Chapter 2 - Desmond or Ashborn
Ashborn stirred to the scent of steeped herbs and pungent oils, now familiar. The aroma clung to the heavy tent air, earthy and medicinal, no longer choking but strangely grounding. It soaked into his skin, his hair, the fabric of the cot beneath him. Morning light filtered through the canvas walls, casting golden beams that danced across the ground, illuminating dust motes in the air like fireflies caught in stillness.
His body ached, but the pain had dulled into something tolerable—an echo of torment rather than its peak. The bandages around his chest were warm and damp with salve, tight but no longer suffocating. Each breath no longer felt like a battlefield. More than that, his mind felt clearer, the thick fog that had weighed it down finally beginning to lift.
And with that clarity came memories—not of this world, but the one he had left behind.
Glass towers scraping the skies. The tap of a touchscreen. Laughter at the dinner table. His parents. Their voices were already distant, fading like echoes in a storm. The endless hum of traffic. The steady rhythm of a life lived in order.
All of it—gone. Forever.
He stared at the tent ceiling, his thoughts slow but heavy. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He lay still, swallowing back a swell of emotion he couldn't quite name. The silence inside the tent was loud with his heartbeat.
He exhaled slowly. So I died, didn't I? That car crash... or was it a fall? The hospital lights? It's hazy. Too much pain. Then—darkness. And now this.
This strange, violent world where people wielded swords instead of reason, where healing was done with herbs and chants, and where demonic corruption stalked the land like a vengeful ghost.
Why here? Why me?
His fingers curled into the coarse blanket beneath him, gripping the woollen fabric like it might somehow anchor him. He closed his eyes and let the fragments of yesterday come back—blood, steel clashing against steel. Screams too human to forget. He had watched men die—not through a screen, not in a movie, but right before his eyes.
They say people dream of reincarnating into another world—of starting over, escaping the monotony of their lives, and finding glory in realms of sword and magic.
It sounds romantic, almost enviable. But no one ever speaks of the loneliness. The bone-deep, soul-gnawing solitude of waking in a body that isn't yours, surrounded by strangers who know you by a name that doesn't feel like yours. No one prepares you for the silence of a secret you can never share—the truth of another life, another world, hidden behind your eyes like a haunting echo.
The memories you carry, of cars and cities, of laughter echoing through concrete walls, of coffee shops and screen-lit nights—here, they're just dreams. Whispers of a world no one would believe even if you dared to speak of it. To these people, it would sound like madness or sorcery, something alien and terrifying. So you bury it deep.
You wonder: Why me? Why this world? Was there a purpose to it, or was it just... luck? That question claws at the back of your mind with a persistence that borders on obsession. And though you walk among knights and lords, though they call you "my lord" and kneel with reverence, you feel like a ghost wearing someone else's skin.
Then comes the other truth—that this world, for all its wonder, is brutal. A single misstep, one moment of rest without vigilance, and your life could end. There are no second chances here. No respawns. Just steel and blood, fire and bone. And slowly, inevitably, you start to long for the noise of your old world—the hum of electricity, the buzz of a phone, the quiet safety of knowing a hospital was just minutes away.
Ashborn lies absorbed in his thoughts, his gaze distant as he drifts through a maze of memories that swirl like autumn leaves in a gust of wind. A heavy sense of reluctance weighs on him, a stubborn resistance to the realisation that some things are beyond his control. He feels the bittersweet pangs of nostalgia tugging at his heart, yet he understands that clinging to the past will not alter his present. Instead, he finds himself at a crossroads, recognising the need to adapt and navigate a world that has shifted around him.
Ashborn. That's who I am now. The name rang hollow and full at once. Like a borrowed crown. A title earned by another. But I'm still Desmond. Aren't I?
He had been a successful businessman. A hard worker. A traveller of countries and lover of books. The real world had been structured, digital, and safe.
This world was anything but. He turned his head, slowly, to the side. The tent was quiet, peaceful even. A basin of water stood on a table, the surface still. There were rolled bandages and empty vials—the aftermath of his treatment. The armour, the blood, the chaos from yesterday—all felt far away. Too far.
