"How is the boy faring, Martinase?" asked the elder gentleman, his seated silhouette imposing against the dim glow from the hearth. His stoic countenance bore no discernible emotion, his gaze as sharp, cutting through the room to meet the doctor's eyes. The crisscross of time was deeply etched into his face; wrinkles adorned his mouth and furrowed his brows. Patches of hardened, discolored skin coloring its entire surface. Yet, his most notable feature was the rugged scar, running like a violent river from his brow to his cheekbone, partially obscuring his left eye and leaving a whitened, puckered remnant in its wake. His physique was lean, a well-aged sculpture of sinew and strength, with broad shoulders exuding an air of quiet endurance.
"That lad is recovering just fine now, Mr. Garnier. He may have suffered some memory loss, but other than that, I haven't observed any further complications," the doctor offered a note of reassurance.
"Have you verified that he wasn't possessed? Such a scenario is a risk we cannot afford," Garnier emphasized, his tone hardened with caution.
"I had the same concern. However, his behavior displayed no hallmark signs of possession. Even so, I conducted a thorough examination of his soul lantern stored in the town hall, just to err on the side of caution. As the progeny of former council members, his soul signature was well-documented. All seemed in order. Finn and his boys just knocked him out real good." the doctor explained.
"The village elder continues to test the boundaries of his authority. He's overstepping and conflicting with our interests," Garnier remarked, his muscular hands rhythmically clenching and unclenching like a beating heart echoing his disquiet.
"Everyone seems to be turning a blind eye to his actions," Martinase noted, a touch of disappointment marring his voice.
"Attempting to seize the property of those who perished in the last beast wave, he's directly undermining our interests. Keep a close watch on him; I sense trouble brewing. His son being involved in this case stinks of that youngling."
"Rest assured, I will remain vigilant," Martinase vowed, his resolve shining clear in his eyes.
With a firm nod, he took his leave, disappearing into the fading evening light, leaving Mr. Garnier alone with his thoughts in the dimly lit room.
***
Like a statue chiseled from obsidian, Azrael stood, stark against the somber canvas of his room.
The surrounding darkness seemed to drink in every beam of light, leaving only a single, silver sliver that pierced the gloom and bathed his body in an otherworldly luminescence. He felt an uncanny detachment as he studied the alien reflection staring back at him from the mirror. Here, in this pool of silence, he could scrutinize his current form with an analytical eye.
His hair fell midway down his neck, slicked back in a manner that emphasized his introspective, dark eyes. They were portals into a world that had seen countless years and yet held an almost childlike fascination for this new reality he found himself in.
His finger traced a deliberate path along the topography of his own skin - over the crisscross of veins, the subtle swell of muscle beneath the pallid expanse of his forearm. It traveled languidly, like a wandering creature mapping its own journey, climbing the rugged ridges of his bicep, pausing at the apex.
His thumbnail, sharp and unforgiving, bore into his flesh, a gradual onslaught of pressure that echoed an intimate dance between pain and pleasure. His skin buckled under the assault, giving birth to a single bead of ruby-red blood, a pristine droplet that welled up from the deep abyss of his being.
The sensation surged through him, an electrical storm under his skin, a tumultuous uprising that rattled his very bones. It was invigorating, each ripple of the storm a roaring declaration of his presence, an affirmation of his existence within the world. It was a tangible lifeline, one that pulsed vibrantly within his veins, offering a vital connection between the solitary man and the living, breathing world outside. Each beat of his heart echoed the sensation, a rhythmic drum that roared 'alive' with every pulsating beat, reverberating the truth throughout the marrow of his bones, the fabric of his being.
Suddenly, his lips twitched - a brief flicker of a moment that whispered the dawn of a change. It grew slowly, creeping upwards until it conquered his features, a smirk that bloomed like a nocturnal flower unfurling beneath the gaze of the moon. Gradually, that quiet transformation gave way to a more vibrant emotion, one that bubbled up from the depths of his soul, a raw energy that refused to be contained.
"HAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAH!"
His laughter erupted from within him. It echoed, ricocheting off the barren walls of the chamber.
"I am alive. Alive and breathing."
