"No… this isn't real… it's not"
"Kain!"
"Our Savior… is it wrong to breathe the same air as you?"
"Is it wrong to be grateful?"
"S-stop it"
"Oh, to have silence us for merely expressing our emotions"
"You do not deserve to sleep at–"
"BEGONE!"
His eyes snapped open.
This time… it was real.
The whispers were gone.
The blood-soaked children, the cries of the damned—gone.
No handprints on glass.
No twisted smiles.
Just cold sheets.
Heavy silence.
And the faint crackle of the fireplace.
A dream.
No…
A scar.
His breath came in shallow, his body tense as if it still expected to be dragged back into that nightmare.
Kain… Kain… Kain.
The name echoed like a chain clinking in the back of his mind.
Then—
A knock.
This time, gentle.
Real.
The door creaked open.
And she entered.
The woman from before.
The one whose very presence felt like standing beside a grave long since forgotten.
Pale skin, nearly translucent.
Hollow eyes, no pupils.
No shadow beneath her feet, as if the room itself refused to acknowledge her form.
Her voice when she spoke was exactly as he remembered:
Silk and steel being torn in half.
"You were screaming again," she said, stepping in, the candlelight failing to cling to her.
She approached with measured grace, carrying no chains, no prisoners, only a cloth and a small silver cup cradled in her skeletal fingers.
"You haven't screamed in years"
He stayed silent, watching her carefully.
She placed the cup on the bedside table.
The scent of herbs drifted from it, bitter, earthy.
Calming.
"You dream of them again?" she asked, hollow eyes unreadable.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stared at her.
This creature.
This woman.
This… thing.
Was she real?
Was anything?
"Who are you?" he finally asked, voice hoarse.
She blinked slowly.
Not in surprise.
But in sorrow.
"You've forgotten again"
She turned away from him, gliding across the room to the windows, pulling the curtains wide.
The moonlight, red and wrong, spilled in, casting broken light across her porcelain face.
"I was the first to love you," she said.
"And the last to remain"
His throat tightened.
"I don't know you," he whispered as he approached his bed, clearly too exhausted to continue standing.
She looked over her shoulder.
Her smile was not kind.
It was tragic.
"You always say that. Every time you come back!"
She stepped closer, slowly, soundlessly.
And just before she reached him, she stopped.
"I am the only piece of your past that still loves you," she said, her voice softer now.
"Even knowing what you've done"
His hands trembled.
"Then why would you stay?"
She knelt beside his bed, reaching up with her cold fingers to touch the edge of his face, just barely.
"Because monsters like us don't get to be alone, Kain"
And then she leaned in—
Close enough for her breath to brush his cheek.
And whispered:
"Sleep. You'll need strength… for what waits beneath the city"
Then she was gone.
Vanished.
No footsteps.
No creak of the door.
Just… absence.
And in her wake, the room felt colder.
And so much heavier.
Morning.
If it could even be called that.
There was no sun, only a dull, rust-colored light that bled through the sky like an infected wound.
It poured through the warped glass windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.
The warmth of the fire had long since died.
The room felt colder now.
Hollow.
He sat at the edge of the bed, fully awake but unmoving.
His hands rested in his lap, stained with old memories and sleep that never healed anything.
The silver cup still sat untouched beside him, the herbal scent now faded into something sour.
Outside, the city murmured.
Not with life, but with decay.
Distant bells tolled, not for celebration but remembrance.
For the dead.
For those forgotten.
For the condemned.
The sound echoed through the bones of buildings that leaned like beggars, praying to gods that no longer answered.
He stood slowly.
His body ached, not with pain, but with the weight of waking up in this world again.
He crossed to the cracked mirror near the fireplace.
The face that looked back wasn't his.
It wore his skin.
His eyes.
But not his soul.
Not anymore.
'Was it ever yours to begin with?'
He turned away before the thought could dig deeper.
His cloak hung by the door, stiff and dark, still stained with a war he didn't remember starting.
He draped it over his shoulders and stepped out into the hall.
It was quiet.
The kind of quiet that screamed something had already gone wrong.
Servants passed like ghosts, eyes downcast, lips sealed.
No greetings.
No warmth.
Only duty.
Every one of them walked in fear of something, and Kain couldn't tell if it was the world outside…
…or him.
He descended the steps of the keep slowly, boots echoing against the stone.
The air grew colder the lower he went until even his breath came out pale.
It wasn't just the city that was dying.
It was everything.
Like the world had lost the war long ago.
And this was what was left.
A carcass.
He stepped out into the courtyard.
