《Echoes of the Worlds [Slow Burn Isekai Progression Fantasy]》 Chapter 1: Born Into Chaos A young man awoke with a gasp, his lungs burning as if he had just surfaced from the depths of a dark, icy lake. He coughed violently, clutching his throat, his body trembling as he struggled to draw in air. His vision blurred, and his mind raced, trying to piece together where he was¡ªor even who he was. The room around him was a disaster, a miniature battlefield. Furniture lay overturned, glass shattered on the floor, and a painting hung ripped and tattered from the stone wall. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. He rose unsteadily to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him like a newborn fawn. His body felt frail, weak, as if it had never known strength. He stumbled toward a cracked mirror hanging precariously on the wall. The reflection staring back at him was unfamiliar¡ªa young man with slightly long blond hair, pale skin, and wide yellow eyes. He looked sickly, fragile, like a gust of wind could knock him over. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the cool surface of the mirror, tracing the outline of the face that was supposed to be his. That''s me? he thought, his mind a blank slate. The sounds of battle pressed in from beyond the room¡ªthe clash of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded, and the furious war cries of combatants. He was in the middle of a violent conflict, but how he had gotten here, or why, remained a mystery. Suddenly, a breathless guard burst into the room, his light armor suggesting he had barely had time to equip himself properly. His conical helmet, designed to deflect downward sword blows, gleamed in the dim light. "Thank the gods! Young Master Aren, you''re still alive! We must fl¡ª" His words were cut short. A sword blade, appearing as if from thin air, pierced his back. The guard¡¯s eyes widened in shock, and he collapsed onto the floor, lifeless, the crimson stain of his blood rapidly spreading across the stone. Aren¡¯s mind reeled. With his memory a blank slate, he felt like an infant thrust onto a battlefield, utterly unprepared and unsure how to react to the chaotic scene unfolding before him. He took a step back from the guard¡¯s body, his mind frozen, caught between paralyzing fear and the primal urge to fight. A battle-hardened warrior, his leather armor stained with both fresh and dried blood, stepped over the guard''s corpse. He glanced at Aren, his expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I thought you took care of him!" he roared down the corridor. "I did!" a distant voice replied. "Idiots, the lot of them!" the mercenary grumbled, turning his attention back to his target. Aren, already overwhelmed by the torrent of unfamiliar sights and sounds, froze, his mind unable to process the rapidly escalating danger. The warrior raised his sword, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. He lunged forward, bringing the blade down in a vicious arc. Instinct, pure and untainted by conscious thought, took over. Aren¡¯s body moved with a grace he didn¡¯t know he possessed, sidestepping the deadly blow with an almost effortless ease. The warrior, caught off guard, stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him off balance. Aren shifted his weight onto his forward foot, pivoting and channeling the impulse up from his leg, through his torso, and into his fist. His arm whipped out, striking the unbalanced warrior squarely on the jaw. The blow, though seemingly weak, landed with pinpoint accuracy. The much larger warrior, at least 25 kg heavier than Aren, had his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. A surge of exhilaration, raw and potent, washed over Aren as he stared down at his fallen opponent. For a fleeting moment, he felt a sense of omnipotence, a primal triumph that resonated deep within his soul. He looked at his hands, a faint, disbelieving smirk playing on his lips. The thrill of victory faded fast, replaced by a throbbing ache in his joints. His hand and shoulder pulsed with pain. His body, clearly unaccustomed to combat, protested the sudden exertion. He knew he couldn''t stay here. His life was in danger. He decided to escape the manor first and unravel the mystery of his circumstances later. The thought of taking a weapon, either from the mercenary or the fallen guard, flickered through his mind. But the unfamiliar weight and balance of the blades seemed daunting. Could he even wield one effectively? With his aching hand and frail physique, it seemed a gamble at best. Escape was the priority. He needed to be light, agile, unencumbered. The sounds of battle raged on in the corridor. Carefully, silently, Aren stepped over the bodies and peered cautiously into the hallway. Mercenaries clashed with guards in a whirlwind of flashing steel. At the far end, a stone staircase spiraled downwards. He moved swiftly, towards the stairs. Before he reached them, another guard came rushing up from below. "This way, Young Master!" he hissed, gesturing urgently, his voice barely audible above the din of battle. Aren didn''t recognize him, but he trusted him more than the men trying to kill him. He followed the guard down the winding staircase, his breath catching in his throat, partly from the lingering pain, partly from the sheer terror of the situation. It felt like a nightmare, a torrent of questions rushing through his mind, creating more confusion than clarity. He felt adrift, a puppet on the strings of fate, a sensation that filled him with a growing sense of dread.