《Fear [LitRPG]》


 Road 1 - What belongs to me alone

    I did it. Perhaps I shouldn¡¯t, but I would still do the same. For once, I felt my choices were mine. That I didn¡¯t need to obey them. And god knew how much I wanted to get out of this cursed land. I heard tales from the travelers, strangers from faraway lands. Stories about distant places, of buildings floating in the sky, and creatures the size of a house.


    At first, I didn¡¯t believe them. Of course I wouldn¡¯t. There, in my country, aside from cows, horses, or elephants, there weren¡¯t these kinds of creatures. It¡¯s a fable, a myth, or the things we listen to the drunkards telling in the taverns. But tonight was either true or false.


    From an early age, I was told they were a lie. I was told about the dangers of it. Ars, the name. Here, it¡¯s unspoken, dangerous, and cursed. Do you want to see the horror in a grown man¡¯s face? Speak it. Ars. He will sweat, tremble, swear at you, and then call the soldiers.


    They would drag you to the prison. You would be interrogated. Where did you learn about it? Who told you to speak? For them, it could only be a third source, not me or my will to speak. Then, you would be sent to the church. Day by day, without a single moment of rest, you would hear about it.


    It¡¯s evil. Don¡¯t speak about it. Don¡¯t touch it. Don¡¯t write about it. How do I know? I was there. Not once, but twice. Something inside me, a burning desire to explore, to travel, gave me that insatiable hunger for the unknown. And then, one day, when I was walking back home, I saw him. A Riddler.


    Even in my homeland, we know of them. At least as legends. Riddlers were mystical travelers that, once in a while, would stop by a road and wait for the first person to walk by. They would ask you a question, and as promised, if your answer satisfies them, a reward is given.


    I remember that day. It was rainy. I was working as a soldier. I must say it here: if you were sent more than once for the church, your only options to make a living were either to be a soldier or a priest. In the leader¡¯s mind, a priest would be under the surveillance of the church, and a soldier, if caught talking about Ars, would be sent to death without hesitation.


    Ending my turn that day, I was walking while murmuring about the rain. I don¡¯t like it. It destroyed my clothes and made it harder for me to fix. I¡¯m a poor bastard, you see, and nothing besides gold makes me happy. Lost in my mind, an old man stopped me.


    I was surprised and almost attacked on instinct. But something in his eyes, those gray glowing orbs, made me stop. He was like any other elder, with a long beard, wrinkles, and more lines in his forehead than I could count. He smiled and asked me, "Ah, young man, I see you¡¯re an ambitious one. I know you and your dream. Do you want it or not? That freedom. The choice to be out of here.¡±


    Needless to say, I almost panicked. If someone heard it, I would be dead. No question, no judgment. But he was relentless, as if he couldn¡¯t see my distress or hear me pleading for him to stop.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, young man, no one will hear you or me,¡± he said, with a smirk crossing his face. ¡°Do you want it or not?¡±


    That moment I felt it. It was like the rain stopped for once, as if the wind didn¡¯t exist or the sound became less noisy. It was me and him on that road at night. I was in a trance. Behind him I could watch scenes of me in that damned church, those priests speaking in my head. I could watch my so-called friends laughing at me. Ridiculous! And even my own blood, denying with their head as if I were worse than a rat.


    I replied to him. Of course I agreed. Dreaming or not, facing death or not, I couldn¡¯t do it anymore. Every day I spent there, in that city, knowing they''re behind talking about me. Watching their disgusting expressions when I greeted them. And at night, in my house, distant from everyone, watching the moon high in the sky, watching the stars shining. It was that chance the old man asked me, or to spend the rest of my life doing the same.


    The old man then asked me, ¡°Tell me, young man. What belongs to you alone but is used more often by others?¡±


    It sounded simple. And thinking back now, it was really easy. But you had to understand that, from an early age, people called me a kid, dumbass, crazy, and lunatic. All of this and more, and less of my name, Charles. So, when he asked me that, I froze.


    It felt like an idle distraction, perhaps a cruel joke, and everything I was seeing was a play. An amusement of the people of my city, watching me make a fool of myself, before digging my grave and shoving me inside. What belonged to me? Nothing else, just my ideas and dreams. Could I realize my ideas? No, without getting killed. Could I achieve my dreams? Here, it was more likely nightmarish than what dreams were supposed to be.


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    And what else belonged to me? The house wasn¡¯t mine. The sword and clothes were less. The gold I won was regulated and highly taxed upon. Hell, it''s not even my hairstyle and beard. I like it long, and more than that, I enjoyed my beard. But it was demanded as an act of being clean for me to shave it down to nothing.


    There was something about his riddle. Something that pressed upon me, half-forgotten but never faded. What makes a man? His achievements? His legacy or material possession? Or the memories and his actions? But all of that, what attaches it to that man, what makes him, him? Sometimes a title, a nickname, but mostly always his name.


    Of course it was pathetic for me. I was an empty shell, worn smooth by others'' use. I had carried it all my life without truly possessing it. And if one day it disappeared? If no one spoke it again? Would I vanish along with it? Would someone miss me? I don¡¯t think so. Perhaps it¡¯s those thoughts that made me answer him, ¡°My name, Charles."


    I remember. He smiled widely. I never thought someone could open their mouth like he did. His eyes glowed like torches, and he nodded, as if the answer pleased him, as if he won a mountain of gold because of that. He laughed harder and harder before replying with, ¡°Correct. Now, this is yours.¡±


    It was that moment I knew I couldn¡¯t go back on my choices. There, I made my way down a road where either I survive and return stronger or die pathetically. From his pocket, he took a shining stone. Red, glowing like a crimson ruby. It was beautiful. I only saw something so strange yet magical when I got the chance to enter the lord¡¯s castle.


    That stone drove my eyes, took my breath, and made everything slow. The old man took my hands and gave it to me. Telling me before disappearing as if he was never there, ¡°Tonight, when you went to sleep, put it above your chest, young one.¡±


    Days went by. Same routine, same nightmare. And yet, I was hesitant to do it. I hid that stone in the best hiding place I had, where my shits fall. I couldn¡¯t let anyone see it or hear I had it. I couldn¡¯t speak, and hell, I was even afraid to think about it.


    It happened today. I ended my turn as always, but this time, I went for the tavern. Even I needed to drink once in a while. A mistake. Sometimes I wonder to myself, what did I do so bad to deserve the things in this life? I couldn¡¯t put my fingers on it. That¡¯s it. I mean, was it the gods'' will? Destiny? Fate? Was I made to live this kind of life?


    I pressed my hands against the mirror, staring at myself. The dark bruises and lines of blood dancing dry in my head like twisted branches. The beer. I grabbed it, the verdant glass. I smashed it to the ground. The sound, the shards. All of it, the memories surging once again.


    I was there, drinking alone, in the darkest corner of the balcony. When that idiot chief spotted me. Perhaps he was drunk, or perhaps that night he wished for everyone to see him as more special than others. Is it not that, no? Chiefs like to be chiefs, to be viewed as chiefs, and to be dreaded as one.


    That bastard! He saw me, pointed his dirty and fat fingers at me, and started to call me names. Worse than that, he began to tell lies. Outrageous lies about me and the service I do for this cursed city. And that whole group of men and women, and even the kids, began to laugh, to make them remember me as one of the few jokes of the city.


