Year 363, Fifth Month, Seventh Day.

  Evargarde, Outer City.

  The world reeked of copper and decay.

  He woke with a violent cough, his throat raw, the taste of dust and blood thick on his tongue. His body throbbed with a deep, aching exhaustion, every muscle stiff as if he had been wrung dry. The cold stone beneath him leached warmth from his skin, its surface damp and unyielding.

  A dim, flickering glow pressed against the darkness, casting jagged shadows that twisted and writhed across the walls. The scent of old wax and something rancid clung to the air. As his vision steadied, he saw them—grotesque shapes, symbols carved into the stone, their edges dark with dried blood.

  A dull haze filled his mind, confusion clouding his thoughts. But then, something deeper took hold—primal, suffocating fear. His skin prickled, sweat slicking his back despite the cold. His breath came quick and shallow.

  Slowly, with movements stiff and sluggish, he forced his body to obey, his neck protesting as he tilted his head upward. A feeling of dread curled in his gut.

  Above him, something lingered—something not entirely here. A twisted, emaciated figure loomed at the edges of reality, its many-jointed limbs contorting unnaturally as it reached for him. Its form bled in and out of existence, as though it straddled the boundary between two worlds, caught in the dying remnants of a ritual gone wrong. The air around it bent and twisted, a silent scream pressing against the fabric of reality.

  Its fingers—long, skeletal, ending in ink-black claws—hovered inches from his face. The space between them shimmered like a heat mirage, and in that moment, he felt something brush against his mind. A presence. Cold. Alien. Starving.

  Then, the being lurched forward, its form flickering violently as if resisting an unseen force. It clawed at the space between them, its eyeless face stretching, twisting—desperate. The symbols on the ground pulsed, their glow intensifying, forcing the entity back.

  A ragged, inhuman shriek tore through the air, yet no sound met his ears—only a pressure, like something screaming directly into his skull. The creature's body fractured, breaking apart piece by piece, limbs dissolving into ink-black mist, dragged away by an unseen current. It fought, convulsed, reached—until only its fingers remained, trembling, scraping at the edge of reality.

  Then—with one final, shuddering lurch, it was expelled.

  The silence that followed was almost worse.

  What... was that?

  Silas lay frozen, his breath ragged, heart pounding against his ribs. His eyes darted across the room, half-expecting the thing to return, to reform from the shadows and finish whatever it had started. But the space above him was empty—only dust and the remnants of the ritual remained.

  His mind reeled. That thing—it had tried to reach him. To cling to him. Was it trying to take something from him, or had it wanted to give him something? The thought sent a sickening chill through his bones.

  No. No, this isn’t real. I must be hallucinating.

  But the symbols. The stench of blood. The way reality had bent and twisted around the creature. It felt too real.

  A new, more terrifying thought crawled up his spine.

  What if it wasn’t trying to reach me?

  What if it was trying to escape?

  A shudder passed through him, but panic allowed him no time to linger.

  He lay at the heart of a ritualistic diagram—intricate symbols etched with unsettling precision, encircled by the severed limbs of small animals. The coppery scent of blood mixed with the rancid odor of burning tallow, thick and suffocating in the air.

  His clothes—a threadbare linen shirt, frayed at the cuffs, and worn wool trousers, stained and patched—clung to his damp skin. The fabric did little to shield him from the chill creeping through the stone floor.

  His breath quickened, each inhale sharp and shallow as panic clawed up his throat.

  Where am I? The thought cracked through the haze of his mind. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead—and then came the pain.

  A sharp, searing agony exploded behind his eyes. Memories flooded his mind, crashing into him like a collapsing dam. His name: Silas Crowell. Sixteen years old. An orphan. Parents gone, dead for reasons he could never uncover. The struggle of survival in Evergarde's Outer City. Days spent as a runner for The Cogwheel Gazette, exploited by a boss who saw him as cheap labor. Nights spent nursing a forbidden dream—to become an explorer, one of the mystical wanderers who ventured beyond the walls into the Fallen Lands.

  The memories of Silas Crowell crashed into his mind, colliding violently with his own—memories of Nathan Carter, a software developer from Seattle, Washington. He recalled his quiet life, the solitude left in the wake of his parents’ deaths, the absence of any family ties. Gaming and fiction had been his escape, his comfort. But those memories were fading, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

  Slowly, the two sets of memories intertwined, blurring the line between past and present. Nathan—no, Silas—took a shaky breath, his heart pounding. Was this reincarnation, like in the novels he once read? His past life felt distant now, the details hazy and insubstantial, as if they no longer belonged to him.

