Chapter 2 - Desmond or Ashborn
Ashborn stirred, drawn by the familiar scent of steeped herbs and pungent oils. The earthy, medicinal aroma clung to the heavy tent air, no longer overpowering but strangely comforting. It seeped into his skin, his hair, and the fabric of the cot beneath him. Morning light filtered through the canvas walls, casting golden beams that danced across the ground, illuminating dust motes in the air like frozen fireflies.
His body ached, but the pain had become manageable—a lingering echo of its former intensity. The warm, salve-damp bandages around his chest felt tight but no longer constricting. Each breath was no longer a struggle. Moreover, his mind felt clearer, the fog that had weighed it down starting to lift.
And with that clarity came memories—not of this world, but the one he had left behind.
Glass towers scraping the sky. The tap of a touchscreen. Laughter at the dinner table. His parents' voices, already distant, fading like echoes in a storm. The endless hum of traffic. The steady rhythm of a life lived in order. All of it—gone. Forever.
He stared at the tent ceiling, his slow but heavy thoughts weighing him down. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He lay still, fighting back a surge of emotion he couldn't quite identify. The silence inside the tent was loud with the sound of his heartbeat.
He exhaled slowly. So I died, didn't I? The car crash... or was it a fall? The hospital lights were a blur. Too much pain. Then—darkness. And now this.
This world was strange and violent, where people used swords instead of reason, healed with herbs and chants, and demonic corruption haunted the land like a vengeful ghost.
Why here? Why me?
His fingers dug into the coarse blanket beneath him, grasping the woollen fabric as if it could keep him grounded. He closed his eyes and let the fragments of yesterday return—blood, steel clashing against steel. Screams too human to forget. He had watched men die, not on a screen or in a movie, but right in front of him.
They say people dream of reincarnating into another world – of starting over, escaping the monotony of their lives, and finding glory in realms of sword and magic.
It sounds romantic, almost enviable. But nobody talks about the crushing loneliness. The deep, gnawing feeling of waking up in a body that's not yours, surrounded by strangers who know you by a name that doesn't feel like your own. Nobody prepares you for the silence of a secret you can never share – the truth of another life, another world, hidden behind your eyes like a haunting echo.
The memories you carry – of cars, cities, laughter echoing through concrete walls, coffee shops, and screen-lit nights – here, they're just dreams. Whispers of a world nobody would believe even if you dared to speak of it. To these people, it would sound like madness or sorcery, something alien and terrifying. So you bury it deep.
You wonder: Why me? Why this world? Was there a purpose to it, or was it just... luck? That question claws at the back of your mind with a persistence that borders on obsession. And though you walk among knights and lords, though they call you "my lord" and kneel with reverence, you feel like a ghost wearing someone else's skin.
Then comes the harsh reality—that this world, for all its wonder, is unforgiving. One misstep, one moment of complacency, and your life could be over. There are no second chances. No get-out-of-jail-free cards. Just steel, blood, fire, and bone. And slowly, you start to yearn for the comforts of your old world—the hum of electricity, the buzz of a phone, the quiet security of knowing a hospital was just a few minutes away.
Ashborn's thoughts are consumed by the past, his gaze distant as memories swirl around him like autumn leaves in the wind. A heavy sense of reluctance weighs him down, a stubborn resistance to accepting that some things are beyond his control. He feels the bittersweet pangs of nostalgia, yet he knows that holding on to the past won't change his present. Instead, he finds himself at a crossroads, recognising the need to adapt and navigate a world that has changed around him.
Ashborn. That's who I am now. The name feels hollow and full at the same time. Like a borrowed crown. A title earned by someone else. But I'm still Desmond, right?
He used to be a successful businessman, a hard worker, an avid traveller, and a book lover. The real world was structured, digital, and safe.
This world was far from what he knew. He turned his head to the side, slowly. The tent was quiet, even peaceful. A basin of still water sat on a table, alongside rolled bandages and empty vials – remnants of his treatment. The armour, blood, and chaos from the day before felt distant.
