The moment the mask touched his skin, the world shifted.
It was subtle—like a faint tremor in the air, the quiet rearrangement of reality itself.
For a second, he thought he was choosing his name. That he had control.
But then—
"My lord, we found you at last!"
The words hit him like a fist to the gut.
Several armored men had entered the ruins, weapons drawn. Their armor was battle-worn, their cloaks dusted with travel, yet their eyes burned with unquestioning certainty.
Not confusion. Not hesitation. They knew him.
He wasn't prepared for that.
The soldiers stepped forward, their leader—a hard-eyed man with a scar along his cheek—dropping to one knee. The others followed, their heads bowed in what could only be respect.
"We feared the worst, Lord Rael."
Rael.
The name barely had time to settle before another strange sensation rolled over him—like reality itself was confirming it. Like something vast and unseen had just accepted a truth it hadn't considered before.
His mind raced. Who the hell was Rael?
He had been ready to make something up, to craft a lie and play along. But he hadn't spoken a word.
The Mask had chosen for him.
No—not the Mask. Something else.
Something bigger.
He swallowed, forcing himself to remain still. They couldn't see his uncertainty.
"What happened, my lord?" the scarred man asked, frowning. "We received word that you'd fallen in battle, but when we arrived at the site, there was nothing. Then we tracked your presence to this ruin. It's as if…"* he hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly. "As if the world itself misplaced you."
The world itself misplaced me.
A cold chill crawled down his spine.
---
A hand settled on his shoulder. The old man.
He had been silent all this time, watching. Now, he finally spoke.
"It seems," the old man mused, his voice dry, "that the Mask has done more than just hide you."
There was something unsettling in the way he said it.
One of the soldiers glanced at the old man but ignored him. His attention returned to Rael—to him.
"My lord, do you remember anything?"
His heart pounded. Lie. You have to lie.
"I… hit my head," he said slowly, carefully. "It's… hazy."
The men exchanged glances. Not skeptical glances, but knowing ones.
"That explains it," the scarred one muttered. "Memories can fade from the shock of resurrection."
His blood ran cold.
Resurrection?
He forced his breathing to stay even. "Explain."
The soldier hesitated before speaking again. "You fell in battle, my lord. That much is undeniable. But you wear the Mask now." He paused, lowering his voice. "And the Mask does not let its chosen die so easily."
His grip on reality loosened slightly.
They thought he had been dead.
But now, because of the Mask, they believed—without a doubt—that he had returned.
Not disguised. Not pretending.
Returned.
The Mask hadn't simply fooled them.
It had rewritten reality itself.
---
The Weight of a False Identity
The old man turned toward him, expression unreadable. "Fascinating," he murmured. "So that's the story you've been given."
"Given?"
He turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "You knew this would happen?"
The old man raised a brow. "No. But I suspected something like it might." He gestured to the soldiers. "They are not lying to you. To them, this is the truth. And so, it has become the truth."
His stomach twisted.
"That's not possible," he muttered.
The old man chuckled softly. "Isn't it?"
He looked at the soldiers again. The absolute certainty in their faces. The unwavering belief.
It wasn't a performance.
It wasn't an act.
To them—this was real.
A thousand questions pounded against his skull, but one stood out above all others.
"Who was Rael before this?"
The scarred soldier blinked, puzzled.
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"Before today. Before the battle. Who was he?"
The man hesitated, brows furrowing.
And then—something strange happened.
His expression flickered—a brief moment of confusion, like he had encountered a problem he didn't understand.
"I…" He shook his head, frowning deeply. "I don't know. But that doesn't matter. You are Lord Rael. That is all that matters."
His breath hitched.
There was no past. No records.
Rael had never existed.
Until now.
---
His mind spun, struggling to make sense of it.
Had the Mask created a role for him? Or had it simply… made people believe he had always been here?
The old man spoke again, voice quiet. "Do you see, now? You didn't take over an identity. You became one. One that the world has now accepted."
His mouth felt dry. "That's… not how reality works."
The old man gave him a knowing look. "Then tell me, boy… what is reality, if not belief?"
A heavy silence stretched between them.
The words made his stomach twist.
His entire life—whatever life he had before this—was gone.
And in its place was something that should not exist.
The soldiers waited patiently. They didn't doubt. They couldn't doubt.
Because to them, Rael was real.
He inhaled sharply, steadying himself. Fine.
If the world had chosen this name for him… then he would take it.
For now.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
The scarred man straightened. "The border, my lord. The war still rages, and your army awaits your return."
His army.
Of course.
He forced a nod. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
As they led him away from the ruins, the old man lingered behind. Watching.
And then, in a voice too quiet for the others to hear, he murmured:
"You should not exist. And yet, here you are."
The words followed him into the mist.
And deep within his mind, something whispered in agreement.