  Slowly, he turned his focus to his new body—Silas's most recent memory surged to the surface. Crouched in a dark alley, hidden in the shadows, he watched as the hooded figures of a cult stood against the armored Nightwatch. Whispered incantations clashed with the sharp crack of rifles. The ground trembled beneath him, a low vibration spreading as something shifted within the fog. And then—

  The page.

  His hand shot to his coat pocket. His fingers found the brittle, crumpled scrap of parchment. He pulled it out, unfolding it beneath the candlelight. Lines of ancient script twisted across the page, along with a sketch of the very diagram he had awoken in. The ink shimmered unnaturally in the dimness.

  What have I done? Panic surged again. The original Silas had taken the page to study it, hoping to unlock powers whispered about in the city's darkest corners. He never intended to pay for that curiosity with his life.

  A sharp knock shattered the silence.

  He froze. The sound came from the basement door at the top of the stairs.

  The Nightwatch. His heart raced. They must have tracked the ritual. His eyes darted to the blood-streaked floor. I need to erase it.

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  He scrambled to the nearest candle and tipped it, spilling wax over the symbols. The blood resisted, the lines refusing to blur as though seared into the stone. The knocking came again—louder this time.

  Silas's hands trembled. He smeared the diagram with his sleeve, the fabric soaking in crimson streaks. The third knock came with the force of a fist.

  Think. Think! He forced himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. He wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers and staggered toward the door.

  The handle rattled.

  He inhaled, steadied his voice, and opened it.

  A girl stood there, back lit by the dim, grayish glow from the street. Dark curls framed her pale face, cascading down in unruly waves that caught the faint shimmer of lantern light. Her brown eyes, wide and alert, reflected a curiosity laced with caution. A small scar curved along her left eyebrow, a faint mark from a childhood fall. Freckles dotted her nose, softened by the cool, mist-laden air. She wore a faded wool shawl draped tightly around her shoulders, the fabric worn thin from years of use. The faint scent of lavender clung to her—a rare touch of warmth in the otherwise cold, metallic air. Her lips parted slightly as though she were about to speak, but uncertainty held her back.

  "Clara," he whispered, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

  She tilted her head, brows furrowed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  He forced a laugh that sounded hollow in his own ears. "Just...fell asleep down here. Got spooked."

  Her gaze shifted past him to the dim basement. "It smells weird."

  "Yeah," he said quickly. "Mold. Lots of damp." He shifted his stance to block her view. "What's that?"

  She held up a chipped ceramic plate covered with a cloth. "My mum sent this. Said you're always skipping meals."

  The aroma of roasted turnips and stale bread wafted toward him. His stomach growled. "Thanks," he said, taking the plate with one hand and gripping the door frame with the other to hide his unsteady legs. "Tell her I appreciate it."

  Clara hesitated. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah. Just tired." He forced a smile. "I'll be fine."

  She studied him, unconvinced. "You never were a good liar, Silas."

  His fingers tightened around the plate, but he kept his face neutral. "And you never knew when to drop something."

  She sighed, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you pass out somewhere, don’t expect me to drag you home."

  A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

  "Good." She turned, but before stepping away, she added, "Just... don’t do anything stupid."

  She gave him one last, uncertain look before turning away, her footsteps fading into the fog. Outside, the night lay shrouded in thick fog, with streetlights reduced to faint, flickering halos struggling to pierce the gloom. Clara lived next door, and Silas stood motionless, listening intently until he heard the soft thud of the adjacent door closing.

  Only then did he shut his own door, pressing his forehead against the cold, weathered wood. His heart drummed against his ribs like a war drum, each beat a reminder of the danger he had narrowly escaped. With a shaky breath, he turned and descended the creaking steps to the basement.

  The ritual site awaited him, unchanged yet oppressive.

  Silas swallowed hard, his breath uneven. A dull throb pulsed at the base of his skull, spreading in slow, nauseating waves. His limbs felt wrong—too light yet sluggish, as if they no longer fully belonged to him. He rubbed his temples, wincing at the way his fingers trembled. He wasn’t just dizzy or disoriented. He felt different. As though he’d been torn from one world and stitched into another, the seams barely holding. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

  This is real. I am Silas Crowell now, not Nathan Carter.

  The thought felt distant, unreal, but resisting it wouldn’t change anything.

  I don’t know what happened, but I need to focus.

