiped the sweat from his brow, breathing hard. "Fine. Then I'll keep trying. However long it takes."
The Veyl's laughter echoed in his skull, but this time it carried something strange—approval buried beneath the cruelty.
"Good. Break yourself against it, and perhaps Solthar will decide you are worth wielding."
Takaya closed his eyes again, hand outstretched. The night had swallowed him whole, but he didn't care. For the first time since arriving, he felt something more than fear or hunger.
Hope.
Takaya's stomach was a fist, gnawing at itself. Three days of scraping by on roots and bitter leaves, and his body was starting to falter. His traps had caught nothing but twigs, his thrown sticks spooked more prey than they struck.