    The dumbass, the idiot who spoke about that. Who dreamed about that? And, not once enough for him, the chief approached me, with his bottle of wine dancing in his hands, talking lies and shit. I was about to exit, heads down, of course. Then, I felt it. The bottle broke against my bald head.


    Do you want to know what it feels like? It made you dizzy. The pain was sharp, and the bitter liquid burned where it cut, like your head was under a pit of fire. It made me speak. I asked him to stop. To let me go. But it was as if me speaking against it only made him aware that I was there yet, that I as his coil for his fire was there, for his little crowd of bastards.


    He pounced on me. Kicked me. One bottle followed the other, and when I managed to get out there, I nearly collapsed near the barn where the horses went by. I think adrenaline helped me to go home. The path was longer than I was used to, I must say. It¡¯s funny when you take the details when you¡¯re in such pain and hush to go home.


    I never thought of the number of trees on that road, nor the view of the forests and fairway mountains. The moonlight shining across it almost made my pain go away. But I¡¯m here now. Bleeding. To death? I don¡¯t think so. I wished for it, but my will to live, to dream, was bigger than it.


    I stood. Tonight will be the night I do it. No need to hesitate. It couldn¡¯t get worse than this. Is my destiny in this forsaken city, no? I dirtied my hands digging at the bottom of my excrement. The smell, perhaps the strong wine, made it less, but not enough for me to hold my stomach from throwing up.


    I clean it, the stone, still shining magically, as if calling me. And of course, I clean myself. I may be a poor bastard, but at least I keep myself sharp and in good shape.


    ¡°Tonight,¡± I speak loudly.


    Today my fears were gone. If everything I have learned about it was true, then it would be fast here but longer on the other side. I will awaken my powers, I will learn about the truth of this damned world, and finally, I will be out of here. I hope it¡¯s true. Because tonight, for once, in those thirty years of life, I¡¯ll let myself be myself.

 Road 2 - Is this a joke

    I woke up. At least my awareness did, while my eyes were still closed. I¡¯m afraid but excited. What would it be? The strange creatures I had read about in the forbidden texts? Different people or place? Where? Would I survive? Which power? I hope it was a great one. I liked flames. They were so beautiful but destructive. I wanted it.


    I opened my eyes. My breath was shallow, expectant. ¡°Now,¡± I murmured. The reveal. But as my eyes adjusted, there it was. The same cracked ceiling, yellowed with time, the same damp stain in the corner that had once resembled a face but now looked merely like rot. The same room, the same smell of wine and excrement. Is this a joke?


    I turned my head. The mirror. I sigh. I was still me. Of course I was still me. But in the same place. Didn¡¯t it work? The stone was gone now. I couldn¡¯t find it. I hope at least nobody heard me or saw me yesterday. Perhaps I¡¯m truly destined to be the same joke I was.


    I put on my uniform. Leather, light armor. The brown color. I found it strange. Why brown? Why not the green colors of this city¡¯s flag? And the answer? To shade costed more than the lord wanted to spend. Could you believe it? Not even that we were offered.


    I ate my bread. Hard, but hey, at least it made my stomach full. I was still denying it, wasn¡¯t I? Reality, as it is, ate me more than I tasted my food. Forget it. At least I tried. Now, I needed to hurry and arrive earlier than that bastard. He beat me yesterday, but I couldn¡¯t give him any chance to exploit.


    Stepping outside felt different. The hazy fog in the morning gave a strange feeling of peace for me. At least I wasn¡¯t like the folks talking about the mysterious dangerous things inside the fog. I mean, shit happened outside in the wild. You couldn¡¯t blame it on a natural phenomenon.


    Down the hill, I spotted the farmers readying themselves for work. I turned my head. I¡­ my parents were still there, you know? At least, back then, for me. Sometimes I spotted them in the city. It was funny watching them hide their face like I was some sort of monster. From their blood I came, no?


    The city. Modest in size, with the cracks and plants growing alongside the walls. Not once experienced war or danger in the last hundred years. A blessed place, if not for the bad administration and lack of incentive for merchants. It kept us poor and made us live like old-timers when the rest of the world developed their technology. At least, that¡¯s what the travelers used to say.


    I didn¡¯t expect anyone to greet me, but looking at their avoiding me still burns my eyes with anger. I¡¯m a soldier, bastards. At least respect me for keeping an eye out for thieves or wild animals. And the more I looked around, the more the anger consumed me. Until I noticed something strange happening.


    It was too silent. Like, usually there were greetings, murmurings, and even the ladies humming some old melodies. But the more I watched, the more I realized it. They were not talking, and their faces were looking down to the ground.


    I moved around. The clicking sound of my boot and sword made me nervous. What was happening here? Perhaps I was still dreaming. I spotted Mr. Potato, a merchant that everyone liked. He always treated me well. I approached him, asking with a joking tone, ¡°Hey, Mr. Potato, everyone is silent, no?¡±


    He didn¡¯t reply. Still looking at the ground. What was happening here? Perhaps¡­ Perhaps someone spotted me doing that. Everyone acting strange was because of me? I started sweating as if I was bathing in the river. The leather weighed more than iron, and the countless times I spun around seeking a sound or someone looking up made me dizzy.


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    Would I die? The lord would bring the priests and that bastard chief along? Who heard me? Who saw me? That Riddler? It was false? Why? I ran from men to women to kids. I tried to speak, anyone. They didn¡¯t react. Even when I grabbed a woman¡¯s shoulder, something that would have made a dozen people kick me, nothing happened.


    I checked every corner, every street, and every house. No one. Then I saw it. Moving quietly like a leaf falling from a tree. In a dark alley. Something white, at least moving. I chased it. I ran half the city because I saw myself in the main square. Hell, even the priests were not moving. But then again. I was there because of the thing I saw, no? I searched. Corner at corner, from the gaps between people and houses, until I spotted.


    In the mirror of a bakery shop. I saw myself, but without my shadow. Was it possible? For someone to live without their shadow? I started to panic. In all my years living, it never happened before. I heard it, low, almost like scraping metals, slithering into my ears, ¡°You, dumbass bastard, are nothing. You¡¯re dead.¡±


    I turned as fast as possible and almost broke my knee. But nothing. No one was near me, yet the voice sounded as if it was behind my neck. Once again, the same scraping-like sound, ¡°Ah, a man who couldn¡¯t recall his own name, dumbass, idiot.¡±


    Name? What? I ¡ª my name was¡­ I couldn¡¯t recall it. How? I knew I had one. But why? It couldn¡¯t be. I was a soldier in my thirties. Was it possible to serve the city without a name? I doubted it. Yet, who was I? That voice echoed again, ¡°Do you feel it? You¡¯re nothing, no name, no identity. Why even bother to be alive?¡±


    I was losing my mind. I tried to slash my arm with my sword. But besides the line of blood and the sharp pain, I was still there. Looking around, I saw in the alleys that the shadows were stretching more than they should. Something was happening there.


    Approaching it. I felt cold. In a place like that? Where''s the sun punished with more will than the chief reducing my salary with taxes? Sword in hand, I walked with measured paces. I learned it well. A soldier must be cold-headed.


