《Ninety-Nine K Memories》 Chapter 1 - The Last Day of a Miserable Life The rain fell in thick curtains, warping the shadows and smothering the trembling glow of the streetlamps. In front of a house entrance, a man stood motionless, soaked to the bone. His hair dripped onto his forehead, and the fabric of his shirt clung to his skin like a second sentence. Droplets slid down his numb fingers, but the chill consuming him came from within. Suddenly, the door swung open with a sharp crack. On the threshold, bathed in the pale light from inside, a pregnant woman unflinchingly hurled a handful of men¡¯s clothing. The garments landed on the drenched street, soaking up the grime until they mirrored their wretchedness. ¡ªPick them up and get the hell out of here!¡ªshe spat, burning with rage and contempt¡ª. You disgust me, you know that? No¡­ not even pity, just disgust! How many years have passed, and you¡¯re still the same? Look at you! All our peers have moved on, careers, money, real families¡­ but you¡¯re stuck in the same miserable life, no ambitions, no future. You¡¯re an embarrassment! Her screams echoed down the street, loud enough to draw the neighbors. Behind cracked curtains and half-open doors, curious faces peered out, some amused, others simply hungry for spectacle. The man felt something inside him snap, a stabbing pain with no relief. His throat burned as he swallowed, and the weight in his chest made him stagger before stepping forward, hands open in supplication. ¡ªPlease¡­ Not like this. Not in front of everyone. We can talk¡­ For the baby¡¯s sake, at least. The woman fell silent for a moment, then suddenly began to laugh. ¡ªThe baby?¡ªshe repeated, tilting her head with a twisted smile¡ª. Where do you get the right to worry about him? This child isn¡¯t yours. It never was. The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the rain could dilute the cruelty of her words. ¡ªPlease¡­¡ªhe whispered, his voice shattered, as if each word crumbled his world¡ª. Tell me it¡¯s not true¡­ The woman laughed with acid mockery, savoring every second. Her lips curled into a venomous smile as she delivered her final blow: ¡ªYou? Did you really think I¡¯d ruin my life carrying the child of a nobody like you? The world went silent. The onlookers¡¯ laughter, the rain pounding his skin, even the echo of his own breath¡­ Everything faded into an abyss of stillness. He didn¡¯t answer. He had nothing left to say. No strength left to hate her. He turned and walked away, each step clumsier, slower, as if his bones resisted moving forward. The rain fell silently, streaming down his skin as if trying to erase what remained of him. ¡ªDisappear! I never want to see you again. Take your misery with you!¡ªHer shout reached him muffled, distant. But he¡¯d already stopped listening. His consciousness floated in a numb limbo. The world blurred, as if reality itself were unraveling. There were no flashes of warning. No voices calling him back. The roar of the engine was the last thing he heard before the impact hurled him into the air. His body slammed into the car¡¯s windshield, bounced off the hood, and crumpled onto the slick asphalt. His arm bent at a grotesque angle, his leg twisted like a broken puppet, and warm blood slid down his forehead, staining his world red. He gasped, fighting for a breath that never came. And even then, as his last breath escaped his lips, as death claimed him without resistance¡­ He felt nothing. ¡­ When he opened his eyes, the cold, wet asphalt had vanished. In its place, an immense white void stretched endlessly. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above, yet he hung there, suspended in silent, suffocating nothingness. Around him, an endless line of human figures stretched into infinity. They were blurred shadows, motionless, trapped in an eternal wait. No one moved. No one acknowledged his existence. He didn¡¯t understand how he¡¯d arrived, or the purpose of the line. But something inside him refused to move, as though breaking an unremembered pact. He blinked. Just an instant. But when he opened his eyes, the crowd had vanished. Only he remained, facing a colossal threshold covered in inscriptions that seemed to shift under his gaze. He didn¡¯t try to understand. There was no logic¡ªonly the urge to move forward. There were no other options. No other fate. So he took a deep breath and crossed. Before him loomed a black door, so vast it seemed to merge with eternity. No walls, no floor, no sky, just that colossal door floating in nothingness. And silence¡­ until the whispers began. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Voices from nowhere and everywhere. They sounded like wind scraping ancient stone, like echoes of foreign thoughts. They weren¡¯t ordinary words, yet he understood them. ¡ªIs it him¡­? ¡ªIt is. His essence is bound by the same fate. ¡ªThen the wheel will turn once more? ¡ªOnly the Supreme knows the ultimate truth. ¡ªFive hundred and seventy lives of suffering¡­ What purpose does such punishment serve? ¡ªIt is the decree of the Ascended Ones. ¡ªBut he hesitates at the threshold¡­ Why? A shiver tore through him, and his fingers clenched into trembling fists. Five hundred and seventy lives. Not just a number. Centuries of pain, loss, anguish. Was this his fate? An eternity of suffering, trapped in an inescapable loop? ¡ªFive hundred and seventy lives of misery¡­¡ªhe murmured, his voice broken under the weight of condemnation¡ª. Is this all that awaits me¡­? How much longer¡­? The voices didn¡¯t answer. ¡ªWhy?¡ªhe screamed into the void, his soul˺ÁÑed¡ª. Why am I condemned to endless torment? TELL ME! Silence was his only reply. That door¡­ he hated it. Hated its imposing presence, the life beyond it, the cruel magnetism pulling him in. ¡ªI won¡¯t do it¡­ I WON¡¯T CROSS!¡ªhe roared, as if his voice could shatter destiny. Suddenly, an impossible force crushed him into the absence itself. Pain devoured his reason, grinding him, shredding him until his existence felt alien. He tried to breathe, but the void forbade it. He tried to scream, but his voice dissolved like ash. He couldn¡¯t die. His punishment was to exist. Time melted into his suffering. Then, the pressure vanished. His broken body gasped for relief. But there was no respite. A voice emerged, unlike the others, an echo of something forgotten, a whisper from a nameless abyss. The void trembled, and the black door cracked, bleeding dark light. ¡ªYou will. With those words, the door opened soundlessly, and an invisible force dragged him inside. The man fell into an endless abyss, but soon the void became a narrow corridor of writhing shadows. At its end, a lone light flickered, waiting. He turned, heart racing. The door remained there, open, calling him back. Without hesitation, he ran toward it. He wouldn¡¯t accept this fate. Not again. But before he could reach it, the door slammed shut. The sound echoed in the void. An instant later, the darkness devoured her, erasing any trace of her existence. The man¡¯s roar ricocheted through the shadows. ¡ªDamn their will! May fate shatter to pieces and the Ascendants devour each other! Let them choke on their illusions! I refuse to be their puppet or bear their cursed chains. Rage consumed him, and then, unnoticed, something began to give way. Unaware, his blackened pupils began to crack as a green radiance pierced through them, like fire burning beneath a layer of ash. The fabric of the world shuddered, trembling as though fearing what was about to awaken. And then it emerged before him. Where there had once been only an immaculate glow, now stood a scarlet door, red as if every fiber of its being were soaked in ancient blood. Its carvings twisted like creatures trapped in an eternal trance, arcane symbols sliding over one another as if trying to convey a message lost to time. The man felt panic crawl up his spine as he gazed at the red door. This was no ordinary fear¡ªit was primal, as though his very blood remembered what his mind had forgotten. He exhaled slowly, letting a cynical smile curve his lips. ¡ªMy soul surrenders to the Black and trembles before you¡­ I don¡¯t know if my soul is a wretched counselor or just enjoys watching me suffer. If it warns me to flee, perhaps the opposite is what I must do. He stepped forward, wrenching each foot from the ground as if gravity itself sought to cling to him, to hold him back. Something inside rebelled, clawing at him from within, screaming in a language he refused to understand. But he ignored it, laughing with a fury that scorched his throat. ¡ªI will not be a puppet again¡­ Not even to my own mind. With a growl, he forced his body across the final meters and stood before the scarlet door. He raised his hand, fingers trembling, ready to push. But it wasn¡¯t necessary. Before his fingers grazed the wood, the door slid open silently, as though it had been waiting. He drew a sharp breath and, with a tense smile, stepped through. Reality fractured. Now he stood in an endless corridor, its walls lined with empty picture frames, as though their images had been torn away. In the distance, a greenish glow pulsed, beckoning him. A deep dread froze his blood. But there was no other path. Repeating the torment of his past lives was a fate worse than any risk. Better to face the unknown than succumb to the condemnation of inevitability. He tried to move, but before his foot could touch the ground, a groan tore from his throat. His flesh cracked into smoldering ash, bones splintering and evaporating as though they had never existed. He felt ripped from himself, reduced to something he could not comprehend. When his step landed, his body was gone. Only he remained, naked in his purest form. The world around him dissolved. He was no longer a man. He was a child again, huddled in the depths of a cave. His small fingers trembled as they brushed the stagnant water¡¯s surface, warping the reflection staring back with bright green eyes. The cave¡¯s dampness, the scent of wet stone, stirred slumbering memories. He took another step. His flesh shuddered, bones creaking like dry branches. A blink, a heartbeat, and his body was no longer the same. Now he was a youth wrapped in furs, clutching a bloodied spear as though his life depended on it. Before him, a chaos-born monster roared, challenging him with primal ferocity. A lightning bolt of memory struck him: the intoxication of battle, the sharpened instinct, the frenzy burning in his blood. Conquer or die. Another step. He saw himself at his peak: a war king upon a throne of bones and beast hides. His people knelt in reverence¡­ but was it devotion or fear? The shadow of his conquests enveloped him, whispers of pasts buried in nameless graves. Another step. His body hunched under the weight of years. His hair, now pure silver, cascaded over his shoulders. Before him stood an unreal presence, a formless being, an echo of something that should never have existed. Memories of his final hour seized him like claws closing around his chest. He stepped forward. The nearest frame vibrated, as though something invisible fought to break free. Threads of light danced around him, weaving the image of a weathered old man and a time-distorted entity. Another step. Time folded in on itself. His body was small again. The cave had vanished, replaced by a hut of mud and straw. The earth pulsed differently, as if belonging to another yesterday. Each step mirrored what he had been. Each cycle, another page in the book of his existence. Each completed frame, an unearthed truth. He saw himself as beggar and king, dreamer and destroyer. He was wise and foolish, creator and ruin. He rose to the universe¡¯s pinnacle and fell into oblivion¡¯s depths. He tasted glory¡¯s sweetness and loss¡¯s bitterness. He relived the euphoria of first love and the desolation of final farewells. He was a traveler lost between dimensions, trapped in lives never fully his. He beheld the cosmos¡¯ vastness and the narrow abyss of his own mind. He understood his time was not a line but a labyrinth. And at every turn, he found and lost himself. One by one, the empty frames filled, rewriting his history into time¡¯s fabric. Until finally, his steps halted. Before him, a green radiance burned like an unrelenting sun. The man sighed and whispered: ¡ªNinety-nine thousand cycles¡­ Ninety-nine thousand memories¡­ of a forgotten self, finally returning. He turned slowly, gazing at the corridor behind him. It was a mural of his story, a brutally honest portrait of his grandeur and misery, his light and shadow. He closed his eyes for a moment before wondering: ¡ªWhat forgotten sin awakened the Ascendants¡¯ wrath? Why was my condemnation carved into eternity? He turned back to the emerald glow, his eyes¡ªmirrors of contained fury¡ªblazing fiercely. ¡ªFive centuries of torment, a sentence transcending death. One day, I will demand answers. And if they do not sate my truth, the Ascendants will know the weight of my