[About 09:00 AM on Day 22]
You arrive in Dijon, the capital of the Duchy of Bourgogne. The city is a beast of grey stone and black iron, a fortress-city buzzing with a nervous energy that borders on war-fever. The air is cold and crisp, and the sky is a sheet of steel. This is not the languid, aristocratic atmosphere of Bordeaux. Here, the streets are choked with soldiers.
Men in plate armor bearing the rampant lion of Bourgogne march in disciplined columns. The clang of hammers on anvils rings out from a hundred forges working day and night. Wagons laden with weapons and armor clog the main thoroughfares, all heading towards the city's eastern gates. The people speak in hushed, excited tones of "the Duke's justice" and "Imperial arrogance."
You are standing in the heart of the powder keg you foresaw, just days before it is set to explode. In the center of the city, rising above the formidable walls and crowded streets, is the Ducal Palace. It is a severe, Gothic structure of spires and crenellations, more fortress than residence, a testament to the ambition of the man who rules from within. Pennants bearing Duke Charles's personal standard snap in the wind, sharp and aggressive against the grey sky.
You are a lone, unknown figure in a city mobilizing for war. You have the knowledge to change its course, but you stand at the bottom of a mountain of power, with the Duke enthroned at its peak. The guards at the palace gates look like they would sooner kill a man than let him pass without cause.
You stand before the imposing gates of the Ducal Palace, a silent observer of the city's martial fervor. The guards, clad in polished steel and bearing heavy polearms, eye every passerby with cold suspicion. They are Bronze-Tier veterans, their aetheric resonance a low, steady thrum of disciplined power. You turn your attention inward once more, projecting the question into the quiet abyss where Louie's soul resides.
"This is where I need your guidance. How do I gain an audience with the Duke?"
The void stirs. A long, silent moment passes before a response coalesces, not as a voice, but as a stream of cold, dispassionate information. The thoughts are tinged with the bitter, academic knowledge of a failed noble.
"An audience with a sovereign... is not requested. It is earned. Or it is forced."
The information continues to flow, devoid of emotion, like a tutor reciting a lesson.
"There are three paths. Each has its price."
"The Path of Service: The Ducal Army is conscripting. Every major barracks has a Pillar of Assessment. A man of your... power... would not be a simple recruit. A Silver-Tier reading would guarantee an audience with a high-ranking officer. They would see you as a valuable asset for the coming war. That officer would then petition the Duke's war council on your behalf. It is the 'proper' way. It is also slow. You would become a cog in his machine before you ever meet the man himself."
"The Path of Noise: Power is the only currency that matters in this city. In the merchant quarter, there is a place called 'The Lion's Cage'—a fighting tournament for mercenaries and glory-seekers, sponsored by the Captain of the Duke's household guard. The daily champion earns a purse of gold and a moment of renown. A decisive, overwhelming victory there... a victory that seems impossible... that would make noise. The Captain would report such a display to his master. It is a faster path, but it is a spectacle. You would be known as a gladiator before you are known as anything else."
"The Path of the Petitioner: This is the most direct, and the most dangerous. You cannot simply walk to the gates. They will turn you away or kill you. But every morning, the Duke's Chamberlain, a man named Jean-Luc Dubois, accepts formal petitions on behalf of the Duke in the public courtyard before the palace. He dismisses ninety-nine percent of them. To be heard, you must present a petition he cannot ignore. A claim so vital or an offer so valuable that he would risk the Duke's wrath for not bringing it forward. You would need to convince him, in a single sentence, that you hold the key to his master's ambition."
The flow of information ceases. Louie has given you the textbook answers, the theoretical pathways to power he was taught and could never walk. He offers no recommendation. The choice is yours. The city churns around you, oblivious, as you stand at a crossroads of three distinct futures.
You stand for a long moment, processing the three paths laid out by the ghost in your mind. Service. Noise. Petition. Each is a key to a different door, and behind each door lies a different set of consequences. Instead of choosing, you turn away from the imposing Ducal Palace.
