The heavy wooden door to Astrael's room creaked open, interrupting the low murmur of conversation between Silas and Viktor. A woman stepped inside—Sister Lirien, a healer from the Church of Light. Her white robes with the golden linings bore the radiant sunburst of her order, and her emerald eyes gleamed with sharp focus beneath radiant golden hair. In her hands, she carried a small suitcase, its herbal scent cutting through the stale air.
Silas, standing near the bed, turned his silver gaze toward her. "Sister Lirien, thank you for coming. This is Astrael." He gestured to the boy propped against the pillows, his small frame dwarfed by the large bed.
Viktor, adjusting his spectacles, nodded respectfully. "We've been keeping watch, but he's been weak since the fever."
Sister Lirien approached with a warm smile. "Lord Astrael, remain still," she instructed, her voice cool like a breeze. She pressed her fingers to his temples, then his wrist, a faint tingle radiating from her touch. Astrael shifted uncomfortably, but her grip steadied him.
Her brow furrowed as she worked. "The fever has broken," she said, almost to herself. "Remarkably fast. His recovery is… unusually swift." She withdrew her hands, her emerald eyes narrowing as they met Astrael's, a flicker of surprise or perhaps suspicion crossing her face.
Silas leaned forward slightly, his tone hopeful. "So he'll be alright?"
"Physically, yes," Sister Lirien replied, with an assuring smile. "But his spirit is fragile. He needs rest, in a few days he will be alright." She reached into her suitcase and produced a small vial of amber liquid, holding it out to Astrael. "Drink this with your tea. It will aid your recovery."
Astrael took the vial, his hands trembling faintly under her scrutiny. She packed her herbs with efficiency, then turned to Silas. "Lord Ravenastra, the boy is okay. Now I'll take my leave."
Silas nodded. "We're grateful for your help."
Silas paused, his silver eyes studying Astrael with a hint of concern. "Get some rest, Astrael. Viktor will make sure you're not bothered." He gave a nod to the butler.
Viktor returned the nod, his face calm, spectacles catching the light. "Elara will be just outside. Let us know if you need anything."
"Hmm, Young Master, if you need anything, just call me."Elara nodded.
The door closed softly, leaving Astrael alone with the bitter tea and the heavy silence. Beyond the doorway, Elara's shadow shifted slightly quiet presence standing guard.
He slumped back against the large bed, the hot porcelain cup in his small hands. The medicinal brew tasted bitter and nasty, but he forced it down. 'Survival first.'
His mind felt like a battlefield itself, grief for Uncle Silas, Astrael's memories, and information about this world.
Magic. Swords. Gods walking among mortals. Demons clawing at the edges. Not the fantastical escape he'd daydreamed about in the library. This is a brutal and unforgiving world. Power ruled. Not laws, not kindness, not clever essays. Strength. Raw, terrifying strength. The kind that built mountains of corpses like in his nightmare. The Ravenastra name was a shield, but also a target. His grandfather's power was the only thing keeping the vultures – rival houses, covetous nobles at bay.
A cold dread, deeper than the nightmare's chill, seeped into his bones. He was thrown into a tiger's den. Weak. Unprepared. Prey. How long before someone else "slipped" him into another pond? Or something worse? The memory of icy water flooding his lungs sent a phantom spasm through his chest. Was it an accident? Or…?
" Huh!" The sound scraped out of him, harsh in the silence.
"And I'm a twelve-year-old boy who doesn't know the s of survival." Despair threatened to pull him under. Uncle Silas's face swam in his mind – warm, worried, impossibly far away. Gone.
He clenched his fists, the small bones protesting. No. Aarav was gone. Astrael was flesh and blood here, now. Trapped.
"One step at a time," he muttered.
"Don't lose hope." But hope felt like a thin thread that could be broken easily against a tsunami.
'Survive. Get strong. How?' The memories offered theories – mana cores, elemental attunement, runic combat forms – but no starting point for a frail kid with a target on his back. Empty words for a kid who couldn't lift a proper sword. Just the suffocating weight of knowing how weak he was. 'How expendable.'
He stared at the intricate patterns on the canopy above. The silence pressed in, thick with Elara's quiet presence beyond the door and Viktor's unseen vigilance. His gaze drifted to the raven pendant, cold against his skin.