Too distant. He glanced at his hand – the same pale, unfamiliar hand bearing the flaming black oak crest on a noble's ring. A warrior's hand, but it didn't feel like his own.
Ashborn's ring. Not mine. And yet...
He closed his fist slowly. I'm in a land I don't know, with a brother I don't remember. People look to me as a lord, but I'm unsure what kind of man I am or should be anymore. He turned his head to the side, wincing slightly. The tent was quiet, with guards hovering outside and no visitors. Just a basin of fresh water on the nearby table, and the gentle flutter of canvas flaps in the morning breeze.
If I'm Ashborn now… what does that make Desmond? A ghost? A foundation? Or… a second chance?
His gaze lingered on the sunlit edge of the tent, where warmth spilled in, inviting him to step forward. Despite his doubts and fear, a spark within him stirred – a small flame in his chest that refused to die.
A second chance...a new life...a new experience...
Valyn's words echoed in his mind. A noble. A warrior. A leader of men. Someone respected. Someone who had shed blood for his people, earning their loyalty.
The soldiers from yesterday came to mind – their eyes blazing with passion. They fought not for gold, but for pride, for duty. They believed in him.
Do I dream of greatness?
Perhaps that's what this is – the weight of expectations. Not given freely, but forged in blood.
His thoughts cleared. The flashes of yesterday's battle offered more than pain – they showed him the enemy's ferocity, the soldiers' morale, and the loyalty of his men. Their willingness to give their lives without hesitation. Every man dreams of greatness...do I dream of it too? The lost lives and the zealous eyes...isn't that worth fighting for?
Desmond might have lost everything, but Ashborn had been given a brutal yet promising world. A chance to shape it and rise within it, not as a wandering soul, but as a man with purpose.
With effort, Ashborn pushed himself up onto his elbows, gritting his teeth against the soreness. The pain reminded him he was alive, and if he was alive, he could fight, plan, and build.
He might have died in that crash, but Ashborn still had a world to understand, a legacy to claim, and work to do. He had time to understand and time to act.
The tent flap rustled, and Ashborn instinctively turned his gaze toward the entrance, his body tensing despite the discomfort. A tall figure filled the threshold, outlined by the morning sun.
It was the knight again, Commander Valyn, who stepped inside carrying books and tomes with a soldier's poise. His polished armour still bore bloodstains like fading battle scars, and a sword hung at his hip as naturally as a limb. The air around him carried the weight of command.
But his eyes, those sharp amber eyes, softened the moment he saw Ashborn awake and sitting. "My lord," Valyn said, crossing the space between them with firm strides and placing the books on the table. "It's a relief to see you stronger." Ashborn nodded, his voice steadier than expected. "I feel less like death and more like someone trampled by a horse."
Valyn allowed himself a short, relieved laugh. "You're recovering well, then." There was a moment of silence. Ashborn studied the man—loyal, stern, and dangerous. But beneath the gruff exterior, concern and loyalty showed, and perhaps even a hint of guilt.
Ashborn didn't hesitate. "Valyn," he began, the name feeling familiar now. "I want a full report on yesterday's battle—casualties, unit movements, everything. And the day before that as well."
Valyn blinked, straightening slightly. "Of course," he said, picking up a stack of parchments from the desk and bringing them to Ashborn. "They're ready for your review of the engagement."
Ashborn nodded, "I'm still recovering, but I won't neglect my duties. To lead, I need to know our current situation." Valyn bowed deeply, a hint of pride beneath his professional exterior. "Understood, my lord. The books and reports are on your desk. If you need anything else, I'm at your service."
"One more thing, Valyn."
"Yes?"
Ashborn's voice softened, but with an underlying steel. "How are the men doing?" Valyn's jaw tightened. "Many are shaken, but they look to you, my lord. News of your survival is spreading like wildfire through the camp. Some claim it's divine protection."
Ashborn exhaled, eyes half-closed. They're watching me already. Good.
"Let them watch," he murmured. "And let them see I'm not finished yet."