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The circular staircase led them to a small landing. Another corridor branched off to one side, while a heavy wooden door offered an escape to the outside. Bursting through the door, they stumbled into the courtyard, a scene of carnage unfolding before them. The once beautiful garden was littered with the bodies of guards and mercenaries, the vibrant green of the grass and shrubs stained crimson. The manor they''ve just escaped was impressive¡ªa two-story stone structure with wooden accents. A high wooden wall, punctuated by guard towers, enclosed the entire estate. Fortunately, the main gate, the gateway to freedom, was not far from where they emerged. The path seemed clear. The fighting, it appeared, had shifted entirely within the manor walls. "To the gate! Quickly!" the guard urged, pushing Aren forward and breaking into a run. Their movement didn''t go unnoticed. Mercenaries, already occupying the towers, spotted them and began descending, intent on cutting off their escape. Halfway to freedom, Aren sensed danger approaching from behind. His frail body swiftly shifted its center of gravity and spun around. An arrow was flying towards the guard. Aren tried to catch it with his uninjured hand, but his body was too slow. The guard fell dead, struck precisely in the back of the head. Aren''s heart lurched. He''d had a chance, a fleeting moment to react, to save the man who¡¯d tried to help him, but he¡¯d been too slow. "Did he just try to catch my arrow?" the archer exclaimed in disbelief, his voice echoing down from the manor window. "Keep shooting!" his companion snarled, his brow furrowed in confusion. Aren continued to run towards the gate, his back to the archer, hoping he wouldn''t get an arrow in his back. More mercenaries emerged from the towers ahead, blocking his path. He stopped, trapped, unsure what to do. Should he run along the wall, searching for another exit? Returning to the manor was not an option. The tickling sensation intensified, the static electricity dancing across his skin. Suddenly, another guard appeared out of nowhere, covering the distance with one swift stride, like a shadow gliding across the ground. He deflected the arrow that was already flying towards Aren with his sword. "Young Master Aren! I thought you were dead!" he exclaimed. This guard was older, perhaps forty-five, tall and imposing with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He exuded an air of competence and experience that the others lacked. Though Aren didn''t recognize him, a wave of relief washed over him. Arrows rained down from multiple windows, but the guard deflected them all with seemingly impossible speed. His sword moved in a blur, leaving trails like a sparkler on a dark night. A faint, shimmering aura enveloped his form. As it intensified, so did the tickling sensation on Aren¡¯s skin. "Young Master, run to the gate! Don''t hesitate! I will deal with anybody coming your way!" Having no choice but to trust him, Aren continued to the gate. The mercenaries were ready to cut down anyone who approached. One charged towards Aren, his blade glinting menacingly in the moonlight. As they closed the distance, the mercenary lunged, his sword arcing downwards. Aren braced himself, ready to dodge and counter with his good hand, but before he could react, the older guard reappeared, moving with inhuman speed. The aura around him flared, brighter than before. The mercenary was hurled aside like a rag doll. The fight was clearly one-sided. The guard was like a seasoned warrior among children. "That''s an advanced Ether user!" one of the mercenaries at the gate screamed. "Run!" The remaining mercenaries scattered like ants. The archers, however, continued their relentless barrage. The guard shoved Aren forward, his sword a whirlwind of motion, deflecting the incoming arrows. Aren ran, the gate just ten meters away. As he crossed the threshold, the guard appeared beside him, scooping him up with one arm and sprinting down the forest path. "I felt an intense Ether Pulse coming from the manor. If an Ascendant is with them, we have no chance. We must escape immediately!" The words were meaningless to Aren, but he understood the urgency, allowing the guard to drag him towards safety. Not far from the gate, nestled against the outer wall, was a stable. Inside, a magnificent black stallion, as dark as night, stood patiently. The guard put Aren down and vaulted effortlessly into the saddle, extending a hand. "Quickly! As I taught you!" But Aren remembered nothing of riding. He simply reached out. The guard''s strength was enough to pull him up and onto the horse, despite his confusion. "Hold on tight!" the guard shouted, kicking his heels into the stallion''s flanks. The horse surged forward, galloping down the forest path. The danger seemed to recede, and Aren, exhausted and overwhelmed, began to drift into unconsciousness. --- Earth An old man awoke with a deep, shuddering breath. He sat in a large, mechanized chair, connected to a web of wires. More wires snaked out from a helmet on his head, leading to a large, humming machine behind him. He was in a vast room filled with complex equipment¡ªcomputers, consoles bristling with buttons and dials. The walls and ceiling were bare concrete. A group of scientists in white lab coats surrounded him, their faces a combination of stunned surprise and nervous concern. A distinguished-looking older man in an expensive suit approached, his eyes gleaming with excitement and relief. ¡°Are you alright, Arthur?