His fingers brushed the cold metal at his throat. The pendant. A raven in flight. Where had it come from? The fragmented memories of this body were hazy, like smoke. A keepsake? A gift? From who? Parents lost to some vague accident he couldn't picture?
It was just... there. Always. The only solid thing anchoring him to this confusing new existence. He gripped it, seeking its familiar coolness. But how is it HERE? He'd died on Earth. Crushed. Obliterated. Everything from that life should be ash. Yet this pendant – this impossible piece of silver metal – had crossed the void with his soul. It defied reason. It defied death.
'Reincarnation... was it because of THIS?' The thought was a lightning strike. Terrifying. Mystical.
It pulsed.
A single, deep thrum vibrated against his palm. Feeling like a heartbeat buried in stone.
Astrael jerked his hand back, staring. The silver metal seemed… darker.
"What—?"
[Ding!]
The sound was sharp, high-pitched, and utterly alien. Like a tiny, clear bell struck inside his left ear. Astrael flinched, head snapping around. Nothing. Empty room. 'Imagination? Stress?.'
[Ding!]
Louder this time. Unmistakable. Inside his head. Panic, cold and immediate, pricked his skin. What now? Brain tumor? Magical backlash?
[Analysis Complete.]
A voice. But not a voice. It was a flat, emotionless, mechanical sound. Like polished stone given sound. It resonated directly within his mind.
[Soul Integration: 100%.]
[Neural Pathways: Synced.]
[Bio-Metric Signature: Confirmed: Astrael Ravenastra.]
Astrael's breath hitched. He sat bolt upright, heart hammering against his ribs. Searching as if someone were there.
"What the hell? Who's ther"e? He scanned the room wildly. Still empty.
[Aetheric Codex: Online.]
The mechanical voice continued, ignoring his internal panic.
[Welcome, Host.]
The air before his eyes… shimmered. Not physically, but in his perception. Translucent lines of pale blue light coalesced, forming a simple, geometric interface floating in the center of his vision:
It hung there. Utterly impossible. A system? Like in those trashy webnovels? Where the protagonist gets ultra powerful easily through the system and beats up all the villains and gets the harem. Is this my golden finger?. But this felt… different. Older. Colder. There was no cheerful tutorial prompt, no congratulatory fanfare. Just stark data and that ominous [REDACTED]. The raven pendant against his chest felt suddenly heavier. Colder. It knows my name.
[Primary Directive: Host Survival & Ascension.]
The mechanical voice stated.
[Assessing Host Status...]
[Vulnerability: Critical.]
[Threat Matrix: Active. Optimal.]
[Termination Probability (6 Mo..): 91.8%]
[Initializing Foundational Protocols...]
Astrael stared. Not blinking. Not breathing. Numbness washed over him, thick and smothering. This… thing in his head, this floating grid of cold blue light… it didn't help. It wasn't some cheat-code miracle.
It was a curse.
His fingers tightened convulsively around the pendant. The source. This silver black raven that shouldn't exist here. That had somehow cheated death, dragging his soul across the void. He could feel its cold pulse against his palm now, slow and steady, like the heartbeat of something ancient and mystical. 'You did this. You brought me here. You woke this… thing.'
The Aetheric Codex.
The name echoed in the hollow silence of his mind. Online? Awake? It felt more like a predator unfurling inside his skull. Watching. Calculating. Its voice wasn't alive. It was machine-cold.
And its first message wasn't powerful. Wasn't hope.
It was a death sentence.
[Termination Probability (6 Mo..): 91.8%]
The numbers burned in his vision. Ninety-one point eight percent. Not "might die." Would die. Within six months. Frail body. Dormant magic. Locked potential. Prey in a world of monsters. The mountain of corpses from his nightmare flashed behind his eyes – a future paved with his broken bones. The icy pond water seemed to rise around him again, choking, final.
'Was that just the trial? Just an appetizer'
The cold certainty of it crushed the air from his lungs. No escape. No loophole. This wasn't a second chance. It was a delayed execution.
The Codex wasn't just online.
It had opened its eyes and shown him his grave. And the raven pendant in his white-knuckled grip felt less like metal and more like his own tombstone, cool and heavy and inescapable.
Astrael stared at the glowing text. This wasn't a gift.
The Aetheric Codex wasn't just online.
It was awake. And its first gift was the certainty of his doom.