A young man awoke with a gasp, his lungs burning as if he had just surfaced from the depths of a dark, icy lake. He coughed violently, clutching his throat, his body trembling as he struggled to draw in air. His vision blurred, and his mind raced, trying to piece together where he was—or even who he was. The room around him was a disaster, a miniature battlefield. Furniture lay overturned, glass shattered on the floor, and a painting hung ripped and tattered from the stone wall. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him like a newborn fawn. His body felt frail, weak, as if it had never known strength. He stumbled toward a cracked mirror hanging precariously on the wall. The reflection staring back at him was unfamiliar—a young man with slightly long blond hair, pale skin, and wide yellow eyes. He looked sickly, fragile, like a gust of wind could knock him over. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the cool surface of the mirror, tracing the outline of the face that was supposed to be his. That's me? he thought, his mind a blank slate.
The sounds of battle pressed in from beyond the room—the clash of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded, and the furious war cries of combatants. He was in the middle of a violent conflict, but how he had gotten here, or why, remained a mystery.
Suddenly, a breathless guard burst into the room, his light armor suggesting he had barely had time to equip himself properly. His conical helmet, designed to deflect downward sword blows, gleamed in the dim light. "Thank the gods! Young Master Aren, you're still alive! We must fl—"
His words were cut short. A sword blade, appearing as if from thin air, pierced his back. The guard’s eyes widened in shock, and he collapsed onto the floor, lifeless, the crimson stain of his blood rapidly spreading across the stone.
Aren’s mind reeled. With his memory a blank slate, he felt like an infant thrust onto a battlefield, utterly unprepared and unsure how to react to the chaotic scene unfolding before him. He took a step back from the guard’s body, his mind frozen, caught between paralyzing fear and the primal urge to fight.
A battle-hardened warrior, his leather armor stained with both fresh and dried blood, stepped over the guard's corpse. He glanced at Aren, his expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I thought you took care of him!" he roared down the corridor.
"I did!" a distant voice replied.
"Idiots, the lot of them!" the mercenary grumbled, turning his attention back to his target.
Aren, already overwhelmed by the torrent of unfamiliar sights and sounds, froze, his mind unable to process the rapidly escalating danger. The warrior raised his sword, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. He lunged forward, bringing the blade down in a vicious arc.
Instinct, pure and untainted by conscious thought, took over. Aren’s body moved with a grace he didn’t know he possessed, sidestepping the deadly blow with an almost effortless ease. The warrior, caught off guard, stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him off balance.
Aren shifted his weight onto his forward foot, pivoting and channeling the impulse up from his leg, through his torso, and into his fist. His arm whipped out, striking the unbalanced warrior squarely on the jaw. The blow, though seemingly weak, landed with pinpoint accuracy. The much larger warrior, at least 25 kg heavier than Aren, had his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
A surge of exhilaration, raw and potent, washed over Aren as he stared down at his fallen opponent. For a fleeting moment, he felt a sense of omnipotence, a primal triumph that resonated deep within his soul. He looked at his hands, a faint, disbelieving smirk playing on his lips. The thrill of victory faded fast, replaced by a throbbing ache in his joints. His hand and shoulder pulsed with pain. His body, clearly unaccustomed to combat, protested the sudden exertion.
He knew he couldn't stay here. His life was in danger. He decided to escape the manor first and unravel the mystery of his circumstances later. The thought of taking a weapon, either from the mercenary or the fallen guard, flickered through his mind. But the unfamiliar weight and balance of the blades seemed daunting. Could he even wield one effectively? With his aching hand and frail physique, it seemed a gamble at best. Escape was the priority. He needed to be light, agile, unencumbered.
The sounds of battle raged on in the corridor. Carefully, silently, Aren stepped over the bodies and peered cautiously into the hallway. Mercenaries clashed with guards in a whirlwind of flashing steel. At the far end, a stone staircase spiraled downwards. He moved swiftly, towards the stairs.
Before he reached them, another guard came rushing up from below. "This way, Young Master!" he hissed, gesturing urgently, his voice barely audible above the din of battle.
Aren didn't recognize him, but he trusted him more than the men trying to kill him. He followed the guard down the winding staircase, his breath catching in his throat, partly from the lingering pain, partly from the sheer terror of the situation. It felt like a nightmare, a torrent of questions rushing through his mind, creating more confusion than clarity. He felt adrift, a puppet on the strings of fate, a sensation that filled him with a growing sense of dread.
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The circular staircase led them to a small landing. Another corridor branched off to one side, while a heavy wooden door offered an escape to the outside. Bursting through the door, they stumbled into the courtyard, a scene of carnage unfolding before them. The once beautiful garden was littered with the bodies of guards and mercenaries, the vibrant green of the grass and shrubs stained crimson.