    Darkness near the intersection between two houses. It shifted even though the light does not change. Even in daylight, I saw a shape. Emerging, not fully formed but shifting. It doesn¡¯t move directly, but I had to turn my head just right to keep it in sight. It was always just outside my vision, it turned, it vanished, it got closer.


    I ran. Something was strange. Then I realized it. Was this the awakening? Really? I read from the forbidden text that it was customary that when awakening, you would need to face a challenge. But in my hometown? I needed answers, and I knew where to find them in my house.


    But when I turned to open my house¡¯s door, I saw him ¡ª sitting at the table ¡ª the chief. That bastard. He was toying with my notebook. How did he find it? I kept it deep down where the excrement was. How? And why was he there?


    He turned to face me, speaking, ¡°Ah, bastard. I see it. You use it. Today you will die. Nobody will bother to give you a decent funeral. Don¡¯t believe me? See, why am I here? The leader sent me. His orders were¡­" He paused, and I froze. Why?


    The chief slammed the table, speaking like a maniac. ¡°His orders are to kill you, of course. Be fast, and drop you in the forest for the wild animals to eat. Hey, good, no? At least nobody will see your ugly face. I mean, nobody will miss you, that I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Something inside me burned. I started to tremble. No, it couldn¡¯t be real. No, I wouldn¡¯t die here. Not today, not now. I took my sword, trembling, and raised it to my head¡¯s height. If I went to die, at least I would bring this bastard with me.


    The chief stood, speaking, ¡°You think you deserve it? Uh, to use that. Is it freedom you seek? Bastard. Look at you. Trembling with a bad stance. Truly a poor idiot. Can someone like you be free? Someone who can¡¯t even remember his own name¡­ You must thank me for spending my precious time here to kill you. I¡¯m doing a favor, you know?¡±


    I closed my eyes and slashed him. It was like time stopped. Perhaps I should have tried to escape. That would¡¯ve been better than murder, right? But that anger inside me spread my thoughts like a flame. But I didn¡¯t hear it. Not iron against iron, nor against flesh or wood. Nothing. I hit nothing. When I opened my eyes, he was gone.

 Road 3 - Revenge

    My hands shook. Whether it was from rage or terror, I could no longer tell. No. This wasn¡¯t real. I wouldn¡¯t die here. Not like this. My fingers tightened around the sword¡¯s hilt, slick with sweat. I turned, looking around. Nothing. He was gone. I couldn¡¯t believe it.


    The silence wasn¡¯t empty. It felt like a presence, heavy, pressing against my skin. My breath came in uneven gasps. The room was still the room until it began to change. Shadows pooled in the corners, spreading, swallowing the outlines of the walls, the door, and the ground beneath me. My feet no longer felt solid. No, no, no. This isn¡¯t real!


    Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft at first, like a whisper carried on the wind, then louder, richer, that damned man. The darkness swelled, coalescing, and there he stood, his figure drawn from the shadows itself, grinning as if he had never left. Or worse, as if he had always been here, watching me.


    ¡°So?¡± He sneered. ¡°Still clinging to that thing in your hand, as if it gives you meaning? Tell me, what exactly have you accomplished? How many ladies have you laid? How many will remember your name? No one will sing of you. No one will mourn you.¡± He took a step closer. ¡°What did you think? That you could carve a purpose out of this world with a blade? You are a shadow, fading, and soon¡ª¡± he leaned in, his breath cold against my ear, ¡°¡ªthere will be nothing left of you.¡±


    I staggered back. Not real. Not real. Not real. But my mind, treacherous thing that it was, whispered. What if? He wasn¡¯t wrong. Never once had I tasted a lady before. Should I be ashamed? I even tried the ladies of the night, but not even their willingness to sleep with the weirdest of men allowed them to sleep with the joke of the city.


    I heard his laughter, splitting into echoes, like it mirrored me, showing my own disgusting face. Face it or not, I had been able to escape, to try living somewhere else. Once, one traveler asked me. But yet, fearful as ever, I refused. Why? Wasn¡¯t my drive for adventure greater than all this bullshit? I raised my sword again, but the weight of it was unbearable. My arms trembled. My grip loosened.


    ¡°Go on,¡± the chief taunted. ¡°Fight. Prove that you exist.¡±


    I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry, my voice stolen. I was sinking now, dissolving into the dark. If I disappeared here, now ¡ª would anyone ever know I had been? Would it matter? Really? For me, what was important in that moment was to beat the shit out of this bastard. Revenge. I need that. Eye for an eye.


    Iron against iron. I thought about all those years he spent torturing me with names and tasks. Did a soldier need to clean the cattle? Bullshit. I slashed. He evaded. I tried to follow. He kicked my knee.


    The chief stood before me, grinning, mocking. ¡°Look at you,¡± he sneered, pacing in a slow, predatory circle. ¡°Clumsy. Weak. Did you think you could challenge me? You?¡± His voice dripped with laughter. ¡°You¡¯re nothing. You always have been. A mutt we let sleep by the fire out of pity.¡±


    I lunged, reckless, desperate. My blade whistled through the air, but it met only emptiness. He was already behind me. A fist slammed into my ribs. The world lurched. I gasped, my lungs refusing air, my own body turning against me. My grip on the sword wavered.


    ¡°Do you know why I never let you fight?¡± he continued, his voice almost gentle now, as if I was his child. ¡°Because it was funny. Watching you toil, watching you pretend. A soldier.¡± He chuckled, low and cruel. ¡°You believed it, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    I snarled, forcing myself upright. My blood roared. Another swing, another failure. A boot struck my stomach, and I crashed to my knees, choking on the taste of iron. My sword slipped from my fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground.


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    ¡°You¡¯re no warrior,¡± the chief whispered, crouching beside me. His breath was warm, but his words were colder than the darkness surrounding us. ¡°You were just something to laugh at. A joke, kept around for the amusement of better men.¡±


    My hands trembled as I tried to lift myself, but my body refused. He was right. Hadn¡¯t he always been? I had no victories to my name, no legacy, no proof that I had ever been more than what they made me.


    The chief leaned in closer. ¡°Tell me¡­ what do you think happens to men like you? The ones who are forgotten?¡± I was still on my knees, my breath ragged, my body aching, but the real pain ¡ª the real wound ¡ª was his voice, carving into me like a dull knife.


    ¡°You¡¯re afraid,¡± he murmured. ¡°Not of me. Not of death. No, your fear runs deeper than that.¡± He crouched beside me again, his grin widening. ¡°You¡¯re afraid of being nothing. Of living and dying without leaving the slightest mark.¡± His fingers pressed against my forehead, mockingly gentle. ¡°And the worst part? You already know it¡¯s true. I didn¡¯t have to teach you that. You came into this world already knowing what you were.¡±


    I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the nausea curling in my stomach. He was lying. He had to be. But then again, why did his words feel like truths I had always known but never dared to speak? The darkness around us thickened, shifting like smoke, pressing against my skin. I couldn¡¯t breathe. His voice came again, closer now, almost inside me.


    ¡°No one will remember you.¡±


    I clenched my fists.


    ¡°No one will care.¡±


    I gritted my teeth.


