King Rowan stood tall, his youthful face shadowed by the flickering torchlight that danced across the chamber walls. Despite his age, there was a quiet authority in his demeanor, a gravity that commanded attention. Before him were the champions he had summoned—not from this life, but from the echoes of another. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity and unease, the weight of their resurrection settling heavily on their shoulders.
The silence stretched until Lorian stepped forward, clutching his spellbook to his chest as if it were a lifeline. His voice trembled slightly, but his question rang clear. “Who... Who are we now?”
Rowan’s eyes, warm yet resolute, swept over the group. He took a moment, his gaze lingering on each of them as though weighing the words he was about to speak. His face, youthful yet marked with the burdens of kingship, hardened with purpose.
“You are no longer who you were,” Rowan began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of steel. “The lives you once lived are gone, but your fates—your legacies—remain. You stand here because you have inherited the power, the memories, and the burdens of Helia’s greatest champions. Through you, their stories will live on.”
He gestured to each of them in turn, his words deliberate and heavy with meaning.
“Caelus,” he said, locking eyes with the young man, “you are Vorrath, the Warlord. A man whose name inspired both fear and respect. You built an empire with your own hands but died betrayed, with your blade still thirsting for justice.”
Caelus’s hands tightened around the hilt of his sword. He didn’t speak, but a flicker of determination crossed his face.
Rowan turned to Elira, whose arms were crossed casually, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of intrigue. “Elira, you are Valka, The Shield Maiden– Helia’s stalwart captain who guarded the royal family till her final breath. You led your people with unmatched courage even in the face of despair. Your loyalty was unshakable, even as darkness closed in around you.”
Elira raised an eyebrow, a half-smirk playing on her lips. “So, I’ve always been this amazing, huh?” she quipped, though there was a faint glimmer of something deeper in her gaze.
King Rowan, undeterred by Elira’s playful quip, moved on, his gaze sweeping across the gathered champions with purpose as he continued the introductions.
“Riven,” Rowan began, addressing the halfling who leaned casually against a nearby column, her sharp eyes flicking to his. “You are Zephira the Windblade, Helia’s most cunning assassin. Renowned for your unmatched speed and precision, you were a shadow that moved unseen, striking with deadly accuracy. Your loyalty to the royal family was unshakable—even when it cost you everything.”
Riven smirked, twirling a dagger between her fingers. “Speed, precision. Sounds about right,” she remarked, though a flicker of something deeper crossed her expression.
Rowan’s gaze shifted to Lorian, who fidgeted nervously, his spellbook held tightly in his hands. “Lorian, the youngest among you, you are Elowen the White Flame. Helia’s greatest mage, your mastery of magic was second to none. When the kingdom faced its darkest hour, you gave your life in a desperate effort to shield it, ensuring that even in death, Helia would not be forgotten.”
Lorian swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly as he whispered the name to himself, trying to reconcile the magnitude of the legacy he had inherited.
“Magnus,” Rowan continued, turning to the tall and composed elf whose quiet strength was evident in his presence. “You are the Druid King, ruler of Helia’s enchanted forests and guardian of its ancient secrets. Your bond with the land was unparalleled, and your power ensured that nature itself rose to defend Helia in its time of need.”
Magnus nodded solemnly, his verdant eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and responsibility. “The forest?” he murmured, almost to himself.
Rowan’s eyes lingered on Seraph, her dark elven features serene but her gaze distant, as though she carried the weight of her visions even now. “Seraph, you are Kaelith, the Silver Oracle. Your prophetic visions forewarned of Helia’s fall, but your warnings went unheeded, and you were shunned for your truths. Yet you stood firm, bearing the scorn of many to guide those who would listen. Even in the end, your wisdom saved countless lives.”
Seraph’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clasping together as she absorbed the weight of her name.
Finally, Rowan’s gaze rested on Darius, the towering dragonborn whose crimson scales gleamed faintly in the firelight. His emerald eyes burned with intensity, and his halberd rested across his back like a coiled predator waiting to strike.
