Year 363, Fifth Month, Seventh Day.
Evargarde, Outer City.
He woke with a violent cough, his throat raw, the taste of dust and blood thick on his tongue. His body throbbed with a deep, aching exhaustion, every muscle stiff as if he had been wrung dry. The cold stone beneath him leached warmth from his skin, its surface damp and unyielding.
A dim, flickering glow pressed against the darkness, casting jagged shadows that twisted and writhed across the walls. The scent of old wax and something rancid clung to the air. As his vision steadied, he saw them—grotesque shapes, symbols carved into the stone, their edges dark with dried blood.
Where… is this?
A dull haze filled his mind, confusion clouding his thoughts. But then, something deeper took hold—primal, suffocating fear. His skin prickled, sweat slicking his back despite the cold. His breath came quick and shallow.
Slowly, his body protested with every movement—stiff, sluggish, unwilling. He forced himself to move, his neck aching as he tilted his head upward.
What the—?!
A cold wave of dread coiled deep in his gut, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
Above him, something moved—something that shouldn't exist. A twisted, skeletal figure loomed at the edge of reality, its many-jointed limbs bending at angles that made his stomach churn. It flickered in and out of existence, like a broken image struggling to hold itself together. The air around it rippled, pressing in on him—heavy, suffocating, like a scream with no sound.
No. No. No!
Terror gripped him, raw and absolute. His breath hitched, his body frozen, his mind unable to grasp anything beyond fear.
Its fingers—long, bony, tipped with ink-black claws—hovered inches from his face. The space between them shimmered, warping like a heat mirage, distorting everything in its grasp.
Then, the being lurched forward, its form flickering violently as if resisting an unseen force. It clawed at the space between them, its eyeless face stretching, twisting—desperate. The symbols on the ground pulsed, their glow intensifying, forcing the entity back.
A ragged, inhuman shriek tore through the air, yet no sound met his ears—only a pressure, like something screaming directly into his skull. The creature's body fractured, breaking apart piece by piece, limbs dissolving into ink-black mist, dragged away by an unseen current. It fought, convulsed, reached—until only its fingers remained, trembling, scraping at the edge of reality.
Then—with one final, shuddering lurch, it was expelled.
The silence that followed was almost worse. Only the sound of his own ragged breaths filled the void, each inhale sharp, each exhale unsteady.
What… was that?
He lay frozen, his breath ragged, heart pounding against his ribs. His eyes darted across the room, half-expecting the thing to return, to reform from the shadows and finish whatever it had started. But the space above him was empty—only dust and the remnants of the ritual remained.
His mind reeled. That thing—it had tried to reach him. To cling to him.
No. No, this isn't real. I must be hallucinating.
But the symbols. The stench of blood. The way reality had bent and twisted around the creature. It felt too real.
A shudder passed through him, but panic allowed him no time to linger.
He lay at the center of a ritualistic diagram—intricate symbols carved with unsettling precision, encircled by the severed limbs of small animals. The coppery stench of blood mingled with the rancid odor of burning tallow, thick and suffocating in the stagnant air.
Fuck—a ritual! How…?
His thoughts stumbled, struggling to process the impossible scene around him. His breath hitched, heart pounding like a drum in his chest.He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move. His gaze darted downward.
My body…
His fingers twitched as he took in the sight—his clothes, rough and unfamiliar, clinging to his damp skin. A threadbare linen shirt, frayed at the cuffs. Worn wool trousers, patched in places. Everything about them screamed poverty. They weren't his.
His breath quickened. This isn't my body… this isn't me…
The thin fabric offered little protection against the chill seeping up from the cold stone beneath him.
His breath quickened, each inhale sharp and shallow as panic clawed up his throat.
Where am I? The thought cracked through the haze of his mind. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead—and then came the pain.
A sharp, searing agony burst behind his eyes. "Ahh!" A strangled groan tore from his throat as he clenched his teeth. His vision blurred, the world tilting as a flood of memories crashed into him like a collapsing dam. His name: Silas Crowell. Sixteen years old. An orphan. Parents gone, dead for reasons he could never uncover. The struggle of survival in Evergarde's Outer City. Days spent as a runner for The Cogwheel Gazette, exploited by a boss who saw him as cheap labor. Nights spent nursing a forbidden dream—to become an explorer, one of the mystical wanderers who ventured beyond the walls into the Fallen Lands.
The memories of Silas Crowell slammed into him, colliding violently with his own. No… no, this isn't right!
Nathan Carter. That was his name—wasn't it? A software developer from Seattle. A quiet life, a lonely one. His parents were gone, no family left. Work, gaming, books—his escapes, his comforts. That's who I am… who I was…
But the memories wouldn't stop. They twisted, tangled, merging with something foreign.
A name. Silas Crowell.
A life not his own.
