Aedhira's ascent back to Fort Blanche was a relentless, quiet grind. The Arstra hummed with a steady, soft resonance as he made his way up through the worn, dark tunnels that seemed endless. The memories of the 998—each a fragment, each a life—pulsed in his mind, trickling in like drops of rain filling an endless reservoir. It was a slow march, and in every passing hour, those memories kept surfacing.
The 998 travelers had a pattern, a mantra almost: Always keep your guard up. It echoed over and over, and with it came instincts, subtle but sharp, fine-tuning his awareness. It felt like wearing glasses for the first time, seeing things more clearly, things that were easy to overlook before. A chip in the rock here. A faint tremor in the tunnel wall there. Each detail fed into the urge to stay on edge.
And he had time—eight more hours, at least, by his estimation, before he'd be back topside. Fort Blanche would be a distant memory by now, the people probably wondering where he'd gone. A whole day had nearly slipped by since he'd left, which meant the Hordemother might already be preparing its next move. He needed a plan, something beyond just reaching the surface; he needed a real strategy.
As he walked, he could feel the Arstra adapting to him, the Omega symbol at his back pulsing gently with each beat of his aehtercor. Elysium had called it a pathway, linking directly between the Ignition rune and his heart. It felt almost like an extra limb, like a new muscle he was only just starting to learn how to flex. The ring of light, like a halo, and the bursts of flame—he could feel their energy coiling within him, raw and wild, but ready to explode at a moment's notice. It was powerful, but he'd need time to learn control.
And then there was that cryptic mention from Elysium about a "Rogue Aide" in the Arstra's systems. The Guard, Elysium had called it. A presence he couldn't sense yet, one he figured had gone dormant. Conveniently, he could leave that one on the back burner for now. With everything he'd learned in such a short span—meeting Astiron, bonding with Nornesh, talking with Elysium, and then even the system… it was a miracle his head hadn't exploded.
Each memory, each life from the 998, was like a stone in the middle of his path, something to either trip over or step around. It would take him much more than just two weeks to process all of this. And with the Hordemother still lurking, ready to unleash her forces on them at any time, he knew he wouldn't have the luxury of leisurely introspection. There were things he had to act on now, starting with sorting out what actually mattered from the memories.
Some things he could immediately rule out—anything related to Ascension, for instance. That wasn't something he could even aim for. Ascendants were an entirely different breed, an evolution he wasn't built to reach. No organic growth spurt would magically level him up, no inner revelation would unlock some ultimate power. Aedhira was made, not born, and he had to operate within the confines of his design.
The Archives themselves held tantalizing pieces of history, but anything Ascendant-related was a dead end for him. He'd been a soldier in the making, a leader, maybe even a hero. But not an Ascendant. That truth was a bitter one, but it simplified things. Anything that didn't fit into his frame of possibility, he discarded without a second thought.
The hours crawled by. As he climbed, Aedhira kept pulling from the memories, sorting, compiling. Most were warriors, strategists, people who'd led in times of chaos, whose experiences taught him to think two, even three steps ahead. It was through them that he began to lay out a real plan. The Hordemother would come, that was certain, and she would come with everything she had.
He scanned through combat tactics, skimming memories of sieges and survival tactics, flipping through different perspectives and figuring out the best way to protect not just himself but everyone he'd brought to Fort Blanche. Fortifications, resource management, even subtle guerrilla maneuvers—bits and pieces of different lives layered into his consciousness, taking form as strategies.
Around the sixth hour, a particular memory resurfaced, sharp and vivid. It was from a young tactician, someone who'd survived a siege against impossible odds. Their plan had been focused not on brute strength but on deception, on creating illusions, exploiting weaknesses. They'd crafted traps from the very ground they stood on, using their surroundings to their advantage. This was something he could use—maybe not in the exact way, but enough to plant the seed of an idea.
Fort Blanche had its secrets, he knew that much. And with Argos out there, hopefully tracking down that ship left behind by the Lokirians, there was potential for something big. An exit, a way to get everyone out before the Horde hit.
But in case things didn't go that smoothly, he'd need layers of defense, contingencies. Aedhira grinned to himself, despite it all. Astiron, that clever, plotting mastermind, had accounted for so much already. Even if Aedhira had limits, he wouldn't be stuck with them forever.
As for growing stronger—Aedhira had the means right in his heart, literally. With the aehtercor channeling ether through him, his body would gradually toughen up, getting reinforced by sheer exposure to that ether flow. The Arstra, too, would probably gain strength, almost like it was its own living thing. The process would be slow, though, like molasses over cold stone, but he could speed it up if he pushed himself, kept active. Regular "exercise" wouldn't be a problem either; he was already on his way to the surface, after all. Every step up, every ounce of force he exerted, it'd all count.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "By the time I reach the fort, I might just be able to handle that elemental guardian without scrambling around like a panicked wasp."
Not that he wasn't grateful for the... let's call them upgrades. The memories of the 998 travelers had settled in, each instinct, each lesson sharpened through countless battles, wars, and more. It felt raw, but familiar. He'd learned without really learning, his body remembering things before his mind could even catch up.
And speaking of new skills, one in particular leapt out from the sea of abilities he'd absorbed. It had a strange allure, almost like it was pulling him toward it—not literally, of course, but it might as well have been. It was more than a technique; it was almost a calling.
[Vraal'thakar As'thyn]. The words alone felt ancient, weighty. Roughly translated, it meant something like The Echoing Song of Deeds. Aedhira could feel the weight of its legacy just reading the name.