“Darius,” Rowan said, his voice carrying a note of reverence, “you are Ragna, the Dragon Knight. The Dragonborn commander who soared into battle alongside Helia’s dragons, your strength and courage inspiring legions. You specialised in aerial combat, striking from above with devastating force. You were Helia’s mightiest defender, bonded to its most powerful creatures.”
Darius inclined his head, his clawed hand resting on the haft of his weapon. “Sounds cool,” he rumbled, his deep voice steady.
Rowan stepped back, his voice rising to address them all. “You are no longer merely who you were in your last life. You carry the legacies of its greatest heroes. Each of you have been chosen to finish what they could not—to protect what remains of this kingdom and to reclaim what was lost. Their power flows through you, their wisdom and strength yours to wield. Together, you stand as the hope of Helia reborn.”
The room fell into a contemplative silence as the champions absorbed Rowan’s words. Each carried the burden of a life they never lived yet felt the weight of deeply. A shared resolve began to spark between them, unspoken but palpable, as they realised the enormity of the task that lay ahead—and the strength they might find in one another.
King Rowan stood before them, drawing a steady breath as he began. His young voice was solemn yet filled with an unwavering respect for the history he was recounting.
“Helia was once a beacon of arcane knowledge,” he said, his gaze fixed beyond them, as if seeing visions of the past. “Our kingdom shone as a centre of learning and magic, its towers and walls woven with spells and runes to protect, fortify, and preserve. At the heart of this knowledge stood the Helian Academy of the Arcane, where we are now.” He gestured upward, and they admired the tower’s soaring heights, its walls lined with endless scrolls and ancient tomes, relics that held mysteries of life and the arcane, a fortress of wisdom and defence for Helian people. “Mages, scholars, and adventurers came from every corner of the world, drawn by the promise of enlightenment and power.”
He paused, his voice softening. “But that glory ended with the betrayal of Myrkos 100 years ago.”
At the name, a shadow crossed his face. “Myrkos was once one of our own, a sorcerer of unmatched power. His ambition knew no bounds, and he desired to rule Helia as his own.” King Rowan’s hand clenched at his side. “He cast a curse, one so dark and far-reaching it bled into the veins of every Helian who dared wield magic. This curse took its price in years. For every spell cast, a piece of one’s life was stripped away. Our people were weakened, and those who once safeguarded us with magic now grew fearful of their own power.”
The champions listened in silence as Rowan continued. “Since that day, our kingdom began to wither. We were a people who had relied on magic not only for defence but for healing, growth, and prosperity. Now, our greatest strength has become our deepest curse. The Academy closed its doors, and our walls crumbled as the mages who once defended them perished one by one. What remains now is only a shadow of the great Helia, held together by the will of those few who refuse to let it fall.”
He took a steadying breath, meeting their eyes with renewed purpose. “But you… you and I are different. We bear the power to wield magic without sacrifice. It is my hope that you will use this gift to rekindle the strength we once had, to defend Helia as it once was. You have to defeat him— to defeat Myrkos.”
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A surge of bitterness and pity churned within Caelus, though the anger felt oddly deep, raw, as if it wasn’t solely his own. How could anyone be so ruthless, so heartless? Images flickered through his mind—of Helia once alive with magic, now gutted and haunted by hollowed faces and empty hopes. The cruelty of Myrkos’s curse twisted his stomach, a fury simmering beneath his thoughts, strangely familiar, fierce, and unforgiving. It was as though another part of him, distant yet close—Vorrath, perhaps—was seething alongside him, sharing in his rage at Helia’s fall.
King Rowan took a deep breath, his gaze steady as he stepped forward, addressing the champions with renewed focus. “Now,” he began, his voice calm but purposeful, “it’s time for you to understand the tool that will guide your path—the Soulbound Interface. This is not merely a weapon or a trinket; it is an extension of who you are, uniquely tied to your very essence.”
At his words, a faint shimmer of light flickered around each of the champions, and before them materialised a translucent, glowing interface. It hovered in the air, pulsating gently, as though alive.
“The Soulbound Interface,” Rowan continued, “is your connection to this world. It reveals your abilities, your strengths and weaknesses, and your potential for growth. Through it, you can see the foundation of the power you’ve inherited—your Stats, skills, and the paths available to you. But it’s not static. It will evolve as you do.”
