Astrian's steps faltered as he followed Eras through the forest.
The smell of Graah-Bull blood lingered in the air, clinging to his throat like cold ash.
The training continued.
Not with swords, not with techniques.
But with survival: enduring the bone-chilling cold, enduring a body that refused to obey commands, enduring the foreign memories that continued to storm his head like a merciless, dark wave.
Eras didn't speak.
He only glanced at Astryan occasionally, as if assessing whether the boy would collapse or die first.
And finally…
Astrian's body wavered.
His vision trembled.
The rest of the world seemed like shattered glass.
> "So this is the limit?"
Eras's voice sounded distant—or perhaps it was just the shadow of his voice.
The world folded.
Darkness closed in on him from all sides.
Astryan… passed out.
---
He woke in a place he recognized without really recognizing.
A dim oil lamp hung from the ceiling.
The scent of damp wood filled the air.
A small window revealed a swirl of mountain mist that floated like a lost spirit.
He was in a small room—more precisely, Astryan's room—a silent space, filled with traces of someone other than himself.
Bumantara's—or Astryan's—chest rose and fell slowly.
This body was weak, but warm.
It was different from his original body, accustomed to staring at a cold screen every night.
"Where am I… really?"
he whispered, staring at the ceiling of the wooden house.
He closed his eyes.
And at that moment, memories of the original Astryan came flooding back like someone opening a giant floodgate.
Brief scenes:
A wooden sword.
Eras's scream.
A snowy mountain.
The prohibition against descending to the village.
Names he had never heard in his original world.
And the image of a giant stone building… where knights had trained since childhood.
The original Astryan had trained to enter that place.
But he had failed.
His body was weak, his technique poor, his mind fragile.
Eras had taken him as a disciple not because of talent… but out of pity.
The memory made Bumantara's head throb.
> "Why is the person whose body I inhabit… living a more miserable life than mine…?"
He clutched his temples.
The pain stabbed like a hot dagger.
Information about this new world… was scant.
Too little.
Astryan lived in a remote mountain, far from the bustling world.
There were no major cities nearby.
There was no information about countries, kingdoms, or how the world worked.
There was only:
Eras.
Training.
The silence of the mountains.
And monsters.
Bumantara took a deep breath, trying to reconcile his old memories with the new life that was forcing him to swallow the unfamiliar reality.
> "So… I really have nothing here."
"No family. No friends. No information."
"Just a fragile body… and a rude old man."
But that was precisely what made him feel… calm.
The silence of this mountain was undemanding.
It didn't judge him based on titles or jobs like in his old world.
Here, life was determined only by strength or death.
And Bumantara—now Astryan—chose strength.
He sat up slowly, though his dizziness hadn't subsided.
The small window in front of him was open, letting in the mountain breeze and sweeping away the remnants of his nightmares.
In the distance, he heard the sound of Eras training something in the yard.
The sound of wind splitting.
The sound of the ground being smashed.
A sound that could split a monster in two.
Astryan—still half Bumantara—clutched his blanket.
"I need to know more."
"About this world… about this body… about who Astryan really is."
Because if he didn't…
he wouldn't survive—not even a day.
Everything was just beginning.