The sensation was unsettling, a peculiar sense of dissonance. It wasn't just a single detail that felt out of place; rather, it was as if substantial fragments of my existence were askew. The depth and clarity of certain memories and the wealth of knowledge I possessed were undeniable. Yet, they didn't seem to stem from my own lived experiences, more like facts and data amassed over time, devoid of personal attachment or emotional resonance.
Maybe a photographic memory disorder which hasn't yet been discovered, but that is not quite possible as I am intellectually aware of my surroundings but have no recollection of how I stumbled upon this environment.
A soft bed, adorned with white cotton sheets meticulously woven. The room carried a warm ambiance, the woody and sweet scent of incense permeating the air, likely emanating from agarwood, oud, burning on the right bedside cabinet. Half of the incense stick had already been consumed, indicating that 15 minutes had elapsed since someone lit it.
Summoning my strength, I endeavoured to rise, only to be met with a searing agony that seemed to permeate every fibre of my being. Every muscle screamed in protest, every organ ached with discomfort. With a determined effort, I managed to shift my weight, planting my feet firmly on the carpeted floor beside the bed.
The mystery of my current predicament gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. Even if I set aside the peculiarities of my surroundings or refrained from questioning why I found myself in such an unfamiliar place, the excruciating pain that wracked my body was an inescapable reality.
I shut my eyes, focusing inward in an attempt to regulate the flow of energy within me. Within the recesses of my being, I sensed fragments of a dark aura, insidiously consuming my essence from within. My power core felt dangerously unstable. Yet, amidst this turmoil, what truly unsettled me was the paradox of my memory: I retained an intricate understanding of the powers I possessed, but my past was a void, devoid of any recollection or identity.
I felt the energy shift, alerting me to the approach of someone outside the room. The door swung open without a knock, revealing a woman clad in the traditional garb of a nun. She paused at the threshold. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and relief, fixed on me. For a moment, she simply stood there, as if unsure how to proceed.
"You're awake," she finally said, her voice a blend of warmth and cautious concern. She approached the bed slowly, maintaining a respectful distance. "How are you feeling?".
"Thank you," I responded, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. Perhaps she had been tending to me during my unconscious state. At my words, she seemed momentarily taken aback, then quickly regained her composure, her long black hair swaying as she turned.
"There's no need for thanks," she said briskly. She glanced towards the window, hesitating for a moment before she opened the curtains just a sliver, careful not to overwhelm me with sudden light. "Are you feeling any pain? Do you remember what happened?" She asked these questions gently, her tone suggesting she was prepared for any answer, or lack thereof.
"Would you like something to eat? Breakfast is being served now," she offered, her suggestion sounding more like an offer than a statement, not giving me the chance to decline if I wasn't up to it she made her way out of the room in a hurry.
After a brief while, she returned with a tray in her hands, setting it gently on the cabinet beside my bed. On the tray was a simple, steaming bowl of vegetable soup. Its modest appearance suggested it was either tailored to my weakened condition or a reflection of the monastery's typical breakfast fare.
"Please, don't force yourself to eat it if it's not to your liking," she kindly offered, a note of concern in her voice. "It's quite hot, so take it slowly."
I gratefully accepted the bowl, warmth seeping into my palms, providing a subtle, comforting sensation. With a spoon that lay alongside, I carefully tasted the soup, finding its flavours humble yet nourishing.
"It's good," I affirmed, noticing her watching me anxiously from a respectful distance.
Her face brightened with relief. "I'm pleased to hear that. The priest will be coming to see you soon; I've informed him that you're awake."
I nodded in acknowledgment, appreciating her forewarning of the priest's impending visit. The warmth of the soup began to spread through me, a small but significant comfort in my disoriented state.
"May I know where I am?" I inquired, my voice laced with uncertainty.
"You're in the Monastery of Riverbend, located in River Town," she answered, her voice gentle.
"River Town?" I echoed, a sense of unfamiliarity gripping me. "Which estate does this belong to?"
Her expression flickered with surprise, but she quickly regained her composure. "We are part of the Sanctum Dunes," she informed me.
"Sanctum Dunes, in the continent of Lysandor?" I sought clarification, trying to piece together fragments of knowledge.
"Yes, that's correct," she confirmed.
Then, with a hint of curiosity brightening her tone, she asked, "And what might be your name?"
I parted my lips to respond, but a sudden realization hit me – a blankness where my name should have been. Why could I recall details and facts yet not my own identity? A pang of frustration and anger welled up in my chest, not from physical pain, but from the turmoil within.
Observing my troubled expression, the nun's cheerful demeanour faded, replaced by a look of concern. "Do you remember where you're from?" she asked, her voice now tinged with worry.
Do I remember anything about myself? The truth was stark and clear. Shaking my head, I conveyed the unsettling reality of my amnesia to her.
"Do you recall anything about yourself?" she inquired, her voice carrying a hopeful note. But her hope was met with the stark reality of my blank memory. I had no answers to give.