No birds.
No sun.
Just that blood-tinged haze crawling across the sky.
It was quiet, too quiet.
The fountain in the center wept black water, choked by vines.
The scent of rot clung to the air, hidden beneath the copper tang of old blood and damp stone.
He stood still.
And then he heard it—
The dragging sound of steel on stone.
Followed by wheezing breath.
From the shadows of a crumbling archway, a figure emerged.
Armor rusted.
One arm gone.
They clutched a broken sword that scraped the ground like a forgotten relic.
His helmet hung at his side, revealing a face etched with scars and eyes that had long since given up on sleep.
A knight.
Or what remained of one.
Behind him, another figure shuffled forward, hunched and trembling.
Robes once white, now soaked with filth and dried blood.
A priest.
Skin paper-thin, cracked like dry earth.
Eyes milky.
Lips stitched with prayers no god listened to anymore.
They both stopped before him and dropped to their knees with a sound that echoed like a death knell.
"Kain…" the priest rasped, voice like dead leaves.
"The End-Bearer…"
"The Savior," the knight whispered, smiling through bloodstained teeth.
"He returns"
He said nothing.
He just watched.
"You left us," the priest said softly.
"When the famine came. When the rats feasted. When the sky turned red. You sealed the gates and left the starving to eat the dead"
A pause.
"And we understood," the knight added.
"We were not worthy to be saved. Not after what we did in your name"
Kain looked away, jaw clenched.
"You think I wanted this?"
"You let it happen," the priest said.
"You watched us starve," the knight continued.
"You told us salvation would come"
"You promised"
He stepped back, but the knight grabbed his cloak, his bloody fingers trembling.
"But you were the salvation," he said.
"You ended the war, didn't you?" the priest whispered.
"You killed the gods!"
"You silenced the heretics"
"You devoured the last flame of hope…"
"And we loved you for it"
The priest leaned forward, eyes glistening with tears.
"We still do"
"You're our only god now, Kain," the knight said, grinning.
"And gods must watch what they create"
They rose, barely standing like broken statues.
Behind them, more figures stood at the courtyard's edge.
Thin.
Quiet.
Watching.
Survivors with hollow faces.
Eyes sunken from hunger.
They said nothing.
But every eye locked onto him.
Hope and hatred.
Faith and fear.
Love and loathing.
All of it aimed at him.
Kain turned, unable to bear the weight of it.
But the priest called after him, voice barely above the wind.
"Beneath the city… something stirs"
The knight coughed blood onto the stones.
"It calls to you, Savior. The thing we buried. The thing we sealed away"
Kain paused.
The priest's hands trembled as he held up a symbol, twisted, blackened, melted by time.
"A door has opened"
"And the hunger beneath it remembers your name"
He stared at the symbol.
Not with shock.
Not even recognition.
With resentment.
His shadow stretched across the stones like a scar as he took a slow step forward, eyeing the pulse in the priest's shaking hands.
It seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, like it remembered being forged in his presence.
Like it still belonged to him.
His voice came low.
Bitter.
"…You kept it"
The priest's lips parted into a grim smile.
"We worshiped it"
Kain's eyes flicked to the knight.
"You buried it"
"We had to," the knight whispered, shoulders trembling under rusted plate.
"It screamed for you when you vanished. We thought… we thought it would die if we buried it deep enough"
"It didn't," the priest added.
"It only slept. And now it dreams again. Louder than ever"
A long silence passed.
Kain's eyes dropped to the symbol, then to the dark stone beneath their feet.
He could feel it now, a pull.
A hum beneath the earth.
Something buried.
Something broken.
Something is his.
Not a memory.
A claim.
"What did you seal?" he asked.
The priest fell quiet.
The knight turned away, jaw trembling.
Then the priest whispered:
"You"
Kain stiffened.
"You weren't supposed to come back," the knight muttered, a crack in his voice.
"You said the war ended, but you never stopped fighting it. You couldn't"
"So we gathered what we could, your relics, your blood, your name, and we locked them in the dark"
Kain's jaw clenched.
"And now?"
The priest's milky eyes locked onto his.
"Now it wants to finish what you began"
A bitter wind passed through the courtyard.
The survivors behind them didn't move.
They didn't speak.
But he could feel their hunger twisting into something deeper than needed.
Worship.
Obsession.
Dependency.
They had molded their lives around the echo of a man who no longer existed.
And now the echo was answering back.
"I didn't ask to be made into this," Kain muttered, turning his gaze skyward.
"I didn't ask to be your savior"
"No," the priest said, rising shakily.