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the old man grumbled, pressing a hand to his temple. ¡°Incredible! You did it! You survived the jump to another world¡­and back!¡± the man in the suit exclaimed, his voice filled with a youthful exuberance that belied his age. "I wouldn''t have forgiven myself if you hadn''t made it." Arthur, the old man, looked up at the man in the suit, his expression a mix of exhaustion and curiosity. "Victor," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "what exactly did I just experience?" Victor¡¯s smile widened. "You, my friend, have just taken the first step into a new frontier. A world beyond our own. And you, Arthur, are the key to unlocking its secrets!" Chapter 2: A Chance at a New World Two days before the jump¡­ Victor¡¯s expansive office, perched atop Chronos Labs, should have been a monument to success and power. Instead, a heavy blanket of despair stifled the air. The panoramic view of the megalopolis sprawling below ¨C a dense hive of skyscrapers, artificial lights, and automated vehicles ¨C offered little comfort. Victor sat hunched over his desk, head cradled in his hands, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his tired eyes. He watched the grainy feed of his team working tirelessly on WTM-01, the World Travel Machine, a project that had consumed his life for decades. Pessimism gnawed at him. Despite countless attempts, they hadn¡¯t managed to successfully transfer a consciousness to another world. The calculations were flawless, checked and rechecked hundreds of times by Victor himself, his AI assistant, and a team of brilliant minds. Yet, something was missing, an elusive variable that continued to elude them. Victor had dedicated his life to science. Quantum physics, relativity, and the possibility of wormholes had captivated him since his university days. He dreamt of visiting distant planets, exploring galaxies beyond human comprehension. Now, at seventy, long past retirement age, he toiled day and night, driven by the relentless pursuit of his life¡¯s work. A knock echoed through the room. "Enter," Victor said, his voice weary. Two of his three lead scientists, Noah and Olivia, entered the office, their faces mirroring his own discouragement. They were brilliant, dedicated, but the weight of repeated failures pressed heavily upon them. Only Victor outranked them on the project. "Sir," Noah began, his voice heavy with defeat, "we''ve exhausted every possibility. None of the volunteers have survived the trial." Olivia nodded grimly, her gaze fixed on the floor. "The strain on their consciousness is too great. Physically, they remain unharmed, but their neural activity ceases. They¡­they effectively die." Victor frowned, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. "So, it''s not a physical strain on the body or the brain?" "No, sir," Olivia responded, finally meeting his gaze. "We don''t fully understand the process, but the physical body remains intact. It''s the consciousness that can''t withstand the transition. It''s as though¡­" she hesitated, searching for the right words, "¡­as though their very soul ceases to function." "Soul?" Victor scoffed, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "We''re scientists, Olivia." "We can''t explain it any other way, sir." Noah added, backing Olivia''s observation. A spark ignited in Victor''s eyes, a sudden surge of inspiration. "Then we need someone with an indomitable will," he declared, a renewed vigor in his voice. "I know just the man." A nostalgic smile played on his lips. "You two are coming with me. It''s been far too long since I last visited him." Victor rose from his chair with a surprising agility for his age. He strode to the coat rack, grabbed his overcoat and hat, and with a swiftness that startled his colleagues, he dialed a number. "Prepare the car. I''m on my way down." He headed for the elevator, leaving Noah and Olivia staring after him, slightly impressed by the seventy-year-old man''s unexpected burst of energy. They soon followed. They descended to the ground floor and exited the building where a sleek, black car bearing the Chronos Labs logo awaited them. The doors hissed open as Victor approached. He slid into the driver''s seat while the scientists settled into the back. The car, controlled by an advanced autopilot system, had no steering wheel. Victor simply spoke the address, and the vehicle smoothly glided into the bustling city streets. The cityscape was a jumble of contrasts. Modern towers of glass and steel loomed over old buildings with peeling paint and rusted signs. Neon signs pulsed in the twilight, promising fleeting pleasures and distractions. The sidewalks teemed with people hurrying through their lives, each absorbed in their own private world. Uniformed citizens mingled with members of various subcultures, their vibrant hairstyles and clothing a defiant expression of individuality. Police robots patrolled the streets, a recent development that had drastically reduced crime rates in the past year. Efficient but ruthless, these automatons showed no mercy, injuring and even killing individuals for minor infractions, stripping law-abiding citizens of their little