Consciousness returned like a tide, bringing with it the copper taste of blood and the acrid smell of smoke. Invia's eyes snapped open to a sky that was wrong—too blue, too vast, with clouds that moved in patterns that defied Earth's lazy meteorology.
Not dead then, he thought, which was both relief and confusion. The last thing he remembered was the girl's sad smile and falling into nothing. Now he lay on grass that was too green, breathing air that tasted of ozone and possibilities.
His body felt... different. The broken arm that should have been agony was merely sore. The gashes on his back had become thin lines of pink scar tissue. Someone had healed him, but not completely—as if they'd done just enough to keep him functional.
A roar shattered his disorientation.
He rolled to his feet, instinct overriding confusion, and found himself in the middle of a battlefield. Emerald hills rolled in every direction, dotted with silver-leafed trees that caught sunlight like mirrors. In the distance, towers of ivory and gold pierced the sky, architectural impossibilities that made his eyes water.
But the beauty was marred by violence. A pack of creatures swarmed across the field—humanoid but wrong, with mottled green skin and too many teeth. They clashed with humans in mismatched armor, steel ringing against crude iron in a desperate symphony.
Goblins, his mind supplied, though he had no idea how he knew that. Just like he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten here.
"Damn," Invia muttered, scrambling for cover behind a fallen log. "Can I catch a break?"
The answer, apparently, was no. A goblin spotted him, its piggish eyes lighting up at the sight of easy prey. It charged, waving a rusty machete with more enthusiasm than skill.
Invia's hand went to his throat, found the pendant still there, warm against his skin. For a moment, he felt that strange resonance from the apartment—that sense of something vast and undefined waiting for him to give it shape.
Then his eyes caught something else. A sword, half-buried in the trampled grass, its blade catching the alien sun. Without thinking, he lunged for it.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the world changed.
It was like coming home to a place he'd never been. The weight felt perfect, the balance singing in his grip. That gnawing craving that had haunted him for years simply... stopped. In its place was certainty, purpose, the feeling that this was what he'd been missing.
But that made no sense. He'd held swords before—his father's, practice blades at community centers, even a few antiques at museums. Never once had they sparked anything. So why now? Why here?
The goblin's charge interrupted his confusion. Invia raised the sword, muscle memory from years of observation trying to guide him, but his body was clumsy, untrained. The parry came late, nearly knocked from his hands by the impact.
I have the resonance but not the skill, he realized with bitter irony. Like being given a piano and told to play Mozart.
He stumbled backward, barely deflecting wild swings. The goblin pressed forward, sensing weakness. Its blade caught his shoulder, drawing a line of fire across already-abused flesh.
Then something flickered in his vision—translucent text hanging in the air like a heads-up display:
[System: Resonance Registered - Sword]
System? The word felt alien and familiar at once, like something from the games he used to play when they were the closest thing to making him feel alive.
The goblin's next swing nearly took his head off. Invia ducked, tried to counter with a thrust that went wide. His form was terrible, his instincts worse. All those years of watching meant nothing without the muscle memory to execute.
"Pathetic," he gasped, echoing his own judgment from the fire escape. But this time, he was the one making the choice to fight.
A spear flashed past his shoulder, taking the goblin in the chest. It fell with a gurgle, dark blood staining the too-green grass. A man stepped into view—weathered face, keen eyes, scars that told stories, moving with the easy confidence of someone who'd chosen violence as a profession and gotten good at it.
"You alright?" the stranger asked, pulling his spear free with practiced efficiency. His voice carried a rough edge, amused despite the chaos. "Don't know how you got here, but that swordplay tells me you're not a Combat Harmonic, eh? Stick close and watch my flank if you want to live."
Invia nodded, clutching the sword tighter. "Thanks. I'm... a bit lost."
"Lost?" The man barked a laugh, parrying a goblin's strike and riposting in one smooth motion. "That's like saying water's a bit wet. You show up in the middle of a goblin raid, swinging a sword like you're trying to swat flies, and you're 'a bit lost'?" He shook his head, grinning. "Name's Kleo. Save the rest of your comedy routine for later—we've got work to do."
What followed was a masterclass in applied violence. Kleo moved through the goblin ranks like a conductor directing a symphony of death. His spear was everywhere at once—thrusting, sweeping, creating space and closing it as needed. Peak Physical Realm, at least, maybe touching Conceptual.
Invia tried to follow, to contribute, but he was a child among professionals. Twice more, goblins nearly killed him. Twice more, Kleo or one of his companions saved him. Each time, his resonance sang true, but his body betrayed him.
Finally, a massive hobgoblin emerged from the forest, and Kleo engaged it without a second thought. A regular goblin, separated from the pack, fixed its attention on Invia.
This time, he didn't try for anything fancy. He watched its movements, noticed how it telegraphed its swings, how it favored its right side. When it overextended on a wild slash, he stepped inside its reach and drove the sword into its ribs.
