Chapter 1 - The Nameless Awakening
Pain!
Not just discomfort, but raw, soulless agony. It pierced him like a serrated blade, drawn slowly and mercilessly, white-hot and unrelenting. Every breath was a gamble, shallow and gasping. His fingers clawed instinctively at the coarse bedding beneath him -coarsely spun canvas that felt like sandpaper against his trembling skin.
Why is my chest burning? Where… am I?
The thought rose like a faint spark in the storm of his mind. His thoughts were fragmented, scattered like shards of glass on cold stone. Vague shreds of another life — moments, sensations, faces he only half-remembered-emerged like stars hidden behind storm clouds, just out of reach. And through the fog of agony, his head throbbed in protest, his throat a desert of cracked heat.
But then, like a whisper rising from the void, a single name emerged from the abyss of his dissolving memory.
Desmond.
It wasn't just a name — it was an anchor. A link to something. To himself.
Desmond… that's me.
He forced his eyes open, lids like lead, and the world greeted him not with clarity, but with a haze of dim light and blurred colours. He blinked slowly, and the blurred shapes sharpened into shadow-stained canvases and the orange flicker of a hanging lantern. The smell of blood clung thick in the air, mixed with pungent herbs and something acrid — oil or ash.
He turned his head, every muscle protesting, and took in the scene. A crude wooden table stood nearby, crammed with signs of hasty healing - bloodied bandages, iron tools darkened from use, cloudy vials of ominous liquid, and a mortar still encrusted with dried, greenish paste. He stared at everything, and a feeling of unease spread through his gut.
Am I in some kind of sickroom?
He tried to rise, his instincts flaring up. A mistake. The movement sent another jolt of pain through his chest, and he slumped back onto the cot with a strangled cry. Tears stung his eyes as his hand darted up to his bandaged chest, and his fingers brushed the stiff fabric wrapped tight around his ribs. His flesh beneath throbbed with feverish heat.
An injury… I was struck—
The thought came as an instinct.
A path. A scream. The sound of something slicing the air, followed by an impact.
An arrow.
His jaw tightened as the confusion clawed at him.
And then, something caught the corner of his vision, a flash of movement as he turned his wrist.
His pale, and foreign hand was adorned with a signet ring: a dark, polished ring carved with the picture of a black oak wreathed in silver-white flames. It pulsed with an almost eerie presence. He felt the urge to twist it off for a better look, but before he could-
But the flap of the tent rustled. He stiffened, every muscle taut with instinctive dread as footsteps entered, measured, and heavy. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, growing sharper in the lantern's glow.
A tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in mail and plate stepped in. Once black, his surcoat was now smeared with blood and grime, but it proudly displayed Desmond's ring's sigil. The sword at his hip appeared to be more of an extension of his body than a simple weapon, and his long black hair fell in thick waves down his back, resembling a lion's mane. His arms were lined with faded scars, unforgiving and earned by battle.
But it was his eyes that arrested Desmond. Piercing amber. Intense. Eyes that studied him with a strange blend of reverence and wariness, as if he were both king and cursed.
A knight.
The man crossed the room in two strides, his armour creaking softly, and knelt beside the cot. "I'm glad to see your eyes open, my lord," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
Desmond blinked, his gaze slowly focusing. Despite the haze of pain and doubt, everything felt too real, too solid to be just a dream.
He parted his dry, cracked lips. "Wh—"
"Rest," the knight interrupted gently. He swiftly moved to the table, uncorked a waterskin, and returned to Desmond's side. "You took an arrow meant for me. It came within a finger's width of your heart."
The knight carefully lifted Desmond's head and brought the waterskin to his lips.
The water was cool and shockingly clean. It flowed over his dry throat like silk, and Desmond drank until the man pulled it away.
Relief trickled through him.
Finally. That's better.
Still, questions gnawed at him like wolves at a carcass. "Where am I?" he rasped. He paused.
That wasn't English. Not entirely. The structure, the syllables, the sound of it—alien. Yet somehow, it flowed from his tongue and returned to his ears with perfect understanding.
I shouldn't be able to speak this… But I can.
The knight's brow furrowed slightly as he leaned in to study Desmond.