Indeed, he had been reborn, remade, and reforged from the shackles of his past. His old life, a cocoon of worn-out chapters and faded ink, had not been discarded, instead, they had become new colors that allowed the emergence of a new narrative. The past had become nothing more than a prelude to his new existence, a prologue that was left behind as he embraced the promise of a new dawn.
He had been granted a renewed lease on life.
A new lease brimming with second chances and unexplored paths. He was no longer a captive of the past but a pioneer in the endless expanse of his future, dancing in the chaotic symphony of the present.
"Enough," he whispered, taming the ecstatic high that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew better than to let his emotions run rampant.
Expression in a contained environment was good, but unchecked outbursts were lethal.
Experimentally, he flexed his muscles, delighting in the way they obeyed his commands.
"Truly fascinating. Someone managed to transplant my soul without causing any disconnection from the body. Usually, in such situations, there'd be a brief lag in my movements, given the unfamiliarity of the new form. Yet, that doesn't appear to be the case here."
His arms reached upward in a balletic stretch, reveling in the tension of his muscles as he pushed his flexibility to new limits. A litany of poses and movements unfolded from his body as he began experimenting with various poses and movements, feeling the contours of his balance, gauging his agility.
"It's decent," he murmured, "Equivalent to starting with a blank slate, but it's more than enough. I have numerous ways to enhance this body's condition."
The Abyssal Subcontinent, an unforgiving realm of constant turmoil and danger, held dominion over the lives of those who dared to tread its treacherous landscape. It outstripped the perils of other continents, raising the stakes in a world where humans found themselves grappling at the very bottom of the food chain. The scavenger camps, teeming with danger, became hotbeds of deadly threats, originating not just from monstrous beings lurking in the shadows but also from their fellow men.
Existence was a relentless gauntlet of survival, the possibility of each day becoming one's last. Danger cloaked at every twist and turn. Only the most skilled and resilient could hope to survive.
Every drop of sweat shed in the pursuit of physical enhancement could potentially buy a few more precious seconds of life. There, strength, resilience, and recovery were not mere lofty ideals but tangible lifelines; they were the fundamental prerequisites for survival.
Azrael pledged to honor this new body, pushing its limits and challenging the thresholds of endurance and combat, as he had done in his past life.
Bowing down, Azrael knelt on the hard floor, his fist clenched as he slowly drew it across his forehead. He placed his other hand solemnly over his heart, bowing low in a show of deep respect.
"Hail and perseverance to thee, brave Abyssal kin. May your blades never dull. May your will remain unbroken. May you thrive in the domain of the wolf," he spoke, each word imbued with rare sincerity.
This gesture of reverence signified the pinnacle of respect and admiration among the Fogborns, the indigenous humans of the Abyssal Subcontinent.
"I shall embrace your essence, your identity, and bestow upon it the greatest gift within my means—survival in the pursuit of strength, unhampered by regret or sorrow."
Azrael's mind flitted back to his conversations with Cain, replaying their discussions about history, which shed some light. From their interaction, he managed to piece together some information, beginning to weave the threads of Cain's recounted history into a comprehensive picture
Dark Medieval Era. Dubbed the Epoch of Innovation by the current generation.
It was a period of monumental significance. An epoch shrouded in grandeur and resplendence. An age where humanity flourished, boldly staking their claim amongst the variant humans that vied for dominance. Humankind emerged victorious against the encroaching tides of pressure, asserting its strength.
However, the calamity halted the aspirations of every race across the continents. An apocalypse, cataclysmic and unforgiving, wrought havoc on the Abyssal Supercontinent during the height of the era, snuffing out lives in a torrential maelstrom of destruction.
As survival took precedence over conquest, more primal desires blossomed, redirecting their focus toward preservation rather than domination.
This apocalypse shattered the supercontinent, reshaping the geographical face of the world.
Fracturing the colossal landmass, its remnants gave rise to a new continent entirely: the Sunhavenia Borderlands.
Azrael, a Rank 6 in the throes of that doomsday, vividly recalled the futile resistance against the impending doom. A lone figure attempting to quell the storm, only to be discarded mercilessly by the calamity's unyielding onslaught, swept away like a fragile reed in the tempest.
Even the distant continents, although spared from the immediate fury of the cataclysm, bore witness to its aftermath. Desolation pervaded every corner, a relentless wave of sorrow swallowing the vibrant life that once thrived.