The blade went in easier than expected, as if it wanted to cut. The goblin's eyes went wide with surprise before it collapsed. As it died, his vision erupted with notifications:
[System: New Mastery Gained - Sword (Proficiency: E)]
[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Gained - Slash (Proficiency: E)]
[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Gained - Thrust (Proficiency: E)]
[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Gained - Chop (Proficiency: E)]
[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Gained - Parry (Proficiency: E+)]
[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Gained - Block (Proficiency: E+)]
The text faded, leaving Invia staring. Game elements, he thought numbly. Levels, proficiencies, progression. But this is real. That goblin's blood is real.
Across the field, Kleo's spear extended impossibly, punching through the hobgoblin's skull. The remaining goblins fled, their courage breaking with their leader's death.
"Not bad, kid," Kleo said, approaching with his squad—five others, all bearing the easy confidence of survivors. "You managed not to die and even stuck one of them with the pointy end. That's better than most newbies manage." His grin widened. "Though watching you fight is like watching a drunk toddler try to dance. Entertaining, but painful."
"Thanks for the glowing review," Invia shot back, surprising himself with the response.
"Oh, he's got some bite!" Kleo laughed. "Good. Whimpering gets old fast out here."
"Captain Kleo!" one of the others called—a man with sword and shield. "Who's this stray you've picked up?"
Kleo's eyes narrowed, studying Invia with sudden intensity. "That's the question, isn't it? This here's..." He paused, making a theatrical gesture. "Actually, I have no idea. Boy showed up swinging a sword like he's never held one. Care to introduce yourself, mystery man?"
"Invia," he supplied. "I'm a Sword Harmonic... apparently."
"Apparently?" Kleo's voice dripped with amusement. "Oh, this gets better. Tell me, Invia-who's-apparently-a-Sword-Harmonic, did you just wake up one day and decide 'Hey, I think I'll resonate with swords!' Or did you hit your head so hard you forgot ten years of training?"
How do I explain that I had no resonance three hours ago? Invia thought desperately. That I woke up in another world with powers I shouldn't have?
"I... don't remember," he said finally. It wasn't quite a lie. He didn't remember how he got here, or why he suddenly had a resonance, or what that girl had meant. "I woke up in the middle of this fight. Everything before that is... fuzzy."
The squad exchanged glances. Memory loss wasn't unheard of—resonance awakenings could be traumatic, especially late ones. But showing up in the middle of a battlefield?
"Well," Kleo said after a long moment, "at least you're consistent with the strangeness. Memory loss, sudden appearance, can't fight worth a damn but somehow has a resonance..." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You know what? In twenty years of this business, I've seen weirder. Not much weirder, mind you, but weirder."
He turned to a woman with gentle eyes. "Ziona, patch up anyone who's bleeding. The rest of you, sweep for survivors. And somebody find this kid a sword that isn't complete garbage."
He gestured for Invia to follow. They walked through the aftermath, goblin corpses littering the ground.
"So," Kleo said conversationally, "memory's gone, fighting skills of a newborn, but you show up right when we need an extra sword. Even a terrible one. Either you're the luckiest amnesiac in history or the unluckiest. Haven't decided which."
"I'm starting to think the latter," Invia admitted.
"Eh, you're still breathing. That puts you ahead of most." Kleo's tone grew more serious. "But really—you don't remember anything? About the world, about resonance?"
"Bits and pieces," Invia said carefully. "I know everyone has a resonance tied to their soul. Physical or abstract concepts. That's about it."
Kleo stopped walking. "That's it? That's like saying you know water is wet and fire is hot. Useless basics." He sighed dramatically. "Great. Just great. Feels like three years ago all over again, explaining Collendrum to folk who just popped out of thin air."
Invia's heart skipped. Three years ago. The same time as the Shattering.
Kleo's keen eyes flicked to Invia, catching the way his jaw tightened, his grey gaze lost in some distant storm. "Oi, lad, you alright? You look like someone just told you the world's flat."
"Three years ago?" he asked carefully.
"Yeah, when the Rifts opened and brought all those people from... somewhere else." Kleo shook his head. "Whole mess of confused folks showing up with latent resonances suddenly awakening. Most of them, starting from scratch, couldn't tell a sword from a stick. Though a few came through already trained—scary ones, those. Made the rest look like children playing with toys."
Earth. He's talking about Earth. The pieces clicked into place with terrifying clarity. The Shattering hadn't just opened Rifts on Earth—it had transported people. The missing third of humanity hadn't died. They'd been brought here.
They reached a large tent, and Kleo held the flap open with exaggerated courtesy. "After you, sleeping princess. Time for your remedial education in 'How Not to Die in Collendrum.'"
"Sleeping princess?" Invia raised an eyebrow as he ducked inside.
"Well, you did wake up in the middle of a battlefield like some fairy tale. Would you prefer 'Sir Swings-a-Lot'? Or maybe 'The Amnesiac Wonder'?"
"Invia's fine," he said dryly, settling onto a carved stool.
"Boring, but fine." Kleo leaned against the tent pole, settling into what was clearly a familiar role. "Alright, let's fix that empty head of yours. Try to keep up—I don't like repeating myself."