judgment. Slowly, he reached out and touched the radiance. It shuddered, reacting as though recognizing his touch, then, in a single pulse, devoured him without mercy. Chapter 2 - A Ghost Among His Own The green glow enveloped him, disorienting and blinding, as if floating in an ocean of liquid light. There was no up or down, only a formless vastness that embraced him with suffocating heat. His mind was a whirlwind of distant voices and shattered memories, slipping between the real and the forgotten. He tried to scream, to move, to resist¡­ but his body didn¡¯t exist, he was just a thought trapped in a maze with no exit. And then, as if time shattered into a thousand pieces, the light began to fade. The sound arrived first, like a sickly heartbeat. A distant, ceaseless, raspy murmur. Hoarse voices, engines coughing, the metallic groan of worn-out vehicles, and the endless hum of a weary city. Then came the stench: a thick blend of rancid dampness, stale urine, and garbage fermenting under the sun. The Amber District reeked of abandonment. His eyelids fluttered open and shut in a slow blink, as if the world needed to reboot. The city lights flickered below like an ocean of dead stars. And then he wanted to laugh at the cosmic joke. How many nights had he dreamed of flying? Now, on the crumbling ledge of a building that creaked in the wind, he understood the fine print: flying was just falling with style. The bottle of cheap rum in his left hand weighed more than his will. ¡ªShit¡­! ¡ªHis words fell before he did. Before his brain could process what was happening, his muscles had already reacted. His right hand shot toward the ledge like lightning, gripping it desperately as his body dangled over the abyss. A dry snap echoed through his dislocated shoulder, wrenching a muffled scream from him. But he didn¡¯t let go. He couldn¡¯t. Below, the bottle he¡¯d held a second earlier spun until it shattered on the ground in a shower of glittering fragments. ¡°Damn idiot,¡± he screamed inside his head. ¡°What were you trying to achieve? Die like a fool?¡± With a grunt of effort, he tried to pull himself up with his left arm, but his body had barely any strength left. Desperate, he searched for footholds in the building¡¯s fa?ade, digging his soles into bricks weathered by time. But they crumbled without resistance, like layers of dust accumulated over decades. ¡ªStay still¡­ ¡ªhe pleaded with the debris, but it already scattered like funeral ashes, vanishing into the street¡¯s darkness. Suddenly, the chunk of ledge in his right hand gave way with a dry crack, and his fingers closed around empty air. Gravity dragged him down, stretching the muscles of his left arm like ropes about to snap. His shoulder burned, sweat blurred his vision, and his ears rang with the wild, rapid beat of his own heart. ¡ªREALLY? Not even a full damn day here, you Ascendant sons of¡­?! ¡ªhe roared at the sky, as if defying some mocking god. Panic seized his mind like a rampaging beast, but with a guttural cry from the depths of his soul, he silenced it. He ignored the pain tearing through his body, as if he were a mere spectator to his own agony. With his left arm, he clung with desperate strength, hauling himself upward. His legs, trembling and on the verge of collapse, barely responded, pushing him a few inches closer to the ledge. Finally, with a last muscle-searing effort, he hooked a leg over the edge. Crawling like a wounded animal, he dragged himself onto the roof and rolled onto the cold, rough surface. Air rushed into his chest in ragged gasps. His right arm hung uselessly like dead weight, while his left trembled uncontrollably. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with dust and blood from his scraped chin. He lay motionless for what felt like an eternity, feeling the world spin around him. With a pained groan, he forced himself to stand, his gaze lost in the gray sky where heavy clouds seemed to mirror the weight of his own existence. ¡ªAnother damnation disguised as life¡­ Another ending I¡¯d be chained to with no escape. But not this time. They can wait forever, my soul no longer belongs to them. Then, he felt it. The memories came to him, sharp and precise. They weren¡¯t scattered fragments or blurry dreams; they were his, as vivid as the countless lives he¡¯d already left behind. Asteron Draven. That¡¯s what they called him in this cycle, but his existence had always been in doubt. Born into wealth, he lived in exile within his own home. His hair and bearing were unmistakable, the spitting image of his father. But his eyes¡­ those cursed green eyes. Rumors, like venomous snakes, branded him a bastard, a flaw in the sacred Draven lineage. His mother blamed him for ruining her reputation. His father, though silent, could never hide the doubt in his gaze. DNA tests confirmed what no one wanted to admit: he was a Draven. But being one on paper didn¡¯t restore his place in the family. He was a ghost among his kin. Raised by strangers, ignored in grand halls, hidden from the world. The Draven name was his, but only as a burden stripped of honor or recognition. He never had his family¡¯s love, but he had a goal: to forge an Ethereal Heart. His destiny depended on it. They provided tutors, knowledge, all the means necessary. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he never succeeded. Year after year, his failure became an inescapable shadow. And when he turned eighteen, the Dravens discarded him like a failed investment. So, his existence faded. Invisible within the walls that had watched him grow. Until one day, the silence became unbearable, and he left without looking back. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. The Amber District welcomed him with filthy streets and desperate people. There, among the outcasts, he found a place to hide, and to sink. But even there, the weight of his failure crushed him. Every day was a struggle, every night a reminder that there was no escape. And today, on his thirty-third birthday, he¡¯d made the most drastic decision of all: to end everything. But the red door had other plans. Asteron gritted his teeth, fists clenched as if trying to seize his own fate. He lifted his face toward Veltraven, a metropolis devoured by its own ambition, where magic and technology converged, and Ethereal Hearts dictated everyone¡¯s destiny. No one knew exactly how or why, but centuries ago, Portals ruptured the world like cracks in reality¡¯s veil, shattering humanity¡¯s fragile balance. With them came the World¡¯s Breath, an ancient energy that transformed everything. Humans, once bound by mortality, discovered they could wield powers that existed only in myths. Those with talent and unyielding will learned to weave the Arcane into their souls, forging Ethereal Hearts that made them Arcane Adepts: beings capable of defying nature¡¯s laws. In this new world, families like the Dravens rose above the rest. Their power came not from wealth, but from their Adepts and the will to wield them in claiming dominion. Asteron let out a stifled laugh, a broken sound that faded into the night wind like a sigh of resignation. ¡ªA powerful family, yet a discarded son. In an age of magic, yet stripped of its essence. And that¡¯s just the tip of the iceberg of this miserable existence. ¡ªHe chuckled dryly, his gaze fixed on the city glowing before him¡ª. Does it amuse you? Is this spectacle worthy of your gaze, watching me writhe in the mud? You have no idea what you¡¯ve unleashed. If my past lives have taught me anything, it¡¯s that no matter how many times I fall¡­ I always find a way to rise again. And when I do, there¡¯ll be no corner of this world where you can hide. The night wind carried his words away, as if the city itself were trying to drown them. The pain in his arm distracted him momentarily, and he frowned, contemplating his next move. ¡ªFirst, fix this. With a trembling hand, he touched his dislocated shoulder, feeling the swelling and heat beneath his skin. He knew what had to be done, and he couldn¡¯t afford hesitation. He positioned himself against the rusted rooftop doorframe and, gritting his teeth with a muffled groan, thrust himself forward. The sound of the joint snapping back into place was brief, but the pain shot through him like an electric shock, leaving him breathless. For a moment, everything froze. The world narrowed to that searing pain and the nausea rising in his throat. But then, slowly, his arm began to respond again. ¡ªThere we go ¡ªhe murmured, testing the arm cautiously¡ª. That¡¯s better. With a final glance at the city, he stepped into the building¡¯s stairwell. The handrail, caked with a crust of dust and rust, seemed to crumble at the touch. The walls, bare and eaten by dampness, revealed layers of peeling paint that flaked away like dead skin. The air reeked of mold and stagnant time, as if the building had been sealed in a capsule of neglect. Twelve floors of decay. Twelve floors that mirrored the distorted reflection of his own life. The elevator, a rusted relic, hadn¡¯t worked in years. Maybe it never had. Luckily, he lived on the fourth floor, so the descent wasn¡¯t long. Yet each step echoed through the stairwell like a dull heartbeat. ¡ªIn all my past lives, I¡¯ve been aware from the start ¡ªhe muttered to himself, furrowing his brow¡ª. But this time¡­ this time is different. It¡¯s like waking from a dream. Could it be the Red Door? The question hung in the air, unanswered. As he reached the seventh-floor landing, a harsh, disdainful voice yanked him from his thoughts. ¡ªAh, the illustrious member of the Draven family! ¡ªa man sneered, his tone dripping with sarcasm¡ª. So you chickened out in the end, huh? Not surprising. You¡¯ve always been a coward. Asteron eyed him with contempt. The man stood in the doorway of apartment 702, a bottle in one hand and a mocking smirk on the other. His appearance was as repulsive as his personality. ¡ªBetter this way ¡ªthe man continued, taking a swig¡ª. Dead men don¡¯t pay debts, and you owe me two months¡¯ rent. If you don¡¯t cough up the money soon, you¡¯ll be sleeping in the gutter with the trash and starving cats. Though, come to think of it, that¡¯s probably too good for the likes of you. Asteron recognized him instantly: the building manager. A human-shaped parasite whose soul was as rotten as the apartments he rented. He¡¯d built a business on others¡¯ misery, charging exorbitant rents and enforcing repulsive contracts, especially on female tenants. Asteron stared at him, a deep hatred burning in his eyes. ¡ªWhat the hell did you just say, you bastard? ¡ªhe asked, his calm voice barely masking the fury within. The manager gaped, clearly stunned by Asteron¡¯s defiance. His face flushed red with rage, and he opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of insults. But a soft, trembling voice from inside the apartment cut him off. ¡ªPlease, don¡¯t do this ¡ªa woman whispered, her tone laced with fear and desperation¡ª. My husband will be home soon. Don¡¯t ruin everything¡­ over nonsense. The man fell silent, though his eyes blazed. He glared at Asteron and spat: ¡ªThis isn¡¯t over, you idiot¡­ With a grunt, he stormed inside and slammed the door, rattling the frame. Asteron clicked his tongue in disgust and continued downward. Reaching the fourth floor, he opened the door to apartment 406. The place was modest, even shabby, with a hole in the wall he¡¯d never bothered to fix. But it was his. It felt like he¡¯d lived a thousand lives in one, each more exhausting than the last. As he shut the door, he slumped against it, crushed by the weight of those accumulated existences. He inhaled deeply, but the air brought no relief. He needed something more, something to jolt him from this endless lethargy. Dragging himself to the bathroom, he faced the cold shower, a reminder of his powerlessness. The boiler had been broken for months, and the manager, a master of evasion, always had an excuse to avoid fixing it. He undressed slowly, every movement heavy with fatigue, and stepped under the icy stream. The frigid water needled his skin like shards of ice. It stole his breath and bit into his bones. He stood motionless, letting the water punish him, hoping it might cleanse his mind. But thoughts crept in like rats, gnawing at the corners of his consciousness. ¡ªLook at you ¡ªhe muttered, smiling bitterly as the water mocked his defeat¡ª. You didn¡¯t even push harder to get it fixed. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the damp, moldy tiles. The icy droplets slithered down his skin, reminders of all he¡¯d allowed. ¡ªDid you really think enduring in silence was the answer? ¡ªhe whispered hoarsely¡ª. Were you so afraid of losing the scraps you had? Is this how you wanted to live? Crawling for crumbs? The water flowed on, cold and indifferent, leaching the last warmth from his body. Asteron let out a hollow laugh. ¡ªIt was only a matter of time before this drained what little will to live you had left. When he finally turned off the faucet, his skin was numb. He dressed in ¡°clean¡± clothes, if the threadbare, faded garments could be called clean. The seams were frayed, the colors washed out, but they were all he owned. He collapsed onto the bed, the worn mattress sagging beneath him as if exhausted by the years. He closed his eyes, but his mind refused rest. ¡ªThat Red Door¡­ ¡ªhe whispered as memories of past lives surged like a spring¡ª. Forgotten faces, skills once mastered, loves and wars that no longer belonged to him. ¡ªWhy now? ¡ªhe murmured, cracking his eyes open to stare at the cracked ceiling¡ª. There¡¯s never a chance without a price. What am I missing? His thoughts were interrupted. The neighbors had begun their weekly ritual: shouts, slamming doors, and the occasional creative insult piercing the thin walls. Asteron covered his eyes with his arm, as if it could shield him from the domestic cacophony. ¡ªAh, yes, the soundtrack of my life ¡ªhe muttered sarcastically¡ª. All that¡¯s missing is an invitation to join. No thanks. I¡¯d rather save up to escape this cheap theater. Though, of course, I¡¯d need money first¡­ which seems harder than fleeing this cesspit. Then, something shifted. Suddenly, the shouting ceased, as if the world¡¯s volume had been turned down. The room¡¯s oppressive humidity vanished. The mattress beneath him melted away, replaced by something firmer, more natural. Something was wrong. He snapped his eyes open and bolted upright, scanning his surroundings in disbelief. He wasn¡¯t in his room, his apartment, or even the city. He stood beneath a sea of stars burning with an intensity he¡¯d never seen in this lifetime, as if the sky itself had leaned closer to earth to flaunt its splendor. The grass beneath his feet was fresh and soft; the air smelled of damp soil and wildflowers. Towering around him were trees like ancient giants, their twisted trunks stretching so high their canopies seemed to brush the stars. The murmur of a nearby stream mingled with rustling leaves and distant nocturnal calls. For the first time since regaining memories of his past lives, something defied his understanding. ¡ªWhere the hell am I¡­? ¡ªhe murmured, his voice lost among the trees¡ª. And how did I get here? Chapter 1 - The Last Day of a Miserable Life (New Translation) The rain fell in thick curtains, distorting the shadows and extinguishing the flickering glow of the lanterns. In front of the entrance of a house, a man stood motionless, soaked to the bone. His hair dripped onto his forehead, and the fabric of his shirt clung to his skin like a second condemnation. Drops slipped down his numb fingers, but the ice that consumed him came from within. Suddenly, the door opened with a dry thud. In the doorway, enveloped in the pale light from inside, a pregnant woman unhesitatingly threw a handful of men''s clothes. The garments fell onto the soaked street, drinking in the filth of the ground until they became a reflection of her misery. ¡ªPick them up and get lost for good!¡ªspat the woman, burning with rage and contempt¡ª. You disgust me, you know that? No¡­ not even disgust, loathing! How many years have passed and you''re still the same? Look at yourself! All our peers have progressed, they have careers, money, real families... but you''re still trapped in the same miserable life, without ambitions, without a future. You''re a disgrace! Her screams echoed in the street, loud enough to attract the neighbors. Behind half-drawn curtains and slightly ajar doors, curious faces peeked out, some with amused expressions, others simply hungry for a spectacle. The man felt something inside him break, a sharp pain that he couldn''t alleviate. His throat burned as he swallowed saliva, and the weight on his chest made him falter before taking a step forward, his hands open in a pleading gesture. ¡ªPlease¡­ Not like this. Not in front of everyone. We can talk¡­ For the baby''s sake, at least. The woman remained silent for a moment, and then, suddenly, began to laugh. ¡ªThe baby?¡ªshe repeated, tilting her head with a twisted smile¡ª. Where do you get the right to worry about him? This child is not yours. It never was. The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the rain managed to dilute the harshness of her words. ¡ªPlease... ¡ªhe whispered, his voice in pieces, as if with each word his world crumbled¡ª. Tell me it¡¯s not true... The woman laughed with a bitter mockery, savoring every second. Her lips curved into a venomous smile as she delivered her final blow: ¡ªYou? Did you seriously think I was going to ruin my life carrying in my womb the child of a nobody like you? The world went dark. The laughter of the onlookers, the rain hitting his skin, even the echo of his own breath¡­ Everything vanished into an abyss of silence. He didn''t answer. He had nothing to say. He didn''t even have the strength to hate her. He turned and walked away, each step clumsier, slower, as if his own bones resisted moving forward. The rain fell silently, slipping down his skin, as if trying to erase what was left of him. ¡ªDisappear! I don''t want to see you again. And take your misery with you!¡ªHer shout reached him muffled, distant. But he had already stopped listening. His consciousness floated in an emotionless limbo. The world blurred as if reality itself was unraveling into threads. There were no warning flashes. There were no voices calling him back. The roar of the engine was the last thing he heard before the impact hurled him through the air. His body hit the car¡¯s windshield, before bouncing off the hood and collapsing onto the slick asphalt. His arm bent at a grotesque angle, his leg twisted like a broken puppet, and warm blood slipped down his forehead, staining his world red. He gasped, fighting for a breath that never came. And even in that moment, when his last breath fled his lips, when death claimed him without resistance... He felt nothing. ¡­ When he opened his eyes, the cold, damp asphalt had disappeared. In its place, an immense white void stretched as far as the eye could see. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above his head, but he was there, suspended in a silent and enveloping nothingness. Around him, an endless line of human figures stretched into infinity. They were blurred shadows, motionless, as if trapped in an endless wait. No one moved, no one acknowledged his existence. He didn''t understand how he had gotten there, or the purpose of that line. But something inside him prevented him from moving, as if by doing so he would break a pact he had no memory of. He blinked. Barely an instant. But when he opened his eyes, the crowd had vanished. Only he remained, facing a colossal threshold, covered in inscriptions that seemed to move beneath his gaze. He didn''t try to understand. There was no logic, only the impulse to move forward. There was no other option. There was no other destination. So he took a deep breath and crossed it. Before him stood a black door, so immense that it seemed to merge with eternity. There were no walls, no ground, no sky, only that colossal door floating in nothingness. And silence¡­ until the whispers began. Voices that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. They sounded like the rustling of wind on ancient stone, like the echo of someone else''s thoughts. They were not common words, but he, somehow, understood them. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡ªIs it him¡­? ¡ªIt is. His essence is sealed by destiny itself. ¡ªThen will the wheel turn once more? ¡ªOnly the Supreme knows the ultimate truth. ¡ªFive hundred and seventy lives of suffering¡­ What purpose does such punishment serve? ¡ªIt is the decree of the Ascendants. ¡ªBut he does not advance¡­ Why does he hesitate before the threshold? A shiver ran through his body, and his fingers clenched into a trembling fist. Five hundred and seventy lives. It wasn''t just a number. It was centuries of pain, of loss, of anguish. Was that his destiny? An eternity of suffering, trapped in a loop with no escape? ¡ªFive hundred and seventy lives of misery¡­ ¡ªhe murmured, his voice broken, feeling the unbearable weight of the sentence¡ª. Is this all that awaits me¡­? Until when¡­? The voices did not answer. ¡ªWhy? ¡ªhe shouted into the void, his soul torn apart¡ª. Why am I condemned to this endless torment? TELL ME! Silence was his only answer. That door¡­ he hated it. He hated its imposing presence, the life on the other side, the cruel magnetism it exerted on him. ¡ªI''m not going to do it¡­ I''M NOT GOING TO CROSS IT!¡ªhe roared, as if his voice could break destiny. Suddenly, an impossible force crushed him against the very absence. Pain devoured his reason, grinding him, tearing him apart again and again until his own existence felt alien. He tried to breathe, but the void forbade it. He tried to scream, but his voice vanished like ashes into nothingness. He could not die. His punishment was to exist. Time diluted into his suffering. And then, the pressure vanished. His body, broken by the effort, gasped for relief. But there was no respite. A voice emerged, distinct from all the others. It was the echo of something forgotten, the whisper of a nameless abyss. The void trembled, and the black door cracked, bleeding dark light. ¡ªYou will. With those words, the door opened silently, and an invisible force dragged him inside. The man fell into an endless abyss, but soon the void became a narrow corridor, made of living shadows that twisted around him. At the end of the hallway, a solitary light flickered, waiting for him. He turned around, his heart racing. The door was still there, open, calling him back. Without hesitation, he ran towards it. He was not going to accept that destiny. Not again. But before he could reach it, the door slammed shut. The sound echoed in the nothingness. An instant later, darkness devoured it, erasing any trace of its existence. The man''s roar echoed in the darkness. ¡ªDamn your will! May destiny shatter and the Ascendants devour each other! May they swallow their illusions! I refuse to be their puppet or carry their damned chains. Rage consumed him, and then, without him noticing, something began to yield. Without realizing it, his blackened pupils began to crack, and a green glow pierced through them, like fire burning beneath a layer of ashes. The fabric of the world stirred, shuddering, as if fearing what was about to awaken. And then it emerged before him. Where before there was only an immaculate glow, now stood a scarlet door, as red as if every fiber of his being were soaked in ancient blood. Its engravings twisted like creatures locked in an eternal trance, arcane symbols sliding over each other as if trying to convey a message lost in time. The man felt panic crawl up his back as he looked at the red door. It was not just any fear, but an ancestral one, as if his own blood remembered something his mind had forgotten. He exhaled slowly and let a cynical smile curve his lips. ¡ªMy soul surrenders to the black one and trembles before you¡­ I don¡¯t know if my soul is a terrible advisor or if it just enjoys seeing me suffer. If it warns me to flee, perhaps the opposite is exactly what I should do. He advanced, tearing each step from the ground as if gravity itself was trying to hold him back, restrain him. Something inside him rebelled, clawing at him from within, screaming in a language he didn''t want to understand. But he ignored it, laughing with a rage that burned his throat. ¡ªI will not be a puppet again¡­ Not even of my own mind. With a growl, he forced his body to cover the last few meters and stood before the red door. He raised his hand, his fingers clenched, ready to push the door. But it was not necessary. Before his fingers touched the wood, the door slid open silently, as if it had been waiting for him. He took a deep breath and, with a tense smile, crossed to the other side. Reality fractured. Now he found himself in an endless corridor, whose walls held empty picture frames, as if their images had been torn out. In the distance, a greenish glow pulsed, calling to him. He felt a deep dread that chilled his blood. But there was no other way. Repeating the torment of his past lives was a fate worse than any risk. Better to face the unknown than to succumb to the condemnation of the inevitable. He tried to move, and before his foot could kiss the ground, a groan tore through his throat. His flesh crumbled into smoking ashes, his bones shattered and evaporated as if they had never existed. He felt torn from himself, reduced to something he did not understand. When his step was completed, his body was gone. Only he remained, naked in his purest form. The world around him vanished. He was no longer a man. He was a child again, huddled in the depths of a cave. His small fingers trembled as they brushed the surface of the stagnant water, distorting the reflection that observed him