freedoms with unforgiving zeal. Looming above the urban sprawl were the towers of the corporations, their logos like watchful eyes, monitoring every movement below. Corporations ruled this world, dictating its politics, shaping its culture, controlling technology, information, and the very lives of its inhabitants. Inside the car, the atmosphere was tense. Noah and Olivia harbored a cautious respect, bordering on apprehension, for Victor and his unpredictable nature. Victor himself fidgeted, his body language betraying his growing anxiety as they journeyed further from the city center. "Where are we going, sir?" Noah finally asked, his scientific curiosity overriding his reservations. "To the countryside," Victor replied, the question momentarily easing his tension. "We''re going to visit an old friend of mine. Arthur." "Do you think he can survive the¡­the ''Jump''?" Olivia inquired, using the team¡¯s slang for the consciousness transfer. "If anyone can," Victor said, a confident smirk spreading across his face, "it''s him."Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Noah and Olivia exchanged glances, intrigued by the mystery surrounding their boss''s enigmatic friend. The landscape began to transform. Skyscrapers gave way to smaller structures, then to open fields and verdant forests. The neon glow of the city faded, replaced by the soft luminescence of the moon filtering through the clouds. The air grew cleaner, fresher, carrying the scent of nature. The road wound through rolling hills and dense woodlands, illuminated only by the car''s headlights. Scattered houses and small villages dotted the landscape, islands of tranquility in the otherwise restless world. As they ventured deeper into the countryside, a sense of calm settled over them. The streets were deserted, devoid of both robots and people. Only retirees and the wealthy remained in these quiet enclaves, free from the relentless demands of the city. The road narrowed, becoming increasingly winding. Victor knew they were close. They turned onto a dirt track and stopped before a high brick wall, a house clearly visible beyond on a hill. The house, while appearing modest from the outside, exuded an aura of comfort and well-being. It wasn''t a simple rustic cottage but a modern dwelling seamlessly integrated into its natural surroundings. The light, polished wood of the frame contrasted with large panoramic windows that radiated a warm, inviting glow. A wide wooden walkway encircled the house, leading to a meticulously maintained garden, a testament to the care and attention lavished upon it. Stepping out of the car, Victor, Noah, and Olivia paused, admiring the beauty of the setting. Victor pressed the intercom button. Silence. He waited a moment, then tried again. "How may I help you?" a female voice inquired. "Hello, this is Victor Albright. I''m here to see Arthur." "Oh, Mr. Albright!" the voice exclaimed, a hint of surprise and delight in her tone. "Of course, come right in." A click signaled the release of the gate lock. They followed the neatly paved stone path towards the house. A woman in her forties, dressed in a uniform, greeted them at the entrance. Clearly a housekeeper, she seemed genuinely pleased to receive visitors, a rarity in this secluded location. "Please, come in," she gestured, ushering them inside. "I''ll take your coats. Mr. Steelhart is in the back garden, training." "Thank you, Miss Evans," Victor replied, recognizing her from previous visits. Olivia and Noah offered their greetings and followed Victor down the hallway. The interior of the house was warm and inviting, its decor reflecting a deliberate preservation of early 21 st-century style. Stepping out onto the back patio, they saw a stone platform beneath a wooden canopy. In the center, an old man stood in the horse stance of Mabu, legs wide, knees bent, back straight. Arthur, despite his eighty years, was a remarkable sight. Time seemed to have little effect on his physical form. He wasn''t simply a fit old man; he was powerfully built, his muscles, though etched with a fine web of wrinkles, clearly spoke of years of rigorous training. His physique resembled that of a warrior. Broad shoulders, strong arms, and powerful legs testified to his exceptional physical strength. Even from behind, his presence was intimidating enough to make the scientists instinctively hesitate. "Arthur! It''s been far too long!" Victor exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. The old man straightened from his stance, his body a steel coil unwinding with heavty precision. He turned, his face, framed by long grey hair tied back into a harsh ponytail, was a canvas of brutal history. Deep gashes, not wrinkles, crossed his skin, marking him as a survivor of countless battles. A thick, grey beard flowed down to his chest, his eyes burned with a fierce, unwavering fire. The air around him thrummed with an invisible danger. That''s the legendary Arthur Steelhart, the strongest fighter in the world! Noah thought, recognizing the old man. His apprehension quickly transformed into awe. "Victor?" Arthur''s voice heavy with authority. "What brings you here?" - The old man didn''t seem delighted at all. "Aren''t you happy to see an old friend? You''re even grumpier than I remember," Victor chuckled, his earlier anxieties completely dissipated by the sight of the familiar face. "Well, since you''re here," Arthur sighed, clearly not one for idle