  He exhaled sharply, pushing aside the confusion, and forced himself to concentrate.The air in the room was thick, heavy with the lingering scent of blood and burnt tallow. It clawed at his throat, turning each breath into a struggle. His stomach twisted, but he swallowed down the rising nausea. He had no time to be sick.

  He needed to erase every trace.

  Dropping to his knees, he reached for a melted candle, its wax hardened into misshapen lumps over some of the symbols. He peeled away a piece, but the lines beneath remained vivid, as if they had been carved into the stone itself rather than drawn. His heartbeat quickened. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t right.

  His fingers curled into a fist. He found a rag and pressed it against the symbols, scrubbing harder. The dried blood flaked away in patches, staining his fingertips a sickly rust-red, yet faint impressions still lingered beneath. His breathing grew shallow. The sigils refused to fade completely, no matter how much force he used.

  A shiver ran through him, his skin prickling as if unseen eyes were watching. The back of his neck tightened, the phantom sensation of something cold brushing against his spine. He clenched his jaw and forced his hands to keep moving, though the effort made his muscles ache.

  He had to finish.

  Had to erase it all.

  Had to pretend none of this had ever happened.

  As he worked, fragments of memory floated through his mind—images of Evergarde's sprawling, fog-choked streets. The city was a fortress against the cursed Fallen Lands, divided by towering walls into two distinct worlds. The Inner City was a realm of marble towers and polished brass, home to nobles and scholars who never knew hunger. The Outer City, where he lived, was a maze of narrow alleys, crowded tenements, and smoke-belching factories. Here, soot clung to skin like a second layer.

  Beyond the towering walls stretched the Fallen Lands—an endless, forsaken wilderness shrouded in eternal mist. The air there was said to be thick with corruption, where twisted, ravenous creatures prowled without rest. Few dared to venture into that cursed expanse, and fewer still lived to tell the tale.

  The original Silas had come across fleeting mentions of other cities hidden somewhere within the fog—distant, shadowy enclaves lost to time. But those were just rumors, faint whispers buried beneath layers of uncertainty and fear. Nothing more.

  The candlelight dimmed as his mind drifted. His old world had been nothing like this. He remembered cities bathed in sunlight, glass towers, and glowing screens. How had he come here? The ritual? The parchment page?

  Why me?

  He knelt beside the diagram, tracing its outer edge with one finger. The symbols meant nothing to him, but the metallic tang of blood stirred unease in his gut. But there were no answers here. Only the cold stone and his trembling hands.

  He slumped against the wall. I've been given a second chance. His old life was lost, yet fragments of his memories lingered—distant and blurred.

  He exhaled slowly. "I'm alive," he whispered. "That's enough for now."

  Exhausted, Silas trudged toward his bedroom. The wooden stairs groaned beneath his steps, each creak echoing like a weary sigh through the modest home. As he reached the ground floor, he passed the cramped kitchen—a narrow space with a soot-streaked hearth, where a rusted iron kettle rested on a crooked hook. The wooden counter bore knife marks and stains from years of meager meals. A single cupboard, its door slightly ajar, revealed chipped ceramic plates and mismatched utensils. The faint aroma of stale bread and boiled turnips lingered in the cool air.

  His room was tucked beneath the slanted roof, a drafty, dim retreat from the world outside. The walls were warped with damp, the plaster cracked and discolored from constant moisture. A narrow window, smudged with grime, overlooked the alley where the fog coiled like a living thing. Beside his straw-stuffed mattress stood a rickety desk cluttered with ink-stained papers, a chipped lantern, and a dull penknife. In the corner, an old wooden chest sat partially open, revealing threadbare clothes and a pair of worn boots.

  He collapsed onto the mattress, the coarse fabric itching against his skin. The scent of mildew mingled with the faint, metallic tang still clinging to his clothes—a reminder of the ritual and the mystery now entwined with his life. The distant groan of factory gears hummed through the walls.

  Suddenly, he felt something unusual—a pull within himself. A strange, almost instinctive tug at his very being. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to blur.

  What is this…?

  Opening his eyes, he focused inward, allowing the sensation to guide him. It was as if something deep within was calling out, demanding his attention. The pull grew stronger, and as he surrendered to it, a vision unfolded before him.

  A vast, endless void stretched in all directions, cold and silent, yet strangely calming. Suspended in this emptiness was a single white ball of light, hovering before him like a quiet beacon. His chest tightened at the sight.

  Is this… a part of me?

  He hesitated, then reached out, fingers trembling slightly. The moment he touched the sphere, a thin strand of energy unraveled from it, stretching toward him.

  Then—

  A voice, “Causality”.