"You don't remember?" he asked. Desmond hesitated, the truth pressing against his lips, hot and anxious.
But something in the knight's face - a flicker of alarm or suspicion - warned him. He looked away. "The ambush... It's foggy," he said carefully.
The knight sat back on the stool beside him, exhaling slowly and thoughtfully. "Lord Ashborn, you're at the temporary recovery camp, just east of the marshes. We set it up after the skirmish two days ago. You took a hit, saving me during the retreat. The arrowhead had Nexus Worm venom on it, a Chaos-tainted strike. If the healer hadn't purged it in time..."
The knight's voice trailed off, leaving Desmond's thoughts reeling.
Ashborn…The name echoed in his chest like a drumbeat, carrying weight rather than familiarity. It drew him in, taking root deep in his gut like an ancient truth. Just a name.
A role. A life that had existed long before he woke up in this body. He closed his eyes. Behind his lids, blurry images swirled – blades, fire, a towering keep, the roar of a crowd, the whispered reverence of his name.
He opened them again."Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse and laced with curiosity and a hint of distrust. The knight straightened, thudding a fist against his chest in salute.
"I am Commander Valyn Wraithborne, First Sword of House Blackwood, sworn to serve you until death." His words had an edge, a dangerous one. Desmond met his gaze, his mind racing. Commander? That means I'm... someone important.
A noble.
The realisation hit him like a mountain, weighing heavily on his chest and fogging his mind. Before he could gather his thoughts, a loud uproar erupted outside the tent, a jarring mix of panicked and urgent shouts. Vylan sprang to his feet in an instant, his hand instinctively grasping the hilt of his sword, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light.
"Rest well, my lord, I'll be back soon," he said with a steady calm, his eyes briefly meeting Desmond's before he disappeared, the tent flap swinging shut behind him with a soft swish.
Desmond didn't follow. Gritting his teeth against the sharp pain coursing through his body, he forced himself to sit up straight, his vision blurry and wavering like a distant mirage. He needed to see—to grasp the chaos unfolding beyond the fabric.
With great effort, he stumbled towards the entrance, each step a fight against the disorientation threatening to overwhelm him. He pushed the canvas aside, his heart racing——and froze in place.
Maheym.
Before him, the camp unfolded like a chaotic tapestry of valour. Tents flapped in the wind, and armoured figures moved with purpose. The air was alive with the clang of steel and the roar of fire, a symphony of conflict. Soldiers in leather and polished steel formed a solid wall of shields, their surcoats stained with mud and blood. Others loosed a hail of arrows that whistled through the air. Beyond them, the enemy surged forward like a dark, menacing tide.
Desmond felt lightheaded and disoriented, as if he'd stepped into a world beyond his own. The din of voices mixed with the clash of metal, wrapping him in a thick fog of chaos that left him breathless. He looked up, his gaze drawn upward, only to be struck by the unsettling truth—
It was wrong.
A certainty echoed within him, telling him that everything about this scene was amiss.
"It should have been blue," Desmond murmured, his wide eyes fixed on the sky, a deep, bruised violet that seemed to have been painted across it. The twilight was woven with streaks of shimmering gold, like remnants of a sunset trapped in time. Two moons hung low on the horizon: one glowed pale as bone, ethereal and haunting, while the other burned a fierce crimson, casting a strange glow over the landscape.
As the last of his disbelief crumbled, Desmond finally understood – this was all real. The chaotic battle raging before him, the violet sky with its two otherworldly moons, his bewildering reincarnation, and the cold wind on his face – it was all impossibly true.
He gripped the worn tent pole to steady himself, his heart racing like a wild drum in his chest. This isn't home. The realisation hit him with the weight of inevitability, unmistakable and undeniable.
Desmond's heart raced. In this strange body, he was Lord Ashborn—a noble, a stranger, and a target. He leaned against the tent pole, his mind reeling with questions and fear. The battlefield before him was a living nightmare: the earth was crimson-stained and churned by hooves, torn banners fluttered in the violet dusk wind, soldiers collapsed in spasms of pain or scrambled to swap battered weapons. Everywhere, magic flashed through the air—bright sapphire flames and sickly green glows—clashing with shields and armour in explosive, concussive bursts.
