The scratch of a feather brush against parchment was the only sound in the room. Arshin's eyes were fixed on the half-finished painting before him—an image of a mythical bird soaring through a sky he had never seen. From the open window drifted the damp, earthy scent of the Silent Forests. A smell that never faded, a constant reminder of the invisible wall that held them captive.
His gaze dropped to his hands. Slim, delicate hands—more suited to a scribe or painter than the heir of one of the guardian clans of Zargah. Hands that had never managed to grip a sword the way they were supposed to, or summon even the faintest spark of the Kavian clan's Tanesh.
"Lost in your little daydreams again, brother?"
The mocking voice came from the doorway. Kian, his older brother, leaned lazily against the frame, eyes filled with contempt. His armor—etched with shards of glowing Jargan crystal—gleamed under the artificial moonlight spilling from the palace's central dome.
"There's nothing to do, Kian," Arshin muttered, his own voice sounding weak to his ears. "Guarding a wall that never gets attacked isn't exactly a noble task."
Kian laughed. "The reason no one dares attack is because of the wall—and men like Father and me. Not because of dreamers with paintbrushes." He pushed off the doorway and stepped inside. "Father wants to see you. In the council hall. Something about tomorrow's trial. Better get ready to embarrass us—again."
Arshin's heart thudded violently. The Tanesh Trial. Another year, another public humiliation. He had nothing to show.
When Kian left, Arshin caught his reflection in the tall mirror beside the room: amber eyes clouded with fear, midnight hair spilling across his shoulders, a frail frame swallowed by noble robes. He didn't look like a Kavian. He looked like a mistake.
Reluctantly, he left his room and headed toward the council hall. The palace corridors were lined with murals depicting their legendary founder—Mirkaweh, who had driven back darkness with the torch of his fury. But the faces were faded, as if even history itself was beginning to forget.
At the far end of the council chamber, his father—Mirkaweh II—sat on a stone throne, locked in hushed conversation with his advisors. The old man's heavy gaze fell on Arshin, and the room fell silent.
"Arshin. Tomorrow—"
"I know, Father. The trial."
"No. Not just the trial." His father's voice was dry, emotionless. "I've decided. If tomorrow you fail to show even the weakest spark of Tanish, I'll send you to the Academy of Fine Arts. Maybe there you can make something of yourself. Here, you're nothing but…"
He left the words unsaid. But their weight hung in the air: a weakness. A disgrace.
Arshin's stomach dropped. Exile. Stripped of the Kavian name. He bowed his head, said nothing, and turned to leave—his father's advisors stabbing him with looks of pity and contempt.
He couldn't go back to his room. Instead, he ran to the palace gardens—the only place that felt safe. There, he climbed the stone wall that divided the palace grounds from the Silent Forests. Green mist rose from the trees, stinging his face.
"Why?" he shouted into the emptiness. "Why me? Why can't I have any power?"
And then—he heard it. Not an animal's cry, but a whisper. A moan. A call. A voice that spoke directly into his mind.
He froze. Then curiosity slithered through him like a serpent.
Jumping down from the wall, he crept into the forest. The trees were twisted, their branches clawing at the sky. At the base of a massive trunk, something glimmered among the moss: a cracked crystal sphere, pulsing with a faint blue light. Like Jargan—but alive.
The ground trembled. Or maybe it was just his legs. Reaching for the orb, his mind was suddenly flooded with flashes—blinding city lights, glass towers, the honk of strange machines. A searing headache split his skull.
Then—a roar. Something huge was coming through the forest, fast. Branches snapped and splintered. Arshin clutched the orb and ran for the wall, lungs burning. Not fast enough.
A blinding light exploded behind him. Heat seared his back. He threw himself forward—toward the wall's edge. For a heartbeat, he was weightless. Then—impact.
Darkness.
Silence.
And then… sound.
The screech of tires. The crash of twisted metal. Pain unlike anything he'd ever known. Silence again.
And after the silence—voices. Whispers of another life. Names and fragments: "project deadline… car loan… sick mother…" A flood of regrets for a life wasted.
Then—another light. Not the forest. The palace's artificial moonlight.
Arshin's eyes snapped open. He was lying on the soft grass of the garden. His body ached, but he was alive. Had he imagined it? No—the cracked orb still glowed faintly in his clenched fist.
And then, the voices returned. Clearer this time. Not from the forest. From inside his head.
[Error: Memory Corrupted. Syncing…]
[Legacy: 'Arshin' — Status: Inactive. Soul Resonance: 12%]
[New Core Directive: Survive. Ascend. Uncover the Truth.]
[Welcome, User: Kaveh Karimi. Initiating Assimilation.]
Arshin—or whoever he was—stared in horror. Memories crashed over him, but this time there were two sets: one of a weak, humiliated boy in a stone palace… and another of an ordinary young man in a noisy city called Tehran, killed in a car crash.
He dragged himself upright, eyes locked on the orb in his fist. His hands were the same delicate ones as before—but something had changed. In the amber depths of his eyes burned not only fear, but confusion, awe… and a spark of alien knowledge.
Tomorrow was the trial. But not the trial of a weak boy. It would be the first test of a dead man who had been given another chance.
And Kaveh Karimi did not intend to waste it.
He stared at the orb and whispered, his words tinged with a strange, foreign accent:
"…Alright then. Let's begin."