He glanced at his hand—the same pale, unfamiliar hand adorned with a ring bearing the flaming black oak crest. A noble's ring. A warrior's hand. It didn't feel like his.
Ashborn's ring.
Not mine.
And yet...
He closed his fist slowly. A land I don't know. A brother I don't remember. People who look to me as a lord, when I don't even know what kind of man I am or should be anymore.
He turned his head to the side, wincing slightly. The tent was quiet. No guards hovering, no visitors. Just a basin of fresh water on the nearby table, and the flutter of canvas flaps stirred gently by the morning breeze.
If I'm Ashborn now… what does that make Desmond? A ghost? A foundation? Or… a second chance?
His eyes lingered on the edge of the tent where sunlight spilt in, warming the floor like a welcome invitation. Despite the doubts and dread, something in him stirred—a faint ember in his chest that refused to go out.
A second chance...a new life...a new experience...
Valyn's words came back to him. A noble. A warrior. A leader of men. Someone respected. Someone who had bled for his people, who had earned loyalty.
And the men yesterday—those soldiers. Their eyes had been full of fire. They fought not for coin, but for pride, for duty. They had believed in him.
Do I dream of greatness?
Maybe that's what this is. The burden of expectations. Not handed freely, but forged in blood.
His thoughts sharpened. The flickers of yesterday's battle offered him more than pain—they showed him the fierceness of the enemy. The morale of the soldiers. The loyalty and zeal of his men. Their willingness to lay down their lives without hesitation. Every man dreams of greatness...do I dream of it as well? The lost lives and the zeal eyes...isn't that worth fighting for?
Desmond may have lost everything. But Ashborn had been given something. A world—brutal, yes, but also brimming with potential. A chance to shape it. To rise within it. Not as a wandering soul, but as a man with purpose.
With effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, gritting his teeth against the soreness. The pain grounded him, reminded him he was alive. And if he were alive, he could fight. Plan. Build.
Desmond may have died in that crash.
But Ashborn?
Ashborn still had a world to understand. A legacy to claim, and work to do.
Time to understand. Time to act.
The flap of the tent rustled.
Ashborn instinctively turned his gaze toward the entrance, his body tensing despite the discomfort. The silhouette of a tall figure filled the threshold, outlined by the morning sun.
It was the knight again.
Commander Valyn stepped inside carrying the books and tomes with a soldier's poise—measured, precise, and alert. His armour had been polished since the day before, though bloodstains still marred his surcoat like fading battle scars. A sword hung at his hip as naturally as a limb, and the air around him carried the weight of command.
But his eyes, those sharp amber eyes, softened the moment he saw Ashborn awake and sitting. "My lord," Valyn said, crossing the space between them with firm strides and placing the books on the table. "It pleases me to see you stronger." Ashborn offered a nod, his voice steadier than expected. "I feel less like death and more like a man run over by a horse."
Valyn allowed himself a short, relieved chuckle. "You're healing well, then."
There was a moment of silence. Ashborn studied the man—loyal, stern, dangerous. But beneath the gruff exterior, there was concern. Loyalty. Perhaps even guilt.
Ashborn didn't waste time. "Valyn," he began, the name tasting familiar now. "I want a full report of yesterday's battle—casualties, unit movements, everything. And the day before."
Valyn blinked, straightening slightly "Of course," as he proceeded to pick up a stack of parchments from the desk and bring them to Ashborn. "They are ready for you to review the engagement."
Ashborn nodded, "I may be recovering, but I don't plan to cut corners on my responsibilities. If I'm to lead, I need to understand where we stand."
Valyn bowed deeply this time, a faint hint of pride showing beneath his professional demeanour. "Understood, my lord. The books and reports are at your desk. If you require anything else, I am at your service."
"One more thing, Valyn."
"Yes?"
Ashborn's voice softened, but there was a cold steel beneath it. "The men… how are they faring?"
\Valyn's jaw tightened. "Many are shaken, but they look to you, my lord. Your survival is already spreading through the camp like wildfire. Some say it's divine protection."
Ashborn exhaled, eyes half-lidded. They're watching me already. Good.
"Then let them watch," he murmured. "And let them see I'm not done yet."
He waved at Valyn to signal that it was time for him to leave.