That's right! Magic! Commander Valyn's sword shone with sapphire flames, each swing unleashing a wave of fiery blasts through the air. He fought like a relentless machine, an unstoppable force, for no enemy could survive more than one strike from him.
The surrounding enemies wore no uniforms, their bodies covered only in crudely stitched hides and bones. Some had skin like rotted, gnarled bark, while others had eyes that glowed faintly like embers in the fading light. Their savage weapons gleamed wickedly - serrated blades and heavy flails tipped with deadly fangs. At their feet lay the butchered serfs, unarmed and pleading, cut down mercilessly like wheat before a scythe.
A boy, no older than fifteen, clutched his wounded belly as a Lythandor raider, a cruel grin spreading across his face, raised a cleaver high -
Desmond's instincts yelled at him to look away from the vile scene unfolding before him. But just as the cleaver was about to fall, a brilliant white flash shot out from the line of shields, slicing through the air at incredible speed and embedding itself in the raider's forehead, his mocking expression still fixed as he crumpled to the ground.
The ground shook violently as Commander Valyn and his reorganised Knight Regiment charged in from the sides, their battle cries ringing out like a war drum. The soldiers' triumphant roars filled the air as they surged forward! The cavalry crashed through the enemy ranks like a blade cutting through soft flesh, destroying anyone in their way and sending the terrified raiders fleeing. The excited infantry followed close behind, determined to eliminate as many foes as possible, giving swift mercy to the wounded while capturing those who surrendered.
A wave of relief washed over Desmond. They had won this brutal fight. Yet the world felt unbearably harsh, a place not made for the kind-hearted. He repeated a familiar mantra to himself: Observe, Think, and Learn. With a heavy sigh, he wondered about his identity as Ashborn, a noble thrust into an unknown world.
Commander Valyn strode forward, holding the severed head of the raider leader high above his own, a grim trophy to rally his troops. He approached Ashborn, dismounted with regal grace, and knelt with reverence. "I present to you, my lord Ashborn, the head of the raider leader."
Desmond's gaze fell on the macabre trophy, its eyes rolled back in death, tongue lolling grotesquely. He fought down his nausea as a bitter taste rose in his throat and silently gestured for Valyn to take it back with a wave of his hand. "Commander Valyn, please, come into the tent," he murmured, retreating within, nearly overcome by mental strain and bodily weakness. The knights exchanged concerned glances, unsure why their lord was behaving so differently.
They attributed it to his health and, under Valyn's instruction, returned to camp to evaluate the spoils and merits earned by their forces in battle.
The tent flap stirred again, whispering against the wind as Commander Valyn stepped inside, his expression grim and thoughtful. The low glow of the lantern cast wavering shadows over his armour, the blood-stained surcoat clinging to his broad frame. His hand hovered close to his sword hilt, a subconscious act born of readiness.
His sharp amber eyes locked onto Ashborn, who sat propped wearily against the cot's headrest, his pale skin a stark contrast to the yellowed linen. Even in the dim light, the dark circles under the young lord's eyes told a story of pain and disorientation. Valyn's grip instinctively tightened, then relaxed, his tension melting into a warmth that bordered on paternal.
Their gazes met, and a heavy silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Before Valyn could speak, Ashborn broke the stillness with a weary, uncertain sigh. His soft voice struck like thunder.
"I can't seem to remember anything," he whispered. "So much of my memory is... just gone." Valyn stiffened, his jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, the shadows around him deepened. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, almost unconsciously, his arm muscles coiling as if ready to draw. But the fear that flashed across Ashborn's face – the raw vulnerability in his eyes – stopped him. No Chaos-touched had ever looked so... human.
Valyn exhaled slowly and stepped forward with deliberate care, kneeling on one knee beside the cot. His armour groaned under his weight. He bowed his head, a gesture steeped in humility and remorse.
"My apologies for doubting you, my lord," he said, his voice low and rough with guilt. "With the Chaos so near, I had to be sure. Forgive my hesitation. Shall I summon Doctor Verissa?" Ashborn blinked, confusion lining his brow. "Chaos?" he echoed, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue.
