The last thing Zelo remembered was his eyes closing and the sharp, unforgiving impact of the ground beneath him. A single instant of weightlessness—then pain—then nothing. His existence was swallowed by a blinding flash, wiping him away like he had never been.
But then… how was he seeing this?
How could he remember his own death with such painful clarity? The cold air against his skin, the blood pooling beneath him, the way his fingers twitched and grasped for breath, which was fading. It was impossible, and yet, the memories flashed through his mind, raw and merciless.
And then… nothing.
An endless, suffocating void.
No ground beneath him. No sky above. Nobody. No breath. Only the crushing weight of nothingness pressing in from all sides, coiling around him like a snake.
Panic clawed at him, a suffocating thing. He tried to move—his arms, his legs—anything. But there was nothing to move. He had no form, no presence. Just floating. Drifting. Or maybe not even that. Maybe he wasn't moving at all. Maybe he was trapped.
Was this death?
Idle host detected.
A voice—cold, mechanical, inhuman—echoed through the void. It wasn't a whisper, nor a shout, but something vast and omnipresent, vibrating through his very existence.
Initiating synchronization process…
A sudden jolt surged through him, like a pulse of electricity racing along his nerves. His consciousness seemed to quiver, but then the sensation faded, slipping away like water through his fingers.
Synchronization failed.
The darkness thickened around Zelo again by wrapping him tightly and suffocating him in with its nothingness.
"No—no, wait, what's happening?" He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He had no voice. No mouth. Just thoughts, frantic and clawing at the walls of his mind.
Searching for a new host…
Zelo wanted to run. To escape. But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped in this endless cycle.
Had it been hours? Days? Or mere seconds?
The voice had spoken again and again—always ending the same way.
Failure.
At first, he had fought against it. Screamed. Pleaded. Demanded answers from the void.
What's happening to me?! What is this… host? And what the hell is synchronization?
But the voice never answered. It just continued its cold, calculated loop.
Trapped into this endless cycle, he began to wonder if this was a dream. Or had he become a ghost who was bound to this darkness?
Idle host detected.
His nonexistent heart pounded.
No—no, not again.
Synchronizing with a new host…
Initiating synchronization process…
He braced himself for the inevitable.
Another failure, no doubt.
Synchronization successful.
His thoughts ground to a halt.
What?
Did he mishear that?
No. No, it had never said that before.
Then suddenly—
Pain.
Not the slow, creeping kind. But a sharp, gut-wrenching force tearing through the void like reality itself had cracked apart.
Something yanked at him, an unseen force pulling him down, down, down—through endless nothingness. It was cold at first, then blisteringly hot, his entire existence stretched thin like a rubber band about to snap.
His senses exploded.
A rush of sensations crashed over him in a violent wave.
Weight, heat, and gravity.
A blinding light burned through his eyelids. His lungs screamed, raw and desperate.
With a violent gasp, he inhaled.
Air.
The feeling of it surging down his throat, filling his lungs, was so overwhelming it was almost painful. His body convulsed as if it had never known how to breathe before.
He gasped again, chest heaving, fingers twitching against fabric. Something solid.
A bed?
Zelo blinked rapidly, his vision blurred, like looking through fogged glass. Slowly, his surroundings began to sharpen into focus.
An ornate ceiling. Antique furniture. A patterned wallpaper he didn't recognize. This… this wasn't right.
His heart pounded against his ribs as his gaze dropped to his hands.
They weren't his.
His breath caught in his throat.
What the hell was this?
Zelo's breath came out shaky as he stared at his hands.
Small and tiny.
His fingers curled and uncurled, trembling as he turned his hands over, inspecting every inch. Pale, smooth, delicate. Not his hands.
His stomach twisted.
Something isn't right.
Just moments ago, he had felt the crushing void swallowing him whole. Nobody. No weight. No heartbeat. Just endless nothingness.
And now—
His fingers twitched, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. Blood rushed through his veins. His lungs expanded and contracted, dragging in air that burned his throat.
It's real.
His hands clenched, his nails biting into his palm. He needed to wake up. This had to be a dream. A cruel trick of the mind.
I need to wake up.
His hand shot up to his face, pinching his cheek hard. A sharp sting bloomed beneath his fingers.