    ¡°You are not a man. You are a whisper in the wind, already fading¡ª¡±


    Something inside me snapped. The fire that had been smothered, trampled, and mocked into embers ¡ª it roared to life. I lunged. My fingers found the hilt of my sword, cold and reassuring, and before he could move, before he could laugh again, I slashed.


    Faster than thought. Faster than he had ever seen me move. Faster than I had ever seen me move. For the first time, I struck true. The chief didn¡¯t stumble, didn¡¯t even flinch. His smirk remained, frozen in place, as his body¡­ dissolved. The sword passed through him as if through mist. And then, just like that, he was gone.


    I stood there, panting, my chest rising and falling in jagged bursts. Had I won? Then I saw them. Two figures stood where he had been. Two pairs of eyes. Eyes I would never forget. My mother. My father. Staring at me, faces twisted in disgust.


    My mother stepped to my left, and her eyes ¡ª those sharp, cold eyes ¡ª glowed with unmistakable disappointment. Her lips curled as if the very sight of me disgusted her.


    ¡°Look at you,¡± she sighed, shaking her head. ¡°What a waste. A man who has built nothing, given nothing. A disgrace. No wife. No children. No home to speak of. Do you know how ashamed I am when people ask about you? I tell them about your younger brother instead. He is a man. He has a family. He brings me pride.¡± She turned to me, narrowing her eyes. ¡°And you? What have you given me but sorrow?¡±


    A laugh ¡ª low, bitter ¡ª echoed from my right. My father. He walked with heavy steps, arms crossed, his face twisted in something far worse than disgust ¡ª anger. Deep, unmovable anger.


    ¡°I should have expected it,¡± he muttered. ¡°You never had the strength. Always the runt, always the fool.¡± His voice dripped with contempt. ¡°A soldier? Don¡¯t make me laugh. A soldier commands respect. A soldier earns his place. But you?¡± He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. ¡°You are a joke. A shame upon this city, upon this family, upon me. I owe them an apology for having a son like you.¡±


    Something inside me snapped. They were not real. They could not be real. But their voices cut deeper than any blade. The flames of rage swallowed reason, burned away hesitation. I moved before I could think, the sword a blur in my hands. I slashed ¡ª wild, desperate, furious. But the moment the blade struck, they vanished.


    No sound. No scream. Nothing. And yet¡­ something remained. The air changed. Thickened. Then, from the void, something began to walk toward me. It was far ¡ª just a shape in the distance, moving with slow, deliberate steps. I could not see its face and could not hear its voice.


    But already, I felt a fear unlike any before. Not the fear of pain. Not even the fear of death. This was something else. Something worse.

 Road 4 - Fear

    At first, it had no shape. Just a smoldering stain in the darkness, a slow-moving thing in the air. But then, the more I looked, the more it took form. A figure. It was big ¡ª too tall ¡ª its body shifting between solidity and smoke, like a dying fire struggling to stay alive. Its ribs pressed against its skin as if something had hollowed it out from within. A tattered coat, sharp at the edges like blackened iron.


    But the worst was the face. Or rather, the lack of one. The place where its features should have been was a burned ruin, a gap of cinders and embers, with only two eyes ¡ª white, empty ¡ª peering from the blackened husk. There was no malice in them, no hatred, no rage. Just¡­ nothing.


    And that was worse. A shudder ran through me. My skin was prickling with cold, my limbs were locking in place, but my breathing had quickened, too shallow, too weak. I told myself to move, to grip my sword, to lift my feet, anything. But I stood frozen, my body betraying me, my fingers twitching uselessly.


    The thing was stepping forward. It did not make a sound. No breath, no rustle of cloth, not even the weight of its steps against the ground. And yet, I felt it. It was pressing against my chest like an unseen hand, pushing the air from my lungs.


    It did not speak. It didn¡¯t need to. The silence was enough. The silence whispered what I already knew. That all of this, my anger, my struggles, my desperate grasping for meaning ¡ª had been for nothing. That I was staring at the thing I had always feared: the proof that my existence did not matter. That I would be forgotten. That my name would vanish, leaving nothing but a fading echo.


    My fingers clenched at my sides. Nails dug into flesh. I wanted to scream. But my throat had closed, locked in an iron grip of terror. The thing took another step forward.


    The dread was seeping into my bones, thick and suffocating, like tar filling my lungs. Knees were locking, and my breath was coming in sharp, broken gasps. The air had changed. It was heavier, wrong, thick with something unseen, like the quiet before a storm that never breaks.


    The thing was near now. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from it ¡ª not warmth, but something harsher, like the last breath of a dying candle, burning without light. My skin prickled, sweat slicking my back, cold despite the heat. My mouth tasted of iron. I tried to move, to force my limbs into action, but they remained rooted, trembling with


    submission.


    Then the whispers. Soft at first, slithering through the dark, curling around me like fingers. Then, the laughter. Low chuckles, giggles, growing louder, multiplying. I turned my head, too afraid to look, too terrified not to.


    And there they were. The people. Flickering figures, shifting like smoke, half-formed yet unmistakable. Faces I knew, faces I had passed in the streets, faces that had once been nothing but background noise in my life. And yet here they were, more solid than my own breath, more real than the ground beneath me.


    They sneered. They grinned. They laughed.


    ¡°Coward.¡±


    ¡°Failure.¡±


    ¡°Pathetic.¡±


    Their voices grew together. A mockery that dug into my skull like knives. They were close now, standing in a circle, their faces distorted with cruel delight, their eyes bright with something worse than hate ¡ª amusement.


    I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The thing stood behind me. The villagers in front. The laughter swelled, pressing against my ears, rattling inside my skull, drilling into my bones until I thought I would collapse beneath the weight of it.


    The sound came from everywhere and nowhere, crawling through the air like a living thing. It wasn¡¯t a voice ¡ª not in the way a voice should be. It twisted and warped, low and high at once, stretched thin in some moments, thick and guttural in others. It shuddered against my ears, vibrated in my bones, and whispered behind my eyes.


    "A trembling soldier obeys more than a loyal one¡­ Do you fear me?"


    My legs gave out beneath me. I fell to my knees, my breath breaking into ragged, uneven gasps. My body shook violently, as if I were nothing but brittle glass on the verge of shattering. Cold sweat ran down my spine, and without meaning to, without wanting to, I felt something hot spill down my cheeks.


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    Tears. I shook my head, frantic, desperate. No. No. No. But the crowd only laughed harder. The people were looming over me, faces stretched in grotesque delight, their voices sharp and merciless.


    "Coward."


    "Disgrace."


    "A joke."


    It burrowed into my mind like worms. I wanted to scream, to make them stop, to drown out the sound, but my throat had closed, useless. The thing did not move, but I felt it lean closer.


    "Do you fear me? Why not end it?"


    Something clattered against the ground. My sword. My fingers reached for it, slow and mechanical, as if moving on their own. The blade was cold when I grasped it, far colder than it should have been, and when I lifted it to my face, I felt it. It was watching me.


    The steel was polished but dark, swallowing the dim light that surrounded us. My reflection barely formed within it, twisted and blurred, as if something beneath the surface was moving, waiting. The longer I looked, the more I felt it looking back.