Much of the wisdom from that time had succumbed to the merciless attrition of time, leaving behind only fragments of a glorious past. Now, eons later, Azrael, a phantom from the bygone era, found himself alive once more. Unfamiliar yet familiar, in the Sunhavenia Borderlands. He existed in a timeline alien to him, standing on soil that was once home, now estranged by the relentless flow of time.
And yet, he was alive.
A weary sigh escaped Azrael's lips.
"Could the great era truly be upon us?"
The first words he heard from the doctor echoed the impending great era.
Yet, every generation believed as much. The sweet allure of the prophecy had always been a siren call to those who yearned for change since the prophecy's inception. Every generation, since the dawn of the prophecy, believed themselves to be the chosen ones. They saw the signs in every mundane event and interpreted them to be the breadcrumbs leading to the grand feast of the great era. They were convinced, each with a fervor as potent as the one before, that the prophecy's culmination would transpire within their own lifetime.
The prophecy sang a ballad of the mighty falling from their celestial thrones, their star-like brilliance dimming in the face of impending change. Power, that elusive mistress that had once nestled in the palms of a privileged few, would suddenly break free from its gilded cage. It would rain down like celestial dust, its golden particles scattering into the wind, settling in the most unexpected places. It would be within reach, no longer a distant star in the firmament of the privileged but a tangible entity, attainable and accessible to those who dared reach out their hands. This shift would not come without a price, for with such change came a stirring in the shadows. The prophecy foretold of a dark awakening, a dawning of an era where entities forgotten by time and cloaked in the obsidian mantle of oblivion would stir. These creatures, their presence echoing the primal fears etched into the hearts of all, would emerge from the depths of the world, their slumber disrupted.
Vague as it might be, some people held on to the belief with blind faith, clinging to the precipice of anticipation, hoping to partake in the transformation that the prophecy promised.
Oracle of Emptiness. The Guardian of Humanity. The Forefather of Fate
The Rank 8 Expert had many names; he predicted a monumental epoch where gods and mortals would falter alike.
He was an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, cloaked in mystery.
His profession had rendered him crippled.
However though blind to the physical world, he was privy to the intricate dance of fate and destiny.
Stripped of his ability to hear the mundane chatter of the world, he was attuned to the ethereal whispers of time, its secrets unraveling before him like an open scroll.
His voice, while silenced to the common tongue, transcended the limitations of the present, his voice ringing through the cavernous expanse of history.
His premonitions, uncannily accurate, provided a ray of hope amidst the torrential downpour of despair that the world's recurrent calamities invoked. His words guiding humanity toward survival time and again. Revered as a saint by some and worshipped by many, his influence was undeniable.
It was said that the Oracle, in the final moments of his existence, had spoken audibly, shattering the silence that had hitherto been his constant companion. He spoke in the present, his voice a profound whisper that reverberated through the hearts of those who listened.
"Three strike alike to merge as one. Three converging into unity. The relentless floods surge upon the three golden crows."
These cryptic words lingered, passed from generation to generation.
The prophecy's subtle hints were made abundantly clear to Azrael as he gazed upon the celestial trio of suns that graced the sky. A part of the foretold had already come to pass.
Azrael could feel the undercurrents of a grand plot, the waves of which seemed to converge on him. His rebirth, he discerned, was apart someone's plot.
"It seems that the time is drawing near."
"To each their own. Anyone who wants my help would have to pay the price for using me. Whoever they are, they will not be able to wield me as they please." his expression hardened.
"I must amass strength to break free from the shackles of fate."
"To achieve this, I require power."
As he peered into the polished mirror, his reflection shimmered back at him, a familiar stranger staring from the silvery surface. His gaze penetrated through the veneer of his current self, delving into the labyrinth of memories that dwelled within the depths of his soul.
"My previous accomplishments mean nothing." his voice somberly punctuating the air with stark reality.
He would no longer be Azrael Vouldhound. The Formless Whisperer. The Dreamwalker.
His reflection, once the mirror image of a figure adorned with myriad titles and accolades, was now simply Osric, a man on the precipice of his journey.
Now, he would don the guise of Osric Devereux, the son of Valven and Melinda of the Silverglade Village, an individual unmarred by the burden of his former life.
In this new life, he would start anew, a blank canvas waiting to be painted with fresh accomplishments.
A blank slate.