You have a fourth path in mind: The Path of Improvisation. You melt into the bustling, militarized streets of Dijon, moving from the grandiose squares of the nobility to the grimy, practical thoroughfares of the merchant quarter. You begin to ask questions, not of guards or officials, but of teamsters, dockhands, and the weary-looking clerks scurrying between warehouses. Your inquiries are met with scoffs and dismissive waves.
"A warehouse? For yourself?"
One man laughs.
"Lad, the Duke's quartermasters have requisitioned every crate and barrel with four walls and a roof. There's a war coming, in case you hadn't noticed."
The war effort has choked the city's logistics. Every available space is being used to store grain, steel, and arrows. But your persistence, and the subtle flash of a few silver coins, eventually leads you to a disgruntled foreman overseeing the loading of pikes onto a massive wagon train. He eyes you up and down, taking in your simple robes and the quiet intensity in your gaze.
"Private use, you say? Not for the army?"
He spits on the cobblestones.
"It'll cost you. Dearly. I have a spot, back of the tanner's district. The army passed on it because of the smell. But it's got a strong lock and no one will bother you. Rent for a month, paid in full. Up front."
The price he names is exorbitant, a clear case of wartime price-gouging. It represents nearly the entirety of the meager funds at your disposal.
[About 01:00 PM on Day 22]
An hour later, you stand in the quiet gloom of your new acquisition. The foreman was right about the smell; the faint, acrid tang of the nearby tanneries hangs in the air. The warehouse is a single, cavernous space, thick with dust and the smell of old grain. High, grime-caked windows let in only slivers of the grey afternoon light. But the door is solid oak, reinforced with iron, and the lock is a heavy, complex piece of Dwarven make. You have been bled dry by the transaction. You are left with just enough for basic sustenance. Your Ledger is updated from Level 4 (Stable) to Level 2 (Impoverished). You slide the heavy bolt on the inside of the door, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space. The chaotic noise of the city is muffled, distant. For the first time since arriving in Dijon, you are truly alone and unobserved. You have your stage.
[About 04:00 PM on Day 22]
The next few hours are a blur of methodical, silent work. You scour the tanner's district and the grimy merchant stalls for your components. It is a grim task. The lime comes from a construction site, the carbon from sacks of charcoal, the salts and minerals from alchemist's suppliers who charge you the last of your coin for mere grams.
You gather the water in a filthy bucket. Each component is mundane, but together, they form a sacred equation. Back in the cavernous silence of the warehouse, you begin your work. Using a shard of scrap metal, you inscribe the floor with a vast, complex circle. The geometry is alien to this world, a pattern born of another reality's understanding of matter and soul. It is all sharp, precise angles and interlocking symbols that have no place in the flowing runes of Aethel's magic.
It is a declaration that you are not bound by the rules of this place. In the circle's center, you carefully arrange the materials: a mound of black carbon, a pool of water, small piles of white and grey powders, and vials of acrid liquids. It is a crude, pathetic pile of earth. The sum total of a human body, stripped of its dignity. You move to the edge of the circle. You take a breath. And you clasp your hands together. There is no incantation. No grand gesture. As a Conceptual practitioner, your will is the formula.
You are not asking the world to change; you are commanding it. You invoke the knowledge from your past life, a forbidden science of equivalence and transformation. The moment your will connects with the circle, reality screams. A storm of silent, blue-white light erupts from the inscribed lines. The aether does not flow into the circle; it is dragged in, compressed, and forced to obey a set of laws it does not recognize. The air inside the warehouse becomes thick, heavy, charged with a pressure that makes the wooden beams groan. Dust and debris are blasted away from the circle, creating a perfect sphere of calm in the center of the tempest. The pile of base elements at the center ignites. Not with fire, but with the pure light of creation. Carbon, water, phosphorus, and iron are ripped apart at a level beyond the molecular level, their base essence laid bare and then violently reassembled according to the blueprint in your mind.
Inside your shared skull, Louie's soul, which had been a quiet, resigned observer, is jolted by the sheer, soul-crushing magnitude of the power you are wielding. He feels the agonizing process of creation, the raw force of a soul being forged from nothing. The torrent of light and power lasts for a terrifying, eternal minute, then implodes, snuffing itself out in an instant. Silence returns to the warehouse. The air is still, thick with the scent of ozone and something else... something new.