He waved to signal Valyn to leave. Valyn saluted with a fist to his chest, then turned to leave. He hesitated briefly before adding over his shoulder, "It's good to have you back, Lord Ashborn."
With that, he was gone, leaving Ashborn alone with the array of books and a stack of parchment. I found myself able to read and comprehend the strange script etched across the pages of these foreign tomes. The letters, once unfamiliar, now flowed before my eyes with an uncanny ease, like a language I knew.
I had always known how to read them, but never studied them. Perhaps another silent gift of this reincarnation. The tent was quiet, except for the rustle of parchment as I flipped through the books Valyn set out for me. The leather covers creaked with age. Their pages were yellowed, brittle, and stained with ink. Still, there was life inside them - a world of words, ready to be rediscovered.
I reached for the first volume, 'Historical Survey of the Elembor Empire'. It was dense and methodical, with a scholarly tone. It talked about old kings and wars, and noble houses that rose and fell. My fief was part of this land. Treaties were signed here, too. I studied it with increasing interest. I wanted to understand the country I had entered—its power balance, its fractures, and its ambitions.
Next came 'The Book of Eldor', an ancient manuscript. It showed the empires that ruled the land of Eldor. An eccentric high mage wrote it as his lifework. The pages painted a vivid portrait of Eldor, shaped by nine powerful empires. Each empire had its banner, sigil, and ideology, all depicted in bright colours. Some flags shimmered with metallic inks. Others had sharp, jagged strokes.
Wandering bards and dusty travellers wrote collections of tales and legends. Their names have long faded from the book. Their words paint vivid scenes of cursed forests, noble sacrifices, and creatures born from nightmares and moonlight.
A heavy tome titled 'Treatise on the Chaos Beyond' caught my attention. Its contents were grim. They included diagrams of monstrous beings and fragmented stories from those who had stared into the chaos and survived. It showed chaos not as mindless destruction but as a purposeful force that watched and waited.
I moved on to a 'Book of Heraldry', thick with illustrations and symbolism. Each crest, banner, and sigil shared stories of wars, alliances, and betrayals. When I discovered my house's emblem—the Black Oak wrapped in white flames—I paused. My fingers traced the design on the page as I tried to understand the legacy I had inherited.
Next, my eyes fell on a curious volume: 'Knightly Aura and the Flame: Crimson Flames' I spent more time on this book than the others. The cover caught my attention - a dark leather etching of a knight surrounded by flames, with a raised sword pointing up. The book's edges looked singed, either by accident or on purpose.
When I opened the old book, I noticed a faint smell of ash on its pages, as if it had once been in a fire. The introduction said, "Among the many knightly auras, few shine as strongly, or as dangerously, as the Crimson Flame. It's not just a weapon - it's a test of will, constantly tried and proven against itself."
I leaned forward, drawn in. The text was structured like a hybrid between a martial guide and a philosophical reflection. Diagrams of stances were inked in precise lines—wide, grounded postures meant to root the body like a tree, flowing seamlessly into explosive lunges and sweeping arcs. The breathing patterns were just as intricate, almost meditative in their rhythm.
"Inhale on stillness. Hold through tension. Exhale upon release. Feel the breath as flame. Temper it."
There was something elegant, even sacred, in how the aura was described—not simply as energy, but as an extension of the soul. It required more than brute strength; it demanded control, clarity, and an unbreakable will.
The accompanying passages revealed its true power:"Those who master the Crimson Flame become impervious to the bite of fire. At its peak, steel melts before their touch, and arrows burn to cinders mid-flight. They do not walk—they advance, for nothing can halt the march of flame."
I read the words again: "Immunity to fire..." At the Mastering Stage, a knight could walk through blazing infernos unharmed, their aura consuming flames. Their strikes would burst with intense crimson fire, strong enough to cleave through iron and melt shields. The book didn't promise it would be easy.
"The path to Crimson mastery is paved with hardship. It consumes not only strength, but wealth. Golden coins will fall like autumn leaves. Without rare herbs, mystic fires, and specialised training rooms, advancement becomes a distant dream."