The champions stared, mesmerised, as the interface began to adapt to each of them. Icons, glyphs, and text in an ancient Helian script unfurled in intricate patterns, slowly reshaping into forms they could comprehend.
“Your growth will be measured in experience,” Rowan explained, gesturing to the floating displays. “Through battle, exploration, and the challenges ahead, you will earn experience points. As these accumulate, your Level will increase.“With every Level gained, your core attributes—strength, agility, endurance, magical aptitude, and more—will naturally increase, enhancing your overall capabilities.”
“And with growth comes the unlocking of new abilities—powers once wielded by the champions whose lives you now embody.”
He glanced around the group, his eyes settling on Caelus. “Your abilities may awaken through the memories of who you once were… or in the heat of your trials here. Caelus, you’ve already unlocked an ability, haven’t you?”
Caelus hesitated, the memory vivid yet unsettling. “Yes. I saw a memory, but it wasn’t mine. I was on a battlefield, surrounded by blood.” His voice wavered slightly as he shared the haunting vision, the weight of it thickening the silence.
Magnus leaned forward, his voice soft, filled with an ancient calm. “Perhaps… memories stir these powers. Perhaps they’re the key to awakening the abilities that lay within us.”
King Rowan nodded, though a hint of doubt lingered in his eyes. “It’s possible. But we lack certainty and can only confirm this through your journey.” His gaze swept over them, conveying both hope and the sobering truth of what lay ahead.
Each champion focused intently on their Soulbound Interfaces, the faint blue glow illuminating their faces as they reviewed their newly acquired abilities. Caelus’s gaze sharpened when he noticed two fresh skills unlocked in his arsenal.
The first was "Bloody Fury", a temporary surge of power that significantly amplified his strength, at the cost of some of his stamina. The second was "Dark Edge", a precision move that imbued his blade with shadowy energy, devastatingly enhancing his next strike.
Intrigued, Caelus hovered over the description of "Bloody Fury" before activating it.
As the power coursed through him, Caelus felt an unfamiliar exhilaration, a raw strength that made him feel invincible. It was strange, foreign—a surge of aggression that felt more instinctual than intentional.
This… this is what Vorrath must have felt, he thought, a mix of wonder and wariness stirring within him. No wonder he dominated the battlefield.
But beneath the thrill, a flicker of unease surfaced. Is this strength really mine? Or am I just… borrowing it?
Elira, ever the fighter, wore a fierce grin as she tested her shield, which could expand into a magical barrier. Riven's daggers dripped with deadly purple poison, while Seraph’s circlet pulsed, which revealed fleeting visions of what may come. Darius, the Dragon Knight, huffed out a small flame and stretched out his wings, his fire-breathing ability barely contained. Lorian held his spellbook with reverence, feeling the magic flow from it like the faint pulse of a heartbeat. Finally, Magnus lifted his ancient staff, tendrils of green energy winding around him in connection with nature’s power.
Once everyone wrapped up their assessments, Elira stepped forward, crossing her arms casually. “Look, Rowan—” she caught herself, “I mean, Your Majesty—if you get hurt out there, what’s left of Helia is going to spiral even harder. Maybe it’s better if you sit this one out. For the kingdom’s sake.” Her tone was light and playful, but there was a flicker of genuine concern beneath her words, a subtle echo of the loyalty and protectiveness that once defined Helia’s former captain.
King Rowan’s expression softened, touched by her words. He hesitated, a flicker of gratitude mixed with reluctance crossing his face. “Very well,” he replied, his voice quiet. “But I’ll ensure you have whatever you need—” His words were cut short as a wave of exhaustion overtook him. His steps faltered, his face losing colour as a harsh cough wracked his body. The elder mages around him rushed forward, steadying his frame with gentle hands, concern etched deeply into their weathered faces.
One of the elder mages turned to the champions, his voice heavy with respect and sorrow. “The king used his own magic to summon you, sparing us the cost and pain of the curse. He shouldered the entire burden of summoning seven people himself.”
