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Days blurred into weeks, each one more suffocating than the last. Ardyn wandered the streets of Mithra like a ghost, a shell of the man he once was. The world around him seemed indifferent to his suffering. The once-admiring crowds turned their eyes away from his broken form, the laughter and chatter of the marketplace now cruel and mocking in his ears.
The reality of his new existence was unbearable. His former strength, his ability to wield mana with the ease of breathing, was all gone. What had once been second nature—drawing on the boundless mana of the world—was now a distant memory, like a dream that slipped further away the more he tried to recall it.
In the squalid alleys where he slept, Ardyn overheard whispers, calling him mad. A once-revered swordsman reduced to a deranged beggar, talking to himself, muttering about stolen bodies and dark rituals. No one believed his tale. No one cared. The world had already moved on.
But something burned in his chest—a tiny flicker of defiance. Ardyn refused to let his story end like this. His mind, though clouded by despair, still held the knowledge of every sword technique, every battle strategy, every ounce of pride that had once made him invincible. He would not fade into nothingness. Not yet.
One evening, while scrounging for scraps, he heard the distant sound of metal clashing—a familiar rhythm that stirred something deep within him. His heart raced, instinct kicking in. He followed the sounds, hoping against hope that it might lead him to something—anything—that could help him reclaim what he had lost.
The fight was taking place in an arena, surrounded by jeering crowds. Two mercenaries were locked in a brutal duel, their swords flashing in the fading light. Ardyn's eyes narrowed as he watched their technique. The movements were rough, unrefined—nothing like the elegance of a true swordsman. But that didn't matter now.
A crowd gathered, tossing coins into the pit as the combatants fought on. The scene reminded Ardyn of the battles he had fought in his prime—crowds cheering, the thrill of combat. But now, all he could feel was the gnawing emptiness of his own powerless body.
Desperation clawed at him as he approached the edge of the arena. He shouted, his voice weak but cutting through the noise. "I can fight better than either of them. Let me show you what true skill looks like!"
The crowd laughed, a chorus of mockery. "Look at this fool. He's just another beggar."
But then, a familiar voice cut through the laughter.
"Ardyn?"
He turned, his heart leaping into his throat. There, standing in the crowd, was Elyra—his fiancée. Her gaze locked onto his, a mixture of shock and disbelief in her eyes.
"You're alive... but what has happened to you?" she whispered, barely audible over the noise.
Ardyn's throat tightened as he fought to hold back the tears. "Elyra… it's me. Please, you have to believe me. They've taken my body. They stole everything."
But before he could explain further, a guard approached, eyeing Ardyn warily. "You're disturbing the peace. Step back, beggar, before we make you."
Elyra's gaze flickered between Ardyn and the guard, her expression torn. "You... You need help. Come with me."
Ardyn's hope surged. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this hell.
But before he could take another step, a sharp pain flared in his chest. A sudden, blinding rush of energy pulsed through his body, and he collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.
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