I frowned, thinking about the cost. Gold coins, and many of them. No wonder it was rare. Power always came with a price. A passage at the end of the section, written in a more intimate hand, perhaps by a knight who once walked this path, caught my attention:
"It hurts. Gods, it hurts. Each breath I draw into my core feels like swallowing a furnace. Each day, my body burns red. But when the fire rises, when I swing my blade and see nothing but light and fear in my foes' eyes… I remember why I endure. The flame burns, but it is mine."
I let out a slow breath and closed the book, my fingers still on the cover. A fire that burns everything in its path... unyielding! Constant! Untouchable! I sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the wall of the tent.
This is quite fantastical. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious.
Something was stirring inside me even now. A warmth, not painful yet, but present. Dormant, perhaps. Waiting. I thought of the battlefield, of that moment when I'd stood between chaos and the men who called me lord.
There had been something then – a flash, a glimmer. Had I felt the beginning of this aura? If I could learn it – if I could master it – I wouldn't just survive in this brutal world. I could stand at its peak. A Silver Knight, as the book called them. Just one step below the mythical Gold Knights, who were spoken of like demigods.
I stared down at my hand, still unfamiliar despite these past days. It trembled slightly – not from fear, but anticipation. "I'll find a way to pay the price," I murmured to myself. "If this power can shape my fate, then any amount of gold spent is worth it." And somewhere, in the quiet of the tent, that ember inside me pulsed again. Stronger this time.
After hours spent thumbing through brittle pages, Ashborn closed the 'Book of Knight Aura and Flame: Crimson Flames' and let the silence of the tent settle over him like a cloak. The words echoed in his mind: "The Crimson Aura is not born. It is ignited."
Stances become pathways. Breaths become anchors. Flame is not kindled—it reveals itself. It had sounded poetic in the book, mystic even, but now, as he sat still, legs folded over the coarse woven mat, he realised how little he knew about what he was doing.
Still, something tugged at him—a whisper from somewhere deeper. Whether it came from the legacy of Ashborn or something still within my soul, I couldn't tell. But I knew the feeling well enough.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, feeling the gentle strain in his ribs beneath the bandages. The pain hadn't left, but it was manageable now.
Like heat lingering in coal after a blaze. Ashborn adjusted his posture as the book had described—shoulders relaxed, spine like a pillar, feet grounded. His left palm rested atop his right, cradled just below his navel.
He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift away from ink, away from memory.
Only breathe.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again. In.
Hold.
Out.
The rhythm became steady, deeper than breath alone. With each cycle, something within him stirred. A warmth, subtle at first, barely more than a flicker under his skin.
He shifted into the Ember Root Stance, as the book called it—a seated form meant for grounding the aura. His body, still frail from the wound, protested the motion, but he pushed through it.
The breathing deepened. His chest rose slower, heavier. On the fifth exhale, he felt it—an almost imperceptible ripple, like a thread of heat winding through his heart. Not from the outside, but from within. A flicker in his blood, like something old waking up.
His fingers twitched. The air around his skin wavered—not smoke, not flame, but something just before that. A distortion. He opened his eyes.
Nothing dramatic. No roaring blaze. No spectral fire cloaked his limbs. But the warmth was there ever so slightly, as though reacting to the change in his inner flow.
Crimson Aura...
He could feel it now, faint but undeniable. Like kindling that had caught the first spark. It wasn't just imagination. The book hadn't lied. "At the beginner's touch, it is but warmth. At mastery, it devours steel. The flame is not your servant. It is your reflection."
His breathing slowed to normal. The subtle warmth began to recede, folding back into the depth of his chest like a secret kept. Ashborn opened his hands and stared at his palms, sweat pearling along his skin, heart still thudding like a war drum. No great display. No firestorm. But it was there.
The beginning. He had once again cultivated the aura that this body was renowned for. As the book had warned, cultivating Crimson Aura was expensive—in food, in medicines, in gold. The body had to be refined like iron, the blood thickened to withstand heat, and the bones strengthened. It would not come easily.