King Rowan’s face tightened as he fought to remain standing, his gaze still fierce with resolve despite his weakness. A faint, urgent plea escaped his lips, barely more than a whisper. “Please… save Helia.” His words lingered in the air, a reminder of both the kingdom’s desperation and his own unyielding hope.
Once the king was led away to rest, an elder mage approached the group, presenting them with a map marked with the routes to the besieged village. Darius studied the doorway where Rowan had disappeared, then let out a heavy sigh. “When a child sacrifices so much to protect his people, how can we turn our backs?”
With a fierce resolve, Elira slammed her fist against her shield, a fire igniting in her amber eyes as she grinned. “Let’s go save Helia!”
Riven scoffed, casting a sideways glance again at Elira as she slammed her fist against her shield with a fierce grin. “Does she even grasp what we’re really up against?”
Magnus looked between them, his calm presence easing the tension. “Before we set off, maybe we should formally introduce ourselves once more,” he suggested, his voice gentle yet firm. “It might help us all to understand who we were… and who we are now.”
The champions exchanged glances, a mix of hesitation and curiosity in their eyes. One by one, they stepped forward, piecing together tiny fragments of past lives and new identities, grounding themselves in the shared purpose that lay ahead.
Riven, the halfling was the first to speak, her tone low and guarded. “They called me Zephira, the Windblade, but I’m Riven,” she began, a hand resting lightly on her twin short blades, a subtle reminder of her lethal prowess. “Stealth is my trade, and speed, my weapon. I’ll do my part from the shadows, so don’t expect to see me on the front lines.”
Lorian stepped forward with a calm, steady air. “I am Lorian, reborn as Elowen—the White Flame,” he introduced, holding up a well-worn spellbook. Its ancient cover caught the light, reflecting faint, silvery patterns etched along its spine. “My magic… it lets me wield spells of many kinds,” he added, a hint of sheepishness softening his voice as he gave a small, almost boyish smile, the kind that belied his youthful, rounded face.
Seraph’s gaze swept over the group, calm and knowing, as she adjusted the golden circlet resting on her brow. “In my past life, I was Seraph,” she began, her voice low but steady, “and now I am reborn as Kaelith—the Silver Oracle.” Her hand brushed a loose strand of white hair behind her ear with a graceful, practised motion. “My gift is foresight,” she added, a faint, unreadable smile touching her lips as her golden-marked skin seemed to shimmer under the dim light.
Magnus, thoughtful, took a breath. “Magnus the Druid King, they called me, though frankly, my true name is lost,” he said softly, his hand brushing over the staff by his side. “I am bound to nature’s will,” he continued, “and I wield its essence—plants, creatures, and all things that grow.” As he spoke, a faint pulse of life seemed to resonate around him, like the heartbeat of a forest.
Darius crossed his arms, a smirk playing on his lips as the scales along his face caught the light, shimmering faintly. “Darius,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of pride. “Reborn as Ragna, the Dragon Knight. And yes,” he added with a flicker of amusement, “I can breathe fire.”
Elira thumped her shield against the floor, her confidence unshaken. “Valka, the Shield Maiden, but you can call me Elira,” she declared, her protective aura seeming to brighten around her. “I’ll be your shield.”
Then, finally, it was Caelus’s turn. He stepped forward, feeling the weight of the past on his shoulders, his voice steady but quiet. “I am Caelus,” he began, “reincarnated as Vorrath, the Warlord. My strength is for battle, enhancing my abilities to defeat foes.” He paused, looking out at the others. “I may not know what this path holds, but if it leads me to fight for something… I’ll see it through.”
The air seemed to shift, their fragmented pasts uniting them for the task ahead.
“Let’s meet back here in a couple of hours to prepare. Agreed?” Caelus asked, his tone steady, though he felt the weight of a leader’s mantle settling onto his shoulders. It was a role that felt both foreign and strangely familiar, like an echo from Vorrath’s past urging him forward.
He looked around, catching the determined gazes of each of his comrades. Their nods carried the unspoken promise of warriors bound by purpose, ready to face whatever lay ahead. Caelus exhaled, steadying himself. Tonight, they weren’t lost souls of the past—they were a team, and this quest was just the beginning.