The world returned not with sound, but with sensation.
Cold wind scraped across Deuce's skin like the breath of something ancient. A low mist clung to the cragged earth beneath his feet, winding through twisted roots and skeletal trees. Moonlight, pale and foreign, spilled across the land in silvery ribbons. The sky above was hollow, an endless dome of unmoving darkness. No stars. No clouds. Just void.
He stood on a narrow ridge overlooking a sunken valley where the mist was thicker. Stone spires jutted upward like broken fingers from the depths, and strange, distant shapes moved soundlessly below. Not beasts. Not people. Something in-between.
His breath came in shallow pulls. Not because he was calm. He wasn't. But even his fear was slowed by confusion. The air itself was too light. It tasted faintly of ash and iron.
He pushed himself to his feet, fingers brushing against fibrous ground that gave slightly, soft like packed ash and firm like forgotten earth. He staggered, then steadied himself.
A hum pulsed through the air. Not sound. Presence.
[AWAKENING PARAMETERS CONFIRMED]
[EQUIPMENT SELECTION PROTOCOL INITIATED]
Select your primary weapon. Choices are determined by innate instinct, compatibility, and potential for growth. Once selected, the weapon will be bound to your trial form until conclusion.
The fog parted.
A pedestal of dark stone rose from the ground, as though it had always been there. Upon it lay three weapons: a jagged obsidian spear, a curved dagger with a liquid shimmer, and a longsword.
Not ornate. Not gleaming. Just… right. A worn hilt wrapped in black leather. A dark steel blade, forged simply but solidly. His eyes locked onto it.
The moment he saw the sword, something shifted.
Not in the weapon. In him.
He stepped forward. The other weapons blurred in his vision, forgotten. His fingers curled around the hilt.
A rush of cold recognition flooded his arm. Familiar. Like a missing part had clicked into place.
[WEAPON SELECTED: Edge of Null]
Form: Longsword
Class: Unawakened
Bound until Trial Completion. Resonance: Compatible.
The mist pulsed gently in response.
He raised the sword. Not light. Not heavy. Balanced. The grip fit perfectly in his hand. It didn't feel like an extension of him. It felt like a memory.
"I've never held a sword before… have I?"
He turned the blade, watching the false moonlight skate across its edge. No training. No experience. But the posture came easy. Natural. Like his body knew things his mind didn't.
He stepped forward again, then another. Silence answered. The mist hugged his boots, never rising past his shins.
Then, like a thought answered by instinct, an interface flickered to life before him:
[STATUS WINDOW: DEUCE]
Rank: Marked
Talent: Tenebris — Dormant
Passive Traits:
• Residual Sight — You perceive traces of death's memory. Flickers of fear, fragments of thought, shadows of movement.
• Veilstep — Your presence flickers. Beings fail to register you properly.
Active Traits: None
Combat Proficiency: Unranked
Weapon Chosen: Edge of Null (Longsword)
Energy Reserve: 12% (Dormant)
Deuce crouched beside a gnarled tree, letting the data wash over him.
"Marked. Not awakened. No active traits. Low energy. I'm just a name in someone else's story."
For a moment, the weight of it pressed into him. No memories. No training. No purpose. Just vague instincts and a sword he didn't earn.
Still, there was no room for panic. Just thought. He needed to survive. Reflection could come later.
He reviewed the passive traits again. Residual Sight explained the faint shadows he'd seen drifting in the distance—echoes of death, haunting the vale like memory etched into the world. Veilstep explained the strange emptiness. How the world didn't seem to notice him. Like he existed between the folds of space.
He tapped the hilt of the sword against his knee. Edge of Null. The name wasn't poetic. It was absolute. Final. A beginning shaped like an end.
"If I can't remember who I was, maybe this will help me figure out who I'm going to be."
He rose and walked.
No destination. Just forward.
The Pale Vale unfolded before him in ruins and silence. He passed broken statues, forgotten monoliths, shattered stone figures with worn expressions. Some screamed. Others wept.
He stopped at one a crowned figure split down the center, its face eroded by time and moss. A noble carved in agony.