    It was a question. A door. An abyss waiting to be stepped into. Something stirred within me. A spark, buried beneath the weight of fear, of shame, of everything that had pressed me into the dirt my entire life. A burn of something raw, something I had long forgotten.


    I wanted to live. Not just survive. Not just endure. I wanted to live. To breathe air that wasn¡¯t choked with regret. To run, to escape, to carve my own path ¡ª not as the man they named me, not as the failure they saw, but as myself. Whoever that was. Whoever that could be.


    My fingers tightened around the sword. The steel was still cold, but now it felt real ¡ª solid, mine. My knees steadied. My breath slowed, deepened. I rose, inch by inch, until I stood tall.


    And for the first time, I looked at it. The thing stood before me, no longer a distant specter but a force, a presence that refused to be ignored. Its form flickered, shifting between solidity and smoke, but its face ¡ª its face was different.


    The blackened husk of a skull, burned and cracked, as if fire had once tried to consume it but had not finished the job. The ridges of bone jutted out, sharp and uneven, half-melted, half-decayed. What little flesh remained was stretched and dry, dark as coal, peeling at the edges like scorched parchment. The hollows where cheeks should have been pulsed with a sickly red glow, the embers of something old, something endless.


    And the colors. Red. Orange. Black. They moved, shifted, and danced like fire trapped beneath the surface of its skin. It did not breathe, yet its entire form seemed to smolder, the heat of it distorting the air, making reality waver. But its eyes ¡ª those white, empty orbs ¡ª did not waver. They remained locked onto mine, unblinking, unreadable. Waiting.


    The villagers had circled us now, but their voices had changed. They still called me names, still spat their cruel words, but there was something else in their voices now. Excitement. They were cheering. As if this was a battle.


    As if I were a bard playing my role in the tavern, and they had been waiting, waiting for this moment, waiting to see what I would do. The fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering that I was nothing, that I was doomed before I had even begun.


    But the fire inside me had not gone out. I was afraid. But I was alive. And I would not kneel again. I attacked. The moment my blade was cutting through the air, the thing moved. Not like a man ¡ª not like anything I had seen before. It was twisting, shifting in a way that made no sense. One moment it was before me, the next it was at my side, its arms ¡ª or the absence of them ¡ª floating through the air as though separate from its body.


    And then. The world spiraled. It was like a clock. A motion both rigid and fluid, circular yet fragmented, as if time itself had shattered and was trying, in vain, to piece itself back together. But it was also a mirror, breaking and reforming with each flicker of movement.


    It was falling. Not onto the ground, not onto me, but over me, swallowing sight and sound and breath itself. The world spun. The faces of the villagers twisted into grotesque, stretched-out mockeries ¡ª mouths too wide, eyes bulging with cruel delight ¡ª until shaped into my own face. My own distorted features sneering at me.


    And the creature. Swirling, interchanging, a sickening loop where identity collapsed, reassembled, collapsed again. I slashed. Wildly, desperately. At everything. At the thing. At the air. At myself. My own blade nearly carved into my shoulder as I swung in blind panic. But the strikes met nothing ¡ª nothing ¡ª as if I were fighting a shadow, a thought, a nightmare that had slipped into waking.


    Something was striking me. Pain. Sharp, deep, behind my back, an explosion of fire beneath my ribs. Something had struck me, something real. The force of it sent me flying, my body weightless for a single, horrifying moment before I crashed. The impact sent my sword clattering against the ground. My arm followed, the steel biting into flesh, drawing a jagged line of red.


    And suddenly, it was clear. The spinning stopped. The faces stopped. The laughter ¡ª dim, distant, as if from another room. I was gasping, ragged and breathless. My head pounded, my lungs burned, but my thoughts ¡ª finally ¡ª were not drowning in the spiral.


    I was forcing myself up. My vision wavered, shifting between blur and focus, as if reality itself was struggling to settle. But I was standing. And I was not done.

 Road 5 - Awakening

    I breathed slowly. Steadied myself. That bastard had tortured me, but at least he had trained me well. We didn¡¯t taste war or conflict, but those days he threw me against the whole group. Just so they could beat me to the ground, leave me in bed for weeks, and cut my salary ¡ª those were my lessons.


    And when my body ached too much to move, when every breath reminded me of my own weakness, I trained. I trained because I had nothing else. Hours upon hours, sword in hand, moving, cutting, refining. I knew the concepts. The first three, at least. And I was a natural swordsman.


    I was calming myself. Ignoring the crowd. Ignoring my wounds. It was my sword and that thing. Life or death. Me against my fear. I took the first step, slow and deliberate. Then I sprinted.


    My stance was low, my sword angled diagonally, the tip tilted upward. A ready stance, a killing stance. I had no plan but one ¡ª attack first. Strike before the fear could crawl back into my mind.


    As I neared the thing, I slashed. And then ¡ª it split. No hesitation, no sign, no logic to it. It simply divided, a seamless, effortless motion, like the breaking of a shadow under torchlight. Before I could react, both figures blurred, vanishing into the dark.


    One to my left. One to my right. What was the real one? I had no time to think. Thinking was death. I chose left. I struck with all the force I had, and for the first time, I felt it.


    Not flesh. Not bone. It was like dragging a knife through coarse, rotting fabric, something that should not have been solid, yet was. Resistance, friction. The scream. A wretched, inhuman sound, like the death wail of a cow, a long, drawn-out agony that clawed at my ears.


    Before I could push forward, before I could even relish the moment. It struck back. A limb ¡ª long, charred, moving like a whip ¡ª swiped at me, catching my torso. I barely had time to register the impact before my body was flung backward.


    I was rolling. Once. Twice. My instincts were saving me, but they were also betraying me ¡ª because as I was stopping, crouched low, gasping. The other one was waiting. It had never disappeared. It had only been watching.


    I felt it. An unseen force, cold and writhing, curling around my limbs like chains made of air. I ran. I rolled. Desperate, frantic, but it caught me.


    And I stopped. Every muscle in my body locked. My chest seized, no air, no motion, no escape. Even my eyes betrayed me, frozen open, forced to watch as the creatures loomed closer, their bodies shifting in ways that I couldn¡¯t understand.


    They struck. One low, a jagged limb carving into my belly like a serrated blade. The other high, the force of it crashing into my skull. Impact. The world exploded. A flash of red behind my eyes. A pulse of white-hot pain, spreading through my body like fire racing through dry wood. My ribs screamed, my breath caught in my throat, and my vision shattered into fragments of motion and color. My legs failed me. My arms went numb. I was weightless, for just a moment, before I hit the ground, hard.


    Everything throbbed. The ground beneath me, the ceiling above, the blood pounding in my veins, it all pulsed, alive, wild, surging with something I didn¡¯t understand. Pain. Fear. Will. Something deep, something primal, something burning.


    I was gritting my teeth. No. I was refusing. With every ounce of strength left in me, I lifted my arm. My fingers clenched around the hilt of my sword. And I threw. The blade spun through the air, a glint of steel against the darkness. It struck true ¡ª plunging into the right creature, just below the chest.


    The scream tore through the air, a sound not meant for human ears. The thing twisted, its body convulsing, writhing like an insect impaled on a knife. The other one ¡ª gone. Faded away like mist in the morning light.


