His awareness focused, and the interface resolved before him in the starless void. It was clean, concise, and blessedly logical. He ignored the resource statistics for a moment, his attention drawn immediately to the portfolio of his 'Professions.' Five paths. One ignited, three bright with potential, and one, the Fighter, was 'Dimly Lit.' It was the first piece of hard evidence he had, a tangible confirmation that his soul truly did operate under a different set of rules. This felt like finally receiving the key piece of discovery in a long, baffling case. It was a starting point. A foundation upon which he could begin to build.
He acknowledged the data, the clean lines of text a comfort in the vast emptiness. His thoughts turned back to the Shaper, his projected words now carrying the focused precision of a man seeking a specific clause in a contract. This is the framework. Now, for the context. These other professions... Hunter, Mage, Fighter... how do I strengthen my connection to them? How do I make their stars burn brighter?
The Shaper's voice rumbled in response, a sound like continents shifting. There was no judgment in its tone, only a statement of absolute, immutable law. "The stars are a reflection of the soul, not a map to be followed. They are a consequence, not a cause."
"You have seen their requirements. You have felt their nature. If you wish to walk the path of the Fighter, you must fight. If you wish to walk the path of the Mage, you must study the arcane. You must meet the thresholds. You must become worthy of the potential you hold."
The voice softened slightly, a hint of the architect's distant sympathy for the being within its creation. "I am the gardener of this space. I can show you the seeds you carry, but I cannot make them grow. That work is yours alone, in the world of flesh and consequence."
The Shaper's words were not a disappointment. They were a confirmation. There were no shortcuts, no secret techniques it could impart. There was only work. Hard work. The knowledge settled in his mind, not with a sense of dread, but with a quiet, fierce resolve. If the path forward was built on effort, then he would simply work harder than anyone else. It was a simple, actionable plan, and in a world of impossible magic and ancient secrets, the clarity of it was a relief.
The ancient voice returned, its tone shifting from didactic to inquisitive. "One question remains. How have you returned to my garden? An Awakening tears the soul from its mortal vessel and brings it here. An Advancement requires one to stand upon the threshold of a new Tier. You have done neither. So, how are you here?"
Alph considered the question. His projected thoughts recounted the morning's meditation, describing the process with clinical precision. I quieted my mind. I circulated my mana as instructed. At the point where my own heartbeat and the rhythm of my core merged, my consciousness detached from my body. I simply... arrived.
A low hum of amusement resonated through the void. "Interesting. The others who pass through this space, they are always tethered to their mortal coil. Even at the height of their focus, they feel the wind on their skin, hear the world around them. Their connection is a bridge. But you... you severed the bridge entirely."
The Shaper seemed to ponder this new data. "To fully detach the soul's awareness from its mortal vessel is a rare feat, but not unheard of. It is the first step necromancers take to perceive the echoes of the dead. But even they do not hear me." The voice focused on Alph again, its curiosity palpable. "Perhaps that detachment, combined with the unique, paradoxical nature of your own soul... that combination is the key. The anomaly is not just what you are, but how you perceive."
The voice continued, its analytical tone sharpening. "It is not just that your potential branches in defiance of the established rules. It is the very structure of your soul. It feels... conjoined. Two distinct patterns woven into a single thread."
A bolt of pure, ice-cold dread lanced through Alph, a terror more profound than any he had felt before. It knows. The secret he had guarded since his arrival, the truth of his two lives, the very foundation of his fractured identity—this entity had seen it with a casual, passing glance. His carefully constructed mental defenses crumbled.
A soft, rumbling chuckle filled the void, a sound of ancient amusement that was surprisingly gentle. "Do not be alarmed, little one. The universe is vast, its tapestries endless. Yours is a peculiar weave, yes, but you are not the first conjoined soul I have witnessed pass through my garden."
The Shaper's casual confirmation that he was not the first sent a thousand new questions screaming through Alph's mind. But before he could even begin to formulate them, he felt it. A powerful, irresistible force hooking into his consciousness. It was the pull of the physical world, the anchor of his own body reasserting its claim. His time here was over.
He pushed down the burning wave of curiosity. There was no time. He projected a final, hasty message into the void, a rushed promise to a cosmic entity. I have to go. I will try to replicate this state again. If I am unsuccessful, we will meet when I am ready for advancement.
He did not wait for a response. The pull was absolute. The starless expanse, the burning motes of potential, the new interface of his soul—it all dissolved in an instant.
His awareness slammed back into his body with the force of a physical blow. The world returned in a chaotic flood: the biting cold on his skin, the sharp scent of pine, the crunch of snow beneath him.
Alph's eyes snapped open.
He remained seated in the snow, his breathing steady, the meditative calm still clinging to him. He focused his will inward, not on his mana core, but on the memory of the interface. He tried to summon the clean, concise ledger of his own being. Nothing happened. He tried again, concentrating harder, pushing his intent. Still nothing.
The deduction came swiftly. If the Shaper was the architect of that space, and the interface was its creation, then it stood to reason the tool could only be accessed within the workshop. That starless expanse... he would call it his Mind Garden. A private, internal space for analysis and, perhaps, future negotiations.
A new sense of purpose settled over him, cold and hard as glacial ice. The path was no longer a mystery. The Shaper's words had given him a clear, if arduous, road forward. Work. To ignite the other stars, he needed to meet their requirements. To gain strength, he needed to train. The interface in his Mind Garden would be his ledger, a way to track his progress with cold, hard data.
For the first time since arriving in this world, his two lives felt aligned. The boy who dreamed of the Lumina Academy now had a quantifiable path to get there. And the man who had lost his family now had a way to gain the strength needed to seek his own justice.
He pushed himself up from the ground, brushing the fine, powdery snow from his trousers. The morning was well underway, the sun a pale disc in the sky. He remembered Hemlock's instruction from the day before, to come for an herbal broth after his morning meditation. He turned and began the walk toward the elder druid's dwelling, a new, steely resolve in his step.