"This place isn't just a trial," he murmured. "It's a memory. Of what, I don't know. But it wants me to see it."
His hand tightened around the sword.
"Then I'll do more than survive. I'll understand it."
The sword pulsed faintly, echoing his resolve.
He kept walking.
Into the fog. Into the unknown.
The wind shifted.
A ripple in the mist.
Then, instinct.
His body moved before thought caught up. He twisted, barely avoiding the mass that lunged from the shadows. It scraped his shoulder as it passed—cold, sharp, and wet. He stumbled, rolling across the uneven ground, sword drawn.
The thing landed several paces away. In the dim light, it crouched low—gaunt and bone-thin, with elongated limbs that clicked when it moved. Its flesh looked soaked in ink, skin stretched tight over a frame too thin for life. A mouth opened across its face, not horizontal, but vertical, splitting it from scalp to chest. No eyes. Just that gaping maw and the stench of rot.
Its breath came in wheezes. Faint. Wet. A hiss scraped the air.
Deuce's heart pounded. Not from bravery. Not from strategy. Just instinct. Survival.
The sword trembled in his grip. Not with fear. His hand was shaking.
He raised it.
"I don't know how to fight," he muttered. "But I'm not dying here."
The creature twitched forward.
Deuce stepped back, misjudging the slope of the ridge. He slipped, his back colliding with the base of a crumbling stone pillar. Pain lanced through his ribs.
The creature lunged again. He barely managed to raise the sword.
Steel met bone.
A shallow cut. Not enough. The blade glanced off, dragging a splatter of dark liquid.
The thing shrieked.
His arms trembled. His stance was poor. His form nonexistent.
"This… this is a trial," he whispered. "But I'm not ready."
The creature swiped with a limb too long to follow. The edge of its claw missed his face by inches.
Then, another sound barely audible.
A crack. A collapse.
The creature stepped wrong. The stone beneath it crumbled, and its weight carried it down. It tumbled, screeching, into the sunken valley below.
Deuce stood, panting. Shaking.
Not victorious.
Lucky.
He looked at the sword in his grip. His knuckles were white. His shoulder bled. He hadn't won. He had survived.
"I don't know anything," he said aloud, breathless. "But I have to learn."
He pressed his back against the broken pillar and slid down to the ground, trembling as the cold reclaimed his skin.
"Next time… I won't rely on luck."
And the mist settled, indifferent to the truth he had just found.
But survival was not enough.
With the fog beginning to swirl and thicken, he pushed forward, nursing his shoulder, searching for shelter. Something pulled at him—a strange sense not born of sight or sound, but instinct.
He found a cave, narrow and half-hidden behind a dead tangle of trees. Inside, it was dry and cold, but mercifully still. Bones littered the floor animal, monster, and one set unmistakably human. A figure still slumped near the back wall, armor long rusted, sword wedged into the stone beside it.
Near the wall, water trickled down the stone and pooled in a shallow basin. He dipped a hand in. Cold. Clear. Drinkable.
Clusters of dark berries grew between the cracks, and near the base of the cave wall, ash-colored mushrooms pulsed faintly.
He hesitated. Then used Residual Sight.
No death.
He plucked one berry. Tasted it. Bitter but clean.
He ate. Drank. Sat. Breathed.
And from the bones, something moved.
A shape not flesh, not living, flickered faintly in the gloom. A shadow. An echo. A phantom.
It moved slowly. Repeating the same motion. A sword swing. Over and over. Basic. Deliberate.
Deuce froze.
He knelt, clutching his arm.
The phantom swung again. Not elegant. Just right.
He watched. Then, after a while, stood. Mimicked the motion.
Poorly.
Again.
A bit better.
Again.
His shoulder ached with every motion, but he gritted his teeth. If he couldn't fight now, then he would learn slowly. Thoughtfully. Intentionally.
Outside, the Pale Vale howled. But within the cave, a dead swordsman continued his practice.
And beside him, a boy with no past followed suit.
For the first time, his fear gave way to purpose.
And Deuce began to learn.