chatter, "let''s go inside." They followed him into a small but cozy living room, dominated by a fireplace where a log fire crackled merrily, filling the air with a comforting aroma. Noah and Olivia, accustomed to the sterile environment of their labs, reveled in the rustic charm of their surroundings. Even Arthur''s intimidating aura couldn''t diminish their appreciation for the tranquil setting. They settled around a small table. "Let''s get straight to the point," Arthur said, his gaze intense. "Aren''t you even going to ask how your old friend is doing?" Victor teased, but seeing Arthur''s unwavering stare, he grew serious. "I have a proposition for you, Arthur, or rather, a request¡­" He explained the World Travel Machine project, their need for someone with exceptional willpower to survive the consciousness transfer, and his conviction that Arthur possessed the most unyielding will he knew. Arthur listened intently, his expression thoughtful. "So, this machine could kill me," he finally said, his voice low and steady. "And even if it doesn''t, it could send me anywhere, perhaps to the abyss of deep space?" "I''ll be honest with you, Arthur," Victor admitted, "that''s a possibility." "But there''s a chance I could end up in another world, a world different from our own?" "Yes," Victor confirmed, "there''s a chance. But we don''t know what kind of world it would be. You''re our last hope, Arthur." - Victor understood the gravity of his request, the possible death sentence he offered to his friend. But any pang of guilt or rationality was consumed by his ambition. Arthur held no grudge against Victor for such a request; he understood the sacrifices ambition demanded, a price he himself had paid in full. He pondered for a moment, but his decision didn''t take long. His life was nearing its end anyway, and this offered a chance for one last grand adventure. Memories of his youth, the thrill of battles, the excitement of exploration, the sweet taste of victory, surged through him. "I don''t have much time left anyway," Arthur declared, his eyes gleaming with a renewed fire. "If there''s a chance I can experience the thrill of adventure again, then I''m in. We leave now. Miss Evans, please bring me my clothes." "I knew I could count on you!" Victor exclaimed, relief washing over him. "I promise, Arthur, I''ll do everything in my power to ensure your safe return." Arthur changed into his travel clothes, a simple but sturdy outfit suited for any environment. They set off for Chronos Labs in Victor¡¯s car. During the drive, Victor chattered excitedly about WTM-01 and the possibilities that awaited them if they succeeded. Arthur listened patiently, his mind already envisioning the adventures that lay ahead, a second chance at a life he thought was over. Chapter 3: The Last Stillbrook Aren¡¯s consciousness flickered back to life, a brief pause before his brain fully engaged. He jolted upright in bed, his eyes darting around, assessing his surroundings. His previous awakening had erupted into a brutal, life-or-death struggle against a mercenary. This time, he was prepared for anything. Yet, contrary to his grim expectations, he found himself alone in a small, almost pitiful room. Two narrow beds were the primary fixtures, along with a single, rickety wooden clothes rack by the door. The room was constructed of rough-hewn timber, its walls formed from massive logs, chinks filled with knotted ropes to keep out the drafts. The floorboards were long and uneven, some jutting up at odd angles, threatening to trip the unwary. The gear, along with a gleaming sword, lay on the floor beside the second bed. Aren recognized them instantly¡ªthe belongings of the guard, his savior. The door was firmly shut. A sense of tranquility hung in the air, broken only by the distant murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter from below. Aren released a slow, steady breath, allowing a measure of calm to settle over him. The frenzy from the previous night was finally receding. As the tension washed away, the recent events made their presence known, sending waves of pain through the joints of his right arm and a lingering irritation in his throat. He carefully massaged his aching shoulder, hoping to ease the throbbing ache. The effort brought slight relief. He cautiously approached the small, square window, wanting to get a better understanding of the situation outside. The moment he touched the latch, a loud, grating screech ripped through the relative silence as the window swung open. Aren had intended to be as quiet as possible, carefully controlling his movements, but the aged wood protested, the noise escalating with every inch he moved the pane. Damn it! he thought, bracing himself for the possibility that the noise would draw unwanted attention. Yet the sounds from downstairs continued unabated, indicating that no one had paid any mind to the racket. The window offered a limited view of a small village nestled below. A jumble of modest wooden houses, their thatched roofs sagging with age, dotted the landscape, connected by a network of well-worn dirt paths that snaked between gardens bursting with colorful flowers and herbs. Villagers, clad in simple tunics and trousers, went about their daily routines, some tending to small plots of land, others heading towards the nearby fields with hoes slung over their shoulders. The scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread mingled pleasantly in the crisp morning air. Beyond the settlement, a river snaked its way through the landscape, flanked by a dense, ancient forest. The position of the village, set slightly below the edge of the forest, obstructed a clear view of the horizon. He was still absorbing the tranquil scene when a creak from the door behind him sent him spinning around, prepared for an attack, only to find his guardian standing in the doorway. The man was dressed in simple, roughspun garments, similar to those worn by the villagers, and was carrying two wooden pints. ¡°You¡¯re awake!