"Tell me then," said Asher, his voice steady, though his mind was spinning with questions.
The mysterious figure leaned back into the chair he had conjured from nothingness, a creation that shimmered faintly like liquid starlight molded into wood and velvet. "The world we are in," he began slowly, each word deliberate, "is known as the Land of Imagination. Only a chosen few possess the will and clarity to awaken its power. This rift is more than a fracture in space—it is a bridge, a fragile thread between two worlds, woven to establish contact with the other side."
The air around them pulsed with a quiet hum, as though reality itself was listening.
"So this is the Land of Imagination, huh?" Asher muttered, narrowing his eyes at the strange landscape. A pale horizon stretched endlessly, colors shifting in the sky as though painted by unseen hands. With a thought, he willed a chair into existence—a sharp, black, iron-bound throne. Without hesitation, he sat down.
The mysterious figure froze, his expression betraying shock. His hooded face remained composed, but his hands tightened against the arms of his chair. This boy… not only had Asher remained unnervingly calm in such an unnatural setting, but he had also instinctively grasped the essence of this world. What most struggled for years to learn, Asher had wielded within minutes.
Fear crept into the figure's heart. This one is dangerous.
"And who might you be?" Asher's gaze hardened. "And why do you wear my face?"
The figure chuckled softly, then lifted his hood with a deliberate slowness, revealing the same sharp eyes, the same determined jawline, the same smirk that Asher himself carried. "Me? I am you—from a world called Ethren."
The weight of his words settled heavily between them.
"So why have you contacted me?" Asher asked. His voice was steady, but his chest throbbed with a strange anticipation.
"I have searched through countless worlds," the figure replied, his tone neither boastful nor humble, but filled with weary determination. "I sought alternate versions of myself. I tested them, watched them, challenged them. All of them fell short… until I found you."
"Why me?" Asher asked, eyes narrowing further. "What makes me different? What do I have that the others lacked?"
The figure's lips curled into a faint smile. "To put it simply—you are the only version of us who has reached the summit of both genius and ego. Every other version failed in some way—cowards, weaklings, dreamers who lacked resolve. But you… you are complete. You are the best of us."
Asher leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and suspicion. "Then why are you here? Why seek me?"
"To offer you what you crave," the figure said, his voice echoing with temptation. "To take my place in my world. To live a life of fire, a life filled with battles, stories, and endless excitement. The kind of life your stagnant world has stolen from you."
For the first time, Asher's heartbeat quickened. But he wasn't so easily convinced. "Why would you give up such a world if it's so grand? What's the catch?" His voice dripped with skepticism.
The figure's smirk faded. His tone turned solemn. "Because I lack the talent you have. You—heaven's chosen one."
Asher tilted his head, almost amused. "I don't think you lack talent. You ripped open a rift between worlds, you maintained it, you confronted me without fear. That doesn't sound weak."
The figure sighed, his eyes momentarily shadowed by regret. "I'll admit it—I am a genius, yes. But my genius is only of the mind, not the soul. My magic is pitiful. Every feat you see here—this rift, this stability—it is not my own doing. I am leaning on the strength of an artifact. Without it, I am nothing."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"If I take your place, won't I inherit your weakness?" Asher asked finally.
"No." The figure's reply was sharp, unwavering. "Talents are bound to the soul, not the body. And your soul—your soul already surpasses all limits. Wherever you go, that power follows."
A slow smile stretched across Asher's lips. He rose from his imagined throne, the faint sound of cracking energy echoing as the chair dissipated behind him. His eyes scanned the sky above—a swirling canvas of color, alive and trembling. He raised his hand high, clenched his fist as though he could crush the horizon itself.
"Okay," Asher said, conviction vibrating in every syllable. "Send me. Let's do it, my variant."
The figure rose as well, his cloak swaying in the phantom wind. His gaze was both stern and uncertain. "I'll send you back to when I was ten years old. You'll inherit my memories from that time. But this transfer… it's dangerous. It will test the very limits of your soul. If your spirit cannot endure it, you will die."
"And if I survive?" Asher asked, his smirk returning.
"Then the world of Ethren will be yours to claim."
The boy who had grown bored of victories, who had never once been defeated, who had tasted the emptiness of perfection—finally, his heart thundered with reckless joy. He had not smiled in decades. Yet now, his lips curved with unshaken resolve.
"Do it," Asher said. His eyes burned like wildfire. "What's life without risk?"
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Asher's blood boiled with purpose. His world had ended long ago, but a new one was calling him—one of mystery, chaos, and endless possibility.
Would Asher conquer this world of imagination?
Or would his name vanish into its depths, forgotten like the countless dreamers who had come before?
The rift flared open, and the choice was no longer his to ponder.