Valyn saluted with a fist to his chest and turned toward the exit. Before stepping out, he hesitated briefly, then added over his shoulder, "It's good to have you back, Lord Ashborn."
And then he was gone, leaving Ashborn alone with the array of books and a stack of parchment.
Not surprisingly, I found myself able to read and comprehend the strange script etched across the pages of these foreign tomes. The letters, once unfamiliar, now flowed before my eyes with an uncanny ease, like a language.
I had always known, but never studied. Another silent gift of this reincarnation, perhaps.
The tent was quiet save for the occasional rustle of parchment as I leafed through the volumes Valyn had arranged for me. Their leather-bound covers creaked with age, their pages yellowed at the edges, brittle and ink-stained. Yet, there was life within them—a world bound in words, waiting to be rediscovered.
The first I reached for was 'Historical Survey of the Elembor Empire', dense and methodical, its tone scholarly and clinical. It spoke of old kings and wars, of various noble houses rising and falling. Stretched Borders within which my fief resides. Treaties signed. I studied it with growing interest, trying to understand the country I had been thrown into—its balance of power, its fractures and ambitions.
\Next came 'The Book of Eldor', an ancient manuscript depicting the empires ruling the land of Eldor, penned by an eccentric high mage, his lifework. The pages that followed painted a vivid—if eccentric—portrait of Eldor, a land carved into power by no fewer than nine great empires. Each had its banner, sigil, and ideology, all drawn in colourful detail. Some flags shimmered with metallic inks, others bore sharp, jagged strokes.
There were also collections of tales and legends, written by wandering bards and dusty travellers whose names had long faded from the book. Their words painted vivid scenes of cursed forests, noble sacrifices, and creatures born from nightmares and moonlight.
A heavy tome titled "Treatise on the Chaos Beyond" pulled at my curiosity. Its contents were grim, filled with diagrams of monstrous entities and fragmented accounts from those who had gazed into the chaos—and lived to write of it. It painted chaos not as mindless destruction, but as a force with purpose... one that watched and waited.
I moved on to a 'Book of Heraldry', thick with illustrations and symbolism. Every crest, banner, and sigil told a story—wars fought, alliances forged, betrayals written into the very designs. When I found my own house's emblem—the Black Oak wreathed in white flames—I paused. My fingers traced the illustration on the page, trying to make sense of a legacy I had inherited.
And finally, my eyes fell on a curious volume:
"Knightly Aura and the Flame Within: Crimson Flames"
I lingered on the book far longer than the others. The cover alone was arresting—dark leather etched with a faded painting of a knight wreathed in fire, blade raised skyward. The edges of the book were singed, whether by accident or symbolism.
As I opened the aged volume, the scent of old ash clung faintly to its pages, as though it had once survived a fire of its own.
"Among the myriad knightly auras," the introduction read, "few burn as fiercely, or as dangerously, as the Crimson Flame. It is not merely a weapon—it is a trial by fire, a will forged and tested endlessly against itself."
I leaned forward, drawn in. The text was structured like a hybrid between a martial guide and a philosophical reflection. Diagrams of stances were inked in precise lines—wide, grounded postures meant to root the body like a tree, flowing seamlessly into explosive lunges and sweeping arcs. The breathing patterns were just as intricate, almost meditative in their rhythm.
"Inhale on stillness. Hold through tension. Exhale upon release.
Feel the breath as flame. Temper it. Adapt it."
There was something elegant, even sacred, in how the aura was described—not simply as energy, but as an extension of the soul. It required more than brute strength. It demanded control, clarity, and an unbreakable will.
The accompanying passages revealed its true power:
"Those who master the Crimson Flame become impervious to the bite of fire. At its peak, steel melts before their touch, and arrows burn to cinders mid-flight. They do not walk—they advance, for nothing can halt the march of flame."
Immunity to fire... I read it again. At the Mastering Stage, the knight could stride through blazing infernos unscathed, their very aura devouring flame. Their strikes were accompanied by bursts of crimson fire so intense they could cleave through iron, reduce shields to molten slag. And yet, even in these lofty promises, the book offered no illusions.
