Chapter 1: The Last Breath of Steel
Eryk Ardent's sword clattered against the stone floor with a deafening thud, its polished steel now dulled by age and neglect. His body trembled, the effort of drawing breath an excruciating reminder of the illness that had stolen his strength. The once-proud sword instructor, now little more than a husk of his former self, could feel his life slipping away with each shallow breath.
The dimly lit chamber around him, adorned with trophies and old war banners, felt suffocating. The scent of old wood and iron hung thick in the air, like the remnants of a forgotten legacy. Eryk's sharp blue eyes, once the pride of his disciplined, battle-hardened frame, flickered with regret as he stared at the blade on the floor.
"I should've—" His voice cracked, the words lost to the void of his failing lungs. He had always prided himself on being a master of his body, a weapon honed by years of intense training. But now, in the cold grip of death, even his skill with a blade was useless. His hand, once steady and unyielding, trembled as it reached out for his sword again, but he was too weak.
The regret clawed at him. He had lived his life for others—his students, his comrades, the people he had sworn to protect. He had given everything to the art of the sword, yet in the end, it was not enough. The cough that wracked his body was painful, sharp, and relentless, a cruel reminder of his impending demise. His body was failing, but his mind was sharp, and in his final moments, his thoughts were consumed with one thing—legacy. He had none. His name would fade with him, forgotten as soon as his final breath left his body.
It was then, in the stillness of that forsaken room, that a voice echoed in his mind, foreign and ominous.
"You have regrets, Eryk Ardent. Regrets that bind you to this death. But there is still a path forward for you, a chance for a second life. Would you not take it?"
Eryk froze. The voice was not his own, and yet it felt oddly familiar. He strained his failing senses, trying to find the source of the sound, but there was nothing. No one was here. Only the lingering echoes of his thoughts.
The voice spoke again, its tone patient but insistent.
"I offer you a second chance, a new life in a world where your power, your strength, can be restored. You will be born anew, Eryk Ardent. Would you accept?"
A new life. The idea seemed too absurd to even consider. Eryk's chest tightened as he coughed again, but through the haze of pain, something flickered—an ember of hope, however faint. It was all he had left.
"Why me?" he managed to rasp, though the words felt strange in his mouth.
"Because you are worthy," the voice replied cryptically. "Because your soul carries a legacy that has not yet been fulfilled. You are not yet done, Ardent."
Eryk's vision blurred as the world around him seemed to warp and twist, as if reality itself were bending to accommodate the weight of his decision. The air in the room thickened, suffocating him, and for a moment, he thought he might choke on the very idea. But then, something inside him broke. The final pieces of his pride and regret crumbled away, like dust carried on a wind he could not see, but felt in his bones.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. "Yes. I will take it. Whatever you offer."
The room seemed to shimmer, and before Eryk could fully comprehend what was happening, his body was lifted from the cold stone floor. The air crackled with power, and in that instant, his world collapsed into darkness.
---
When Eryk next opened his eyes, it was to the oppressive silence of an unfamiliar place. The first thing he noticed was the cold. It seeped into his skin, gnawing at him, filling him with an uncomfortable chill. His hands trembled as they rested against the cold stone beneath him. He slowly pushed himself up, feeling the weight of his body as though it were not his own.
The room around him was dimly lit, though the air was thick with the scent of decay. Iron bars loomed before him, and the sound of distant footsteps echoed off the stone walls. He was in a dungeon.
A shiver ran down his spine, though it wasn't from the cold. The sense of wrongness, of being out of place, clawed at his mind. His chest tightened, but the pain he had felt before—the pain of illness—was gone. There was nothing but confusion and a profound sense of disorientation.
His eyes darted around the cell, and then his attention shifted to the strange markings on the floor. A circle, half-formed, was etched into the stone, glowing faintly with arcane energy. It was a Soulbrand ritual, incomplete and faint, but recognizable. He had seen such things before in his life as a sword instructor—a ritual of transformation, of binding one's soul to another. The idea of it made his skin crawl, but something deep within him—an instinct he didn't recognize—urged him to finish it.
Without hesitation, he reached for the circle, his fingers tracing the edges of the symbol. The moment his skin made contact with the arcane design, the room seemed to explode in light. His breath caught in his throat, and a strange, overwhelming force surged through him. His vision went white as his body contorted in ways that defied logic and sanity.
When the light finally receded, Eryk found himself on his knees, gasping for air, his heart racing in his chest. His senses were heightened, sharper, more attuned to the world around him. But there was something else, something new. His eyes—a strange, foreign sensation—burned with an unfamiliar power. As he looked down at his hands, he saw them tremble, not from fear, but from the raw, untapped energy surging through him.
He could feel it—magic, coursing through his veins. Power, far beyond anything he had ever known. But with it came a price. The world seemed distant, warped, as though he were seeing through a haze. His mind, once so sharp, now felt clouded, as though something had broken within him.
And then, his gaze fell upon the reflection in a puddle of water in the corner of the cell.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
Eryk Ardent was gone.
In his place was someone else—a young man with black hair, sharp features, and a dark scar running across his left temple. He didn't recognize this face, this body, yet it felt... familiar. As though it had always been his.
A strange, hollow sensation washed over him. The name that came unbidden to his mind was not his own. It was Eryk Veylan.
Who am I? The question echoed in his mind, but there was no answer. The sense of wrongness deepened.
Before he could dwell further on his newfound identity, the sound of approaching footsteps broke his reverie. A figure appeared before the cell, the silhouette of a guard, clothed in black armor. The man's eyes narrowed when he saw Eryk—no, Veylan—sitting up, but he didn't move to open the cell.
Instead, he spoke, his voice a low growl.
"You're not supposed to be awake. Lord Veylan will deal with you soon enough."
The words hit Eryk like a physical blow, and instinctively, he pushed himself to his feet. The cell was a cage, but his mind, still clouded by confusion, screamed for him to escape.
And so, with a single thought, he activated the power coursing through his veins.
---
Kamui.
In a blink, the world around him twisted and folded. The guard's surprised shout echoed in his ears, but it was already too late. Eryk—Veylan—was gone, leaving only a ripple in the air behind him.
The dungeon was silent once more.
But for Eryk, or whatever he was now, the journey was only beginning.