¡± The guardian¡¯s voice was laced with a hint of relief. ¡°I couldn¡¯t rouse you no matter what I tried. Had to carry you up to the second floor of this tavern.¡± He approached Aren slowly, extending one of the pints towards him. Aren accepted the offering, using his healthy left hand to support the weight of the pint. The liquid within was most likely mead. Aren hesitated for a moment, unsure what to say. He couldn¡¯t remember this man, yet the guardian was acting as if they were long-time friends. But then a thought struck him¡ªit would be wise to thank him, instead of just standing there like an idiot. ¡°Thank you for saving me,¡± Aren said, taking a sip of the mead. The honeyed brew burned his throat initially, but an instant later, a soothing warmth spread through his body, chasing away the lingering chill. The guard was grim and quiet. He placed himself down on the other bed, taking a deep gulp of his mead. After his swallow, nearly half of his pint was gone. ¡°I was just doing my duty, young master,¡± he replied, his voice thick with grief. ¡°I¡­ I couldn¡¯t save your parents and siblings. I am so sorry¡­¡± His words trailed off, lost in a wave of sorrow.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. So I had a family. These mercenaries didn¡¯t target only me. What could my family have possibly done? Although Aren couldn¡¯t recall his family, questions flooded his mind. His amnesia made understanding his situation crucial, and knowing his past was key. He paused, observing his rescuer, who was devastated. Should he hide his amnesia or be truthful? Keeping it secret was pointless; it would soon become apparent. But how could he tell this grieving man that he remembered neither him nor his family? Aren decided that the only way forward was through. ¡°To be honest,¡± he began, sitting on his bed and facing his guardian, ¡°I think I¡¯ve lost my memory¡­ I can¡¯t remember anything before yesterday¡¯s attack.¡± The guard lifted his head, his eyes wide with disbelief, the half-full pint frozen halfway to his lips. ¡°Nothing, Young Master? Nothing at all?¡± He leaned forward, his gaze intense, searching Aren¡¯s face for any hint of a jest or deception. He found only a disconcerting blankness, a void where recognition and familiarity should have been. ¡°But¡­ Your family¡­ The attack¡­ You remember nothing of that?¡± Aren shook his head slowly, uneasy with his lack of emotional response. ¡°The first thing I remember is waking up during the attack.¡± Theron¡¯s hand trembled, nearly dropping the pint as he set it down on the floor with a dull thud. He ran a hand through his neatly trimmed beard. ¡°By the gods,¡± he whispered, more to himself than to Aren. He fell into deep thought for a moment. ¡°It might be related to that Ether Pulse. It was incredibly powerful; I¡¯ve never sensed anything like it. I thought the Ascendant had caused it, and I rushed to flee with you. Do you at least remember who I am?¡± He looked at Aren, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes. ¡°No,¡± Aren replied, his voice flat. The color drained from Theron¡¯s face. ¡°Gods have mercy,¡± he breathed, his gaze distant, unfocused. He was silent for a long moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. ¡°I¡­ I am Theron,¡± he finally said, his voice hoarse, ¡°Commander of your family¡¯s guard, your¡­ Your instructor, your protector¡­ I swore an oath to your father, to House Stillbrook, to keep you and your family safe¡­¡± He looked at Aren, his eyes filled with pain, as if he was reliving his failure again in that moment. Aren felt a surge of empathy. This guy¡¯s a wreck. I need to cheer him up. He was starting to like Theron; he respected the man¡¯s unwavering loyalty. ¡°Your oath still holds. I¡¯m here, after all. Even if I don¡¯t remember you, I am grateful.¡± The simple words worked wonders. Theron picked up his pint and finished it in one gulp. His eyes lit up with renewed purpose. ¡°Then I will uphold my oath and protect you, the last Stillbrook!¡± He stood tall. ¡°Forgive me, Master Aren. My grief overwhelmed me. I didn¡¯t think about how hard this must be for you, with your amnesia. Ask me anything.¡± How little encouragement some people need to completely change the mood. He considered what he needed to know most to navigate this new world. ¡°My family¡­ you said they were killed. Who were they?¡± ¡°You are Aren Stillbrook, Count Cassian Stillbrook¡¯s eldest son. Your family rules a county in the Stormborn Dominion. I don¡¯t know why anybody would attack your family¡ªthey were loved by both the common folk and Duke Darius Stormborn.