"But the people did not ask to become your legacy"
The knight took a step forward, his broken blade pointed downward.
Not a threat.
A plea.
"We can't stop it," he said, "Only you can"
Kain said nothing.
He turned back toward the keep, but he looked over his shoulder just once before stepping inside.
At the crumbling city.
At the hollow faces.
At the dying sky.
"…Where?"
The priest smiled with cracked lips, blood between his teeth.
"Beneath the Chapel of Ash," he said.
Kain nodded once.
And walked.
The door shut behind him.
30 Minutes Later
His boots echoed through the desolate halls like a funeral drum.
Down ancient stairwells choked with moss and silence.
Past forgotten murals where paint flaked like dying skin.
Past doors that were sealed with rusted chains and forgotten prayers.
Until he stood before the Chapel of Ash.
It looked like it had been weeping for centuries.
Charred stone walls crumbled under the weight of time.
The great archway had collapsed inward, leaving only a jagged maw.
A single bell hung above the entrance, cracked straight through its center.
It hadn't rung in years.
And yet… as he stepped forward—
Clang
It rang.
Low.
Hollow.
Mournful.
The air grew thick.
He passed beneath the shattered arch.
Inside, the chapel was worse.
Ash clung to every surface like a second skin.
The altar stood, untouched, a slab of obsidian veined with red.
And beneath it—
He saw it.
A door.
Made not of wood or metal—
—but of bone.
Etched with markings that twisted when you stared too long.
Faintly pulsing.
Faintly breathing.
The weight of memory pressed against his chest.
He didn't need the priest to confirm it.
Didn't need a name.
This was what called him.
This was what he remembered.
He knelt before the door.
And it recognized him.
The hum in the stone turned to a whisper.
Not words.
Just longing.
Just hunger.
His fingers hovered over the seal.
And then he heard it—
Behind him.
A voice.
Soft.
Familiar.
"Aren't you tired, Kain?"
He turned.
And saw her again.
The woman from his chamber.
No candle this time.
No cup.
Only her.
Barefoot.
Hair drifting like smoke.
Eyes still hollow.
Still watching.
"You don't have to go back down," she said.
But her tone made it clear.
She knew he would.
He stared at her.
"You said it waits for me," he said.
She nodded.
"And it does."
"What exactly is waiting down there?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she walked forward until she stood beside the altar.
The ash didn't stir beneath her steps.
It never did.
"You left it behind," she said softly.
"That part of you. You buried it so deep, not even the gods could reach it"
She glanced down at the bone door.
"And yet it still remembers your name"
Kain's jaw tightened.
"And if I open it?"
She looked at him.
For the first time, truly looked.
Her voice dropped into a whisper.
"Then you will find what it is you need right now"
The silence between them stretched.
Finally, Kain stood.
His hand hovered over the door again.
He didn't flinch this time.
"I need to know who I was," he muttered.
"Even if I hate the answer"
The woman watched him for a moment longer… and then slowly stepped back into the shadows.
But just before she vanished, her voice drifted to him one last time:
"Then be warned… What waits beneath the city isn't a memory"
"It's pure agony"
Click.
The door opened.
And darkness swallowed him whole.
The descent was not physical.
There were no stairs.
No ladder.
No tunnel.
The world simply fell away.
He blinked, and suddenly, the chapel was gone.
No ash.
No altar.
No woman.
Only darkness.
Endless, suffocating.
A void that pressed in from all sides like a coffin made of silence.
Yet still, he moved.
Or something moved him.
Shapes flickered at the edge of perception—
Eyes without faces.
Hands without flesh.
Shadows shaped like regret.
They whispered, but not to him.
They whispered of him.
"The End-Bearer…"
"The Hollow Crown…"
"He Who Broke the World to Save It"
Their words wrapped around him like chains.
Not accusations.
Reverence.
Worship.
He stepped onto the ground without realizing it.
Cold.
Wet.
It squelched under his boots like rotting parchment.
And there before him, stood a mirror.
But not glass.
It was water, suspended vertically, rippling without wind.
Inside it, his reflection stood still.
Older.
Eyes ringed in shadow.
Armor rusted and etched with thousands of names.
His face was pale, expressionless.
Not a man.
A monument.
Kain.
He stepped forward.
The reflection did not mimic him.
Instead, it watched.
And then it spoke.
No mouth moved.
No sound passed between them.
But the words bloomed inside his mind like poison.
"You sought the truth of this lifetime… so be it!"
And suddenly—
He remembered.
Not all at once.
Not as a story.
But as weight.