The manor they've just escaped was impressive—a two-story stone structure with wooden accents. A high wooden wall, punctuated by guard towers, enclosed the entire estate. Fortunately, the main gate, the gateway to freedom, was not far from where they emerged. The path seemed clear. The fighting, it appeared, had shifted entirely within the manor walls.
"To the gate! Quickly!" the guard urged, pushing Aren forward and breaking into a run.
Their movement didn't go unnoticed. Mercenaries, already occupying the towers, spotted them and began descending, intent on cutting off their escape. Halfway to freedom, Aren sensed danger approaching from behind. His frail body swiftly shifted its center of gravity and spun around. An arrow was flying towards the guard. Aren tried to catch it with his uninjured hand, but his body was too slow. The guard fell dead, struck precisely in the back of the head.
Aren's heart lurched. He'd had a chance, a fleeting moment to react, to save the man who’d tried to help him, but he’d been too slow.
"Did he just try to catch my arrow?" the archer exclaimed in disbelief, his voice echoing down from the manor window.
"Keep shooting!" his companion snarled, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Aren continued to run towards the gate, his back to the archer, hoping he wouldn't get an arrow in his back. More mercenaries emerged from the towers ahead, blocking his path. He stopped, trapped, unsure what to do. Should he run along the wall, searching for another exit? Returning to the manor was not an option. The tickling sensation intensified, the static electricity dancing across his skin.
Suddenly, another guard appeared out of nowhere, covering the distance with one swift stride, like a shadow gliding across the ground. He deflected the arrow that was already flying towards Aren with his sword.
"Young Master Aren! I thought you were dead!" he exclaimed.
This guard was older, perhaps forty-five, tall and imposing with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He exuded an air of competence and experience that the others lacked. Though Aren didn't recognize him, a wave of relief washed over him. Arrows rained down from multiple windows, but the guard deflected them all with seemingly impossible speed. His sword moved in a blur, leaving trails like a sparkler on a dark night. A faint, shimmering aura enveloped his form. As it intensified, so did the tickling sensation on Aren’s skin.
"Young Master, run to the gate! Don't hesitate! I will deal with anybody coming your way!"
Having no choice but to trust him, Aren continued to the gate. The mercenaries were ready to cut down anyone who approached. One charged towards Aren, his blade glinting menacingly in the moonlight. As they closed the distance, the mercenary lunged, his sword arcing downwards. Aren braced himself, ready to dodge and counter with his good hand, but before he could react, the older guard reappeared, moving with inhuman speed. The aura around him flared, brighter than before. The mercenary was hurled aside like a rag doll. The fight was clearly one-sided. The guard was like a seasoned warrior among children.
"That's an advanced Ether user!" one of the mercenaries at the gate screamed. "Run!"
The remaining mercenaries scattered like ants. The archers, however, continued their relentless barrage. The guard shoved Aren forward, his sword a whirlwind of motion, deflecting the incoming arrows. Aren ran, the gate just ten meters away. As he crossed the threshold, the guard appeared beside him, scooping him up with one arm and sprinting down the forest path.
"I felt an intense Ether Pulse coming from the manor. If an Ascendant is with them, we have no chance. We must escape immediately!" The words were meaningless to Aren, but he understood the urgency, allowing the guard to drag him towards safety.
Not far from the gate, nestled against the outer wall, was a stable. Inside, a magnificent black stallion, as dark as night, stood patiently. The guard put Aren down and vaulted effortlessly into the saddle, extending a hand. "Quickly! As I taught you!"
But Aren remembered nothing of riding. He simply reached out. The guard's strength was enough to pull him up and onto the horse, despite his confusion.
"Hold on tight!" the guard shouted, kicking his heels into the stallion's flanks.
The horse surged forward, galloping down the forest path. The danger seemed to recede, and Aren, exhausted and overwhelmed, began to drift into unconsciousness.
---
Earth
An old man awoke with a deep, shuddering breath. He sat in a large, mechanized chair, connected to a web of wires. More wires snaked out from a helmet on his head, leading to a large, humming machine behind him. He was in a vast room filled with complex equipment—computers, consoles bristling with buttons and dials. The walls and ceiling were bare concrete. A group of scientists in white lab coats surrounded him, their faces a combination of stunned surprise and nervous concern. A distinguished-looking older man in an expensive suit approached, his eyes gleaming with excitement and relief.
“Are you alright, Arthur?”
“Yes,” the old man grumbled, pressing a hand to his temple.
“Incredible! You did it! You survived the jump to another world…and back!” the man in the suit exclaimed, his voice filled with a youthful exuberance that belied his age. "I wouldn't have forgiven myself if you hadn't made it."
Arthur, the old man, looked up at the man in the suit, his expression a mix of exhaustion and curiosity. "Victor," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "what exactly did I just experience?"
Victor’s smile widened. "You, my friend, have just taken the first step into a new frontier. A world beyond our own. And you, Arthur, are the key to unlocking its secrets!"