Valyn lifted his gaze, the flickering lantern fire dancing in his eyes. He nodded slowly and solemnly. "Chaos is not just a force - it's the oldest blight on this world. A malevolent essence that corrupts, twists, and devours. Its true origin is lost to time, spoken of only in whispers among the arcane orders and ancient texts. But we know this much: once it touches a soul, it starts to erase them."
Ashborn remained silent, watching the commander's face with quiet intensity. Valyn's voice turned hollow, shaped by experience. "They start to forget who they are, what they love, and why they live. Piece by piece, their memories fade, and madness grows. They lose their names, their faces... and eventually, they become something else. Something monstrous."
He swallowed, glancing at the faint blue glow on his sword where it rested in its sheath. A warded blade, forged to kill what could not be saved.
"We call them Lost Souls," he said, "souls consumed entirely. Their presence taints everything around them - land, air, even thought. And the corruption spreads like fire through dry wood." Ashborn's gaze dropped to his hands, still trembling faintly. "The arrow…"
Valyn nodded gravely. "The arrow was tipped with the blood of a Nexus Worm, a horror that breeds in Lythandor's swampy waters. Its blood is rich in Chaos, highly infectious. If the arrow had struck deeper or your will had wavered..." He trailed off, the unspoken possibilities hanging heavy in the air.
Ashborn's throat constricted as he swallowed. The weight of this strange and perilous life settled more heavily on his shoulders. "I see," he whispered finally, his voice barely audible. "So I almost became one of them." Valyn's voice dropped to a whisper, and for the first time, it trembled. "Yes, you did."
Ashborn let out a long, quiet sigh, his gaze drifting across the lantern-lit canvas of the tent. The scent of blood, herbs, and old oil still clung to the air, but the weight of this foreign world pressed down heavier. The pain in his chest pulsed in time with the distant sounds of battle and shouts outside, yet his mind felt more burdened than his body. He let out a short, dry laugh, tinged with disbelief.
"All of this...the title, the battle, even magic and two moons…" His voice faded into a quiet exhale before he glanced sideways at Valyn, a faint, ironic smile curving his lips. "So, am I alright now?"
Valyn didn't respond immediately. Instead, the knight straightened, his broad frame shifting as he lowered his gaze with a reverent air. He bowed his head respectfully, though a shadow of tension flickered behind his amber eyes.
"The Chaos," he said softly, his rough voice restrained, "requires a seed to take root. It can't enter uninvited. But once the seed is planted, it germinates, twisting its roots deep into the soul, corrupting thought, memory, and purpose. It turns men into monsters, often before they realise they've changed." He paused, weighing his next words carefully.
"But if the mind is strong, if the will resists, the seed can't find soil. Perseverance, focus, and clarity are the shields. And when they hold, the body may heal, and the spirit remains intact."
Valyn hesitated, just for a heartbeat. His voice grew quieter, more uncertain. "My lord, whoever has been touched by the Chaos has forgotten themselves. No chaos-marked man has ever awakened claiming to have lost his memories." His eyes locked onto Ashborn's, the silence between them thick with unspoken understanding.
Ashborn scrutinised the knight, a hint of reluctant amusement playing on his lips. He offered a weary, helpless smile, his voice dry and laced with humour."I suppose that's what kept me from your sword, then." Valyn's posture stiffened, a faint flush rising to his cheeks beneath the dirt and stubble. He averted his gaze, clearing his throat, but remained silent.
The ensuing silence was not awkward – it was weighted, filled with unspoken thoughts that neither of them dared to voice. Ashborn leaned back against the pillow, his body still aching, but his mind clearer. Though he couldn't recall the man Valyn spoke of, a strange sense of gravity bound him to this life. To the name Ashborn Blackwood. To this battle-hardened knight with unwavering loyalty in his eyes.
The past might have eluded him, but something genuine remained in the present. And in that moment, that was enough.
Ashborn lay back against the pillows, the cool fabric a soothing balm to his fevered skin. The lantern above cast a muted, flickering glow, painting the tent walls with shifting shadows that echoed the turmoil outside.
His voice was softer than he intended, tinged with uncertainty. "Tell me about myself."
Commander Valyn stood silent for a moment, his arms crossed, the firelight glinting off the silver detailing on his armour. His gaze lingered on Ashborn's face, as if searching for recognition or a flicker of memory.