His breathing grew ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears. The more he fought it, the more the memories bled together. His head throbbed, voices overlapping—his own thoughts drowning beneath something else.
What the hell is happening to me?!
Slowly, the two sets of memories tangled together, blurring past and present. Nathan—no, Silas—drew in a shaky breath, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Is this… reincarnation? Like in those novels?
The thought sent a shiver through him. His old life felt distant, slipping away like a dream he could barely recall. Faces, places—Seattle, his apartment, the hum of his computer—fading into static. The details blurred, weightless, like they no longer belonged to him. No… they don't belong to me anymore, do they?
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. His body—Silas's body. He needed to understand.
Then, like a flood, a memory surged forward.
Darkness. Cold air thick with damp and decay. Crouched in an alley, breath slow, steady, controlled. The hiss of whispers. Hooded figures stood in a loose circle, their forms barely visible through the rolling fog. Across from them, armored enforcers—the Nightwatch.
A low chant rose from the cultists, laced with something unnatural. Then—crack! A rifle fired. The incantations wavered, twisting into pained shrieks. The ground trembled beneath him, a deep vibration crawling up his legs. The fog swirled, shifting, twisting.
Something moved within it.
And then—
The page.
His hand shot to his coat pocket. His fingers found the brittle, crumpled scrap of parchment. He pulled it out, unfolding it beneath the candlelight. Lines of ancient script twisted across the page, along with a sketch of the very diagram he had awoken in. The ink shimmered unnaturally in the dimness.
What have I done? Panic surged again. The original Silas had taken the page to study it, hoping to unlock powers whispered about in the city's darkest corners. He never intended to pay for that curiosity with his life.
A sharp knock shattered the silence.
He froze. The sound came from the basement door at the top of the stairs.
The Nightwatch. His heart raced. They must have tracked the ritual. His eyes darted to the blood-streaked floor. I need to erase it.
He scrambled to the nearest candle and tipped it, spilling wax over the symbols. The blood resisted, the lines refusing to blur as though seared into the stone. The knocking came again—louder this time.
Silas's hands trembled. He smeared the diagram with his sleeve, the fabric soaking in crimson streaks. The third knock came with the force of a fist.
Think. Think! He forced himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. He wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers and staggered toward the door.
The handle rattled.
He inhaled, steadied his voice, and opened it.
A girl stood there, back lit by the dim, grayish glow from the street. Dark curls framed her pale face, cascading down in unruly waves that caught the faint shimmer of lantern light. Her brown eyes, wide and alert, reflected a curiosity laced with caution. A small scar curved along her left eyebrow, a faint mark from a childhood fall. Freckles dotted her nose, softened by the cool, mist-laden air. She wore a faded wool shawl draped tightly around her shoulders, the fabric worn thin from years of use. Her lips parted slightly as though she were about to speak, but uncertainty held her back.
"Clara," he whispered, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
She tilted her head, brows furrowed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
He forced a laugh that sounded hollow in his own ears. "Just...fell asleep down here. Got spooked."
Her gaze shifted past him to the dim basement. "It smells weird."
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Mold. Lots of damp." He shifted his stance to block her view. "What's that?"
She held up a chipped ceramic plate covered with a cloth. "My mum sent this. Said you're always skipping meals."
The aroma of roasted turnips and stale bread wafted toward him. His stomach growled. "Thanks," he said, taking the plate with one hand and gripping the door frame with the other to hide his unsteady legs. "Tell her I appreciate it."
Clara hesitated. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired." He forced a smile. "I'll be fine."
She studied him, unconvinced. "You never were a good liar, Silas."
His fingers tightened around the plate, but he kept his face neutral. "And you never knew when to drop something."
She sighed, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you pass out somewhere, don't expect me to drag you home."
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good." She turned, but before stepping away, she added, "Just... don't do anything stupid."
She gave him one last, uncertain look before turning away, her footsteps fading into the fog. Outside, the night lay shrouded in thick fog, with streetlights reduced to faint, flickering halos struggling to pierce the gloom. Clara lived next door, and Silas stood motionless, listening intently until he heard the soft thud of the adjacent door closing.
Only then did he shut his own door, pressing his forehead against the cold, weathered wood. His heart drummed against his ribs like a war drum, each beat a reminder of the danger he had narrowly escaped. With a shaky breath, he turned and descended the creaking steps to the basement.
The ritual site awaited him, unchanged yet oppressive.
Silas swallowed hard, his breath uneven. A dull throb pulsed at the base of his skull, spreading in slow, nauseating waves. His limbs felt wrong—too light yet sluggish, as if they no longer fully belonged to him. He rubbed his temples, wincing at the way his fingers trembled. He wasn't just dizzy or disoriented. He felt different. As though he'd been torn from one world and stitched into another, the seams barely holding. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
This is real. I am Silas Crowell now, not Nathan Carter.