In the center of the now-fading circle lies a figure. It is not a man. It is a homunculus, a blank slate of flesh.
Its form is vaguely human but lacks any defining features. The skin is smooth and seamless like polished marble, the limbs are perfectly formed but unused, and the face is a featureless canvas. Its eyes are sealed shut. It lies perfectly still in the dust, taking a single, slow, shuddering breath. The air crackles with residual power, the homunculus lies motionless at your feet, and from within the confines of your mind, the soul of Louie de Braisechant emits a silent, psychic scream of pure, unadulterated terror.
You turn your focus from the external world to the internal one. The act of creation is done. Now comes the act of transference. You approach the still form lying in the center of the fading alchemical circle. Its chest rises and falls with a single, slow, metronomic breath. It is alive, but it is not a person. It is a container. You kneel beside it, placing a hand on the featureless expanse of its chest. The flesh is warm, pliant, and utterly alien. Then, your will plunges inward. Not with the explosive force of creation, but with the chilling precision of a soul-surgeon.
You reach into the shared space of your own mind, past the architecture of your own consciousness, and you take hold of the terrified, flickering light that is the soul of Louie de Braisechant. The submissive silence in your mind shatters into a symphony of pure terror. Louie's essence, which had been cowed into oblivion, now thrashes with a primal, instinctual fear. This is not a duel or a prophecy; this is the threat of annihilation, of being ripped from the only home he has ever known, even as a prisoner.
"NO! STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
He screams, his psychic voice a shriek of pure agony. He clings to the familiar cage of his own bones, his own memories, with the desperation of a drowning man refusing a life raft because he fears the open air. But his resistance is futile. He is a candle flame in a hurricane. Your will is absolute, an unbreakable grip of conceptual power. A filament of pure will connects your mind to his struggling essence. You have him. He is a terrified point of light, held fast in your psychic grasp. The homunculus on the floor is an empty, waiting vessel. All that is required now is to pull.
You hold the struggling essence of Louie de Braisechant in your psychic grasp, a frantic, terrified star of light. The connection between your mind and his soul is a taut filament of pure will, straining against his desperate resistance. The homunculus on the floor begins to twitch, its fingers spasming as the unwilling soul is brought near its new shell. You project the words, not as a command, but as a lifeline thrown into the storm of his terror.
"Don't struggle. You will have your own flesh, no longer a prisoner."
For a fraction of a second, the psychic screaming stops. The thrashing subsides. His terror is so absolute that your words—calm, logical, promising—are an island in the hurricane. He processes the statement. His own flesh.No longer a prisoner. But then his awareness touches the alien vessel on the floor—the blank, featureless thing you forged from dust and lightning—and a fresh wave of revulsion and fear crashes over him, stronger than before.
"That is NOT me! That thing—it's not human! Let me go! I would rather die in my own body than live in that... that monstrosity!"
His resistance redoubles, no longer a panicked flailing but a focused, desperate push against your will. He is trying to break the connection, to retreat into the familiar darkness of his own skull. The filament of power connecting you to him begins to fray. The blue-white light of the transference flickers violently. The homunculus shudders, a low groan escaping its unformed mouth as the partial soul transfer becomes unstable.
You are at a precipice. Your gentle persuasion has failed, replaced by primal revulsion. You can feel his soul slipping from your grasp. You must either force the transfer now, overwhelming his will with your own, or risk losing him entirely.
The words you project are not merely a strategic lie to calm a frightened animal. They are infused with a resonance, a core of sincerity that cuts through the psychic storm of Louie's terror. It is not a trick or a manipulation; it is a wave of pure, unadulterated intent, a promise made with the full weight of your soul.
"That is because you are not inside yet. You will have your looks back."