He nodded slowly, his solemn expression a match for his steady voice, laced with quiet reverence. "You are Lord Ashborn Blackwood," he began. "Younger brother of Count Aragorn Blackwood, ruler of House Blackwood and overseer of the Iron mines of Rohands. Your noble lineage is ancient, known for its honour, strategy, and fearlessness in battle."
Ashborn blinked slowly, the name sparking no memories, only a faint tug of familiarity in his chest.
Valyn continued, "You were granted the title of Viscount by His Majesty King Leoric himself for your bravery and brilliance during the Battle of Dead Willow. The battlefield was soaked in blood and shrouded in darkness, but your leadership kept our lines steady and boosted morale."
Ashborn winced, a pang of pain shooting through his chest, but he remained silent. The rhythm of Valyn's voice was his anchor in this sea of disorientation.
"From a young age, you were trained in both governance and knighthood. You're a skilled administrator, as adept with a quill as with a sword. Your tutors praised your self-control. Your men follow you not out of obligation, but out of loyalty."
Valyn's eyes gentled, the corners of his mouth curving upward slightly.
"And then there's your gift," he added, his voice dropping to a reverent tone. "Your Fire Aura. You've refined it over the years, so it now dances along your blade like a living flame – piercing steel, striking fear into your foes."
Ashborn's breath caught faintly at the mention. Fire Aura…? The magical energy? The words awoke a familiar yet distant sense of energy within him. Valyn stepped closer to the cot, speaking now with quiet pride.
You had just turned nineteen when, as per your desire, Count Aragorn gifted you a fief on your coming-of-age ceremony day. The fief was newly carved from reclaimed lands on the southwestern frontier of the Elembor Empire, a wild and untamed place bordering the cursed swamps of Lythandor. It was a dangerous but promising domain, fitting for a count's fief. Your brother chose it for you deliberately, knowing you wouldn't shy away from the challenge.
Ashborn's gaze lifted, sharp with interest despite his dull bodily ache. "You set out with a convoy of supplies, two thousand serfs under your protection, and a retinue of loyal knights and retainers. You had everything needed to build a stronghold and a future worthy of your name."
A long pause followed. Ashborn stared at the canvas above, as if trying to etch the story into the ceiling of his memory. "And now," Valyn said softly, "you're here. Alive and wounded, but not broken. Not yet. Ashborn let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. "Sounds like quite a man," he muttered. "I almost wish I could recall him."
Valyn's eyes shone with a warmth that stopped short of a smile. "You will, my lord. With time, I promise." Ashborn breathed out slowly, the weight of his new knowledge settling over him like a heavy cloak. He turned to Valyn, who stood nearby, arms crossed behind his back in a soldier's stance.
"My thanks, Valyn," Ashborn said, his voice steady despite the lingering fatigue in his body. "Tell me... did we bring some of the records and tomes from my study at the House of Blackwood?"
Valyn's eyebrows rose slightly, a faint spark of approval flickering in his amber eyes.
"I'd like them to set out for me tomorrow," Ashborn went on. "I need to start reviewing them, refreshing what I can. And... a report on the last two days. I need to understand the battle's shape. Who fought, who fell. I may not remember everything yet, but I won't sit idle."
A brief silence followed. Then Valyn bowed his head, his hand over his chest in a gesture of knightly respect. "I will see to it, my lord. The ledgers and scrolls from your study are safe in the command tent. I'll have them brought here and placed on your desk before dawn. The reports from yesterday and today's battles will be with them."
Ashborn nodded wearily, sinking deeper into the cot as a pang of pain shot through his ribs. His fingers brushed the edge of the blanket, focusing on the moment. "I'll rest tonight," he whispered, his eyelids already growing heavy.
Valyn inclined his head again, stepping back toward the tent entrance.
"I hope you recover quickly and steadily, my lord," he said with quiet conviction. "If you need anything, call the guards outside. They're under orders not to leave your side." He paused, glancing over his shoulder one last time before lifting the flap.
"I'll take my leave now. Sleep well, Lord Ashborn." The tent flap rustled shut behind him!
In this strange new world, among broken memories and borrowed names, he would rebuild who he was—one page, one order, one breath at a time.