    This was my chance. I pushed forward, but my legs refused to obey. Each step was a battle against myself, against the exhaustion, against the pain that wrapped around my limbs like shackles.


    My breath was ragged, tearing through my throat, hot and uneven. The world blurred ¡ª red and white, pulsing, shifting, tilting. Not now. Not now. I forced myself forward, step by agonizing step. Closer. Closer.


    The creature burst. A glow, deep and violent, erupted from its broken form, a twisted bloom of red and black swallowing the air. My sword ripped back through the air, hilt-first, slamming against my chest with brutal force. The shock shot through me like lightning, my ribs groaning, my vision snapping into darkness for a breath, then back again, unfocused, swaying. My knees nearly buckled. The world tilted.


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    And then came the feeling. Not just fear. Not just pain. Doom. Like standing beneath a crumbling cliffside, watching the first cracks split the rock. Like the hush before a blade fell on a prisoner¡¯s neck. I had seen it before ¡ª the thief we caught, the way the rope tightened, the way his body twisted in that final, wretched moment of realization. The knowledge that this was it. That nothing else would come after. That time had run out.


    I felt it. Thick in the air, pressing into my skin, coiling in my gut. The weight of an unseen verdict, passed down without words, without mercy. Something was coming. Something was ending. I didn¡¯t know how I knew, but I knew.


    A pressure tightening around me, shortening my breath, pulling the room in closer, suffocating. I had only moments. I had to move. To do something. Before whatever was left of me was gone.


    I was trying to move. Step by step. Was I moving? I couldn¡¯t tell. My limbs felt sluggish, distant, as if they belonged to someone else. My feet pressed against the ground, but was I pushing forward? Or was the world pulling away from me? The creature ¡ª was it closer? Or was it impossibly far? Its form flickered, stretched, blurred like a shadow cast in shifting light. It loomed and receded, near and distant at once, as if it was both waiting and advancing.


    Doubt clawed at my mind. Was this real? Or was I still kneeling? Still broken? Then, they came. The flashes ¡ª memories, fears, truths I had buried beneath years of excuses and silence.


    The boring life. The empty days, identical and meaningless, one bleeding into the next. The weight of nothing, heavier than any burden, pressing down until I could barely breathe. The ordinary. The life unlived, the path never taken. The slow decay of the soul, spent in repetition, in waiting, in watching others live while I remained still.


    The emptiness. The quiet, gnawing knowledge that I had never been enough. That I had failed, not in grand, noble ways, but in small, silent ones. In never trying. In never being. The unworthy. A man who had done nothing, meant nothing, left nothing.


    But as I stared ¡ª as I truly stared ¡ª deep into the shifting void of my fear, I saw it. Not just my own reflection staring back at me. The creature¡¯s fear. It was faint, hidden beneath the smoke, the ruin, the fire. But it was there. And in that moment, I understood.


    This was all about me. Not about the villagers, not about the chief, not about my mother or my father. Not about what I had failed to do or what I had been denied.


    It was me. Who I was. Who I had always been. And that was what the creature feared. Not my blade. Not my body. But my will. My wit. My existence.


    A fire coursed through my veins, violent and raw, burning away hesitation, scorching doubt into nothing. My steps grew faster, heavier, and solid. The ground itself trembled beneath me.


    The creature lunged. But I was already there. My sword found its mark, burying deep into its chest. For the first time, it recoiled. For the first time, it was afraid of me. I exhaled, my voice steady, grounded, real. "I''m Charles. You fear me, no? I know what you fear. I can see it."


    I did it. In that moment, I wasn¡¯t thinking. My body moved on its own, raw instinct guiding my hands. I gripped the sword tighter, the heat of the creature¡¯s form searing against my skin, its fabric-like flesh scratching at me, as if trying to hold on, as if it, too, feared what came next.


    I embraced it. And with both hands, I drove the blade through, from its back into mine. Was I mad? Was this a mistake? No. Because I saw it ¡ª the truth, the ending, the necessity of it all. Would I fail? I didn¡¯t know. But I had won.


    The creature let out no sound, no scream, only a shuddering collapse into itself. Its body flickered, then unraveled, strands of darkness peeling away, fragmenting into wisps of smoke. The villagers, the sneering faces, the jeering voices ¡ª all of them, too ¡ª disintegrated, vanishing one by one, like echoes fading into silence.


    The space around me stretched, widened. No walls, no ground, nothing but empty darkness. I closed my eyes. I could feel it. My life, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.


    But there was no terror. No regret. Only relief. The weight was gone. The shame, the fear, the doubt ¡ª I had cast them aside. For the first time, I had done what I wanted. Not what was expected. Not what was demanded. And it was refreshing.


    I heard it. It did not come from above, nor around me. It was the space itself, vibrating through the void, a melody both unnatural and beautiful. A voice that did not speak but sang, each syllable a note plucked from an instrument I could not name, something beyond these lands offered.


    "Charles, awakened, upon you defeating the Doomed Liquidus, a being said to have grown from the fear. For upon you, I declare the awakening of fear."


    The words etched themselves into the darkness, glowing in shifting colors, flames made of language, burning without heat, moving without consuming. They twisted and curled, reshaping, forming patterns I did not understand but felt in my bones.


    ¡°Awake."


    A rush, a pull. I gasped. My eyes snapped open. Sunlight streamed through my window, golden and warm. The ceiling above me ¡ª the same old ceiling. My room. My bed.


    Morning. I sat up, heart pounding. My body, whole. Healed. Untouched. A dream? Or¡­ Did it work?

 Road 6 - Ars

    I hurried. If any of it had been true, then it would be there. I ran outside, heart hammering. The morning air was sharp, filled with the scent of damp earth, but as I neared the pile, the stench hit me like a brick wall.


    Didn¡¯t matter. I dug my hands in. The filth squelched between my fingers, thick and heavy. The smell ¡ª well, you could imagine it. But I didn¡¯t care. Not when my fingers brushed something solid beneath the muck.


    I pulled it free. My notebook. Precious, forbidden, mine. The fabric was damp, covered in rotting plant matter, but I hurriedly unwrapped it, uncovering the pages hidden within. I flipped to the end, my breath uneven. The last pages, where everything I had managed to gather about Ars.


    It wasn¡¯t much. Years of searching, scraps of stolen words, whispered knowledge. All of it only amounted to one page. The first two paragraphs spoke of awakening. Different methods existed, but the most common, and safest, was through an Ars Stone. The rest? Unreliable, dangerous, uncertain. Some methods didn¡¯t work at all.


    But the third paragraph spoke of what came after. The System. It instructed me to close my eyes and focus on my head. It claimed that for those who awakened, the head itself would change. That it would no longer be only theirs. That a symbiotic being would take root inside.


    I didn¡¯t know what symbiotic meant. But if it could get me out of this shit hole, then I was okay with it. I inhaled, steadying myself. And I focused.


    The world around me dimmed. My breath slowed. I let my mind sink inward, deeper and deeper, past my thoughts. The battle. The fear. The moment my sword struck true. The words.