with bright green eyes. The humidity of the place, the smell of wet stone, awakened dormant memories. He took another step. His flesh shuddered, his bones creaked like dry branches. A blink, a heartbeat, and his body was no longer the same. Now he was a young man wrapped in furs, with a bloodied spear clutched as if his life depended on it. Before him, a monster born of chaos roared, challenging him with a primitive ferocity. A lightning bolt of memories struck him: the intoxication of battle, the sharpened instinct, the frenzy that burned in his blood. Conquer or die. He took another step. He saw himself at his peak: a war king, on a throne erected on bones and animal hides. His people venerated him, kneeling before him¡­ but, was it devotion or fear? The shadow of his conquests enveloped him, whispers of pasts buried in nameless pits. He took another step. His body stooped under the weight of years. His mane, now pure silver, fell in rivers over his shoulders, and before him, an unreal presence, a being without defined form, an echo of something that should never have existed. Memories of his last hour reached him like claws closing on his chest. He advanced. The nearest frame vibrated, as if something invisible struggled to break free. Threads of light danced around him, weaving the image of an old man with a withered face and a being distorted by time. Another step. Time folded in on itself. His body was small again. The cave had disappeared, and in its place was a hut of mud and straw. The earth throbbed differently, as if belonging to another yesterday. Each step was a reflection of what he was. Each cycle, one more page in the book of his existence. Each frame completed, a truth unearthed. He saw himself as a beggar and a king, as a dreamer and a destroyer. He was wise and foolish, creator and ruin. He rose to the top of the universe and fell into the depths of oblivion. He savored the sweetness of glory and the bitterness of loss. He relived the euphoria of first love and the desolation of the last farewell. He was a traveler lost between dimensions, trapped between lives that never quite belonged to him. He contemplated the vastness of the cosmos and the narrow abyss of his own mind. He understood that his time was not a line, but a labyrinth. And in every turn, he found and lost himself. One by one, the empty frames filled, rewriting his history in the fabric of time. Until finally, his steps stopped. Before him, a green glow burned like an implacable sun. The man let out a sigh and whispered: ¡ªNinety-nine thousand cycles¡­ Ninety-nine thousand memories¡­ of a forgotten self, that finally returns. He turned his head slowly, contemplating the corridor that remained behind. It was a mural of his history, a cruelly honest portrait of his greatness and his miseries, of his light and his shadow. He closed his eyes for an instant before wondering: ¡ªWhat forgotten sin awakened the wrath of the Ascendants? Why was my condemnation sculpted into eternity? He returned his gaze to the emerald glow, and his eyes, a reflection of his contained fury, sparkled intensely. ¡ªFive centuries of hardship, a sentence that transcends death. Someday I will demand answers and, if these do not satiate my truth, the Ascendants will know the weight of my judgment. Slowly, he extended his hand and touched the glow. It shuddered, reacting as if recognizing his touch, and then, in a heartbeat, devoured him without mercy. Chapter 2 - A Ghost Among His Own (New Translation) The green glow enveloped him, confusing and blinding, as if he were floating in an ocean of liquid light. There was no up or down, only a shapeless vastness that embraced him with a suffocating heat. His mind was a whirlwind of distant voices and broken memories, slipping between the real and the forgotten. He tried to scream, to move, to resist¡­ but his body did not exist, it was just a thought trapped in a dead-end maze. And then, as if time shattered into a thousand pieces, the light began to wane. Sound came first, like a diseased heartbeat. A distant murmur, incessant, harsh. Hoarse voices, coughing engines, the metallic groan of worn-out vehicles, and the incessant hum of a weary city. Then came the stench: a thick mixture of stale dampness, old urine, and garbage fermenting under the sun. Amber District reeked of abandonment. His eyelids closed and opened in a slow blink, as if the world needed to recharge. The city lights flickered below like an ocean of dead stars. And then he wanted to laugh at the cosmic joke. How many nights had he dreamed of flying? Now, on the crumbling ledge of a building groaning in the wind, he understood the fine print: flying was just falling with style. The bottle of cheap rum in his left hand weighed more than his will. ¡ªShit¡­! ¡ªHis words fell before he did. Before his brain could process what was happening, his muscles had already responded for him. His right hand shot out towards the ledge like lightning, gripping desperately as his body hung over the precipice. A dry snap ran through his shoulder as it dislocated, tearing a muffled scream from him. But he didn''t let go. He couldn''t. Further down, the bottle he had been holding a second before spun around, until it impacted against the ground in a shower of bright fragments. ¡°Damn fool,¡± he shouted inside his head. ¡°What were you trying to achieve? Die like an idiot?¡± With a grunt of effort, he tried to pull himself up using his left arm, but his body barely contained any strength. Desperate, he looked for a foothold for his feet against the facade, digging his soles into the bricks worn down by time. However, they gave way without resistance, as if they were mere layers of dust accumulated over decades. ¡ªStay still¡­ ¡ªhe begged the rubble, but it was already flying away like ashes from a funeral. Lost in the darkness of the street. Suddenly, the piece of ledge his right hand was holding onto gave way with a dry crack, and his fingers closed in on empty air. Gravity dragged him down, stretching the muscles of his left arm like ropes about to snap. His shoulder burned, sweat blurred his vision, and in his ears resonated the beating of his own heart, wild and accelerated. ¡ªSERIOUSLY?! Not even one damn full day here, Ascendant sons of¡­?! ¡ªhe roared at the sky, as if defying some mocking god. Panic seized his mind like a runaway beast, but with a guttural scream that welled up from the depths of his being, he managed to silence it. He ignored the pain that shot through his body, as if he were merely a spectator of his own agony. With his left arm, he clung on with desperate force, pulling his body upwards. His legs, trembling and on the verge of collapse, responded with difficulty, propelling him a few centimeters closer to the ledge. Finally, with a last effort that burned his muscles, he managed to hook a leg over the edge. Crawling like a wounded animal, he managed to climb onto the roof, where he rolled onto the rough, cold surface. Air entered his chest in irregular gasps. His right arm, useless, hung like dead weight, while his left trembled uncontrollably. Cold sweat ran down his forehead, mixing with the dust and blood from his scraped chin. He remained lying down, motionless, for what seemed like an eternity, feeling the world spin around him. With a groan of pain, he forced himself to stand and his gaze was lost in the gray sky, where the heavy clouds seemed to reflect the weight of his own existence. ¡ªAnother sentence disguised as life¡­ Another end to which I would be chained with no escape. But not this time. They can wait eternally, because my soul no longer belongs to them. Then, he felt it. The memories came to him, clear and precise. They were not scattered fragments or blurry dreams; they were his, as vivid as the countless lives he had already left behind. Asteron Draven. That¡¯s what they called him in this cycle, but his existence was always in doubt. He was born into wealth, but lived in exile within his own home. His hair and bearing were unmistakable, the spitting image of his father. But his eyes¡­ those damn green eyes. Rumors, like venomous snakes, pointed to him as a bastard, a mistake in the sacred lineage of the Dravens. His mother blamed him for ruining her reputation. His father, though silent, could never hide the doubt in his gaze. DNA tests confirmed what no one wanted to accept: he was a Draven. But being one on paper did not restore his place in the family. He was a ghost among his own. Raised by strangers, ignored in the grand halls, hidden from the world. The Draven surname belonged to him, but only as a burden without honor or recognition. He never had the love of his family, but he did have a goal: to forge an Ethereal Heart. His destiny depended on it. They provided him with tutors, knowledge, all the necessary means. However, no matter how hard he tried, he never managed to create it. Year after year, his failure became a shadow impossible to ignore. And when he turned eighteen, the Dravens discarded him as a failed investment. And so, his existence diluted. Invisible among the walls that saw him grow. Until one day, the silence became unbearable, and he left without looking back. Amber District received him with its dirty streets and desperate people. There, among the marginalized, he found a place to hide, but also to sink. But even in that place, the weight of his failure crushed him. Every day was a struggle, every night a reminder that there was no escape. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. And today, on his thirty-third birthday, he had made the most drastic decision of all: to end it all. But the red door had other plans. Asteron clenched his teeth, his fists closed as if trying to trap his own destiny. He raised his face towards Veltraven, a metropolis devoured by its own ambition, where magic and technology converged, and Ethereal Hearts dictated everyone''s destiny. No one knows exactly how or why, but centuries ago, the Portals burst into the world like cracks in the veil of reality, breaking the fragile balance of humanity. With them came the Breath of the World, an ancient energy that transformed everything. Humans, once limited by their mortality, discovered that they could attain powers that only existed in myths. Those with talent and unwavering will learned to weave Arcane into their souls, forging Ethereal Hearts that turned them into Arcane Adepts, beings capable of defying the laws of nature. In this new world, families like the Dravens rose above the rest. Their power did not come from wealth, but from their Adepts and the will to use them to impose their dominion. Asteron let out a choked laugh, a broken sound that faded into the night wind like a sigh of resignation. ¡ªA powerful family, but a discarded son. In an era of magic, but deprived of its essence. And that¡¯s just the tip of the iceberg of this miserable existence. ¡ªHe chuckled, his gaze fixed on the city that gleamed before him¡ª. Are you amused? Is it a spectacle worthy of you, watching me writhe in the mud? You have no idea what you have unleashed. If my past lives have taught me anything, it is that no matter how many times I fall¡­ I always find a way to rise again. And when I do, there will be nowhere in the world where you can hide. The night wind carried away his words, as if the city was trying to drown them out. The pain in his arm distracted him for a moment, and he frowned, contemplating his next move. ¡ªFirst things first, fix this. With a trembling hand, he touched his dislocated shoulder, feeling the swelling and heat under his skin. He knew what was coming, and he couldn''t afford to hesitate. He positioned himself next to the rusted door frame of the rooftop, and, with gritted teeth and a muffled groan, he lunged forward. The sound of the joint snapping back into place was brief, but the pain shot through him like an electric shock, leaving him breathless. For a moment, everything stopped. The world was reduced to that throbbing pain and the feeling of nausea rising in his throat. But then, slowly, his arm began to respond again. ¡ªThat¡¯s better ¡ªhe murmured, moving his arm cautiously¡ª. This is something else. With a last look at the city, he went into the building¡¯s stairwell. The handrail, covered in a crust of dust and rust, seemed to disintegrate to the touch. The walls, bare and corroded by humidity, showed layers of peeling paint that flaked off like dead skin. The air smelled of mold and stagnant time, as if the building had been sealed in a capsule of abandonment. Twelve floors of decay. Twelve floors that seemed like a distorted reflection of his own life. The elevator, a rusted relic, had been out of service for years. Maybe it never had worked. Luckily, he lived on the fourth floor, so the descent was not long, but each step he took downwards echoed in the stairwell like a dull heartbeat. ¡ªIn all my lives I¡¯ve had awareness from the beginning ¡ªhe murmured to