Screams.
Blood.
A blade in his hand that spoke.
A city burning for the sake of peace.
A friend begging at his knees before he ended her.
The famine.
The silence of the gods.
The decision no hero should ever make—
"Sacrifice the few. Save the many!"
And he had done it.
With hands steady.
With eyes forward.
Because no one else would.
Because someone had to do it.
Because that's what heroes were for.
And when it was over—
When the war ended—
They built statues of him.
And he vanished.
Because he couldn't bear to look at what they praised.
Because it wasn't him they honored.
It was what he had done.
What he had become.
He dropped to his knees.
Chest heaving.
Hands trembling.
Tears didn't fall.
There were none left.
He wasn't crying.
He was remembering.
And from the reflection—
A hand reached out.
Gauntlet of bone.
Veins of fire.
Fingerless, cracked… and familiar.
It touched his chest.
And he breathed—
Sharp.
Pained.
Alive.
The world shattered, and he awoke somewhere else this time.
[- NEW BLESSING -]
[ UNDEAD SOUL ]
- ??? -
He woke to the smell of flowers.
Sunlight filtered through an old curtain, casting soft lines across the wooden walls of his cabin.
A dog lay curled at his feet, one ear twitching.
He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting.
This was home.
He sat up.
The floor creaked.
The dog yawned, tail thumping once against the floorboards before curling back into sleep.
"My… my name is?"
BZZZ
"Right… Ren… my name is Ren"
Ren lived at the edge of the forest.
He chopped wood.
Traded with the village.
Fed the strays.
Listened to the river when he couldn't sleep.
He ran a hand over his face, rough stubble, warm skin, steady breath.
Nothing was wrong.
And yet...
He paused at the window.
Children's laughter echoed from the village square.
Smoke curled from chimneys.
A woman sang while hanging out her wash.
An old man pushed a cart down the road.
Peace.
But it felt… fragile.
He pulled on his boots, grabbed his axe, and stepped into the morning cold.
The forest greeted him like it always did, quiet, welcoming, green.
Ren knew this trail.
He'd walked it a hundred times.
Probably more.
Yet, as he reached the stump where he split his firewood, he hesitated.
Something in the way the breeze brushed his skin felt off.
Not wrong.
Just... It wasn't the first time.
He shook it off.
Lifted the axe.
The wood cracked on the first strike.
Clean.
Solid.
He exhaled.
This was his life.
Wake.
Chop.
Trade.
Eat.
Sleep.
No chaos.
No battles.
No memories clawing at the edges.
Just Ren.
A Couple of Hours Later
The sun was already dipping when Ren tied the last bundle of firewood.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced up at the treetops.
The sky was streaked with gold and pale lavender.
Birds murmured above.
Crickets below.
He smiled faintly.
Another day.
Just like the others.
A great day of peace… beautiful peace that calmed the nerves.
He turned back toward the trail.
And stopped.
Something tightened in his chest.
He blinked.
Tried to breathe.
The trees swayed gently.
The breeze was still warm.
But his legs gave out.
He collapsed, and the bundled wood rolled from his arms as he hit the dirt.
His dog barked in the distance.
Once.
Then silence.
Ren stared up at the sky.
His breath was shallow.
No fear.
Just confusion.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Not yet.
Not now.
His fingers twitched once, then stilled.
And in the quiet of the forest—
Ren died.
No war.
No glory.
No grand last words.
Just the wind.
Just peace.
Just silence.
For a moment.
Then—
Darkness.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
[- NEW SKILL -]
[ STAMINA REGENERATION ]
- ??? -
He woke to the scent of old parchment and ink.
Light spilled through a stained-glass window, casting red and gold across stone walls lined with towering bookshelves.
A quill rested between his fingers, still wet.
He blinked down at the open page in front of him.
Diagrams of constellations.
Notations in his handwriting.
His name?
"Thomas," he murmured aloud.
From outside the window, bells rang out across the capital.
A city of spires and domes sprawled beneath the rising sun, rooftops glittering with dew.
Flags fluttered.
Carriages clattered down cobbled roads.
Distant voices of the marketplace rose in soft waves.
He stood.
His joints ached slightly, too many nights at the desk, too many books.
(His nightly sessions with the princess… eheh)
He crossed the study and poured a cup of tea from the still-steaming kettle by the hearth.
The warmth helped.
Moments later, a knock.
"Master Thomas?" A young attendant peeked in.
"The Princess sent her regards. She said Thank you for last night's lesson"
'Ehehe'
He nodded absently.
"Of course"
The door shut again.
