The pain hit me like a bolt of lightning—sharp, searing, and unrelenting. It wasn't just pain in the body. It was pain in the soul, like something had been ripped apart and crudely sewn back together. I gasped, the air thick and foreign in my lungs, the cold stone beneath me pressing against my spine like a grave.
I tried to scream, but only a raspy choke came out. My fingers scraped the floor—rough, cracked stone. Every nerve screamed in rebellion as I forced myself upright, shaking. My vision doubled, then tripled. The chamber around me blurred in and out of focus. Dim blue sigils blinked on and off like dying stars carved into the stone. Something about them felt wrong. Or maybe I was wrong. Everything felt…off.
What is this? Where…where am I?
I pressed a hand to my chest. The skin there throbbed as if burned—something had been etched into me. My heartbeat was erratic, panicked. My breathing shallow. Cold sweat soaked my skin. My limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. They were thinner, weaker, and moved just a bit too slowly for my liking.
I staggered to my feet, the world lurching sideways. I barely caught myself against a pillar as my vision spun again. The chamber swam around me—walls laced with glowing cracks, torn banners of some forgotten crest, books charred to cinders. The air carried the metallic tang of blood, the scent of ash, and something… older. It was like the air itself had memory. And that memory was screaming.
I stumbled toward a cracked mirror resting against the wall. Each step took effort. My knees buckled once. My hands trembled as I reached out, brushing the fractured surface. What I saw sent a spike of fear through me.
A boy stared back.
Pale. Bruised. Wide eyes ringed with sleepless shadows. His cheek bore the faint remnants of a hand-shaped welt. His hair was matted with dust and sweat. His lips moved in sync with mine.
"No," I whispered, the word barely audible. "Who…who is this?"
My heart pounded louder. I looked down at my hands—too slim, fingers too long, too weak. These weren't mine. I wasn't me. This was someone else's body. And I was wearing it like a stolen coat.
Suddenly, something crashed into my mind—a wave of memories that weren't mine. Like pages being torn open in a book I'd never read. Images, voices, fragments of pain.
Laughter. Cruel. Echoing.
A fist slamming into a locker.
A girl's voice—concerned, distant.
Books. Always books. Too many. Too heavy.
A circle drawn in chalk. Blood. A whisper in the dark.
I reeled back, clutching my skull. My knees hit the floor hard, and I let out a strangled cry. The name came next, like a whisper from beyond the grave.
Arthur Valen.
It wasn't my name.
My name… was Arthur Caelum.
I held on to that like a lifeline. I remembered fighting. Screaming. Being torn from somewhere. A light—no, a spell. A death meant for me. Then nothing. Void. Silence. Until now.
What had happened to me?
Had I died?
Had he?
Why was I here?
I forced myself to my feet again, shaking with every movement. My hand brushed against a half-burned leather-bound book near the center of a chalk-marked circle. I picked it up, flipping through pages with unsteady fingers. A journal. No—his journal.
"They mock me," one entry read. "Every day. I'm a failure. A mistake. A waste of space."
The next page:
"This ritual… if it works, I won't be Arthur Valen anymore. I'll be more. Or I'll be free."
And then the pages turned blank, scorched by heat.
Cold dread coiled in my stomach. He had called out into the void—and somehow, I had answered.
Was this… a summoning?
Did he trade his life for mine?
I didn't know. I couldn't know. My mind felt like it had holes in it. Huge gaps where I knew there should be memories, but all I found were shadows.
My breath quickened as panic clawed its way back in. I had to move. I had to think. I scanned the room again and found a cloak half-buried under rubble. I wrapped it around myself. My clothes underneath were torn, half-burned. I looked like a corpse that had clawed its way out of the grave.
A glint of metal caught my eye.
A badge. Dusty, cracked, but legible.
University of Mana Arts.
That name stirred something in me—a faint echo from Arthur Valen's memories. A place of power. A school for the gifted. A prison for the outcast.
"I have to get out," I whispered, my voice hoarse and hollow. "I need answers."
I slipped out into a narrow corridor. The stone hall twisted in strange angles, the magical residue so thick I could taste it. Sparks of unstable mana crackled on the walls. The aftermath of the ritual.
As I followed the flickering torches, I emerged into a hidden stairwell leading up to the surface. Each step was a challenge, my legs shaking, my lungs burning.
At last, I pushed through a rusted door and emerged into the outer campus—a misty, moonlit courtyard. Statues of ancient heroes loomed in judgment. Students passed in groups, laughing, murmuring, casting curious glances.
I pulled the hood low over my face and moved through the shadows.
"Valen?" a voice said nearby, half-laughing, half-snide. "Back from the grave?"
I froze.
"He's probably failed another test," someone else whispered. "Why's he even here?"
I kept walking, heart pounding, feeling every stare like a blade.
I reached the dormitory and slipped inside. My room was small, dusty, and empty of life. A single desk. A worn bed. More books. A cracked window overlooking the forest beyond.
I collapsed onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
What happened to me?
Why had I been dragged here?
And more importantly—what had happened to him?
I saw his face again in the mirror. Not mine. Not entirely.
Arthur Valen had been broken.
And someone had helped break him.
I clenched my fists.
I may not know why I was brought here… but I will find out. I will uncover the truth. I will make them pay for what they did to him.
The moonlight cast long shadows across the room as I sat up, my mind clearing for the first time.
"I'm not your victim," I murmured to the darkness. "I'm your reckoning."