"The path to Crimson mastery is paved with hardship. It consumes not only strength, but wealth. Golden coins will fall like autumn leaves. Without access to rare herbs, mystic fires, and specialised training rooms, advancement becomes a distant dream."
Gold coins... and many of them. I frowned. No wonder it was rare. Power always came with a cost. At the end of the section was a passage written in a more intimate, reflective hand—perhaps by a knight who once walked this path:
"It hurts. Gods, it hurts. Each breath drawn into my core feels like swallowing a furnace. Each day, my body burn red. But when the fire rises, when I swing my blade and see nothing but light and fear in my foes' eyes… I remember why I endure. The flame burns, but it is mine."
I let out a slow breath and closed the book, my fingers still resting on the cover. A fire that burns everything in its path... unyielding. Constant. Untouchable. I sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the wall of the tent.
This is quite fantastical. I will be lying if I say I am not curious.
Something was stirring inside me even now. A warmth, not painful yet, but present. Dormant, perhaps. Waiting. I thought of the battlefield, of that moment when I'd stood between chaos and the men who called me lord.
There had been something then—then-a flash, a glimmer.
Had I felt the beginning of this aura? If I could learn it—if I could master it—I wouldn't just survive in this brutal world. I could stand at its peak. A Silver Knight, as the book called them. Just one step below the mythical Gold Knights, who were spoken of like demigods.
I stared down at my hand, still unfamiliar despite these past days. It trembled slightly—not from fear, but anticipation.
"I'll find a way to pay the price," I murmured to myself."If this power can shape my fate, then any amount of gold spent is worth it."
And somewhere, in the quiet of the tent, that ember inside me pulsed again. Stronger this time.
After hours spent thumbing through brittle pages, Desmond—no, Ashborn—closed the 'Book of Knight Aura: Crimson Flames' and let the silence of the tent settle over him like a cloak.
The words echoed in his mind.
"The Crimson Aura is not born. It is ignited."
"Stances become conduits. Breaths become below. Flame is not summoned—it is reflected."
It sounded poetic in the book, mystic even, but now, as he sat still, legs folded over the coarse woven mat, he realised how little he knew about what he was doing.
Still, something tugged at him—a whisper from somewhere deeper. Whether it came from the legacy of Ashborn or something still I had in my soul, I couldn't tell. But I knew the feeling well enough.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, feeling the gentle strain in his ribs beneath the bandages. The pain hadn't left, but it was manageable now.
Like heat lingering in coal after a blaze. Ashborn adjusted his posture as the book had described—shoulders relaxed, spine like a pillar, feet grounded. His left palm rested atop his right, cradled just below his navel. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift away from ink, away from memory.
Only breathe.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
In.
Hold.
Out.
The rhythm became steady, deeper than breath alone. With each cycle, something within him stirred. A warmth, subtle at first, barely more than a flicker under his skin.
He shifted into the Ember RootStance, as the book called it—a seated form meant for grounding the aura. His body, still frail from the wound, protested the motion. But he endured it.
The breathing deepened. His chest rose slower, heavier. On the fifth exhale, he felt it—an almost imperceptible ripple, like a thread of heat winding through his heart. Not from the outside, but from within. A flicker in his blood, like something old waking up.
His fingers twitched. The air around his skin wavered—not smoke, not flame, but something just before that. A distortion. He opened his eyes.
Nothing dramatic. No roaring blaze. No spectral fire cloaked his limbs. But the warmth was there ever so slightly, as though reacting to the change in his inner flow.
Crimson Aura...
He could feel it now, faint but undeniable. Like kindling that had caught the first spark. It wasn't just imagination. The book hadn't lied.
"At the beginner's touch, it is but warmth. At mastery, it devours steel. The flame is not your servant. It is your reflection."
His breathing slowed to normal. The subtle warmth began to recede, folding back into the depth of his chest like a secret kept. Ashborn opened his hands and stared at his palms, sweat pearling along his skin, heart still thudding like a war drum. No great display. No firestorm. But it was there.
The beginning. He had once again cultivated the aura that this body was renowned for.
As the book had warned, cultivating Crimson Aura was expensive—in food, in medicines, in gold. The body had to be refined like iron, the blood thickened to withstand heat, and the bones strengthened. It would not come easily.
