The dim light of the library flickered as if responding to my resolve. Shadows danced on the walls, taking on strange shapes that seemed almost alive, a testament to the eldritch presence always lurking at the edges of reality here. A chill seeped into the air, but I forced myself to focus.
I turned the page, carefully, my eyes scanning over rows of ancient text, each line brimming with cryptic symbols and forgotten stories. The book was unlike any other I'd come across. The words seemed to shift as I read them, letters twisting and reshaping. The tree's roots were like veins, sprawling across the page, connecting to what looked like fragments of a lost language.
A faint whisper echoed in my mind, a voice not my own but one I was becoming disturbingly familiar with. It tugged at my thoughts like a child demanding attention, its presence both unsettling and oddly compelling.
"Curiosity gnaws at you, doesn't it? But some doors are better left unopened, Aric."
I tried to ignore the voice, clenching my jaw in frustration. It never spoke plainly—always in cryptic riddles, always shrouded in half-truths. But it lingered in the back of my mind, like an itch that couldn't be scratched.
My eyes drifted to the margins of the ancient page. There, scribbled in an elegant but weathered hand, were faint symbols—strange, flowing script that seemed foreign, older than the book itself. Words of an unknown tongue, lost to time.
I couldn't read them. Yet, as my eyes traced the faded ink, the voice in my head stirred once more. This time, it wasn't the usual murmur. It was sharper, more insistent. And then, it spoke.
"Seek the root, find the source, But beware, little pawn, of the course. For this game you tread, night and day, Is not yours alone to play."
The words were not in any language I recognized, yet they echoed in my mind with unsettling clarity.
"What the hell is happening?", my voice barely a whisper.
As the voice spoke, the world around me shifted, bending and twisting, as if reality itself was unraveling at the seams. I felt the ground lurch beneath my feet, my vision dimming. The library, the book, the very air dissolved into shadows.
Suddenly, I wasn't there anymore.
I stood in a vast expanse of nothingness, save for a single tear in the sky—a jagged wound that stretched across the horizon, as if someone had ripped the heavens apart. From the tear, shadows spilled like ink, twisting and writhing with life. Through the opening, I could see... something.
A land, broken and desolate, where mountains bled molten rivers and the air shimmered with dark energy. Shadows moved beneath the fractured sky with a purpose, with hunger. It was as though the very essence of the place breathed malice, a living nightmare stirring just beyond the veil of this shattered world.
My heart pounded. I could taste the rot in the air, feel the weight of unseen eyes crawling over my skin. Something in that endless expanse of desolation felt disturbingly familiar.
The tear in the sky pulsed, and a low, guttural whisper slithered into my mind, distant but clear.
"Where the Veil thins and roots entwine, the Forgotten Continent waits beyond time."
And then, the vision shattered.
I stumbled back, gasping as reality reasserted itself around me. The familiar stillness of the library returned, its stone walls and towering shelves a stark contrast to the haunting image still burned into my mind. My hands clung to the edge of the table, my knuckles white, as if it were the only anchor tethering me to this world.
My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, and I wiped the sweat from my brow with a trembling hand. Everything looked exactly as it had moments before—no tear in the sky, no shadows creeping at the edge of perception. Just books and silence.
But the feeling... the gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach didn't fade. It clawed at my thoughts, refusing to let go, like a splinter lodged deep in my mind.
I stared at the book, the pages still open to the sketch of the tree, the faint scribbles in the margins. Nothing had changed, yet everything felt different. The symbols—the ones I couldn't read—had triggered something. They had opened a door, and now that door could never fully be closed again.
My mouth went dry. "The Forgotten Continent..." I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My voice sounded small in the vast silence of the library.
Was that what the vision had been? A glimpse of that place? To think it was real... something I had only ever heard in passing, a fragment of forgotten lore. But now, it felt tangible. Terrifyingly so.
I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. "Isn't that what the vision meant? The Forgotten Continent... why hadn't Father told me? He knew something, didn't he?" My voice cracked with frustration.
I'd pored over the other books, the scraps of myth and history. I had read about the Continent—just rumors, vague references, nothing concrete. But this? This had been more than words on a page. This had been real, visceral. I had seen it. Felt it.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing mind. If Father had known—and I was certain now that he had—then why hadn't he prepared me for this? Why leave me in the dark? What else had he hidden from me?
I glanced back down at the symbols in the margins. They seemed to shimmer slightly, as if taunting me. I couldn't read them, but I knew they held answers. The question was: did I really want to know what lay hidden within them?
The whisper of the vision echoed in my thoughts, chilling me to the bone. "The roots meet the earth where the Veil is thin."
"Fucking hell, I did not sign up for all this shit."
...
The sun had barely risen, casting a thin, pale light across the training grounds of the Oswin estate. The area was a stark contrast to the serene library I had been in—now, it was filled with the sounds of clashing steel and heavy breathing. Alistair, my mentor, seemed to thrive in this chaotic environment. His presence was a constant reminder of the high stakes awaiting me in the Trial of the Relic.
