Darkness.

  But it wasn’t the cold, suffocating darkness of the Deep Woods. It was the calm, starry expanse of the mindscape.

  “Well, well, well.”

  A deep, booming laugh echoed through the emptiness.

  Arthur turned. Magnus Ashborn, the towering Ancestor with his mane of silver hair and burning crimson eyes, stood with his arms crossed over his armored chest. He looked thoroughly amused.

  “I must admit, boy,” Magnus chuckled, “I calculated your odds of survival at roughly five percent. You continue to be a fascinating anomaly.”

  Arthur glared at the giant. He didn’t feel like laughing.

  “You left out a few minor details, old man,” Arthur snapped. “Like the fact that the ‘pressure’ would feel like being crushed in a grindstone. Or that I’d have to fight mutated monsters.”

  “Details breed hesitation; besides, who knew that you would throw yourself in a spatial fracture?"

  Arthur looked at him, dumbfounded.

  Magnus’s expression grew serious, the amusement fading from his glowing eyes.

  “However, you should be careful from now on.”

  “What do you mean?” Arthur asked, crossing his arms. “The seal is broken, and I can feel the mana.”

  “You broke the seal forcefully,” Magnus warned, stepping closer. “Yes, the core is active. But your mana circuits—the pathways that carry the energy through your body—are completely incapable of channeling non-refined mana. You vented pure, unshaped mana repeatedly. If you do that again before conditioning your circuits, you will not just break a cane. You will detonate your own arms.”

  Arthur frowned, the memory of every blast recoil flashing in his mind.

  “You must stop brawling and start studying,” Magnus commanded. “You need to learn how to refine the flow and how to use it. Until then, absolutely no raw mana blasts. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Arthur muttered.

  “Good. Now wake up; you have been asleep for quite some time now,” Magnus said, before raising a hand. “Also, next time you will be meeting the members of the council.” He added, snapping his fingers.

  SNAP. The starry void dissolved immediately.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Arthur’s eyes snapped open.

  He wasn’t in the mud. He was lying on a soft mattress, staring up at a familiar wooden canopy. The faint, comforting scent of medicinal herbs filled the room.

  Arthur tried to sit up, but a sharp, blinding pain tore across his chest. He gasped, falling back against the pillows. He looked down; his torso was wrapped tightly in thick, white bandages. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from the deep claw marks beneath them.

  He shifted his right leg. Aside from a bit of stiffness, the biting pain of his old injury was completely gone.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  I’m alive, he thought.

  His throat felt itchy. He turned his head and saw a silver bottle of water resting on the bedside table.

  Arthur reached his right hand out to grab the cup.

  He stopped.

  His hand was shaking. It wasn’t a minor tremor. His fingers were vibrating violently, completely out of his control.

  Arthur stared at his trembling hand. A sudden, vivid flash of the Deep Woods hit him—the deafening roar of the werewolf, the sickening crunch of bones, the hot blood soaking through his shirt, the absolute certainty he was going to die.

  A dry, hollow laugh escaped Arthur’s lips. It sounded broken.

  I thought I was fine, Arthur realized, clutching his trembling hand to his chest to force it to stop. I thought I processed it like a math equation. But the truth is, I’m still terrified.

  He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

  But as the panic of the fight faded, a new, much deeper terror took its place.

  “Father...?”

  The word echoed in his mind. He remembered lying in the dirt, bleeding out, looking up at Roderick Ashborn. He hadn’t just said the word to play a role; he had felt it. He felt a surge of overwhelming, desperate love and relief for a man he had only known for a few weeks.

  Arthur’s breath hitched. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  It wasn’t just muscle memory. It was Oliver.

  The silver soul was bleeding into him. Arthur’s cold, logical, earth-born mind was actively merging with the emotional, yearning heart.

  Who am I? Arthur panicked. Am I still Arthur Vance? Or am I becoming Oliver Ashborn? Are my memories of Earth going to fade?

  He thought of his parents on Earth and Elena. Their faces felt slightly out of focus, like an old photograph left in the sun.

  No, no, no... Arthur thought. I won’t let her fade; I won’t let my past disappear.

  He needed an anchor. As soon as his hands stopped shaking, he decided to draw Elena’s face and keep drawing on him at all times, a physical tether to the man he used to be.

  Creak.

  The heavy oak door to his bedroom slowly opened.

  Arthur quickly lowered his hands, masking his inner turmoil behind a neutral expression.

  A girl stepped into his room, carrying a stack of fresh towels. She was wearing a simple, clean dress. Her silver hair, no longer matted with ash and mud, fell in soft waves down her back.

  Aria.

  She walked toward the washbasin, not looking toward the bed.

  “You know,” Arthur said, his voice raspy and dry, “You look a lot less intimidating when your eyes aren’t glowing.”

  Aria froze. The towels slipped from her hands, tumbling into the wooden floor.

  She turned her head around. Her crimson eyes looked onto Arthur, widening.

  “Oliver?” she breathed.

  Before he could say another word, she crossed the room in three rapid steps and threw her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder.

  "Aghh—" Arthur grunted.

  The sudden pressure on his bandaged chest sent a spike of pain through his ribs. He couldn't help but wince.

  Aria gasped, instantly realizing what she had done. She jumped back as if she had been burned, a bright red blush spread across her cheeks, reaching all the way to the tips of her ears.

  "I—I am so sorry!” she stammered, her hands hovering awkwardly in the air. ”I didn’t mean to—you have been unconscious for a week, and I—your wounds—I wasn’t thinking!”

  Arthur managed a weak, genuine smile. “It’s fine, Aria. I'm just glad to see you in one piece.”

  Aria stared at him, her chest heaving, her face still burning with embarrassment at her own loss of composure. She took another step back toward the door.

  “I have to go,” she blurted out. “I have to tell Uncle and the others that you have woken up.”

  She didn’t wait for a response. She spun around and bolted out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

  Arthur leaned back against his pillows, the faint smile on his lips fighting the lingering pain in his chest.

  He was awake, and the real game was about to begin.

  (To be continued...)