But what path worth taking is easy?
Ashborn leaned back slowly, his body sore but buzzing with a new kind of energy, not just physical, but something else. A whisper of potential. He smiled faintly to himself.
Desmond had once studied numbers and markets. Ashborn would study fire and breath.
And one day, if the gods allowed, he'd master them both.
The warmth of the aura still lingered faintly in Ashborn's chest, like embers under the ashes, even as he reached for the parchment scroll laid beside the cot. Its edges were creased, corners bent from use, but the script across it was clear, precise, military, and cold. He unfurled it slowly.
His eyes scanned the inked letters and numbers, a quiet gravity settling over him as the reality of yesterday's battle returned in black and white.
Fifty knights.
One hundred knight-attendants.
Fifty archers.
Three hundred infantry—a mix of sword-and-shield bearers, spearmen, and frontline swordsmen.
He left the City of Rohand with this retuine. And among them...
"One Knight, Elven knight-attendants dead. Nine archers. Thirty-Nine infantrymen lost."
He exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around the parchment. For a moment, his brows furrowed—not out of grief, but confusion.
These casualties shouldn't have happened. Not in these numbers. Not in a world where warriors could summon aura, where steel was backed by soul.
His gaze darkened. The attackers weren't mere bandits or highway scum. No, they had been a remnant force from Lythandor, the dying kingdom to the south. Trained soldiers turned desperate predators, clinging to robbery for survival like hyenas to a carcass.
He lowered the scroll slightly, eyes narrowing. The trap had been cunning—two coordinated ambushes, one in the ravine and one on the rear column. They'd aimed for panic, disruption, and chaos.
And they very nearly succeeded. Had it not been for Alde Brightborne...
Ashborn leaned back against the wooden headrest, the corners of his mouth pulling into something faintly softer.
Alde... Sixty-seven winters old now, and still standing tall like an oaken tree. A magician of no small repute, a Master Magician, though some whispered he once stood on the cusp of Bronze Magician before age dulled his edge. He had been with Ashborn since boyhood—no, since his predecessor's boyhood. A father when none were present, a teacher for eternity, and now a guardian in this new, fragile life.
He had saved them all. When the arrows had blackened the sky and the men broke ranks, it was Alde's spellwork—earth and wind—that bought them time and brokethe ambush.
And in that chaos, Ashborn's predecessor fell, struck by a Bronze-Ranked Archer's poisoned arrow through the ribs—it was Alde and Valyn who avenged him.
Valyn.
The name stirred a pulse of heat in his chest. The stoic, unshakable knight who had ridden through the enemy line with startling resolve was a terrifying Bronze Knight, tempered by countless battles, and loyal beyond question. He had beheaded the archer personally. Ashborn could almost picture it—Valyn's sword flashing through the air like judgment, the moment swift and final.
He glanced back at the scroll. So many numbers. So many names. It all felt… hollow. A part of him-the Desmond part-still reeled at the sheer matter-of-factness of it all. Lives reduced to digits. Death as a calculation.
But he understood. This was war. And war was a ledger, written in blood and steel. His fingers brushed the part listing his status. The line was brief, almost detached.
"Lord Ashborn Blackwood – Wounded. Aura state is disrupted. Recovery expected." He scoffed softly.
Aura state disrupted was a delicate way of saying he was no longer the knight they remembered. The predecessor—Ashborn as he had been—had reached Advanced Knight, with hopes of attaining Silver. A respectable feat. A rare one.
But the arrow that felled him had done more than graze his heart. It had ended that chapter. And now… Desmond lived in his place. A man who, despite awakening aura moments ago, was no more than a Primary Knight in strength. Starting from the bottom.
Yet…
The foundation is solid.
The body is strong.
And the will is mine.
He folded the parchment slowly, placing it aside. "Thank you," he whispered, almost instinctively. Not just to Alde, not just to Valyn. But to the man who came before him. The man whose life he now carried like a second skin. His death had not been in vain.
Ashborn would rise again—not just for the people who looked up to him, not just for the name he now bore…But because the fire inside him was real.
And it was only just beginning to burn.