But what path worth taking is easy? Ashborn leaned back slowly, his body sore but buzzing with a new kind of energy, not just physical, but something else. A whisper of potential. He smiled faintly to himself.
Desmond had once studied numbers and markets. Ashborn would study fire and breath.
And one day, if the gods allowed, he'd master them both. The warmth of the aura still lingered faintly in Ashborn's chest, like embers under the ashes, as he reached for the parchment scroll laid beside the cot. Its edges were creased, corners bent from use, but the script across it was clear, precise, military, and cold. He unfurled it slowly.
His eyes scanned the inked letters and numbers, a quiet gravity settling over him as the reality of yesterday's battle returned in black and white.
The numbers told a stark report: Fifty knights. One hundred knight-attendants. Fifty archers. Three hundred infantry – a mix of sword-and-shield bearers, spearmen, and frontline swordsmen.
This was the retinue he had left the City of Rohand with. And among them, the losses were stark: one Elven knight-attendant, nine archers, and thirty-nine infantrymen dead.
He exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening around the parchment. For a moment, his brows furrowed in confusion, not grief. These casualties shouldn't have occurred. Not in these numbers. Not in a world where warriors could summon an aura, and steel was backed by a soul.
His gaze darkened. The attackers weren't mere bandits or highway thugs. They were a remnant force from Lythandor, the dying kingdom to the south – trained soldiers turned desperate predators, clinging to robbery for survival like hyenas to a carcass.
He lowered the scroll slightly, his eyes narrowing. The trap had been cunning – two coordinated ambushes, one in the ravine and one on the rear column. They'd aimed to create panic, disruption, and chaos.
And they nearly succeeded. If not for Alde Brightborne...
Ashborn leaned back against the wooden headrest, the corners of his mouth relaxing into a faintly softer expression.
Alde... Sixty-seven winters old now, and still standing tall like an oaken tree. A Master Magician of great renown, though some whispered he had once been on the verge of achieving Bronze Magician status before age took its toll. He had been by Ashborn's side since boyhood—no, since his predecessor's boyhood. A father figure when none were present, a teacher for life, and now a guardian in this new, fragile existence.
He had saved them all. When the arrows darkened the sky and the men broke ranks, Alde's spellwork— harnessing earth and wind—bought them time and broke the ambush. And in that chaos, Ashborn's predecessor fell, struck by a poisoned arrow through the ribs from a Bronze-Ranked Archer. It was Alde and Valyn who avenged him.
Valyn. The name stirred a pulse of heat in his chest. The unshakeable knight who had ridden through the enemy line with startling resolve was a terrifying Bronze Knight, tempered by countless battles, and loyal beyond question. He had personally beheaded the archer. Ashborn could almost picture it—Valyn's sword flashing through the air like judgment, the moment swift and final.
He glanced back at the scroll, overwhelmed by the numerous numbers and names. It all felt empty. A part of him still struggled to accept the harsh reality of it all. Lives reduced to mere digits. Death is a mere calculation.
But he understood. This was war. And war was a ledger, written in blood and steel. His fingers brushed the part listing his status. The line was brief, almost detached. "Lord Ashborn Blackwood – Wounded. Aura state is disrupted. Recovery expected." He let out a soft scoff.
"Aura state disrupted" was a polite way of saying he was no longer the knight they remembered. The predecessor—Ashborn as he had been—had reached Advanced Knight, with hopes of attaining Silver. A respectable achievement. A rare one.
But the arrow that felled him had done more than graze his heart. It had ended that chapter. And now… Desmond lived in his place. A man who, despite awakening aura moments ago, was only a Primary Knight in strength. Starting from the bottom.
Yet…The foundation is solid. The body is strong. And the will is mine.
He folded the parchment slowly, placing it aside. "Thank you," he whispered, almost instinctively. Not just to Alde, not just to Valyn. But to the man who came before him. The man whose life he now carried like a second skin. His death had not been in vain.
Ashborn would rise again—not just for the people who looked up to him, not just for the name he now bore…But because the fire inside him was real. And it was only just beginning to burn.