The psychic screaming stops. The effect is instantaneous and absolute. The thrashing ceases. The frantic, desperate push against your will vanishes. The hurricane of his fear breaks against the unshakeable wall of your conviction. He feels the truth in your promise. The flickering, unstable filament of power connecting his soul to the homunculus stabilizes, glowing with a steady, soft blue light. The homunculus on the floor stops shuddering. A profound calm settles over the scene, a moment of perfect, fragile equilibrium.
You still hold him, a point of light suspended between two worlds. But he is no longer fighting you. He is... listening. He is a ghost on the threshold, his terror momentarily abated by a promise he desperately wants to believe. His will, for one fragile second, is no longer fighting you. It is waiting. The path is clear. The connection is stable. The vessel is ready.
With his will pacified and the path cleared, you do not hesitate. You pull. The sensation is unlike anything else. It is not a physical act, but a conceptual one. You are not moving a thing, but redefining its location in the universe. The star of Louie's soul, held in your psychic grasp, slides from the familiar confines of your shared mind, travels down the filament of your will, and plunges into the waiting vessel on the floor.
The moment his soul makes contact, the homunculus convulses. A wave of golden light radiates from its chest, soft and warm. The featureless, marble-like flesh ripples and shifts, undergoing a violent, miraculous transformation. Color bleeds into the pallid skin. Hair the color of dark honey sprouts from the scalp, lengthening in seconds. The blank face contorts, bones shifting beneath the surface as a nose, a jawline, and cheekbones push their way into existence. In less than ten seconds, the process is complete. The monstrous, featureless thing is gone. Lying on the dusty floor of the warehouse is a perfect, naked replica of the body you currently inhabit.
It is Louie de Braisechant, down to the last freckle and the faint scar above his left eyebrow. He takes a sharp, shuddering gasp, a true breath of his own. His eyes, once sealed, snap open. They are his eyes. Green, and wide with a universe of shock. Simultaneously, you feel the psychic tether connecting you to him stretch, thin, and then snap.
The nagging, terrified, and finally submissive presence that has haunted your mind since you arrived is simply… gone. The inner voice is silenced. The prison of your skull is now solely yours. The silence is vast, profound, and absolute. Before you, the new Louie pushes himself up into a sitting position. He stares at his hands, turning them over and over, flexing his fingers. He touches his face, his hair. His expression is one of utter, dawning disbelief. Then, his gaze lifts from his own body and meets yours.
Two identical men stare at each other across the dusty, fading alchemical circle. One is a soul-thief from another world, wearing stolen flesh. The other is a ghost made real, reborn from mud and lightning. He is no longer a prisoner in your head. He is his own man. And he is staring at his replacement.
The silence in the warehouse is absolute, broken only by the sound of two men breathing. Louie de Braisechant—the real Louie—sits on the dusty floor, his new body a canvas of disbelief. He flexes his fingers, feeling the pull of unfamiliar sinew.
The body is stronger, faster, more potent than the one he lost. He can feel the latent power thrumming in his limbs, a warrior's physique where a mage once stood. He looks up at you, his identical twin, the being wearing his old face. He sees no malice in your eyes, only an unnerving, profound calm. He heard your promise, felt the sincerity of it, and witnessed a miracle of creation that defied every law of nature and God he had ever known. You speak, and the voice is his own, yet not his. It feels strange to hear it from the outside.
"Welcome back, Louie. Now that you are back, it is no longer fitting that I hold on to your name. Will you grant me a name?"
The question hangs in the air, a gesture of respect so profound it short-circuits the fear and rage that should be boiling within him. You didn't just give him a body; you are returning his identity. His name. The last thing his family had left. Louie slowly gets to his feet. He is naked, newly born, yet he stands with a dignity that had been stripped from him long ago. He looks at you, his own face, and sees not a thief, but a catalyst. A being who sees the past and the future, standing at the doorway between what was and what will be. His new voice is rough, unused, but clear.
"You are... two-faced,"
He says, the words not an insult, but a statement of fact.
"You look back at my past, and you look forward to a future only you can see. You stand at the gateway of what is to come."
He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours.
"The old poets spoke of a spirit like that. A keeper of gates. A god of beginnings and endings."
He stops just outside the fading circle.
"I will call you Janus."