himself, frowning¡ª. But this time¡­ this time is different. It¡¯s as if I¡¯ve woken up from a dream. Is it the Red Door? The question floated in the air, unanswered. Upon reaching the seventh floor landing, a harsh voice, loaded with contempt, snatched him from his thoughts. ¡ªAh, the illustrious member of the Draven family! ¡ªsaid a man, with a tone that oozed sarcasm¡ª. So in the end you didn¡¯t dare, huh? Not surprised. You were always a coward. Asteron looked at him with disdain. The man was in the doorway of 702, with a bottle in one hand and a mocking smile on the other. His appearance was as repulsive as his personality. ¡ªIt¡¯s for the best ¡ªthe man continued, taking a swig from the bottle¡ª. The dead don¡¯t pay debts, and you owe me two months¡¯ rent. If you don¡¯t give me my money soon, you¡¯re going to find yourself sleeping on the street, among the garbage and the famished cats. Although, come to think of it, maybe that¡¯s too good for someone like you. Asteron recognized him at first glance: the building manager. A parasite in human form whose soul must have been as rotten as the apartments he rented out. He had turned other people''s misery into his business. He charged exorbitant rents and his tactics were as repugnant as the agreements he forced the female tenants to sign. Asteron observed him, and in his eyes shone a deep hatred. ¡ªWhat the hell did you just say, you wretch? ¡ªhe asked, with a calm that barely concealed the anger burning inside him. The manager was speechless, clearly bewildered by the lack of usual submission in Asteron. His face flushed with anger, and he opened his mouth to unload his frustration with a string of insults. But a soft, trembling voice came from inside the apartment. ¡ªPlease, don''t do this ¡ªwhispered the woman, in a tone that mixed fear and desperation¡ª. My husband is about to arrive. Don¡¯t ruin everything¡­ for wasting time. The man fell silent, but his eyes glowed with fury. He looked at Asteron with contempt and spat: ¡ªThis isn¡¯t over, you imbecile¡­ With a grunt, he went into the apartment and slammed the door with a bang that made the frame tremble. Asteron clicked his tongue, unable to hide his disgust, and continued on his way. After going down several floors, he reached the fourth level and opened the door to apartment 406. The place was modest, even run-down, with a hole in the wall that he had never bothered to repair. But, despite everything, it was his space. It felt as if he had lived a thousand lives in one, each more exhausting than the last. Upon closing the door to his apartment, he slumped against it, as if the weight of all those lives crushed him. He took a deep breath, but the air brought no relief. He needed something more. Something to shake him up, to get him out of that endless lethargy. With slow steps, he dragged himself to the bathroom. The cold shower was not a choice, but a constant reminder of his helplessness in this life. The boiler had been out of service for months, and the manager, an expert in the art of evasion, always had an excuse ready for not fixing it. He undressed slowly, feeling the weight of exhaustion in every movement, and stepped into the freezing water. The cold water fell on his skin like ice needles. It cut off his breath and bit his skin, digging down to his bones. He stood there, motionless, as the water punished him. He wanted to believe that it would help cleanse his mind, but thoughts were quick to creep in. They were like rats, crawling through the corners of his head, gnawing at everything in their path. ¡ªLook at you ¡ªhe murmured, with a smile that didn''t reach his eyes, as the cold water reminded him of his defeat¡ª. You didn¡¯t even insist anymore to get it fixed. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the damp, moldy bathroom wall. As the icy drops slid down his skin like small reminders of everything he had allowed. ¡ªDid you really believe that enduring in silence was the solution? ¡ªhe whispered, his voice cracking¡ª. Were you so afraid of losing what you barely had? Is that how you wanted to live? Crawling for crumbs? The water continued its course, cold and indifferent, dragging with it any trace of warmth left in his body. Asteron let out a dry laugh. ¡ªIt was only a matter of time before everything ended with the little will to live you had left. When he finally turned off the tap, his skin was numb. He dressed in clean clothes, if those threadbare garments that had survived too many washes could be called "clean." The seams were worn, the colors faded, but it was all he had. He collapsed onto the bed, feeling the worn-out mattress sag under his weight, as if it too were exhausted from the years. He closed his eyes, but his mind gave him no respite. ¡ªThat Red Door... ¡ªhe whispered, as memories of past lives sprang forth like water from a spring. Forgotten faces, skills he had once mastered, loves and wars that no longer belonged to him. ¡ªWhy now? ¡ªhe murmured, opening his eyes just enough to see the cracked ceiling¡ª. There was never an opportunity without a price. What am I missing? His thoughts were interrupted. The neighbors had started their weekly ritual again: shouts, slams, and the occasional creative insult that managed to seep through the thin walls. Asteron covered his eyes with his arm as if that could protect him from the domestic cacophony. ¡ªAh, yes, the soundtrack of my life ¡ªhe murmured with sarcasm¡ª. All that¡¯s missing is for them to invite me to participate. But no, thank you. I prefer to save up to get out of this cheap play. Although, of course, first I need the money... and that seems harder than escaping this pigsty. Then, something changed. Suddenly, the shouts died down, as if someone had turned down the volume of the world. The oppressive humidity of the room disappeared. The mattress under his back lost its shape, as if it were melting, and was replaced by something firmer, more natural. Something was not right. He opened his eyes wide and sat up quickly, looking around in disbelief. He was not in his room, nor in the apartment, nor even in the city. He was under a sea of stars that shone with an intensity he had never seen in this life cycle, as if the sky itself had decided to come closer to earth to show him its splendor. The grass under his feet was cool and soft, and the air smelled of damp earth and wildflowers. Around him, trees rose like ancient giants, with thick, gnarled trunks, their canopies so high they seemed to brush the stars. The sound of a nearby stream mingled with the rustling of leaves and the distant songs of nocturnal creatures. For the first time since he had recovered the memories of his past lives, something escaped his understanding. ¡ªWhere the hell am I¡­? ¡ªhe murmured, and his voice was lost among the trees.¡ª And how did I get here? Chapter 3 - The Limits of a Mortal Body Asteron scrutinized the forest in astonishment, as if his own eyes were deceiving him. The night breeze stirred the leaves of the imposing trees, creating a hypnotic murmur. He knelt and ran his fingers over the dew-kissed grass, noticing the coolness against his skin. ¡ªIs this an illusion? ¡ªhe murmured to himself, hoping for an answer from the wind. But the coldness of the earth against his skin, the density of the moisture-laden air, and the wild perfume of the vegetation were unmistakable. It couldn''t be an illusion. He let out a dry laugh. ¡ªCome on¡­ now I''m just an ordinary man. No Adept would waste their time with me. ¡ªHe looked up at the monumental trunks¡ª. So this place is real. But how did I get here? He scanned the trees with his gaze. In this life, he had read as much as he could before leaving Draven Mansion, but he had never found references to species with such characteristics. And yet, he recognized them. ¡ªThey are¡­ "Ulthares" ¡ªhe whispered. They were common in regions where the Breath of the World barely flowed. He had seen them before, countless times, but always in other lives, in other planes of existence. ¡ªAnother world...? ¡ªThe mere thought of it made his stomach churn. No, impossible. Something like that would require an ocean of Aether and a prodigious Arcane Ascendancy. And he... he hadn''t even awakened his Ethereal Heart. Not an iota of Aether ran through his being. ¡ªThen what the hell is going on here? Something peculiar in his peripheral vision made him lower his gaze. His tattered attire had vanished without a trace. In its place, a high-necked white shirt with fine ruffles fell over his chest, accompanied by a dark brown waistcoat with green embroidery on the shoulders. The tailoring was impeccable, as if from another era. He touched the fabric with his fingertips, perceiving the quality of the weave. ¡ªThe world changed¡­ my clothes too. The texture radiated a distinct warmth, as if a current of energy ran through each thread. It was no ordinary garment. Magic vibrated within it. He sighed with resignation. He knew that, in other circumstances, he could have deduced his location or even the composition of his attire with ease. But all those abilities required being an Adept of the Arcane. Something he was not. ¡°No time for this,¡± he thought, looking at his hands. ¡°I need to form my Ethereal Heart.¡± Suddenly, a shiver ran down his spine. His body reacted before his mind could process the danger. He threw himself to the side, rolling on the cold grass as a dark shadow pounced on him. A snap echoed in the air, and the sharp fangs of his attacker bit into the void where his neck had been an instant before. Asteron stood up quickly, senses alert. His eyes locked onto the creature stalking him. It was no ordinary wolf. It was an imposing beast, with a muscular body and grayish fur that seemed to blend with the forest''s dimness. Its eyes glowed with a yellow sheen, and its fangs, sharp as daggers, gleamed in the faint moonlight. ¡ªYou¡¯re not an Arcane beast¡­ or are you? ¡ªhe murmured, without even blinking. The wolf responded with a deep growl, flattening its ears back as it flexed its paws, ready to attack. Asteron held his breath. There was no magic in that creature, but neither was there in him. And while his enemy had claws, fangs, and a body built for hunting, he only had his wits and the desperation of someone who knows they are a step away from death. ¡ªAnd you never walk alone¡­ ¡ªhe muttered, with a cold smile as his eyes scanned the forest. The shadows came to life. A fleeting gleam here, another there: lurking eyes. Then, the sound of muffled footsteps on the grass. First one, then another. In a matter of seconds, the forest vomited an entire pack. There was no escape. He understood it instantly. The night was hungry, and he was dinner. The odds were against him, but Asteron was not one to give up. He knew that facing the entire pack was a death sentence, but he also knew the nature of wolves: there was always one more impatient, more eager to prove their worth. With a quick turn, he ran off, his gaze fixed on the youngest wolf. It was smaller, without scars, and its impetuosity made it the weakest link. The wolves roared and lunged after him, but Asteron had already calculated every move. Just as he expected, the young wolf, blinded by the need to prove himself, advanced first. Its claws scraped the earth and its jaw opened, seeking flesh. Asteron saw it coming and let out a fierce smile. ¡ªYou''re just a pup ¡ªhe said, adjusting his stance. The movement was instinctive, almost perfect. Asteron twisted his body at the last moment, dodging the young wolf''s fangs by a margin that bordered on the impossible. He tried to seize the opening to continue his escape, but before he could react, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. One of the adult wolves managed to reach him with one of its claws. The force of the impact threw him to the ground, rolling among leaves and dust as he swore under his breath. He got up with a growl, ignoring the pain that still burned in his chest. His eyes instinctively searched for the wound, but there was nothing. No blood, no tears, not even a superficial scratch¡­ his clothes remained intact. He blinked, bewildered, before letting out a low laugh. ¡ªI knew you weren¡¯t something common¡­ He had no time to think. Another wolf appeared out of nowhere, lunging at him with fury. He threw himself to the side, spinning on himself, and collided with the rough bark of a tree. Before he could recover, a brutal blow tore into the wood right where his head had been a second before. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. His breath became erratic. No matter how much he tried to flee. The wolves were faster. More resilient, and there was no escape. Instinct told him that he was no longer fighting, but delaying the inevitable. He felt them surround him, felt the circle closing. ¡ªFuck¡­ this is a fucking joke. I¡¯ve had better days¡­ ¡ªhe murmured, bracing himself. There was no time to lament. The entire pack pounced on him, and everything turned to chaos. Attempts to dodge were useless. Blows, claws, fangs¡­ everything fell on him in a whirlwind of violence. A brutal swipe to his side made his ribs crack as it sent him to the ground with a burst of pain. He crawled, trying to get to his feet, but had no chance. Sharp teeth pierced his forearm and pulled at it, tearing shreds of flesh. He roared with rage and pain. He kicked hard, crushing his aggressor''s snout, and rolled over himself to dodge another bite that almost severed his throat. They weren''t killing him, not yet. They were cornering him, wounding him, weakening him. It was torture. Asteron coughed blood and spat on the ground, relishing the metallic taste in his mouth. With a smile full of teeth stained red, he raised his head. ¡ªI hope my bones scratch your throats and my flesh rots your guts. The nearest wolf lunged without hesitation, but so did Asteron. His hands closed around its neck, and before the beast could react, his fingers sank into the animal''s eyes with the fury of a man who refuses to die. The creature growled and struggled, but Asteron held it firm. His fingers sank deeper and deeper until the viscous, brittle sound of bursting eyeballs covered everything. Hot liquid overflowed between his nails. The wolf howled in pain and thrashed frantically, but Asteron did not yield. His body trembled, pain gnawed at him, but his grip only became fiercer. ¡ªBastard pups! You think I''m a fun prey? ¡ªhe whispered with a bloodstained smile, sinking his fingers into the wolf''s flesh¡ª. Come on, taste me¡­ and see who ends up torn apart. The wolves surrounded the scene with angry growls, but in their eyes, something else filtered through¡­ Confusion. Because what they had in front of them was not a defenseless prey. It was a wounded beast. With a howl of fury, the pack finally pounced on him and he barely had time to utter a mental curse. ¡°Whoever brought me to this damn place¡­ Fuck you! Why didn¡¯t you just leave me in peace in my apartment?¡± In an instant, the forest vanished, as if it had never existed. The claws that were about to reach him, the teeth that gleamed with bloodlust, all disappeared in the blink of an eye. Asteron felt the ground vanish beneath his feet, and then... nothing. When he regained consciousness, he was standing in his room. The dim light of a broken lamp illuminated the peeling walls. The air was dense, heavy with the smell of damp and the sour trace of empty bottles. ¡ªWhat... what the hell just happened? ¡ªhe murmured, but the words sounded hollow, as if even he couldn''t believe them. He was still clutching something. Something warm, trembling. Something that was panting with a hoarse wheeze. In his arms, the wolf writhed, its fur bristling and wet with blood. Crimson threads fell from its empty sockets, forming irregular stains on the old floor. The creature twitched, disoriented, as if it had just been torn from a deep sleep. Asteron didn''t wait. As soon as he saw that the beast was confused, he released it and shot towards the kitchen, moving more by instinct than thought. The wolf, blind and frenzied, let out a harrowing howl. Its instincts roared, guiding it with fury. Its nose burned with the scent of its prey, and its ears caught even the slightest rustle. Without hesitation, it charged like a runaway train, towards the source of the sound. Asteron barely managed to dodge to the side before the beast rammed into the wall with a deafening roar. The furniture that once occupied that corner exploded into a thousand pieces, reduced to nothing more than splinters and dust in a matter of seconds. The house trembled as if it had been hit by an earthquake, and a rain of wood and glass fragments scattered across the floor, glittering under the faint moonlight filtering through the broken windows. ¡ªShit, shit, shit! ¡ªhe muttered through his teeth, propelling himself into the kitchen as the beast recovered. His hands swept across the shelves, searching for something, anything, that could serve to defend himself. The sound of the creature''s claws scratching the floor approached, faster and faster. The hot, fetid breath of the animal reached him from behind, and he knew he had no time. ¡ªReally¡­ I must improve my guest policy. His fingers found what they were looking for. Two knives. Time seemed to stop as Asteron jumped onto the countertop, just as the wolf lunged. The animal''s jaws snapped shut with a wet, violent sound, grazing his face before digging into the wooden shelves, which gave way with a crash that echoed in the apartment. In a fluid motion, Asteron dropped onto the beast''s back, sinking the knives to the hilt. The wolf howled, thrashing like a demon, with such force that Asteron was thrown into the air, landing on the floor with a dry thud that knocked the wind out of him. But his gaze did not leave his enemy. The animal swayed from side to side, as if the wind could knock it down at any moment. Blood gushed in thick threads, soaking the apartment floor with an intense red that contrasted with the gray of its fur. Its eyes, once luminous and piercing, now clouded over, gradually losing their golden glow. But it wasn''t dead. Not yet. The wolf, a mass of matted fur and blood, crawled across the floor. Its paws, weak but persistent, scratched at the concrete floor, seeking traction. Its head rose, blind but determined, and its nose twitched as it caught Asteron''s scent. And with a last breath, it charged. ¡ªDamn beast! How much more are you going to fuck with me? Asteron raised the knife with the strength he had left and plunged it into the wolf''s skull. The blade pierced bone and brain with a wet snap, filling the air, followed by a silence that enveloped everything. The animal fell on top of him, with its crushing weight, and its hot, fetid breath on his face. But before life abandoned it, its claws closed in a final act of revenge, tearing Asteron''s chest. Pain pierced him like an incandescent spear. A scream escaped his throat, but he choked it back with a forced laugh. ¡ªWell¡­ Today is definitely not my day¡­ ¡ªhe muttered through gritted teeth, as warm blood slipped between his fingers. Everything burned. Every muscle, every nerve. He tried to get up, but his legs wouldn''t respond. His wounded arm trembled, and blood gushed out in irregular pulses, staining the floor. His mind struggled to find a way out, but thinking was like trying to grasp water with his hands. His eyes, wandering, fixed on the bathroom. ¡ªI must... get... there... ¡ªhe mumbled, crawling with fierce determination. ¡ªIf¡­ I survive this¡­. I¡¯m moving apartments ¡ªhe joked between gasps, leaving behind a trail of blood. The bathroom. So close, yet so far. Upon reaching it, he clung to the sink as if it were the last bastion of a fading world. His legs trembled under the weight of his body, and his reflection in the mirror was a distortion of shadows and crimson stains. Blood ran down his face, mixing with sweat and dirt, creating a grotesque mask of his former self. With superhuman effort, he reached out towards the medicine cabinet, but his fingers only grazed the rusted edge before his arm gave way. The slip was inevitable. His body slumped to the floor with a dull thud, and the coldness of the tiles pierced his skin like a dagger. Pain shot through him, sharp and penetrating. The medicine cabinet was there, so close, but unattainable. ¡ªNo... not like this ¡ªhe muttered, filled with determination¡ª. I¡¯m not going to die in a fucking bathroom. His hand clenched tightly around the knife still warm with blood. Gasping, he used it to drag the metal box towards him, the only damn advantage of this disaster: that it had fallen next to him. The screech of metal against tiles made his teeth grind, but he didn''t stop. When the medicine cabinet was finally beside him, he let out a choked laugh. "What irony¡­ I only know one person capable of defying the Arcane in such an absurd way¡­. And it¡¯s me¡­ so I have a forest to visit." Suddenly, the world crumbled. The bathroom, with its artificial light and impersonal coldness, vanished like a forgotten dream upon waking. The floor gave way beneath his feet, and he fell into a bottomless abyss, without time, without meaning. When he regained consciousness, the red and sticky grass under his chest reminded him that he was still alive. The air was fresh, but carried the metallic taste of blood and the earthy aroma of soil. He tried to speak, but only managed to emit a guttural sound, a groan that was lost in the breeze. "So... it was always me...", he muttered, although the words weighed on his tongue. "The red door¡­ it has to be her doing. But¡­ why?" But there was no time for deep reflections. His vision was a chaos of writhing shadows, and his body, heavy and useless, barely responded. However, between his numb fingers, he felt something: a small box. With clumsy movements, he opened it, fumbling with its contents. Vials. The icy glass kissed his skin, indifferent. His fingers, stained red, slid over the surfaces, searching for something that only he could feel... until he found it. A different vial. It didn''t burn like fire, but like something deeper. Like a heartbeat trapped in crystal. A faint smile, almost imperceptible, formed on his face. Before a retch shook his body, and a thread of blood escaped his lips. But he didn''t care. "This..." With the last spark of his will, he opened the vial and let a drop slide onto his tongue. And then, the world vanished into a warm and welcoming darkness. Chapter 4 - The Knowledge of the Arcane Consciousness returned to Asteron in waves, as if the sea were returning him to the shore. First, a deep, slow beat marked the tempo of his return. Then came a slight tingling that ran through his skin, awakening his dormant nerves. After that, he felt the cold kiss of the ground against his cheek, mixed with the smell of earth and rotten leaves. And finally, the weight of pain, omnipresent, sinking into every muscle, reminding him that he still existed. He opened his eyes with difficulty. The darkness faded, but the light that greeted him was unstable, as if the world itself flickered between wakefulness and sleep. He blinked several times until his vision cleared. And when it did, he recognized the forest around him. He was lying on the ground, in the same forest he had crawled to, although now everything seemed quieter, more silent. The blood on his skin had turned into a dark crust, and his wounds, although still throbbing with a dull pain, no longer threatened his life. As he sat up with a muffled groan, he noticed something cold and heavy in his hand. He looked down and recognized the glass vial, with its intricate engravings. The amber liquid inside moved slowly, although only a residue remained at the bottom. ¡ªIt¡¯s almost finished¡ªhe whispered, frowning as he turned the vial between his fingers. He forced himself to stand up, feeling the world spin around him before regaining his balance. Looking back at the place where he had lain unconscious, he noticed something unsettling: the grass around it was withered, charred, as if an invisible flame had swept through everything in its path. With a cautious movement, he picked up the stopper engraved with runes that lay on the ground, carefully placing it back on the vial. ¡ªIt spilled when I lost consciousness¡­ A complete waste¡ªhe muttered, cursing his carelessness. His eyes fell again on the withered grass. ¡ªA single drop too much of Arcane alchemy is enough to send any common living being to the afterlife¡­ And I almost ended up like this dry grass. Can you imagine? "Here lies the fool who didn''t know how to measure the dose"¡ªhe said, laughing as he rubbed his arms to ward off the chill. His eyes landed on something sticking out among the dry stalks, an object that shone faintly. He bent down and unearthed a knife of intricate design, its blade made of a dark metal seemed to absorb the light, except for some silver sparkles that danced like shooting stars. He held it carefully, feeling its perfect weight and balance. His fingers explored the surface, stopping at a series of runes engraved near the edge. They were ancient symbols, a dead language, eradicated from the memory of the world. But he knew it. ¡ªEther Cut Knife¡­¡ªhe uttered, processing the meaning of the words. A sarcastic smile crept across his face as he turned the weapon, watching the light play across its surface. ¡ªWhat a pretentious name¡ªhe murmured, directing his words to the knife¡ª. But don''t worry, I''ll put you to the test. He sighed deeply and let his gaze wander over his own body. What were once ordinary, everyday clothes now looked like they were from an eccentric nobleman''s collection. The seams were so perfect they seemed to be made by fairies, and the fabric fit his body as if he had been measured for a tailor-made suit. The first-aid kit, which before only had plasters and expired pills, now looked like an alchemical arsenal, with vials that shone as if they contained stars inside. And that cheap knife, bought in a two-for-one offer, now looked like a legendary relic, vibrating with a sinister energy, as if longing to be used. His fingers closed on the hilt, and a soft laugh escaped his throat. ¡ªEven a common guy like me can notice it¡­ that hungry edge, that thirst to cut. But¡­¡ªhe turned the blade, looking at it suspiciously¡ª, if I wield you, I''ll die at the first cut. An ordinary body can''t withstand the power of an Arcane weapon. Do you really think I''m going to fall for that? Are you trying to tempt me to end my existence in a glorious but brief career as an air-cutter? Ha! Well, get ready, because a life of peeling potatoes awaits you. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. The knife vibrated with an almost offended tremor, as if shouting: Don''t demean me to that! Returning to the forest with the first-aid kit was a dangerous move, but his intuition had not betrayed him. The Red Door had not only allowed him to cross into this world without invoking magic; it had also transformed everything he carried with him into superior versions, adapted to the rules of this place. He looked up and observed the forest around him. Shadows stretched between the twisted trunks, and the wind carried a disturbing murmur. A cold smile slid across his lips. ¡ªNaive puppies¡ªhe whispered¡ª. They have no idea what awaits them. He had managed to vanish once, but his return would not go unnoticed. They would soon pick up his trail, and when that happened, they would come for him without hesitation. ¡ªIf I were an Adept, I''d be giving beatings now¡­ instead of receiving them.¡ªHe whispered with a bitter smile. He stretched out his hand in front of him and his fingers traced invisible lines in the air, as if trying to capture something that only he could perceive. ¡ªThe Ethereal Heart¡­ I must form it before those puppies corner me again. He advanced through the forest, lost in his thoughts. The Breath of the World was weak here, an almost imperceptible breeze compared to the dense storms of other places he had known. But even so, it was better than the dead air of his world. He stopped when he found a fallen branch. He picked it up and, with careful movements, began to draw a circle on the ground. His strokes were sure, each line made with the accuracy of someone who had repeated this process countless times. Then came the symbols, the runes carved into the surface of the earth, both inside and outside the circle, forming a pattern that seemed to have an ancient meaning. Finally, Asteron sat in the center of the circle, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. ¡ªI have ninety-nine thousand memories¡ªhe murmured, a wry smile appearing on his lips¡ª. Ninety-nine thousand lives whispering in my ear. It would be foolish to ignore them. He immersed his consciousness in the infinite ocean of his mind, where memories shone like stars in a dark sky. Each past life was a current, each memory a wave that dragged him deeper. He separated the useless from the valuable, sorting each fragment of knowledge, each technique, each theory, each mistake and each triumph. In that process, his breathing became paused, almost meditative, as if he were tuning into a hidden frequency. Each exhalation seemed to release something he had been repressing for a long time. When he opened his eyes, his smile was different. It was not one of joy or triumph, but of defiant curiosity, as if he had found a dangerous game and decided to play it. ¡ªIf fate gives me this opportunity... why not play with fire?¡ªHe whispered, his pupils dilated with feverish excitement. A memory emerged from the shadows of his mind, like a creature lurking in the depths. It was not a simple memory, but a nightmare etched in his being. That indescribable being, that presence that had stripped him of all humanity by merely existing. His body had succumbed to trembling, his mind to emptiness. But in the midst of the chaos, he had glimpsed something more: an ancient truth, a forbidden knowledge that only those who have witnessed the inconceivable can understand. ¡ªSo¡­ is it possible?¡ªhe whispered doubtfully¡ª. But if I fail¡­ not even my bones will be left to tell the tale. He remained silent for a moment, weighing the risks, the thin line between sanity and madness, of what he was about to do. And then, he began to laugh, with that same laughter of someone who cannot help but approach the unknown. ¡ªWhy think about it so much? Without the Red Door, my story in this life would already be over. These memories must mean something. They didn''t resurface by chance. There''s a purpose behind them, something I probably have to do. And if I die¡­¡ªHe shrugged with a calm smile¡ª. Well, after ninety-nine thousand cycles, death is the only thing that has always been the same. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. The first thing was to feel the Breath of the World. For others, this would take days, weeks, even years of meditation. But for him, who had existed throughout countless lives, it was as natural as breathing. The Breath of the World enveloped him as soon as he opened his perception, a subtle current that filtered through the cracks of reality. He felt its flow through the earth, the trees, the air¡­ an ethereal river that united all things. Now, he had to refine it. The technique he used was a vestige of remote times, devised for those who did not have illustrious lineages or inherited talents. It was based on the Laws of the Arcane, using its structure as a crucible to distill the essence of the Breath of the World. And no one mastered it like him, since he had been its architect. The raw energy slowly transformed, as if shedding impurities to reveal its true essence. Aether. Asteron felt it run through his being, fresh and light, as if the breath of the universe itself flowed within him. Around him, the air lit up with tiny particles of light, like fireflies dancing in the dark. But it was still not enough. He needed the link. Invoking a fragment of resonance from the Arcane Link was the final step for most. Ethereal Resonance was what gave shape to Aether, what allowed it to take the form of fire, water, lightning¡­ It was the basis of Adept magic. As he refined the Breath of the World, an undeniable conclusion took shape in his mind, clear and precise. ¡ªThe knowledge of the Arcane in my current world is superficial¡­¡ªhe murmured to himself¡ª. They assume that Ethereal Resonances are the core of the Arcane Link, but they do not understand the depth of their error. His hand closed into a fist, feeling the vibration of the Aether flowing within him. ¡ªEthereal Resonances are just weak derivations of the Primordial Essences, and these, in turn, are partial manifestations of the true Arcane Link¡ªhe frowned¡ª. They have no idea of the depth of what they are trying to master. He closed his eyes again. During his ninety-nine thousand lives, he had formed his Ethereal Heart with countless Ethereal Resonances. He had mastered their forms, understood their properties. But in this life¡­ ¡ªIf I''m going to go big¡­¡ªHis lips curled into a wild smile¡ª. I must not form my Ethereal Heart with simple resonances. The circle around him began to glow with a trembling light. ¡ªI will do it with the Primordial Essences. Chapter 5 - A Life Worth Living The pack of wolves ran furiously through the forest, a whirlwind of shadows and fangs, driven by instinct and rage. Their prey had escaped, and with it, one of their own had disappeared. They didn''t have the intelligence to question how or why, they only knew that their hunt was not over. And so, with jaws slightly open and panting breath, they tracked the forest, advancing as a hungry entity. Then the wind changed direction, and suddenly, they smelled it. A faint trail, almost imperceptible, but enough. A howl tore through the air and the pack lunged in unison in its direction, driven by the wild excitement of the imminent carnage. The smell was unmistakable: the prey was near. Arriving at a clearing illuminated by the pale moonlight, they saw him. Asteron was sitting on the ground, motionless, his head slightly tilted forward, like a man in deep meditation. To the pack, it was as if he himself was offering himself as a sacrifice. His flesh and blood were waiting to be claimed by the fangs of the night. The wolves scattered around him like living shadows, gliding among the trees with a silent grace that only the night could grant. Their figures blurred into the darkness, invisible to any eye not accustomed to the secrets of the forest. The alpha, a wolf with dark fur and ancient scars marking his snout, watched his enemy with glittering eyes, and a simple movement of his head was enough for one of his subordinates to understand the order. The chosen wolf moved through the bushes like a ghost and when he was close enough, his muscles tensed, and in a quick leap, his fangs opened at a cruel angle, seeking the tender flesh of the throat of the annoying creature who had dared to flee. Just when the wolf''s jaws were about to close on Asteron, a silver flash crossed the air. The wolf did not have time to howl; his body was split in two with chilling precision. Blood gushed in a perfect arc before splattering the earth, and his inert halves collapsed on either side of Asteron, forming a scarlet lake around him. Asteron opened his eyes slightly, as if waking from a deep sleep. His pupils wandered across the scene with a lazy calm. He smiled, and the gleam of the knife that danced between his fingers seemed to laugh with him, a silver reflection that still trembled after his last movement. ¡ªHow nice to see you again ¡ªhe said in a gentle voice, as if meeting old acquaintances¡ª. This is a special occasion. I have achieved something I never thought possible¡­ something I had never achieved before. Can''t you feel the excitement in the air? He paused, enjoying the moment, before continuing with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. ¡ªThey say good news is twice as enjoyable when shared with the right people. Don''t you think? His words floated in the air with an almost playful tone. Then, he stood up calmly, shaking the dust off his clothes with deliberate movements. His gaze wandered through the forest, scanning the darkness until it stopped at an exact point. The alpha felt the gaze on him. His fur bristled and he let out a low growl. Asteron tilted his head with an amused smile. ¡ªCome on, don''t make that face! It''s just that you haven''t caught on yet. When forming the Ethereal Heart, there is a crucial point: the fork. Mage or Aether Knight, a choice that usually leaves no room for error. But, dear friend¡­ ¡ªhis eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint¡ª what if I told you that I am walking both? Yes, yes, both! Double power, double awesomeness! Isn''t it curious how some limits exist only because no one dares to cross them? The pack watched in silence. They did not understand his words, but his enthusiastic tone was irritating. The alpha growled louder. ¡ªAnd that''s not all ¡ªAsteron continued, waving a hand as if telling a fascinating story¡ª. You see, this would drive everyone Arc¨¢ne crazy. But there¡¯s still more¡­ A roar cut off his explanation. The alpha, fed up with the annoying sounds his prey was making, let out a furious bark. It was the signal. The entire pack pounced on Asteron in an explosion of lethal movement. However, Asteron showed no change in his expression. His posture remained relaxed, his eyes barely blinked at the onslaught of the beasts. And when the first fangs were inches from his flesh, he moved. It was a single step. But in that instant, his figure blurred. The wolves attacked empty air. Asteron reappeared among them, moving with impossible ease. While dodging naturally, he still smiled and continued talking. ¡ªDon''t you understand? I possess two ethereal hearts instead of one! ¡ªhe said in a lively tone as he narrowly avoided a bite by a hair''s breadth¡ª. And on top of that, I didn''t even form them with fragments of Ethereal Resonances, but with the very Primordial Essence of the Arc¨¢ne Bond. He jumped back lightly and then, suddenly, brought a hand to his forehead with an apologetic expression. ¡ªOf course you can''t understand it! Forgive me¡­ It''s better to demonstrate it, don''t you think? An inhuman glow twinkled in his eyes. ¡ªLet me show you a little of the Primordial Essence of Existence. And then, he broke through the pack like lightning, stopping in front of the second strongest wolf. The animal didn''t even have time to react. With indifferent calm, he raised his hand and slapped it. The creature''s skull pulverized instantly, scattering blood and bone fragments in all directions, staining the ground and the fur of the other wolves. For a moment, everything was silent. The entire pack froze, contemplating the scene with something akin to animal horror. Asteron, without bothering to wipe the blood from his face, turned his gaze to the alpha. ¡ªWell ¡ªhe said, with a relaxed smile¡ª. Are you understanding me now? The alpha backed away, while his claws scratched the ground hesitantly. The ferocity that once defined him vanished, revealing a crack in his armor of pride. His eyes, once consumed by fury, flickered with an unusual glint: the nascent flicker of fear, a feeling foreign to his indomitable nature. Asteron tilted his head, watching with interest as the predator became prey to his own emotions. ¡ªOh¡­ You realize now? The alpha let out a sharp howl, a desperate command that echoed in the forest. In an instant, the pack broke formation and began to flee. But Asteron just shook his head, with an almost amused smirk on his lips. ¡ªYou cornered me, you hurt me, you almost killed me¡­ Now tell me, what makes you think I will allow you and your pack to leave here alive? His voice was a whisper that pierced the distance like a poisoned arrow. The alpha trembled and, unable to help it, turned his head towards him. He understood. He didn''t know how or why, but every word was etched in his mind like an inescapable sentence. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Asteron did not allow him the luxury of disbelief. He murmured words in a foreign language, an ancient and unknown litany, and as he raised his hand, the blood of the fallen wolves left their bodies. It floated in the air, writhing like liquid snakes before taking shape. Blood spears. Sharp, lethal, thirsty. The alpha let out an iron bark, a last attempt to save his own. His pack obeyed immediately, scattering in all directions, cutting through the thicket with the frenzy of those fleeing inevitable disaster. But Asteron simply watched them with a relaxed expression. ¡ªIt¡¯s useless ¡ªhe murmured, without bothering to raise his voice¡ª. The moment you came back for me was the moment you gave up everything. The blood spears shot out. They pierced the night with surgical precision, dodging branches, leaves, and shadows without losing their target. If any other adept had witnessed the scene, they would have been frozen in horror. Not only by the brutal display of control over blood magic, but by the terrifying certainty of each shot. Asteron had not only attacked them, he had hunted them with absolute precision. His spears found the skull of each wolf, piercing without fail, without escape. The alpha was the last to fall. His body collapsed heavily against the leaf litter, with his glazed gaze still reflecting the shadow of fear. Asteron paid no more attention to the scene. To him, it was irrelevant. Somewhat boring. He had more important matters to think about. He bent down, reached out his hand, and picked a flower. ¡ªNothing from my world stays the same when it comes here ¡ªhe thought, turning the flower between his fingers¡ª. Will the same happen if something from this world crosses into mine? He closed his eyes for an instant. His mind traveled to a single thought: his return. He felt the change in the air before opening them. The texture of the world around him crumbled and, when he looked again, he was no longer in the forest. His apartment greeted him with a deafening silence. Mess. Pieces of broken furniture, blood on the floor, and a damn dead wolf in the middle of his living room. He exhaled, unsurprised. Outside his room, the building remained calm. The Amber District was not disturbed by things like this. Here, everyone looked the other way, pretended not to have heard, not to have seen. Because in this place, curiosity always led to a very short life expectancy. Asteron looked at the flower in his hand, turning it between his fingers with an inscrutable expression. There were no changes. Neither in its color nor in its texture. It remained exactly the same as when he picked it from the forest floor. "So everything that enters there is altered..." He thought. "But what I extract returns unchanged. That means there is a unilateral influence in the transition." A faint blue flame sprouted from his palm, enveloping the flower in a voracious fire that reduced it to ashes in an instant. Then, he exhaled wearily and let the carbonized remains slip through his fingers. He looked up and scanned his apartment. The place was an absolute mess. Pieces of shattered furniture, dried blood staining the floor and, in the middle of it all, the wolf''s corpse. ¡ªTsk¡­ this is going to be a pain. ¡ªHe brought a hand to his temple and massaged with irritation. He would have to clean up this chaos before returning. Otherwise, the next time he came back he would suffocate from the stench. He bent down towards the wolf and patted the body with some sadness. ¡ªYou¡¯re barely a little bigger than the others¡­ but you¡¯re still an ordinary animal. You wouldn''t even be worth carrying you to sell you in the Amber District. With a whisper, he reached out his hand and a voracious blaze emerged from his fingers, engulfing the animal in a searing fire. With his other hand, he made a slight gesture and a controlled wind swept the smoke and ashes out the open window. Asteron stood there for a moment, watching the last embers fade before letting out a weary snort. Then, he got to work. The process was tedious. Curses escaped his lips as he dealt with the dried blood and debris from the shattered furniture. His thoughts, however, wandered in a different direction. While scrubbing the floor, he spoke softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. ¡ªFor eons, almost all my lives have been the same repeated story: climb, fight, win¡­ always win. Break limits, overcome adversities, become a legend. I achieved it every time, without exception. I reached the top, I touched an excellence that others couldn''t even imagine¡­ but at what price? He paused for an instant and squeezed the rag in his hand. His eyes were lost in the distorted reflection of the bloody water on the floor. ¡ªHow many more times must I walk this same path? How many more lives must I consume in a cold and lonely ascent? Always chasing something, always sacrificing everything, never stopping to enjoy what really matters. I don''t know what the red door wants from me, but I know what I want from this life: to truly live it. For once, I want to feel, I want to enjoy, I want to embrace the moment without thinking about the next step. He finished cleaning, sighing as he saw the apartment relatively decent again. He went to a corner, took out an old backpack, and put the first aid kit inside. Then, he took the knife that came in the 2x1 offer and secured it along with its twin on his belt. With the backpack on his shoulder, he went outside and climbed the stairs to the roof of the building with light steps. There was something he needed to check. As he ascended, an uncomfortable sensation crept over his skin. It wasn''t pain, it wasn''t fatigue. It was something more subtle, a dissonance in his own being. ¡ªSomething¡­ something feels weird ¡ªhe murmured, observing his own hand¡ª. But everything seems to be fine¡­ He shook his head and continued climbing. Reaching the rooftop, he placed himself in the center. He wanted to check if he could travel between worlds beyond his apartment. So he closed his eyes and repeated the process. He felt the texture of the world alter and upon opening his eyes again, the forest greeted him. Nothing had changed. Except for one detail. He lowered his gaze and noticed that the backpack was no longer on his back. In its place, a spatial storage ring adorned his finger. Touching it with curiosity, he channeled a bit of energy and confirmed that the contents were still there: the box with the alchemical products. He adjusted the ring on his finger and looked around. He approached a nearby tree, gently placing his hand on the rough trunk. He closed his eyes and murmured words that only he knew, an ancient whisper that resonated in the language of life. At first, the tree remained still, but Asteron did not lose patience. He repeated the words calmly, again and again, until he felt a slight tremor beneath his fingers. A single leaf, green and bright, detached itself and floated in the air, letting itself be carried towards a direction. Asteron opened his eyes with a light and grateful smile. He observed the direction in which the leaf was carried and, before continuing, gave a gentle pat to the tree trunk. " ¡ªThank you, old friend, for guiding me, ¡ªhe whispered, as if it were a pact, and began to walk ¡­ Asteron advanced through the vegetation, observing every detail around him. He recognized every plant, every tree, every creature that appeared in his path. A deep knowledge, accumulated over countless years, revealed to him that this forest, although vast and dense, was nothing extraordinary. In other worlds, forests of this kind would have gone unnoticed, lost among more impressive and exotic places. But, even so, he advanced cautiously, aware that in every world, no matter how common it seemed, dangers lurked in the least expected corners. As he moved, he stopped every few kilometers to repeat the ritual of connection with the trees. He placed a hand on the trunk, whispered the words of life, and waited patiently until a leaf, moved by the knowledge of nature, indicated the safe direction. He was in no hurry. "One step at a time," he thought, reminding himself that, even though the environment was familiar, recklessness had been the downfall of many. Finally, a luminous gap appeared on the horizon. He had found the exit. With a light smile, he exited the forest and, before moving on, turned to take a last look at the green mantle. He inclined his head in a respectful gesture and whispered: ¡ªThank you, friend, for showing me the way. Suddenly, a strange aroma penetrated his senses. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but for Asteron it was enough. A sense of alert took hold of him, a spark of instinct ignited, the result of countless incarnations facing dangers. Without thinking twice, he unsheathed the Ethereal Cut Knives, feeling the energy throbbing in his hands, ready to be released. ¡ªThis is not a simple smell, ¡ªhe reflected. Something told him that a threat was looming not far away. Following his intuition, he quickly ascended the slope of a nearby hill, seeking a better view of the surroundings. Upon reaching the summit, the landscape unfolded before his eyes, and what he saw froze his blood. In the distance, a small town, surrounded by a wall of logs, was under attack. A horde of beasts, at least fifteen, was launching itself against the walls with fury. Asteron watched the guards trying to defend the place from the top of the palisade, throwing arrows and spears in a desperate effort. But they were not adepts of the Arcane. They lacked resonances, any ability that could give them a real chance against creatures of that magnitude. "They are doomed," he thought coldly, while his eyes followed the chaos that was unfolding. He knew those beasts; their dark and muscular bodies, their sharp claws, were unmistakable. For the villagers, resisting one of those creatures would be almost impossible, let alone fifteen. "If the wall falls..." he thought, envisioning the inevitable future. "It will be nothing more than a massacre." He took a deep breath, contemplating the scene with a mixture of frustration and unease. In his chest, the Ethereal Heart throbbed weakly, insufficient to wage a battle of that magnitude. He knew that facing that horde in his current state would be almost suicide, a desperate gamble against the forces of death. Nevertheless, something in him resisted turning his back and moving on. "Do I really have to risk everything again?", he thought, feeling a pang of exhaustion run through his mind. This time he wanted to live differently, leave behind the eternal conflict, the incessant struggles. After all, hadn''t he promised that in this life he would be free, that he would live without that chain that always dragged him to sacrifice? He observed the villagers on the palisade, their reckless determination in facing the inevitable. He could look away, continue on his way, and justify his departure as a matter of sensibility. ¡ªFace Arcane beasts? I barely managed to become an Adept, if I try anything now, I''m sure to die¡­ And I''m not a fan of suicide.¡ªhe said to himself, almost in a whisper, trying to convince himself. "If I allow this to happen, if I turn my back¡­", his thoughts betrayed him, revealing a relentless truth: that weight, that guilt, would not allow him to live in peace. Ignoring this situation would be ignoring himself, and any peace he obtained afterward would be a deception, a twisted shadow of the full life he so longed for. He clenched his jaw, letting the conflict resolve itself in silence. Every fiber of his being knew what he had to do, even though part of him wanted to avoid it.