The description read like a story, more legend than skill. Supposedly, it was an art crafted by a nomadic clan called the Thal'khet. They weren't just storytellers; they were wanderers who wove their own experiences, their whole lives, into the stories they told. Instead of fighting legendary monsters or saving worlds, they took on their own inner struggles, choosing to face personal battles as much as external ones. It wasn't some high-octane magic where you just cast and win. This art was... deeper. It was about digging into the weight of past experiences and calling up their strength through something called the Zhar'thul Verses. These verses could turn memories into raw power.
Aedhira ran his thumb over the edge of his gauntlet. "So... it's not like magic. More like... channeling the past?" He thought about it, attempting to distill it all into something manageable. The more he considered it, the more he realized the strength of the Vraal'thakar As'thyn wasn't about absolute force.
It was unpredictable, like catching lightning in a bottle. He'd draw on whatever experience came to mind in the moment, whether it was a triumph or a loss, bravery or despair. The verses, the Zhar'thul Verses, were like pulling threads of power from memories, threading them into his own strength. Each chant, each phrase was a reminder that every story held some kind of power, even if it didn't seem like it.
Summing it up, Aedhira could picture himself recounting it to someone: "Think of it as... reliving a memory so hard it makes you stronger. Or faster. Or just... wiser. Whatever you need." He grinned. "It's basically weaponizing nostalgia."
Aedhira grinned internally, and on his visor, that same crooked, fiery smile returned, smudging his helmet's dark surface with a ghostly flare. It'd give even a wraith the chills, especially in the dim stretch of this metal corridor. His greaves clinked along, ringing against the silence, each step kicking a small metallic echo.
The whole thing—the skill, the art, whatever it was—had a weird logic to it. He'd be thrown into the front lines one way or another, and this "Echoing Song of Deeds" would keep track, adding every victory, even every near-disaster, into a story he could call upon. Not some constant boost to his strength, no, but more like a personal legend building up, one clash at a time. At the end of it, he'd have a chronicle, some sort of power stored in the verses he could call out in battle. He had no idea how well he'd measure up against the seasoned users he'd seen in those hazy, gifted memories, but it didn't bother him much. He had time.
The traveler who'd used it before, one of the 998, hadn't really appreciated the art, not as Aedhira planned to. He'd used it sparingly, as if he didn't even believe in it. The echoes of that life Aedhira inherited only gave him a glimpse, but in that one memory, the art had completely changed the outcome. "Turning the tide," Aedhira thought, feeling the weight of that potential. Sure, it had the drawback of breaking down the user's body if they drew too much at once. But Aedhira was different; he had the aether-infused strength of something not-quite-organic. So, he figured he'd have a little more room to play, though he kept a mental note not to test those limits unless he really had to.
At least, not yet.
Besides, it wasn't like he had that much of a story to pull from yet anyway. He'd need more. Far more.
Aedhira considered his options. As much as he'd been given a powerhouse of reflexes and instincts from those 998 travelers, it still left a pretty glaring question. What exactly would he be, in the thick of it? Combat wasn't like some orderly game; it was chaos, and in chaos, the simpler roles tended to stick.
Alright, so… maybe he wasn't the supportive type; he didn't have the toolkit for healing, or that gentle hand to tend to the wounded. That was clear enough. Specialist, on the other hand, was a bit hazier—a role that covered a little bit of everything. He could see that maybe being a fit, but only as a fallback. Damage dealer, though? He was sturdy enough for it, and it'd be a good start, even if he didn't exactly scream "tank."
He smirked under his visor. Guess he'd figure it out when it mattered most, or maybe just as things came his way. As much as he liked to plan, sometimes you had to let battle be the teacher. In the meantime, he'd get the Ignition Ring—or whatever name he'd come up with for it—under control. He couldn't go flinging that power around without knowing how it'd respond, but he wasn't about to take all day on it either.
"Eight hours?" he mused, chuckling softly to himself. "I can work it out in four. Maybe five, tops."
----
[POV - MIYU]
Miyu found herself alone again in the cafeteria, absently poking at her tray as she took another bite of Xar'qul. The alien tendrils had been an acquired taste, but, after days of eating them, she'd come to like the odd chewiness and mild spice. It was leagues better than what she'd been stuck with since arriving in Veria—half-stale street food she barely managed to scrounge up. Stolen scraps on her worst days.
A sigh slipped from her as she pushed down the old memories, resolving to enjoy the Xar'qul while it lasted. Veria had taught her the hard way that good things rarely did. She'd gone from the streets of Greece to the unforgiving lands of this alien world, separated from everything she'd known. Earth. Home. And her brother.
She smiled, a little sad, thinking of him. He'd always been a bit of a dreamer, obsessing over isekai stories, fantasizing about being whisked away to some world where he'd have unmatched power and endless adventures. She used to roll her eyes at it, but now, thinking about his ridiculous escapades and how he dragged her along into them, it was a comfort.
Lost in thought, Miyu kept munching on Xar'qul, the taste fading into the background as she reopened her status window.
Status
Age - 19
Presumed Rank - D - Dynamika
Titles - No Titles
Level 24
Class - Classless - No Class Benefits
HP - 160
MP - 485
Vigor - 11
Strength - 10
Endurance - 23
Mind - 32
Intelligence - 33
Dexterity - 23
Skills
Melody of Mana - lv2 Resonance - lv1 Arsenal of Song - lv3 Steal - lv5 Hide Presence - lv20 Pickpocket - lv8 Sense Mana - lv3 Mana Core - lv5
Traits
Traveler - Immune to Age, Disease. Resistant to status debuffs. Honorary Denizen of Veria - Will be treated as a Denizen of Veria. Middling Mana Affinity Paranoid Instincts
Letting the screen hover in front of her, Miyu leaned back with a faint smirk. Sure, she wasn't exactly OP, but she had a decent setup…