A heavy silence settled in the room, stretching out as neither of us spoke. Finally, she nodded, an empathetic gesture that showed she understood, at least to some extent, the complexity of my situation.
"Don't stress yourself over this," she advised, her tone gentle as she prepared to leave the room. "Just focus on resting. And if there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask any of the nuns here." With these parting words, she quietly exited, gently closing the door behind her.
Left alone in the room, I was engulfed by the silence, a reminder of the tension and mystery surrounding my own existence.
My attention, initially scattered, gradually coalesced on the world outside the window, where the chirping of birds created a lively symphony, a stark contrast to the stillness within.
My eyes wandered over the bustling avian activity, each bird a vibrant streak of life against the green backdrop.
Amidst this dance of nature, one bird stood out — motionless, its gaze unwavering and locked onto mine. It was an oddity in the midst of such frivolity, its stillness almost unnerving.
This was no ordinary bird's gaze. It was intense, penetrating, as if it peered right into the depths of my soul. The world around us seemed to slow down, the chirps of the other birds fading into a distant background chorus. Time itself appeared to pause, the moment stretching out as our gazes remained interlocked.
The bird's eyes, unblinking, bore into me with depth of understanding, pity even. It was as if it recognized not just a person recovering behind the bars, but the turmoil and void within.
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[Carostria, Continent of Daeloria]
In the grand hall of Carostria, the heart of the Daeloria continent, a solemn and tense atmosphere hung heavily. Before us lay six ominous cages, each sealed with potent divine energy, yet unable to fully contain the dark aura seeping from within.
"Their souls are irretrievably lost; resurrection is impossible," I reported assuring to my king.
The scene before us was harrowing, a stark contrast to the usual grandeur of Carostria's hall. Even the mightiest knights and assassins of Daeloria, renowned for their strength and resilience, had retreated from this spot, overwhelmed by the oppressive aura emanating from the lifeless bodies.
Having meticulously inspected the area where the rift in space had appeared, I informed the king of my actions. "I've secured the site and issued orders to restrict access to the nearby desert," I said, my voice steady but laced with concern.
My king, usually a beacon of light and strength, stood silently, his face an unreadable mask. Known for his charisma and ability to inspire both comfort and fear with mere words and gestures, his current silence spoke volumes of the gravity of the situation.
Reflecting on the battle's aftermath, I ventured a hypothesis. "Of the eight Devil Lords, six perished in battle. It's possible that the duke was taken by the two who survived." My voice echoed slightly in the vast hall, awaiting the king's response in the heavy silence.
"If the duke had been captured, these remains wouldn't be here. Our enemies wouldn't squander the power held in these formidable bodies," the king mused, a knowing grin breaking through his solemnity. His expression blended pride in his subjects with an undercurrent of concern. "They were forced to flee."
"Find him," he commanded firmly, his voice resonating with authority. "Spare no effort or resources. He is alive."
He was speaking of the Duke of Carostria, his right-hand man, a figure renowned not just for his strategic brilliance but also for his formidable prowess.
I bowed deeply, acknowledging his order. "As you command, my king." A sense of respect, tinged with an undercurrent of humility, washed over me.
In the past, I had often felt overshadowed by the duke's towering reputation. Yet, in this moment, I couldn't help but marvel at the ordeal he must have endured. The thought lingered in my mind: if faced with the Devil Lords, would I have the strength to vanquish even one? Doubt gnawed at me, even as I prepared to set out on the king's urgent mission.
In the past, the duke's illustrious shadow had often dwarfed my own accomplishments. Yet, now, as I contemplated the harrowing trials he must have faced, a newfound respect stirred within me. Could I have matched his valor against the Devil Lords? This doubt haunted me, even as I prepared to embark on the king's vital quest.
Exiting the grandeur of the castle, I brought a cigar to my lips. With a mere thought, the end glowed to life. A thick plume of smoke swirled around me, a sharp contrast against the crisp morning air. Below, a sea of knights and assassins knelt in unison, a silent testament to their loyalty and readiness.
With a ground-shaking thud, Flamara descended, her massive form casting a vast shadow over the assembly. Her scales, like molten lava, glistened in the sunlight. Her eyes, a fiery blaze, mirrored the ferocity of her spirit. She was more than a mere dragon; she was a legendary creature, a symbol of might and power.
"Spread out across every estate, castle, village, and colony. Leave no stone unturned. You bear the king's command: Find the Duke of Clastoria," I proclaimed, my voice resonating with authority.
As if vanishing into thin air, the assembly dispersed in an instant, each member embarking on their assigned quest. Descending the stone steps, I turned to face Flamara, her breaths heavy with anticipation.
"We set our course for Lysandor," I declared, feeling the weight of our task at hand. "Any aid from their realm could prove pivotal."
Acknowledging my command with a mighty roar, Flamara unfurled her gigantic wings, stirring a gust of wind that swept across the courtyard. Mounting her broad back, I braced myself as we launched into the sky, soaring towards the capital of continent of Lysandor.