Rovan had been a vivacious, talkative youth, a stark contrast to the man he became after his deployment in his early teens. The army had irrevocably changed him. He returned a shadow of his former self: withdrawn, gloomy, and detached.
Initially, his transformation sparked concern among those who knew him. But as time wore on, they either resigned themselves to his new persona or chose to distance themselves, perhaps wary of being drawn into whatever darkness now clung to him. One day, as he walked, a searing jolt of pain ripped through his body without warning. He crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud, the cold floor pressing against his cheek. Is this it? Is this how it ends? he wondered, a chilling thought echoing in his mind.
"Of course not," a voice declared, shattering the silence.
Rovan instinctively lurched upwards, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, but the movement was a mistake. The pain intensified, a relentless wave threatening to drown him. He thought he heard a voice, but the street was deserted, devoid of any human presence. Then, slowly, his surroundings began to register. He was no longer on the familiar streets of his hometown. Instead, he found himself in an alien space: a blinding white room, the sterile scent of disinfectant hanging heavy in the air, a crisp white blanket pulled taut over his body. As his vision cleared, he noticed the countless needles piercing his skin, each one a tiny source of discomfort.
Before he could fully grasp his situation, a voice, crisp and artificial, echoed in his mind. A system, it called itself, introducing itself with cold precision. It explained that Rovan had been selected—chosen by Umbrael Shroud.
"Umbrael?" Rovan questioned, the name unfamiliar and unsettling.
The system responded with an explanation that chilled him to the bone. Umbrael, it said, was a shadowy, ancient presence, an entity long forgotten by humanity but still very much a force in the world. Shroud, the system continued, was more than just a name; it was a concept, a veil of concealment, mystery, and pervasive gloom. Rovan was left reeling, utterly dumbfounded, grappling with the sheer impossibility of it all. How had he stumbled into this nightmare?
Just as Rovan teetered on the brink of madness, a deafening bang reverberated through the room. A figure in a pristine white coat materialized, heading straight for him. Before Rovan could even register the newcomer, he was seized by the collar and slammed against the wall. The suddenness of the assault stole his breath, but the pain that followed quickly eclipsed his shock. A horrifying scream tore from his throat, a sound so piercing it felt capable of shattering glass.
As darkness threatened to consume him, a familiar chime echoed in his mind. "Host, would you be willing to learn the character u possesed backstory?"
Rovan's thoughts fractured. Wait...wait, what? This isn't my body!
But before he could voice his protest, the agony intensified, overwhelming his senses. In a desperate, pain-wracked moment, he mentally clicked "yes."
A maelstrom of memories suddenly flooded Rovan's mind, a torrent of fragmented images and emotions threatening to shatter his sanity. Just as he felt himself teetering on the precipice of madness, the system chimed, a sterile notification cutting through the chaos: "Level One Mental Strength Protection Activated."
The onslaught of memories receded, the agonizing pressure easing. Slowly, painstakingly, Rovan began to sift through the remnants, piecing together the life of the man he now inhabited. His name was Mark, and he was, to put it mildly, a lovesick fool. Born into wealth, he had squandered his family's fortune on a woman, a woman who turned out to be nothing more than a manipulative viper. Once she realized the well had run dry, she discarded him, leaving him penniless and broken on the streets. Driven to the brink of insanity, Mark had confronted her and her new lover at their apartment, threatening violence before being apprehended and confined to this mental hospital.
As the last vestiges of Mark's memories faded, Rovan was overcome with disgust. How could any man debase himself so completely? The thought of such behavior brought a sharp rebuke to his mind: If I ever acted like that in the army, I'd be facing Commander Kenrald's wrath, a lecture on self-dignity that would last for hours. Shaking off the remnants of his military life, he forced himself back to the present. No, no, no. Focus.
Then, the memory of the man choking him slammed back into his consciousness. According to Mark's memories, this was the father of the manipulative woman, a man who held the position of director at this very mental hospital. But a nagging question persisted: the woman herself came from a wealthy family, so why would she need to leech off others?
As Rovan pondered this inconsistency, the system chimed again, its tone laced with urgency: "Host, your oxygen levels are dropping to abnormal levels. Proceeding with System Protection Level One."
Suddenly, the grip on his throat loosened. The man's fingers cracked as an invisible force emanated from Rovan's body, pushing him away. The director stared at Rovan, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Wait...you're an Awakener too?"
Rovan, still gasping for breath, looked at him in bewildered confusion. Hey, System, he thought, his mind racing. You've got some explaining to do.