After the tense moment, he calmed himself. The voice was likely the so-called voice of the world. This was the first time he had heard it. Its tone… It almost seemed excited.
Hmm.
He turned his attention back to the chest and carefully picked up the parchment.
When he unrolled it, he found black ink sprawled across the surface. Despite its small size, the words seemed endless. No matter how much he read, more lines scrolled upward from below, as though the parchment had no end.
He read what he could.
So Philip was the monster’s name.
The scroll, as he suspected, was a collection of events—a life etched in ink.
Philip had been a man living in the knight city of Clegane. Or, rather, what would eventually become Clegane. He had died long ago, during the Annihilation Wars.
He had three children: two daughters and a son. His son, eager for the glory of war, had desperately wanted to join the newly formed legion. The stories of the Golden Knights had filled him with reverence. But Philip, once a soldier himself and bearing scars both physical and mental, had refused to let him go.
He locked his son away, feeding him daily but never allowing him to leave.
His daughters, on the other hand, were his pride and joy. He loved them deeply, even as he wondered about their odd habits—one daughter played endlessly with icestones, while the other found comfort in the shadows.
But still, he loved them.
When famine struck the town, Philip fought desperately to provide. Hunger clawed at his family, hollowing out their bodies and minds. Despite his efforts—despite his suffering—it was never enough.
But what could he do? He still needed to feed them. And so… he did.
Every day, Philip would cut off parts of his body to feed his daughter and son, though the latter had come to see him as a monster—a captor rather than a father. Why couldn’t he understand? All of this was for his safety.
Yes, Philip was in pain, but his children were alive. They were fed.
That was until news of his actions reached the townsfolk. They called him a heretic, a blasphemer, and threatened to take his children from him.
No. No. No.
They would not leave him.
In fear—and love—Philip realized the townsfolk could never take his children if they were always with him. Inseparable.
And so… he acted.
Alchemy. Using parts of different creatures, he created a temporary potion. But when it was done, he needed one final ingredient: the heads of his daughters.
He would have chosen them all, but it turned out that three heads was the limit.
But it didn’t matter. If his daughters were with him, then he would focus on his son.
He took their heads, and they became part of him—united forever.
Things were good… that was, however, until the Invigilator came and burned him with pure white light.
Karl sighed and tossed the parchment aside. It floated, swaying gently before settling on the stained slightly cold ground.
I was never your son, he thought, reaching into the chest and pulling out its final item.
The axe.
The moment he touched it, Karl felt something—an overwhelming connection, a unity that felt both internal and external. It was as though a piece of himself had been returned or perhaps had been awakened within him.
He summoned the face of the soul.
Starlight shimmered into view—colors swirling in a myriad of vibrant hues. Among them, he saw his physical enhancements and the faint, grayish glow of his Recall ability. But beyond them, something else caught his attention: a distant, bluish star, its shade reminiscent of an icestone.
The knowledge flowed into him.
“Iceful Axe.”
That was the name Karl gave it.
It was a world item, capable of freezing anything it touched depending on Karl’s will. The intensity of the cold was tied directly to the amount of mana he channeled into it. But its true brilliance lay in how seamlessly it complemented his Recall ability, allowing him to strike harder and recover the weapon with ease.
Amazing.
He studied the axe. It was deceptively simple—a wooden handle, slightly bent in places, and a silvery metal head engraved with strange white inscriptions. Even gazing at it left him feeling slightly drained, though not enough to cause concern.
Astra.
He recognized it immediately but cared little for the implications. Smiling, he gripped the weapon tightly and hurled it across the room.
It flew with a soft, ringing tune before embedding itself in the far wall.
Karl activated its ability.
A white wave of frost exploded outward from the point of impact, rapidly spreading across the surface and cascading further into the room.
Stolen story; please report.
He smiled, raising his hand.
The axe quivered, then tore itself free from the icy wall, flying back into his grasp.
He had grown stronger.
His gaze shifted to his left hand, where his sickle still rested.
You did good, he thought, before slipping it inside his clothes.
But the sickle would slowly grow obsolete. It was a fine weapon, yes, but compared to the axe, it was nothing. One was crafted by normal hands—a simple newman. The other was born of the Astra.
Karl sighed, admiring the axe one final time before scanning the literally destroyed hall. His eyes settled on Monica, lying amidst shattered furniture, smeared blood, and scattered debris.
He approached her and gently tapped her shoulder.
No response.
Frowning, Karl brought the axe closer to her face, letting the edge graze her cheek. A frosty mist washed over her skin, and with a sharp gasp, Monica’s eyes shot open.
She screamed—a sound raw and primal—and her fist lashed out, striking Karl across the face.
But he didn’t flinch. The blow was far too weak to affect him.
Monica’s eyes regained some clarity, then widened in raw terror. She scrambled backward until her back slammed against the black grime-painted wall.
“No! No! No!” she cried, voice trembling. “Wake up! It’s eating your memories! Wake up!”
Karl stared at her in silence.
How did she know that?