    Emptiness. At first, I saw or felt nothing. Something moved. A crawl from the base of my neck. A sensation unlike anything I had ever felt. It slithered upward, unseen fingers pressing, spreading, wrapping around the back of my skull.


    Higher. Over my temples. Across my forehead. Then down. Over my eyes. I gasped. Heat. Tears spilled down my cheeks, hot, burning, but it was not pain. It moved, it danced, shifting, coiling, weaving over my vision, like something tracing delicate patterns over my skin.


    And strangely. I did not find it gross. Nor uncomfortable. It was natural. As if it had always been there, waiting to be awakened.


    My eyes shot open. And I saw the world differently. Shades of red bled into my vision, deep and vibrant, outlining everything with a strange, pulsating clarity. The air felt charged, alive, the space around me humming.


    And inside me. Strength. It rushed through my veins, surging like fire in my blood. My limbs felt lighter, my breath deeper, my muscles brimming with power I had never known.


    I turned. A tree stood nearby. I lifted my fist. And struck. The bark shattered beneath my knuckles, splintering outward in an explosion of dust and wood. The tree groaned, cracking at its core.


    I stared. I did that. Euphoria surged through me. This is it. This is real. This is ¡ª a wave of tiredness. Like hands pulling me down, dragging the fire from my limbs, weighing down my breath.


    My eyes ¡ª so heavy ¡ª I closed them. For a moment, nothing. Then I opened them again. The morning light. The world, back to normal. The shades of red gone. The air, still. My body, whole, yet exhausted.


    I exhaled. It worked. The awakening was real. Finally, I had it. The power to get out of this damned land. For once, I had something. But before I let myself get swallowed by hope, I glanced back at the notebook.


    There was more. The last two paragraphs. My fingers trembled slightly as I picked it up again, the pages stiff and still damp. I read carefully.


    It spoke of how to use the System. It said I only had to focus one eye. Just one. Any more than that and it would blur, overwhelmed by the red shades that painted the world. Through that focus, I would see the things that contain Ars, information that couldn¡¯t be seen otherwise.


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    More than that, it would show me tiers. People. Creatures. Ranked. I only knew of two ¡ª Plagued and Cursed. Even in this forsaken town, there were whispers. Of men whose blood turned to bile, who spread rot with a touch. Of creatures that twisted land and body alike, where fields died and children were born wrong.


    Which tier had that creature been? The message said Doomed. That wasn¡¯t Plagued. That wasn¡¯t Cursed. Was it higher? Lower? Worse? I needed to know. And yet, of my own power¡­ nothing. The notes said little, almost nothing. How to use it, how to train it ¡ª blank space.


    I stared at the paper, hoping the words would change. They didn¡¯t. All I had were rumors. That each awakened power came with a _stain._ Some flaw, some curse, like a cruel balancing act. Something given, something taken.


    What was my stain? The message said I had awakened fear. But what did that mean? Was it the moment when I looked into that creature, into its fear? If so, could I see the fear of others? Could I manipulate it? Crush them with their own dread?


    How would I even trigger it? The uncertainty coiled in my gut. I had fought, bled, awakened, and now I stood here, holding this power I didn¡¯t know how to use. I was frustrated. I clenched the notebook tightly.


    One step at a time. I told myself that. I had to. Still, I turned to the last part, the Eruption. Barely anything. A sentence. A whisper. An event, random. Unpredictable. Something that could pull me to the other side.


    The Ars world. What was that? A world of awakened? Of monsters? Of truth? Was it where the creature came from? Or where I would go? And if there was another world¡­ then what was this one?


    Just the waiting room? A farm for broken men? Was everyone else sleeping? Were they real? Was I real before this? The more I thought, the more the walls of everything I believed began to shift.


    If there was an Ars world¡­ then maybe this place, this village, this life, wasn¡¯t even real at all. Just the before. Just the test. And what if awakening wasn¡¯t a blessing?


    What if it was a sentence? Was I meant to leave here? Or was I meant to be something else entirely ¡ª something not human anymore? What if this wasn¡¯t the end of the nightmare but only the beginning? Fuck it, at least, I was me.


    There was one more thing, something I almost forgot. I hadn¡¯t even written it down, maybe because part of me didn¡¯t want to admit it. Burn the notebook. That was the rule. The first rule. The most important one.


    No evidence. No trail. No risk. If anyone found it, especially here, in this place of dull eyes and sharper tongues, they¡¯d report it. I held it in my hands a moment longer, the old fabric still damp from filth, the pages heavy with years of my hunger, my obsession, my hope.


    I hesitated. This notebook had been everything to me. My secret. My dream. My curse. But it had served its purpose. Now, it was weight. I stepped behind the house, near the edge of the field, where the wind passed but no one else did. I knelt, placed the book on the dry grass, and I set it on fire.


    It caught fast. The fire danced through the pages like it had been waiting. A flash of blackened ink, a curl of old paper, and my past began to vanish. I watched it burn. The years of scavenging, the hours spent listening to half-mad whispers in taverns, the nights staring at cryptic symbols by candlelight, they went up in smoke.


    And it felt right. The flames weren¡¯t erasing me. They were freeing me. I stood as the last corner of the cover curled inward, ashes scattering into the wind. My past hope was gone, but only to make space for the new.


    Then I remembered something else. A scrap of advice, said in slurred breath by a drunkard leaning against the butcher¡¯s wall. Most of my notes were from drunkards, if I was being honest. I had collected half-truths from men who could barely see straight, who mistook fantasy for memory.


    Was I crazy to believe them? Maybe. But back then, belief was all I had. The man had said: if you wanted to see who you are after awakening, imagine yourself in a dark room. Alone. No sound. No shape. Just yourself and the truth. And if you¡¯re truly awakened, the System will show itself.


    So I sat. Closed my eyes. Focused. I imagined darkness, not a void, but a room. Four invisible walls pressing in. The kind of dark that breathes. That _watches._ I imagined standing in the center, breathing slow, steady.


    It happened. A flicker. A shift. And in front of me, floating in that imagined dark, something began to take shape. A window of light. Words written in pale colors.


    Charles


    Age: 30


    Path: Awakened of the Fear


    Core: Common


    I stared. My name. My path. It was real. No dream. No madness. This was me.

 Road 7 - Against Many, Only My Fear Can Kill Me (I)

    Morning broke with the slow cruelty of routine. Three days had passed since the moment I awoke ¡ª no, since I was reborn, though even now the term felt foreign, theatrical, like something from a cheap myth.


    I should have known then that clarity was the one thing power couldn¡¯t offer. The question, always the same, circled back: <i>Should I flee?</i> The port lay open like a wound, the mountains crouched behind veils of mist, whispering of paths less patrolled. The land itself seemed indifferent to my torment, as if it, too, had tired of my indecision.


    My body betrayed the change ¡ª the exercises now passed like thoughts, fleeting and almost pleasurable. It moved as if it no longer belonged to me. This improvement, this vitality, instead of granting relief, exposed me.


    They noticed. The guards watched with dead eyes. The townspeople, whose lives had long ago dried into gossip and suspicion, watched too. I had become a mirror in which they saw grotesque possibility of difference. Their stares were more accurate than their speech  and I understood their language better in silence.