¡± Theron sat back at the edge of the bed. ¡°After we left the Stillbrook estate, I brought you to the nearest village. We are now in a tavern. We weren¡¯t followed, so it is unlikely they will come after you again, at least not any time soon. Stillbrook County is now without governance¡­¡± ¡°Alright, I got it,¡± Aren cut him off. His amnesia erased any emotional ties he might have had to his family or his inheritance. Now that he knew who he was in this world, and the reasons for the attack were unknown, he had to understand more urgent things first. He remembered how a single altercation with an enemy left his right arm completely useless, even though he had successfully won the fight. Now how can I ask this without sounding like a maniac? he wondered. ¡°It¡¯s rather a weird question, but why am I so weak? I¡¯d be dead right now if it weren¡¯t for you.¡± Curiosity born from Arthur¡¯s spirit, restless within its borrowed body, demanded an answer. Theron hadn¡¯t anticipated such a question. He was still grieving, having held the Stillbrook family in deep affection. It stung that the young master seemed so cold in the face of such a tragedy. Yet, as a guard, his duty was to protect and help the last Stillbrook above all else. He suppressed his emotions and responded: ¡°You¡¯ve been frail since birth. The gods did not bless you with a strong physique, but they gifted you a sharp mind and wisdom beyond your years. You spent much of your time in the library, studying Ether and the history of Atheria. I trained you in swordsmanship, riding, and even some martial arts, but you didn¡¯t take to them easily.¡± A deep sense of disappointment crossed Aren¡¯s face, turning almost to self-resentment. He took a large gulp of mead, ignoring the pain in his throat, doing his best to put aside the disturbing thought of his weakness. ¡°What is Ether and Atheria?¡± Chapter 4: The Brazen Youth ¡°Atheria is our kingdom, and also what we call the continent. Ether is the energy that surrounds us. It¡¯s like a force of everything, and it can be manipulated with enough training. I only understand it from a perspective of strengthening the body, but its applications are limitless. For example¡­¡± "Strengthening the body, hmm..." Aren murmured, his voice curious as he cut Theron off again. "Well, that''s all fascinating," he said, clapping his hands against his legs with a resounding smack. "But I think it''s time for us to go," his impatience for the adventures this world held, and lack of tolerance for conversation, clearly inherited from Arthur, rising to the surface. He now knows who he is, and where he is; nothing more to talk about now. ¡°Um¡­of course! We need to buy you some clothes, you are still in your pajamas...¡± Theron was completely thrown off by this new attitude of his young master, but he chalked it up to the amnesia. ¡°I¡¯ll run to a merchant nearby and find something suitable for you. Wait here!¡± Theron leaped off the bed, and with his empty pint in hand, rushed down the stairs. Though Aren was not keen on continuing the dialogue, the mention of Ether intrigued him deeply. Perhaps with its help, he could become powerful despite his weak body. He quickly finished his drink and, deciding he didn¡¯t want to wait for Theron, went to explore the tavern. He exited the room and descended the creaking staircase. On the first floor, the bar was directly opposite the exit, accompanied by round tables and chairs, all crafted from rather rough-hewn wood, suggesting the village didn¡¯t have a particularly skilled carpenter. It was still early, and only a handful of people were present, yet all eight of them turned their attention to the tall, pajama-clad youth. Aren made his way towards the bar, his entrance silencing the room. Such a guest was certainly an oddity. He saw some people having breakfast, and a sudden pang of hunger made itself known. ¡°Do you serve food here?¡± Aren asked in a grumbling tone. ¡°We do,¡± the old man behind the counter replied, mirroring Aren¡¯s tone. ¡°Give me whatever is ready.¡± The man behind the bar, a plump man in his fifties with unkempt stubble and disheveled hair, clearly disliked the disrespectful attitude of the young boy. But he knew that Theron was with him and Theron had coin. He went into the room behind the bar and returned with a plate piled high with four fried eggs. He slammed the plate in front of Aren, the clatter loud enough to make his annoyance quite clear. But the young man ignored him and began eating, carefully mimicking the way others used their utensils. Not far from the counter, an old man of about 55 years, slightly intoxicated, and clearly the local drunk, stared at Aren as if he were some strange creature in a zoo. Aren sensed the gaze and turned to meet his eyes. They stared at each other, a silent exchange of disrespect. The patron had never encountered such a brazen youth. What''s this brat looking at? both of them thought simultaneously. Arthur¡¯s soul was looking down on everyone, a sentiment Aren couldn''t quite understand, yet felt acutely. "I asked you to stay in the room!" Theron''s exasperated voice broke the tense silence, diffusing the brewing conflict between Aren and the drunkard. "I brought you some clothes and supplies for our journey." Aren, nearly finished with his meal, simply nodded. Theron paid for the breakfast and added a generous tip for the room. The barkeep''s scowl melted into a wide smile, the boy''s earlier rudeness forgotten. They returned to their room. Theron donned his armor and buckled his sword, while Aren changed into the simple clothes Theron had procured ¨C a grey long-sleeved tunic, brown trousers, and sturdy boots. The attire was hardly befitting a Count''s son, but it would have to do. Once they were ready, Theron announced, "We are heading to Stormborn Castle, to your father''s closest friend, Darius Stormborn, Duke of this Dominion! We have to report the incident as soon as possible."Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. "And how far is this castle?" Aren inquired. "We''re traveling light, without a carriage, so I think we''ll manage it in two or three days," Theron replied. "Then let''s go." Finally, Aren would begin to understand this new world. He was filled with anticipation, eager to embark on this journey, learn more about Ether, and test his own abilities. They left the tavern and stepped onto the village''s main street, lined with modest homes. The ground was packed earth, crisscrossed with tracks from people, horses, and carts. "Let''s retrieve Ajax from the stables; he''s been waiting," Theron said, leading the way. The stables were at the edge of the village, at the end of the main street. The villagers they passed regarded Theron and Aren with curiosity, noble visitors being an infrequent occurrence. No one seemed hostile, however. Though they lived simply, they appeared content. Aren formed a positive impression of the Stormborn Dominion; even this small, seemingly poor village seemed to thrive. Though this village technically belonged to him now, as the last Stillbrook, he had no ambitions in that regard. His only interest was becoming stronger and understanding this world. He wanted to ask Theron more about Ether, whether the shimmering aura he''d seen in battle was indeed Ether, but Aren was not a morning person. He¡¯d had enough conversation for one half of a day; he would ask later. They reached the stables quickly. Ajax, seeing his master, whinnied a greeting. During their escape, Aren hadn''t had time to appreciate the stallion¡¯s magnificent physique. The morning sun shimmered on his black coat, highlighting his powerful muscles. He was an imposing creature, large enough to carry three men comfortably. Theron thanked the stablehand and paid for Ajax''s food and lodging. Theron approached the stallion, stroking his mane affectionately. The animal pawed the ground impatiently, eager to be on the move. "Young Master, I presume you''ve also forgotten how to mount a horse?" Theron asked, his voice deep and resonant. Aren nodded. Theron approached the powerful stallion and patted his neck. ¡°First,¡± he instructed, ¡°you need to calm the horse. Speak to him softly.¡± He demonstrated, stroking the horse gently, before briskly moving to the next step. ¡°One hand on the saddle, the other on the mane,¡± he explained. ¡°Don''t grip the mane, just rest your hand and press down. This helps you maintain your balance as you pull yourself up.¡± He demonstrated the grip, then gracefully placed his foot in the stirrup, swung his other leg over the horse¡¯s back, and landed lightly in the saddle. ¡°Like that,¡± he said, straightening in the saddle. ¡°Now, instead of the mane, I will give you a hand.¡± He looked at Aren with a slight grin, awaiting his attempt. Damn, and I have to jump with this injured hand? Aren thought, but he accepted the challenge. His new personality wouldn''t allow otherwise. He approached Ajax, clumsily placed his foot in the stirrup, grasped Theron¡¯s outstretched hand, and swung his other leg over. It was surprisingly easy. He could move quite well in this body, despite its weakness and unfamiliar feel. "You did well," Theron observed. "Perhaps your body still remembers my lessons." The guard was pleased and proud of his pupil. He was still adjusting to Aren''s changed personality, but his affection for the boy remained unchanged. "Forward, Ajax!" he called. The stallion surged forward like a released arrow. Aren nearly lost his grip, but managed to cling to Theron. Theron laughed heartily. Riding was clearly one of his greatest joys. The wind whistled past Aren''s ears as the scent of pine grew stronger. He hadn''t yet found a comfortable position at this speed when they entered the forest, the village vanishing from sight. The horse navigated the forest paths with practiced ease, gracefully dodging and leaping over obstacles. The forest was dense and teeming with life. Aren glanced around, spotting various animals that seemed unconcerned by their presence. Theron was saying something, but Aren couldn''t hear him over the wind. This horse must wield Ether to be this fast! After several hours, they emerged from the forest, a new vista opening before them: green fields and rolling hills, a narrow river spanned by a stone bridge. In the distance, another village, about the same size as the last, but with stone houses, suggesting a community of craftspeople. Their path, however, led them away from this settlement. Ajax continued at his brisk pace towards the river, not even slowing as they approached. He launched himself over the water in a powerful leap. Aren, unprepared, was momentarily airborne, clinging desperately to Theron. What about that oath to protect me? I nearly fell into the river! he thought, as Theron roared with laughter again. After hours of riding across the fields, Theron pulled on the reins, bringing Ajax to a halt. ¡°We¡¯ll make camp here,¡± he announced. ¡°This is a good spot.¡± The location was indeed ideal. Positioned on a hill at the edge of another dense forest, they could sit by a large rock, offering a clear view of the surrounding landscape while being sheltered by the trees.