"Focus!" Alistair's command was sharp, as his sword came crashing down toward me.
I barely managed to parry the blow, the impact sending a jarring tremor through my arms. Sweat trickled down my face, stinging my eyes. My muscles were already sore from the previous day's training, but Alistair showed no mercy. His expectations were as relentless as the blows he delivered.
Each day, my training intensified. Alistair seemed to take a perverse pleasure in pushing me to the brink of exhaustion. My body was adjusting to the newfound strength and instincts, but it was a constant struggle. Every movement felt like an effort to master not just the sword, but the powerful force that surged through me—an influence that felt alien and yet inescapably tied to the relic.
It wasn't just the physical exhaustion that plagued me. My mind was in turmoil, a tempest of memories both sealed and unsealed. I would sometimes find myself lost in thought, staring blankly at the practice yard, fragments of my past and Aric's overlapping in a chaotic dance. There were those visions from before and mainly the whispers which torment me randomly.
In one moment, I'd be reliving a battle from my past life—sharp steel, the scent of blood and sweat. In the next, I'd be haunted by flashes of Aric's memories—his mother's face, the anguished expression of a woman whose life had been abruptly cut short.
It was during one particularly brutal training session that the turmoil became almost unbearable. I was drenched in sweat, struggling to keep up with Alistair's relentless pace, when a new memory surged to the surface—one of Aric's deepest and most painful recollections.
...
The memory was vivid: a small, dimly lit room, the scent of antiseptic mingling with something more metallic. Aric's mother lay on a narrow bed, her face pale and gaunt. The room was filled with soft weak breathing, a constant reminder of the fragility of life.
"Stay strong, Aric," her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried a weight that seemed to press down on my chest even now. "Your father needs you to be strong."
The memory was a jarring contrast to the violent present. I blinked, struggling to return to the here and now, but the image of Aric's mother lingered, casting a shadow over my movements. It was as though her death had been a catalyst for the skills and mindset I now wielded, shaping Aric into the man he had become—and, by extension, shaping me.
...
I staggered back from Alistair's latest attack, my breath ragged. He stepped back, eyes narrowed with disapproval.
"You're distracted," he growled. "This isn't a game, Oswin. If you can't focus, you'll never make it through the Trial. And if you fail, it won't be just your pride on the line."
I nodded curtly, wiping sweat from my brow. The weight of his words pressed heavily on me, but I wasn't given a chance to recover.
Alistair's scrutiny was matched by another presence that had been increasingly impossible to ignore—Julian Oswin, a distant cousin who had always looked down on me with a thinly veiled contempt. He watched from the sidelines, his expression a mixture of disdain and pity.
"You really think you can handle the Trial?" Julian's voice cut through the clamor, a sneer on his lips. "I've seen you train. If you can't even master a basic stance, how do you expect to live up to the legacy of the Oswin name?"
Julian's words were a jarring contrast to Alistair's harsh but focused criticism. The rivalry between us had simmered for years, but now it felt more personal. His presence was a constant reminder of my perceived inadequacies and fueled the pressure to excel—or at least, not to fail spectacularly.
"I don't need your approval," I snapped, turning to face him. "I have enough to deal with without your interference."
Julian's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the training grounds, his departure as abrupt as his arrival.
The encounter with Julian only intensified the storm within me. Struggling to reconcile Aric's past with my own identity, I found myself tangled in a web of relentless training and conflicting memories. Julian's presence had been like a cruel reminder of my limitations, his mockery amplifying the internal chaos. The vision of the Forgotten Continent and the impending Trial of the Relic seemed to fuel his cruelty, turning my personal struggle into his own twisted game.
"Tsk!"
By the end of the day, as I collapsed onto a bench, my body and mind were utterly spent.
"I am so fucking tired. Why am I being forced to do all this? I want my lavish life as Elijah back."
The words echoed in my mind, a desperate cry against the relentless grind of my training. Each day felt like a battle not just against my physical limitations but against a dark unknown that loomed ever closer. The Trial of the Relic was no mere challenge; it was a race against shadows that threatened to unravel everything I thought I knew.
"Damn it, why couldn't I be like those other people who got transmigrated into games they'd played multiple times, using that fucking knowledge to breeze through?"
The thought gnawed at me, and I couldn't help but mock the absurdity of it all.
"Seriously, it's almost laughable," I mused, shaking my head. "Here I am, tossed into this world with no instruction manual, expected to navigate the chaos on my own. Meanwhile, those transmigrated fuckers who've got the cheat codes still manage to screw up the storyline. Like, come on, stick to the plot and get your shit together. If they can't even keep it all tied up with all their advantages, what hope do I have?"
sigh
In the quiet of the training hall, as night fell and the stars began to peek through the windows, I stared at the blade resting beside me. The sword, a symbol of strength and legacy, now seemed like a heavy burden.
"Who am I? Aric? Elijah? Both? Or none?" I muttered to the empty room, my voice barely a whisper against the silence. I genuinely didn't know anymore. The identity I had once clung to felt like a distant memory, obscured by the dark tides of fate that had thrust me into this twisted reality.
...