When Kalen opened his eyes, the world was different.
The stench of decay and old blood hit him like an axe. All around, darkness stretched between the rotten trees. The ground beneath his feet was black as coal and sticky as tar. The sky... no, there was no sky. Above him, there was only a pulsating veil, as if someone had stretched rotten flesh over the world, occasionally pierced by a sickly red light, as if the very space was bleeding.
He stood up slowly. His legs were trembling. His whole body felt like it shouldn't be there.
"Goblins," said a voice in my head. "There are many of them. They are waiting."
Who are you? Kallen wanted to ask, but his lips wouldn't move. The sounds had disappeared, as if his throat was tied. The world was silent. And so was he.
The first one appeared from behind a tree. It was a small, bony creature with elongated ears and a gap-toothed mouth. It held a rusty spear in its hands. It was stinking, dirty, and mangy. Two more appeared behind it. Then dozens more. It was a pack. Hunger was in their eyes. Rage.
"It's simple. Kill them or die. And you'll start over."
He didn't know how he knew, but he knew it wasn't an illusion. It wasn't a dream. He could die here. He would start over. Until he either won or lost his mind.
He clutched what had materialized in his hand, a broken piece of rusted sword. The blade was crooked, the hilt sticky with blood, but it was all he had.
They attacked first.
He didn't know how much time had passed. Counting minutes, counting beats, counting breaths, counting the bloody stripes on his body, counting the sounds of his own screams.
The goblins came in waves. They changed—at first they were weak, dull, with rusty spears. Then the big ones appeared—with green growths, smeared with tar and dirt. Then those that used magic—spitting acid, whistling so that their ears bled.
He died. Over and over again.
Once by an axe to the chest. The second by falling into a pit full of thorns. The third by being bitten when they gathered in a pack and ate him alive.
He woke up. Again and again, in the same place, by the same rotten tree, with the same piece of sword in his hand. Again. And again. And again.
On the third "day," if there was any time here, he began counting his steps. Every movement. Memorizing the paths. He discovered a stream, murky but not poisonous. He found a rotten oak tree, littered with the remains of past victims, including a sword, charred but intact. He learned how the goblins moved. They were stupid, but they followed the scent of blood and the sound of noise. This meant that they could be lured.
He started setting traps. Primitive ones—sticks, stretched vines, sharpened stakes. He started winning. Slowly. One by one. Then two by two. Then a whole pack.
His body adapted. His brain became accustomed to the screams, the pain, the brutality. His muscles memorized the blows. Every step was more confident. Every gaze was colder.
On the "sixth day," he faced the leader. A goblin in armor adorned with skulls, with eyes already burning with magic. He summoned fire. He hurled it at Kalen. Kalen leaped—instinct. Pain seared his shoulder, but he did not fall. His sword glided through the air, piercing the goblin's belly. One strike. Two. Three, into its throat.
He wasn't screaming. He wasn't screaming at all.
On the "eighth day," when he thought it was over, the ground beneath him began to collapse. A black ooze rose up, as if the world itself wanted to devour him. He tried to run, but the darkness pulled him in.
And then…
Darkness engulfed him.
He fell.
But not on the ground.
Into the void.
A space without walls, without floor, without top. An omnipresent inky nothingness. And in this nothingness, he was the only one struggling. Naked, exhausted, with wounds both old and new, and black blood on his lips. But he was still alive. He was breathing. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to... get out.
"Enough," Kallen breathed hoarsely. "You've... gone too far."
He didn't scream. His voice seemed to come from the depths of his being, bursting through his throat.
"What more do you want from me, huh? I've fought, I've died, I've eaten the meat of monsters, and I've gone mad," he took a step forward, but the step echoed. "And I'm still standing. That means I'm worthy."
At that moment, the space shook.
Somewhere far, far above, as if beyond this world, a dull bell rang.
A shadow rose from the blackness.
Tall. Broad in the shoulders. The armor seemed to be carved from a bar of night. Plate after plate, covered in scarlet patterns that pulsed in time with Kallen's heart. The helmet had a closed visor, revealing eyes the color of molten ruby.
The figure was silent.
But her gaze burned right through me.
— You called for me.
The voice echoed through the void. Heavy. Old. Gloomy.
Kallen straightened up. His insides were shaking, but he didn't back down.
"I don't know who you are. But you are my Shadow. The first one."
"Yes. And if you were weak, I would tear you apart."
"But you're... strange. You're... human, but not quite. You're alive, but it's like you're not really alive anymore."
"Stop talking in riddles," Kalen hissed. "If you're mine, obey. If not, attack."
Silence.
And then... the shadow lowered one knee. The helmet tilted slightly.
"Call me. Give me a name. And I will be your blade in the night."
Kallen looked into the scarlet eyes. His heart beat slowly, steadily.
He remembered dying. Killing. Breaking. Rebuilding.
"Ward," he said. "That will be your name."
The name echoed through the void. The space trembled. Red circles lit up around them—magical seals, dense, ancient, as if the Darkness itself had burned them into the space.
The armored figure stood up.
"Yes, Kallen Lionheart."
"Wardis at your service."
The next moment, the entire stage exploded with black light.
He woke up.
Cold sweat burned his forehead. The sheets were crumpled. His heart was racing. The air was finally real. He was back in his room.
His back was burning. He stood up, walked over to the mirror, pulled off his shirt, and froze.
There was a fresh tattoo on his left shoulder blade. It was complex, with jagged edges and concentric circles from which tongues of darkness radiated. In the center is the silhouette of a knight in armor. He didn't move. But it throbbed. To the beat of your heart.
Kalen exhaled.