Even with all his memories intact, Monica played no significant role in any of them. At most, she would scream in terror at the monster’s approach—explaining why she often awoke gasping.
But beyond that? Nothing.
So how did she know about the memory erosion?
Did her willpower break through the control for brief moments, granting her fragments of awareness? Similar to what happened in the case of Olmer? Perhaps her will to survive outshined even his own.
“What’s happening?” she shouted, pulling Karl’s gaze back to her.
He raised his hand. “It’s alright,” he said, gesturing toward a pile of shattered stone. “It’s dead. I killed it.”
Monica froze, her breath hitching. Her eyes darted around the room, then back to him.
“You?”
Karl nodded. “Yes.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and her hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
Karl watched her silently, and once again, a thought struck him.
What a will she must have.
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After a few uncomfortable minutes of watching someone cry, Monica eventually fell asleep herself. Which was good for both of them.
Karl lingered a while longer, then moved closer to Monica. He sat beside her, axe in hand, staring at the vast, nearly destroyed hall. The hunger had faded, but so had the food. Sooner or later, they would grow hungry and desperate.
He looked down at his axe, running a finger across the silvery head. Maybe licking ice might stave off the thirst, he thought. Would she want to lick it?
Tilting his head, Karl stabbed the axe into the ground. A thin wave of frost spread outward, covering a few inches of the stone floor. He broke off a frozen shard and brought it to his lips. The chill stung briefly before it dissolved into water.
His eyes gleamed. Yes—water.
Karl glanced at the sleeping Monica. There won’t be thirst, then.
After a few more tests with the axe, he leaned back against the wall, exhaustion seeping into his bones. The siphoning and his battle with the monster had drained him—mentally and physically. What he needed now was sleep.
But he hesitated.
There was the fear of waking with a gasp, realizing he had forgotten something important. There was the fear of the monster—of Philip—reviving.
Still, he couldn’t avoid it forever. With much effort, Karl allowed himself to drift into sleep.
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When Karl woke, he felt better. His mind was clearer, his body lighter. But as he turned to the side, his eyes widened.
Where is Monica?
He stood abruptly, axe gripped tightly in hand. He could make it vanish and summon it again at will, but an irrational fear kept him clutching it.
His eyes darted around the hall, breath quick and sharp. Then he spotted her, rummaging through a pile of rubble. She seemed to be searching for something.
Karl watched her for a moment before calmly walking over.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Monica dropped a head-sized stone and turned to face him, a flicker of fear crossing her face before vanishing with a relieved breath.
“I wanted to be sure.” She smiled brightly. “Turns out you really did kill it! Feels good having a protector like you.”
Karl said nothing. His gaze shifted to the large door at the end of the hall. It was strange to think that the door had always been there, yet under the monster’s control, it had seemed practically invisible. Or maybe it was him that refused to acknowledge it.
Monica stepped beside him, coughed awkwardly, then asked, “So… what are we doing now?”
Karl was silent for a moment. Then, simply: “We leave.”
That was all there was to it. He was done here. And whether intentionally or not, the monster had left him stronger. His body also seemed to be healing faster.
Perhaps I’m approaching being a special-class Sanguine.
Monica nodded.
No sass?
Together, they walked to the door. It creaked open, revealing an endless void of darkness beyond.
Without their torchlight, the darkness was now their only companion.
Standing at the threshold, Karl hesitated. He was free, yes, but the creature’s words lingered in his mind. The monsters. The humans it claimed to have been protecting him from.
He shook away the thoughts and stepped forward, Monica close behind.
----------------------------------------
It didn’t take long before they stumbled upon a corpse. Or rather, Monica stepped on one.
They spent a full minute arguing about how Karl, with his supposed sharp senses, hadn’t detected it first.
I don’t have night vision, Karl growled inwardly, then sighed.
In the oppressive dark of the corridor, Karl had to rely on his hearing to discern faint shifts in wind flow and other subtle cues.
They pressed onward, and eventually, Karl discovered something akin to a stairwell. But the moment they stepped onto it, the scent of death hit them in a suffocating wave.
He grimaced, covering his nose. With his enhanced senses, the stench was unbearable—far more intense than what Monica must have perceived.
Did someone fight here? Karl wondered. Members of the Mysteries School, perhaps?
They continued downward.
Before long, Karl felt something sticky and dry beneath his boots. Blood—long dried but still distinct. He could smell it too.
How many died here?
He crouched, running his fingers along the floor, feeling the crusted stains and scattered debris.
What happened in this place?
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Sometime later, Karl felt something beneath his hand. It didn’t take long to realize he was touching a corpse. Calmly, he searched through the clothes and soon found something round within the robes.
As soon as he touched it, a faint drain of energy seeped from him, and a white glow shone through the cloth. Karl flinched, dropping the object, apprehensive about what it could be. But the moment he let go, the light faded.
Is it some kind of torchlight?
“I think that’s a lighter,” Monica’s voice said beside him.
Lighter? Karl had an idea of what she meant. He felt around on the ground again, quickly finding the small orb. Once more, the weakness crept in, and a brilliant white light blazed from the sphere.