He launched into an explanation with the air of someone who'd given this speech before but still found ways to make it entertaining. "First things first—people with resonance are called Harmonics. You, me, everyone who matters in a fight. Those without? Well, they tend the shops and try not to die."
He explained the progression system—Physical Realm for basics, Conceptual for understanding, then Manifestation, Transcendent, and maybe Archetype for the legends. Each with four sub-ranks.
"Physical Realm's just going through the motions," Kleo continued, making exaggerated sword swings. "Slash, thrust, parry—monkey see, monkey do. You learn the moves but not the meaning. Based on your performance out there, you're not even monkey level yet. Maybe... lemur?"
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Hey, lemurs are cute. Take the win." Kleo grinned. "Conceptual's where it gets interesting. You start understanding why a sword cuts, not just how. Make your own techniques based on your interpretation. Course, at your level, you should focus on not stabbing yourself first."
"And that's where aspect variation comes in?" Invia asked, trying to steer the conversation to something less insulting.
Kleo raised an eyebrow. "Oh ho! So the princess does remember something. Yeah—Focused aspects master one thing faster. Like being really good at slashing but terrible at everything else. Holistic spread it around evenly. Most don't know which they are until they start training seriously." He paused. "Though watching you out there, I'm guessing you're Focused on 'Not Dying.' You blocked better than you attacked."
He wasn't wrong. The system had shown E+ rank for Parry and Block, but E for everything else.
"More than half of Combat types are martial," Kleo noted. "Weapons, mostly. Swords are most common, but even common resonances can be unique depending on the wielder. Personal interpretation shapes everything."
"The wielder's choice shapes the resonance," Invia murmured, thinking of how different his father's swordsmanship was from the Harmonics he'd watched die.
"Exactly! See, you're not completely hopeless." Kleo's approval was evident. "Now here's the catch—the deeper you go, the more your resonance shapes you back. Flame users get hot-tempered. Sword users become... sharp, in personality. Cutting, precise. Some folks stop at Physical peak because they don't want to lose themselves."
"You're upper Conceptual, right?" Invia asked. "Your spear work out there..."
"Good eye for someone who can't fight." Kleo nodded. "Yeah, been dancing on the edge of Manifestation for years now. But I like who I am, thanks. Don't need my spear telling me how to think."
He continued explaining—Combat types for fighters, Hybrid for support, and Social for influence. Abstract resonances could be any or all, depending on interpretation.
"Now here's where it gets weird," Kleo said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "The newcomers—people from three years ago—they got something extra. Some kind of System that shows them letters and ranks. E through S or something. Makes progression clearer for them, tracks their skills, all sorts of strange nonsense."
"I saw that," Invia admitted. "When I killed the goblin. Skills and rankings appeared."
"Then you're definitely connected to whatever brought them here." Kleo's eyes sharpened. "But three years late. That's... interesting. And suspicious. And probably going to cause me headaches." He sighed. "Why do I always pick up the complicated strays?"
Before Invia could respond, the tent flap opened. The other mercenaries filed in, blood-splattered but intact.
"Area's clear," the shield-bearer reported. "Ready to move when you are, Captain."
Kleo straightened. "Right then. Everyone, this is Invia, our newest burden. He's got amnesia and can't fight. Try not to let him die—it'd be a waste of the effort I already put in."
They introduced themselves with varying degrees of warmth—Ziona the healer (who immediately fussed over his shoulder wound), Rhen the shield-bearer (who looked skeptical), Tam and Lysa the scouts (who seemed amused), and Brix the archer (who just nodded).
"Welcome to our merry band of misfits," Kleo announced. "We're mercenaries, heading to Dragonspire City with some cargo. You're welcome to tag along until you remember how to not be useless."
"Such a generous offer," Invia said dryly. "How can I refuse?"
"See? He's learning already." Kleo clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. "Stick with us, kid. We'll either make a fighter out of you or get you killed trying. Probably the latter, but hey—at least it'll be entertaining."
They broke down camp with practiced efficiency, loaded supplies onto a cart. Invia noticed how carefully they secured one particular bundle—large, wrapped in heavy burlap, with Kleo keeping it always in sight.
As they set out across the alien landscape, Invia found himself walking beside the captain. "Can I ask what you're transporting?"
Kleo's expression hardened, all humor vanishing. "You can ask. Doesn't mean I'll answer. Rule one of mercenary work—we're paid to deliver, not to question. Remember that, and you might live long enough to get your memories back."
The rebuke stung, but it was fair. Invia nodded, falling silent.
The march gave him time to think, to process the impossible. He was in another world, the one that had taken a third of Earth's population. He had a resonance he shouldn't have, a Sword connection that felt both real and sudden. And somewhere out there were hundreds of thousands of people who'd been here for three years already.
Did they all get Systems? he wondered. Did they all get choices they never had on Earth?
The silver pendant pulsed warm against his chest, comfortable and familiar. Whatever had happened in that apartment, whatever that girl had done, he was here now. On a new stage, with new choices to make.
Even if he didn't understand the script yet.