    Still, I performed my duties. One foot in front of the other, uniform tight at the seams, the day rolled forward like a stone pushed by no one in particular. My fellow soldiers, those cowards of camaraderie, no longer greeted me. I did not greet them. There was a rhythm to our mutual avoidance, as if we all knew the melody and were too afraid to hear the lyrics.


    Curiosity. That ancient flame. I used the system. Illegally, of course, or at least uncomfortably. I told myself I needed to know them, but in truth, I wanted to see if anyone had ever really seen me. The readings gave me nothing. Shades of human, weak colors. Then I saw him. The chief. And beside him ¡ª the leader.


    For a moment, the world became silent. The system registered it. The reading. <b>¡°Common human.¡±</b> That was all. I stared, and in that mechanical label was born a fracture. How could he, the preacher of my humiliation, the very mouthpiece of hatred for the Awakened ¡ª how could he be like me? Or not like me?


    I think I stared too long. My eyes had already betrayed me, turned red, those treacherous flares of identity. The leader''s face contorted ¡ª surprise first, then horror. There was something almost comical in how quick the transformation occurred, as though he were an actor realizing mid-play that the audience could see his real skin beneath the mask.


    His finger rose ¡ª that gesture. The call to execution, to exposure. I saw mouths move, soldiers shift, and weapons tremble into readiness. The noise arrived late, as if my ears had been underwater. My fear rose earlier. That old companion, familiar as a fever.


    It crushed me.


    I was no longer the Awakened. I was no longer strong. I was the boy again ¡ª the boy who had read too much, questioned too often, and found in knowledge not freedom but exile. I heard voices that were not there, judgments long passed but never forgotten. I felt the thousand fingers again, those silent accusations, the way a community ostracizes without needing words.


    And above all else ¡ª I felt the loneliness. That unbearable, back-heavy weight. The silence after the drunk foreigner stopped talking. The walks taken with no destination, the meals taken with no conversation. The knowledge that no one had ever said your name without disdain. The fear that no one ever would.


    I stood there, surrounded, as if the play had begun without me knowing my lines ¡ª and I realized I had always been the fool in someone else''s tragedy.


    I held my sword. A clumsy grip at first ¡ª my hands were shaking. I stumbled back. One step. That was all it took for them to close the gap. Their eyes gleamed with something that resembled duty but stank of fear disguised as righteousness.


    I recognized them ¡ª faces I once trusted in the dead hours of the barracks. I had shared bread with these men. I had lied to protect them. I had taught some how to stand properly, how to swing with intention rather than panic.


    They didn¡¯t hesitate. There was no trial. No command beyond the bark of that pig-faced preacher of hate. His voice cracked through the air like a snapped bone: ¡°Kill him! He¡¯s an Awakened!¡±


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    That was enough.


    Not one of them stopped to ask, How does he know? No flicker of doubt passed their expressions. The logic of the mob requires no questions ¡ª only the comfort of shared guilt. They charged, and I stood alone. Sword in hand. Fear still in my throat, but beneath it¡­ A pulse. A roar.


    I told myself I was awakened. I had to believe it, repeat it like a prayer.<i> ¡°I am powerful. I am not what they think. I am more.¡±</i>


    The words worked. My mind sharpened like a blade taken to the whetstone. Not clean. Not calm. But focused. Perhaps, had I been wiser, I would have turned and ran. My body could¡¯ve managed it. But what¡¯s the use of speed when the weight in your chest wanted to stand and scream?


    I chose. With all the bitterness of someone who had lived too long in silence, I chose to fight.


    The first spear came like a question that required no answer ¡ª a blunt, stupid, murderous thing. I stepped back. Just enough. I told myself not to think. Not too much.


    Let the body move. Let the years of discipline and buried rage come forward. The heat in my blood was not fire but memory made flesh ¡ª all the humiliations, the forced silences, the laughter behind backs. It boiled in my veins now, and it demanded release.


    I moved. Nothing elegant. Just what I knew. What they had taught me. What I had taught others. The first dodge. The second parry. My feet found the ground like they belonged there. The rhythm took me, a strange melody written in steel and breath and instinct. I felt the music of it.


    I knew where the spear would go. I felt where the sword would swing. Every opening, every step, as if I had lived this battle a thousand times in forgotten dreams. Their fear made them predictable. Mine made me precise.


    I danced. Not in the way as bards would describe it, but as a man might dance when every step was the difference between being and not being. I was in the song, the one they played in the smoky taverns, when tales of war were just tunes, not truths.


    The first clash ¡ª metal to leather, leather to flesh ¡ª came with an eerie smoothness, like cutting into wet paper. There was resistance, yes, but not enough to stop the blade. And then the red like a smudge of paint on a weapon that now belonged more to fate than to me. I saw it, and I knew. No turning back. Not anymore.


    Then something struck the back of my head. Or so I thought. I turned sharply, instinct flaring. No one was behind me. Yet the sensation remained, like fingers brushing too close to thought. I saw it.


    A flicker. A warped image, like heat rising off stone. It wasn¡¯t real, but it was true. My fear. But not only mine ¡ª theirs. The crowd. Their terror hung in the air like smoke. It was thick, nearly visible, almost textured. And it gripped me with the same hand that had once gripped them.


    I understood my fear ¡ª the judgment, the exile, the long silences after too many questions. That was familiar. But their fear, it was different. And for one second too long, I tried to understand it. That was enough.


    The gasp tore from my chest before I could stop it. And in that blink of hesitation, a blade caught me near the elbow. It was sharp, cruel, but not deep. A glancing strike, but it howled through my nerves like lightning. Heat shot up my arm.


    My movements stumbled. I staggered back, evaded clumsily. Some attacks I avoided by luck, others I didn¡¯t. I tasted iron, smelled blood, and felt bruises forming like ghosts beneath my skin.


    My mind split ¡ª one half in the present, frantic and burning, the other watching a slow, cold procession of images from a life that had never been mine, but somehow lived within me. Like an old tale whispered too many times, it unfolded without my permission.


    They didn¡¯t fear me. They feared what I represented. The deviation, the rupture in their orderly world. Their fear wasn¡¯t of the Awakened. It was of the unknown. The unpredictable. The interruption to their supper conversations and tired tavern laughter. They clung to routine like a drunk to his last coin, and they had been told since childhood that Ars was the abyss and that we, the Awakened, were its crawling things.


    They didn¡¯t need to know if it was true. They didn¡¯t want to. Knowing would require a reckoning. And that reckoning was more frightening than any sword I could raise. So they did what all frightened people do: they obeyed. They accepted. It let them sleep at night. It let them laugh. Because to refuse meant opening the door to a silence too deep to name.


    But in their fear, I found a well of strength that dwarfed anything I had known. Their terror became my fuel. My limbs stopped aching. My vision blurred in a mirror of red and white. I couldn¡¯t tell scream from prayer, nor laughter from weeping.


    In all that, I moved. My body numbed, as if sensation had become irrelevant. But the anger ¡ª my anger ¡ª did not leave. It boiled, thick and black, as if my blood had been replaced with molten stone. I was a furnace. A forgotten forge suddenly lit by divine accident. Their fear was the bellows, and every swing of my blade was a hymn to something they had never dared to worship ¡ª the truth of difference.