Pain was real.
Too real.
His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. He could feel. The warmth of his body, the steady thud of his heartbeat—it was all too damn real.
His eyes darted downward, taking in his form. A child's body. Thin arms. Small legs. Clothes that didn't belong to him.
"What… what happened to me?"
The panic clawed up his throat, suffocating. His chest felt tight, too tight—his body rejecting this reality, his mind screaming at him that this was wrong.
This wasn't his body. This wasn't him.
His breath turned shallow, frantic. If this wasn't a dream—if he wasn't hallucinating—then what the hell was this?
A voice suddenly cut through the whirlwind of his thoughts.
Zelo looked up toward the source of the voice and froze.
A boy stood before him, no older than fifteen. His frame looked muscular, but his skin was sickly pale, blotched with purplish bruises that marred his cheeks and arms. The marks were unmistakable evidence of violence. His dark eyes stared down at the floor, avoiding Zelo's gaze as though even looking at him might bring trouble.
"Your lunch, young master," the boy said in a low voice.
Zelo, already struggling to comprehend his situation, felt a mild headache at the sight of the boy. Young master? The words echoed in his mind, twisting his thoughts further.
Then—
A sharp and unrelenting headache hit him. He clutched his head as memories poured in.
Images. Voices. His own laughter—cruel and mocking. A fist colliding with a frame. The servants cowering in fear. More blows. More suffering. His own hands were the cause of it.
Zelo gasped, his body shaking.
"No... This can't be me."
But the truth settled in like a weight on his chest.
This wasn't his body. This wasn't his life.
His gaze dropped to his trembling hands.
Alaric Kael Drakonis.
That name was now his.
One of the successors to the house of Drakonis. A clan that ruled over the northeast domain of this continent.
Alaric was infamous.
A worthless, crazy young master who was both cruel and a raving psycho.
Zelo's breathing grew ragged as his gaze snapped back to the boy before him—the one holding the tray with quiet, practiced precision. The same boy who, in his mind's eye, had crumpled beneath blows delivered by these very hands.
And another memory surged to the surface—this time, not of his cruelty but of a distant past.
It was a memory of five-year-old Alaric. Ten people knelt before him, heads lowered in respect, waiting to be chosen. This was an important ceremony in the Drakonis family, a tradition passed down for generations. When the successor turned five, they would choose a 'Shadow.' The Shadow was a special servant whose soul was tied to the successor's, their fates connected for life and death.
But the Shadows were not just ordinary servants. They were bound to their master's through a powerful ceremony, a bond that could never be broken. They swore an oath to never betray their master. If a Shadow ever betrayed their master, they would die. Their hearts would burst—literally explode—because the bond between them and their master was so deep. If they ever turned against them, they would be destroyed.
The Shadows were more than just helpers. They were protectors, loyal companions, and trusted partners. They stood by their master's side in every moment, through the battles of succession, and in all moments of life and death. No matter what happened, they were meant to remain forever faithful.
That day the figures that stood in front of Alaric were the best of the best—stronger, faster, and more talented than anyone else. If any sane person were to choose, they would pick one of these skilled and powerful individuals. A warrior with unmatched skill, a mage with great magical power, someone who could stand firm through any trial, and be an unshakable force.
But Alaric hadn't chosen any of them.
His gaze had drifted to the farthest corner of the hall.
A boy.
Small and frail.
He stood apart from the others, the only one who hadn't been trained for this moment.
And yet, Alaric had pointed a finger at him.
"You," he had said.
"Kneel."
The hall grew quiet. Shocked whispers spread through the gathered members of the household. For a successor, choosing a strong Shadow was the first crucial step in their journey to power. But Alaric had just wasted his chance by selecting a broken and weak child.
That day Alaric named him…
Nyx.
Zelo's chest tightened as he blinked back to the present.
Nyx was still there, standing silently, waiting. His face betrayed nothing, trained into an expression of perfect neutrality. But Zelo could see the faint bruises on his wrists, the way his posture was stiff—not from discipline, but from pain.
Pain that had been inflicted by Alaric.
Zelo's stomach twisted violently.
The memories didn't feel real, and yet, they were. They belonged to this body, to this name.
They belonged to this body, to this name.
And now, he was Alaric.
A lunatic young master.