The thought felt distant, unreal, but resisting it wouldn't change anything.
I don't know what happened, but I need to focus.
He exhaled sharply, pushing aside the confusion, and forced himself to concentrate.The air in the room was thick, heavy with the lingering scent of blood and burnt tallow. It clawed at his throat, turning each breath into a struggle. His stomach twisted, but he swallowed down the rising nausea. He had no time to be sick.
He needed to erase every trace.
Dropping to his knees, he reached for a melted candle, its wax hardened into misshapen lumps over some of the symbols. He peeled away a piece, but the lines beneath remained vivid, as if they had been carved into the stone itself rather than drawn. His heartbeat quickened. That wasn't normal. That wasn't right.
His fingers curled into a fist. He found a rag and pressed it against the symbols, scrubbing harder. The dried blood flaked away in patches, staining his fingertips a sickly rust-red, yet faint impressions still lingered beneath. His breathing grew shallow. The sigils refused to fade completely, no matter how much force he used.
A shiver ran through him, his skin prickling as if unseen eyes were watching. The back of his neck tightened, the phantom sensation of something cold brushing against his spine. He clenched his jaw and forced his hands to keep moving, though the effort made his muscles ache.
He had to finish.
Had to erase it all.
Had to pretend none of this had ever happened.
As he worked, fragments of memory floated through his mind—images of Evergarde's sprawling, fog-choked streets. The city was a fortress against the cursed Fallen Lands, divided by towering walls into two distinct worlds. The Inner City was a realm of marble towers and polished brass, home to nobles and scholars who never knew hunger. The Outer City, where he lived, was a maze of narrow alleys, crowded tenements, and smoke-belching factories. Here, soot clung to skin like a second layer.
Beyond the towering walls stretched the Fallen Lands—an endless, forsaken wilderness shrouded in eternal mist. The air there was said to be thick with corruption, where twisted, ravenous creatures prowled without rest. Few dared to venture into that cursed expanse, and fewer still lived to tell the tale.
The original Silas had come across fleeting mentions of other cities hidden somewhere within the fog—distant, shadowy enclaves lost to time. But those were just rumors, faint whispers buried beneath layers of uncertainty and fear. Nothing more.
The candlelight dimmed as his mind drifted. His old world had been nothing like this. He remembered cities bathed in sunlight, glass towers, and glowing screens. How had he come here? The ritual? The parchment page?
Why me?
He knelt beside the diagram, tracing its outer edge with one finger. The symbols meant nothing to him, but the metallic tang of blood stirred unease in his gut. But there were no answers here. Only the cold stone and his trembling hands.
He slumped against the wall. I've been given a second chance. His old life was lost, yet fragments of his memories lingered—distant and blurred.
He exhaled slowly. "I'm alive," he whispered. "That's enough for now."
Exhausted, Silas trudged toward his bedroom. The wooden stairs groaned beneath his steps, each creak echoing like a weary sigh through the modest home. As he reached the ground floor, he passed the cramped kitchen—a narrow space with a soot-streaked hearth, where a rusted iron kettle rested on a crooked hook. The wooden counter bore knife marks and stains from years of meager meals. A single cupboard, its door slightly ajar, revealed chipped ceramic plates and mismatched utensils. The faint aroma of stale bread and boiled turnips lingered in the cool air.
His room was tucked beneath the slanted roof, a drafty, dim retreat from the world outside. The walls were warped with damp, the plaster cracked and discolored from constant moisture. A narrow window, smudged with grime, overlooked the alley where the fog coiled like a living thing. Beside his straw-stuffed mattress stood a rickety desk cluttered with ink-stained papers, a chipped lantern, and a dull penknife. In the corner, an old wooden chest sat partially open, revealing threadbare clothes and a pair of worn boots.
He collapsed onto the mattress, the coarse fabric itching against his skin. The scent of mildew mingled with the faint, metallic tang still clinging to his clothes—a reminder of the ritual and the mystery now entwined with his life. The distant groan of factory gears hummed through the walls.
Suddenly, he felt something unusual—a pull within himself. A strange, almost instinctive tug at his very being. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to blur.
What is this…?
Opening his eyes, he focused inward, allowing the sensation to guide him. It was as if something deep within was calling out, demanding his attention. The pull grew stronger, and as he surrendered to it, a vision unfolded before him.
A vast, endless void stretched in all directions, cold and silent, yet strangely calming. Suspended in this emptiness was a single white ball of light, hovering before him like a quiet beacon. His chest tightened at the sight.
Is this… a part of me?
He hesitated, then reached out, fingers trembling slightly. The moment he touched the sphere, a thin strand of energy unraveled from it, stretching toward him.
Then—
A voice, "Causality".