The figure in the mist did not move, yet its presence weighed heavily on him. The young man swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm despite the chill creeping up his spine. His breath came out in shallow, measured intervals, his instincts warning him that even the slightest movement could trigger something dangerous.
The mist thickened around him, as if alive, curling and shifting unnaturally. Then, the voice returned—this time, clearer, closer.
"You have forgotten… but your blood remembers."
A sharp pain stabbed through his skull, a searing flash of something—an image? A memory? His vision blurred as fragments of the past surfaced like fleeting shadows: the clang of steel, the scent of burning wood, the echoes of desperate cries. And then—darkness.
He staggered but clenched his fists, steadying himself. He could not afford to be weak, not now.
His eyes darted back to the figure in the mist. It had changed.
No longer just a silhouette, it now bore shape—a tall form, draped in tattered robes that seemed to shift with the fog. Its face was obscured by a hood, but beneath it, two eerie, glowing eyes locked onto him. They burned like embers in the night, filled with an intelligence both ancient and unreadable.
"What are you?" he rasped, barely recognizing his own voice.
The figure tilted its head, as if amused. Then, with a voice like rustling leaves, it answered:
"I am the gatekeeper of forgotten bloodlines."
The weight of those words pressed down on him, stirring something deep within. Forgotten bloodlines. Was it referring to him? His hands curled tighter into fists. He was tired of questions, tired of not knowing who he was or why he felt so… empty.
"If I am forgotten, then tell me—who am I?"
The figure extended a skeletal hand from its robes. Wisps of energy, faint and ethereal, spiraled around its fingers. The mist stirred violently, as if reacting to an unseen force.
"Prove yourself worthy, and the truth shall be yours."
A sudden force struck him like a tidal wave, sending him tumbling backward. His body skidded across the damp earth, pain lancing through his already battered frame. He barely had time to breathe before the figure lunged.
Instinct took over.
His muscles moved before his mind caught up. He rolled to the side just as the ground where he had lain erupted, shards of broken earth flying in all directions. Springing to his feet, he barely managed to block the next attack, a clawed hand swiping through the air like a blade.
He twisted his body, dodging another strike by mere inches. His movements felt sluggish, unfamiliar—but his instincts, buried deep within, refused to let him fall so easily.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. A part of him—despite the pain, despite the fear—relished this.
The figure hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if sensing the shift in him. Then, it spoke again.
"Ah… so the warrior still slumbers within."
His smirk widened. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know why he had lost his past. But if this thing thought he would crumble so easily, it was sorely mistaken.
He took a deep breath, planting his feet firmly against the earth. A surge of energy stirred within him, faint but undeniable. His lost strength was still there, buried beneath layers of forgotten memories. And in that moment, he made a silent vow:
He would reclaim what was his. No matter the cost.