Dying was not what he imagined. He had thought that when the time came, he would resist with every ounce of will, because death was terrifying. But now, as it came for him, he was more afraid than he had ever believed possible—not because it clawed at him, but because it was calm, almost welcoming. And that quiet embrace was what truly terrified him.
It was as though the darkness was engulfing his entire being, swallowing every trace of who he was. No warmth, no voice calling him forward. Only silence and the dark remained.
And then the dark breathed.
He found himself adrift in a void—and it was not empty. Stars hung like scattered embers, their dim light bent by unseen tides. His form was ethereal, translucent, as though his very soul had been given shape. He could see his fingers but not feel them; his legs carried no weight.
Am I even me? I...is this hell?
Panic began to rise. His life had been small, flawed, but not cruel. That wasn't worth damnation. And yet the void cared nothing for fairness.
A ripple spread across the black. Stars bent. Galaxies folded. And then he saw them.
Eyes.
Not constellations. Not metaphors. Eyes vast enough to consume worlds. Slowly, unbearably, they opened.
Color bled across them—violet, black, countless shifting hues devouring and remaking themselves. Entire suns flickered, burned, and died in their depths. The gaze fell upon him, and his thoughts collapsed beneath its weight.
In that gaze, he felt himself shrink to less than a grain of dust—insignificant, infinitesimal, a fleeting shadow against eternity.
Truths rushed into him—fragments of laws older than creation—flooding his mind like an ocean of water poured into a sieve. For an instant, he held everything, the truths of the universe pressing against him, and then they slipped away, ungraspable, leaving only the ache of loss, awe, and terror.
And then the voice came.
Not words. Not sound. A corruption of both, seared directly into his soul:
"⟟⧫⟊… ᛝ⟒ᚦ⟊⟒… ϞϞ—⟊… ⌬⟒ᚱ⟊ᛉ…"
The meaning slipped away, replaced by a brand etched into his being.
Then the eyes pierced him.
[Ding… Beginning assimilation.]
Agony tore through him. His consciousness dimmed.
—
Alistair Vale awoke to the stench of rot.
Cold mud pressed against his back. Rain leaked through holes in the ceiling of a broken shack, dripping steadily onto the dirt floor. He dragged in a sharp breath, chest rising and falling in confusion.
And then he saw the body.
Gregor.
The old knight's frame lay still, his once-proud armor shredded and bloodstained. His face was pale, his lips cracked, eyes closed as though in uneasy rest. His sword rested across his chest, both hands frozen around the hilt.
Alistair's throat tightened as memories surged. The coup. Flames devouring Vale Castle. The betrayal. The remaining loyal servants of the family split up the heirs and fled in every direction to protect the bloodline. Thalia Vale, his sister and acting Matraicah, lured most of the enemy towards her, allowing for his escape. Gregor carried him through alleys and finally escaped the city. Bleeding with every step, holding on only by force of mana, he took me somewhere no one would expect a noble to be: the slums at Grey Terminal. Days—maybe longer—he had endured. Long enough to bring him here.
And now, he was gone.
Alistair pressed his hand to his forehead. His mind was a storm. As his memories began to settle. So this is where I begin… heir of a broken house, waking in the slums beside the corpse of the last knight loyal enough to die for me. How did I even stay unconscious for that long? *
By the time the rain eased, Alistair had dug a shallow grave behind the shack. His palms bled, nails torn, but he did not stop until it was finished. He laid the knight to rest with his sword upon his chest.
For a long moment, he stood in silence.
He had known this man since he was a child, and he had always watched him.
"You served with honor, and your spirit will be remembered," he whispered. "Your death will not be in vain. Thank you, Gregor."
The slums stretched beyond the graveyard fence. Rotting houses, muddy streets, smoke-choked alleys. Children fought stray dogs for scraps. Hollow-eyed men watched him with suspicion—or hunger. This was no place for a noble heir. But it was his place now.
And his enemies would never think to look for him here.
—
Fragments of memory bled deeper. The Vale name had once been feared. Elara Vale—his mother—merciless and cruel, feared even by allies. Sebastian Vale—his father—restrained, measured, never spilling blood without need. Together, they had carved a throne that bent lesser houses to their will.
Until the secret realm. Until the coup.
His uncle had struck when his parents vanished. Loyalists had been butchered, the house fell in a single night. He and his sister were separated, spirited away so that at least one might survive. Whether Thalia still lived, he could not know.
When his head began to bow, his eyes filled with anger. In his previous life, he had been born an orphan with no family or love, and although he had gotten used to it and hid it well, it still hurt—he would sometimes find himself yearning for what he never had. In this world, he had a father, mother, and sister. And now they were gone. A knot twisted in his chest, and he swore he would burn the world itself before he let it be stolen again.
—
Gregor's pack lay beside the cot. Inside, Alistair found coin—enough for weeks, if careful—and a fine sword, the kind of weapon a knight would entrust to his heir.
Even in death, the knight had left him a weapon.
Then a message resurfaced "⟟⧫⟊… ᛝ⟒ᚦ⟊⟒… ϞϞ—⟊… ⌬⟒ᚱ⟊ᛉ…"
He did not know what it meant, but he knew it was important.
Alistair drew the sword from its scabbard and held it with both hands. The weight was solid, grounding, and for a moment, he simply stared at the steel. His violet eyes burned with quiet fire as his grip tightened. In that instant, he felt a seed take root in his heart—a resolve that would grow, fed by anger and loss, into something far greater.
He raised his head to the storm-choked sky.
"I will show them despair."
[Ding! Assimilation complete.]
[System integration successful.]
Alistair Vale smiled faintly.
"My old life is gone. This one begins in blood."