He sipped his tea.
It was a good life.
He was the Royal Scholar of Lucia, a kingdom known for peace, art, and knowledge.
He lived within the palace archives, answered to the Crown, taught astronomy and magic theory, and occasionally advised the court.
People respected him.
Trusted him.
He had no scars.
No dark past.
No ghosts clawing at his dreams.
He stared down at the page again.
The ink had run just slightly, trailing down like a teardrop.
He hadn't remembered falling asleep.
And he definitely hadn't remembered drawing that symbol in the margins—
A circle of thorns.
He quickly scratched it out.
Closed the book.
And whispered to no one in particular:
"…strange"
The bells rang again.
And the day moved on.
- The Palace of Lucia, Mid-Morning -
He adjusted the cuffs of his robes as he stepped into the eastern wing of the palace.
Marble floors gleamed beneath his boots, polished by early-morning attendants.
Sunlight poured through arching windows, illuminating mosaics of ancient myths and forgotten heroes.
He passed familiar faces.
Guards nodded.
Courtiers whispered greetings.
A pair of elderly historians argued gently over a translation near the Grand Staircase.
"Morning, Master Thomas!"
He returned the nod with a polite smile.
"Morning"
The walk to the observatory was short, but he lingered.
Something about today urged him to move slowly, to take it in.
Lucia, for all its decadence, felt… honest.
Alive.
Birds gathered near the open halls.
Ivy curled around carved pillars.
Perfumed air drifted from the hanging gardens.
Children laughed in the lower courtyard.
And at the center of it all, he was simply Thomas Le Snow.
Scholar.
Teacher.
Peacekeeper of thought.
When he reached the observatory, the Princess was already there.
Princess Elyra sat cross-legged on the floor beside a brass telescope nearly twice her height.
Her golden hair was tied back carelessly, and her skirts were wrinkled, clear signs she'd been here a while.
'Beautiful as always'
She looked up, bright-eyed.
"You're late"
He raised a brow.
"You're early"
She smirked.
"Touché"
He set his books down on the nearest table.
"I trust the star maps I left with you didn't mysteriously vanish overnight?"
"They mysteriously turned into pillow stuffing," she said innocently.
"…Elyra"
"I'm joking. They're safe. Probably…"
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You are the reason I drink tea"
"And you are the reason I know where every moon is at any given hour. So we're even"
He smiled despite himself.
Their lessons began.
They charted constellations, reviewed planetary alignments, and debated the movement of twin suns in distant records.
It was the kind of morning that passed too quickly, familiar, warm, intellectually rich.
Hours later, when the sun climbed higher and bells chimed for a midday meal, Elyra glanced at him sideways.
"You ever think about it?" she asked, voice quiet.
He glanced up from his notes.
"About what?"
"What it'd be like if you weren't… you know. You?"
He blinked.
"You mean, I could be like… a farmer?"
She shrugged.
"Or a bard. Or a thief. Or a warlock in hiding"
He chuckled.
"Sounds like the premise of a terrible play"
She didn't laugh.
Instead, she said, "Sometimes I wonder if all this is too perfect. Like it's a dream we're not supposed to wake from"
Thomas looked at her for a long moment.
Then said, "If it is a dream… It's a good one"
She smiled at his words, that quiet, rare smile she saved just for him.
"Then don't wake me yet," Elyra whispered.
He didn't.
Not when she leaned in, her hand brushing against his as she gathered the scrolls.
Not when their fingers lingered.
Not when her eyes flicked to the door, then back to him.
Moments like this had their own language.
"Tonight?" she asked under her breath.
He gave the faintest nod.
The observatory faded behind them as duty reclaimed her.
Guards escorted her toward the royal wing.
Thomas watched her go, jaw tense, heartbeat louder than he liked.
That Night
She came in plain robes, her hair unbound.
He lit no candles, preferring the moon's light through the high glass dome.
They said nothing at first, sharing the silence, comfort, and ache of being near.
When she finally lay against him on the old settee beneath a hanging globe of the known world, she whispered:
"I hate pretending"
"I know"
"One day," she said, tracing a finger along the curve of his jaw, "they'll find out"
"One day," he echoed, "I won't care"
But he did.
They both did.
Because she was the future Queen of Lucia.
And he was just a scholar.
Brilliant, respected… but ultimately replaceable.
And kingdoms weren't built on secret meetings beneath starlight.
They were built on alliances, appearances, and sacrifice.
Still, that night, they forgot all of that.
They held each other like they wouldn't get another chance.
He wouldn't get the chance.