Aric had always been different. He knew that. The way he had come into this world—waking up in someone else's body, inheriting the memories, the life of Aric Oswin—had already set the stage for a much larger mystery. But it was the details that gnawed at him. The way no one had questioned his lack of skill as the Oswin heir, the way everyone had overlooked his deficiencies with the sword, with the very legacy that had been drilled into Aric Oswin since childhood. His sudden mastery of mana, his rapid progression, the unnatural ease with which he adapted to everything. It was as if the world had accepted him without challenge, without suspicion.
It had all been too convenient.
And then there was the voice. It could manipulate his memories, control his thoughts to a certain extent, even influence those around him. It had guided him, subtly nudging him along a path, and yet, its influence had limits. Aric had felt them. There were moments when the voice seemed unable to push further, when it couldn't simply bend reality to its will.
If it was so powerful, why hadn't it taken full control? Why hadn't it shaped his every action, rewritten his mind completely?
And why, in those rare moments of clarity, did the world around him feel… scripted? As if everything was a performance, a narrative unfolding according to some preordained plan. The people around him, their actions, their reactions, all felt too mechanical, too rehearsed. The trial he had undergone, the prophecy he was supposedly bound to—it all felt like part of some grand illusion, a story being played out. But who was writing it? Who was directing this performance?
The trial had been the final clue, the final crack in the façade. His possession of this body, this life, had never felt entirely real. It was as if he had stepped into a role, taken on the mantle of Aric Oswin, but it was a role that didn't belong to him. He had assumed the life, the responsibilities, but at every turn, something felt... wrong. And as the memories of the trial surfaced, as the voice's influence became more apparent, he began to see the illusion for what it was.
This wasn't reality. Not truly. It was a construct, a carefully woven web of lies designed to keep him trapped, to keep him playing his part. From the very beginning, he had taken over the body of Aric Oswin, but this was never his life. It was never his world. The world around him—the people, the trials, the prophecy—it was all a fabrication.
An illusion.
The realization didn't unsettle him. It didn't bring fear or confusion. It was simply… a fact. And now, standing atop this mountain of corpses, the pieces had fallen into place. The world was wrong, and the voice had been part of it all along.
His hand absently rested on the hilt of his sword, not out of any need for reassurance, but out of habit. The voice had served its purpose, but now, it was exposed. It wasn't a godly being, not truly. It wasn't all-powerful. Its control had cracks, and through those cracks, Aric had seen the truth.
"This world," Aric murmured, almost to himself, "it's a lie."
As soon as the words left his lips, the world began to shift, as though the very fabric of reality had heard and recoiled. The sky above him darkened, then twisted into a cascade of swirling colors—blues bleeding into reds, then purples, then hues that had no name, as though the heavens themselves were breaking apart. The once steady light of the sun vanished, plunging the courtyard into darkness, only for it to reappear on the horizon moments later, rising and setting in rapid succession. Time itself seemed to unravel. Days blinked by in mere moments, the world shifting and morphing as it accelerated through cycles of light and dark.
Aric, however, didn't move. He sat on the mound of corpses, an unmoving figure amidst the chaos, as if untouched by the madness erupting around him. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but the changes of the world barely registered. The ground around him shifted—grass grew tall, then withered and died, only to sprout again moments later. The wind howled, then fell silent.
But none of it mattered.
The voice had been controlling this illusion, bending it to its will, and now it was reacting, almost like a wounded animal thrashing in its death throes. Aric was sure of it now. This world, this reality, was no more real than the memories the voice had tried to manipulate. It was all a stage, a false existence that bent under the pressure of truth.
For how long had this gone on? Days passed, maybe months, as the world continued to warp and break apart around him, yet Aric didn't even blink. Time meant nothing here. The shifting of the world was a mere background noise to his growing understanding. He had pierced through the illusion, and now he was waiting.
Just waiting.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the world snapped back. The sky returned to its normal, dull gray. The sun resumed its place, casting the familiar light across the now-unchanged courtyard. The grass, the wind, the bodies—they all settled as if nothing had ever shifted.
Still sitting atop the mound of corpses, Aric glanced at his hands. There was no rush of power, no sense of control or victory, but there was no doubt in his mind. He had shaken something loose.
The voice returned, its tone more measured this time. "So you've seen through it."
Aric's lips curled into the faintest semblance of a smile, though it never reached his eyes. "And now it's back to normal," he said, gesturing lazily to the once-again still landscape. "How predictable."
The silence lingered for a moment, as though the voice was considering how to respond. And yet, the world had already given him the answer. When confronted with truth, the illusion had cracked, revealing its fragility. Aric had exposed it, and the voice's reaction—resetting the world to its previous state—only confirmed his suspicions.
He had forced its hand.
"And yet," Aric continued, his tone sharper now, "you still think you can keep hiding it from me."
Another silence. Then the voice, quieter now, almost reluctant. "I see you've pieced together more than I anticipated."
Aric's expression remained cold, sharp. "It's all an illusion. The memories, the prophecy, this entire world. But you've kept something hidden from me, haven't you? Something you haven't been able to fully control."
The voice hesitated, a subtle tension lingering in the air.
"You can only bend this world so far," Aric mused, more to himself than to the voice. "You're not as omnipotent as you've made yourself out to be."
The truth was there, just out of reach, and the more the voice tried to obfuscate it, the clearer it became to him. This wasn't just some illusion of his own making. There were rules, constraints, something the voice couldn't break. But why? Why create this elaborate lie? Why allow him to think, to question, to uncover the truth bit by bit?
Aric's eyes sharpened once again. "How long are you planning to hide the rest?"
The silence lingered, as if the voice itself was trying to decide what it could reveal without losing too much. Then, finally, it spoke.
"Not everything is an illusion," the voice replied, calm and measured. "All this is happening for the sake of the prophecy."
"Prophecy?" Aric's tone was sharp, probing. "What prophecy?"
"A prophecy tied to the gods, and to the four mortals who dared to reach godhood," the voice explained. "The divine contract that binds them back. Even the gods cannot control everything—no such thing as absolute power exists. The body you inhabit was meant to fulfill it, but no suitable soul could bear the burden. You are my 76th attempt."
A cold wave passed over Aric. "Seventy-sixth?" His gaze flickered slightly. "What do you mean by 76th? Have I gone through this cycle that many times before?"
"No," the voice responded, its tone growing heavier with every word. "Not you. But the souls who came before you, those who occupied that body."
Aric's mind churned, gears turning in rapid succession, trying to make sense of the implications. The illusion, the trials, the fractured memories—it all pointed to something far darker and more intricate than he'd imagined. "Explain. All of it."
The voice obliged, its words revealing the depths of the situation, each syllable peeling away another layer of the lie.
"The original Aric Oswin—the real one—passed the Trial of the Founder in the real world. He took hold of the Oswin relic, but his journey was not nearly as hard as the one you experienced here. His trial, compared to yours, was... mundane."
Aric's eyes narrowed.
"But despite passing the trial, the original Aric's soul wasn't strong enough. The relic, tied to the prophecy and its burdens, weighed heavily on him. Over time, his soul broke. He couldn't handle the pressure, the expectations, the divine connection. And when his soul shattered, the body—the destined vessel—was left behind. A soulless body of the 'miracle' remained."
Aric sat perfectly still. He could sense where this was going, and it unsettled him in a way he wasn't used to feeling anymore.
"That was an irregularity," the voice continued. "A failure that wasn't part of the prophecy. But the gods—powerful as they are—couldn't just intervene directly. They gave me a fragment of their power, just enough to nudge the prophecy back on track. That's when I began pulling wandering souls from the void."
Aric's lips parted slightly, but he said nothing, listening with an unsettling calm as the truth was laid bare.
"Seventy-five souls before you, all placed into Aric's body. All failed. None of them could withstand the weight of the prophecy, the relic, or the divine expectations. Some crumbled under the illusion. Others rejected the body itself. But none came close to integrating—until you, Elijah."
A faint flicker of emotion tugged at Aric's brow. Elijah, a name that felt distant, foreign now. "So I'm... just another soul? Another attempt?"
The voice paused, almost as if contemplating the gravity of its response. "Yes. But unlike the others, you survived. You adapted. And more than that, you broke through the illusion, something none of the others could do."
Aric felt a strange detachment, as if the revelations weren't unraveling the way they should have. He should feel something. Anger. Disbelief. Anything. Yet, he didn't.
"You see, Elijah," the voice continued, "this illusion was crafted to help you replace the original Aric. It wasn't meant to deceive forever, only to ease the transition. The soul that could withstand this process would be melded into the real body, with memories adjusted as needed. Time runs differently here; only seconds have passed in the outside world."
"And I," Aric—no, Elijah—began, his voice low, steady, "I'm the only one to make it this far."
"Yes. You are the 76th soul, but the first to come this close to completing the process."
Elijah's gaze was distant now, focused on something beyond the physical realm he was in. "So what now? You alter my memories, place me in the real body, and continue this farce?"
"The prophecy is what matters," the voice said, regaining some of its earlier control. "You were never the chosen one. You made yourself the chosen one. You survived where others failed, where the original Aric's soul crumbled. But you've come too far for this to end like the others."
He sat there, absorbing it all. Elijah—or Aric, as he now was—processed the truth, and with it came a strange, grim clarity. The prophecy, the gods, the contract, the illusion—it all felt like strings pulling him in every direction, as though his existence had always been at the mercy of something greater, something predetermined.
"And this prophecy," Aric spoke, his voice a whisper of cold resolve, "is it worth all this?"
"It's what the gods have decreed. The divine contract must be fulfilled."
Aric stood, stepping down from the mound of corpses. His eyes glinted in the fading light. He wasn't sure what he felt, if he even felt anything at all anymore. But one thing was certain: he wasn't going to be just another pawn in this prophecy.
"You made one mistake," Aric said, eyes fixed on the horizon. "I've come this far because I refuse to be broken. You didn't make me the chosen one—I did. And now that I know the truth, you'll have to deal with me on my terms."
The silence that followed was thick, but the voice did not respond. It didn't need to. Both of them knew that the game had just shifted.
...