It was completely gone. He could feel the nothingness of the vacuum dissipate long before his eyes became accustomed to the oppressive light of this otherworld. His transformed spirit was no longer poised in weightless nothingness but rather stooped forward, solid and acutely aware of the misty white floor beneath him. Every movement felt strange, as if his body—if it could be called that—was battling against its own shape.
The weight of hundreds of years in the abyss appeared etched in every sinew. Dark, viscous blood oozed from his invisible wounds, pooling beneath him and filling the air with the bloody odours of death and iron. The blood clung to him, marking him as a human who had endured a great deal and managed to survive without telling anyone. His breaths came in weak, uneven gasps as he clutched the featureless, foggy floor, trying to find his bearings in a reality that was both strange and all too familiar.
His armour—if you could call it that—was in ruins. It had once been noble and brilliant, but now it hung on him in broken, rusted fragments. Jagged edges cut deep across his body, reopening old scars and carving new ones. Each breath brought new puddles of blood down, the sharp edges a constant reminder of long-forgotten conflicts. His eyes, once bright and sharp, had faded into lifeless pits. As he attempted to raise his head, grime and blood stained his face, and a hacking cough rocked his body as oozing clotted blood formed around his broken lips.
A figure sat in front of him, defying any logical description. The throne on which it reigned was not carved but appeared to have grown from the air itself; its surface had worn over an immeasurable amount of time. The entity atop it emitted a suffocating presence, changing its appearance between shadow and solidity. It was roughly humanoid, but its shape was undeniably strange, with an unnatural fluidity that made it difficult to fix on.
The weight of the figure's gaze slammed into Targrin's chest, stealing what little breath he could manage. His voice sounded raspy and cracked, like a hammer hitting stone.
"Where the fuck am I?"
His words struck the ground like a physical blow. He coughed again, the force of which rattled his damaged body.
"What did you do to me?"
The figure did not respond instantly. It lifted its head slightly, evoking an unconscious mockery. Then, as if pleased with the situation, it leaned forward. Where its eyes should have been, small glimmers of light flickered coldly and calculatedly. Its lips curled into a horrifying grin.
Targrin's body shook as rage overtook him. He banged his hands on the hazy ground, creating echoes throughout the vast space around them.
"Answer me!" He yelled, his voice filled with desperation and anger.
"WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE WHAT I HAVE DONE?"
A sharp crack pierced the air, radiating outward as if the void was responding to his defiance. The figure remained motionless, allowing the echoes to fade into suffocating silence. Targrin's breathing became slower, raspier, and uneven as the calm enveloped him. Only then did the figure speak, its voice deep and resonant, each word booming as if carried by the movements of time itself.
"I have been watching your poor, sorry self, Targrin."
The name sounded strange on the tongue, like an ancient relic brought into the present.
"For a very... long time."
The words pierced through his confusion, causing chills to run down his back. He locked eyes with the monster, but its sockets glowed with a weak, erratic light rather than actual eyes. The nothingness within its stare mirrored his own terror and questions.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"You," it said calmly but firmly, "have always been determined against the crushing weight of eternity."
Targrin gulped forcefully, his throat as dry as bone.
He muttered, "Why does that matter?"
The figure's grin transformed almost imperceptibly into something darker and more nightmarish.
"Because," it said, reaching out to encompass him, "you have earned something that few people ever achieve."
Targon's breath came to a stop. He laughed bitterly, despite the fact that it hurt to do so.
"Earned? What could I possibly have earned in that vast abyss?"
"A second chance," the figure stated, cutting through the stagnant air like a sword edge.
Targrin stopped moving. The phrase reverberated through his mind. He clenched his fists, knuckles twitching, and his voice cracked with distrust.
"Why the fuck should I believe anything you say? What do you get out of this?"
The figure's smile remained the same.
"Not all gifts are free, nor do I care whether you believe me or not."
A vague gesture caused the fog around them to swirl and shift.
"Pain has reforged you, seasoning you with an eternity of hopelessness. You will not find comfort here. But perhaps you'll discover your purpose somewhere else."
The mist lifted, revealing a stunning expanse beyond—a world unlike any Targrin had ever seen. It was enormous and wild, with towering mountains, endless forests, and sprawling towns made of stone, wood, and fire. Magic, an invisible force that pulsed like a living creature's heartbeat, infused the air.
Targrin's eyes widened as he took in the surroundings. Despite himself, he felt a spark of hope, which was quickly replaced by caution.
"And what would you have me do there?" His tone was low and filled with apprehension.
The figure's grin widened dramatically.
"The decision is yours to make. A second opportunity is just that: a chance. It is entirely up to you to redeem yourself, rise above your past, or fall even further."
Targrin took a shuddering breath as his thoughts raced. The figure's gaze fell on him as he stood, his legs quivering. He could feel the cracks in his body, the vulnerability of his essence, yet he refused to bow. Not right here. Not right now. Especially not to that... thing.
"I..." he began, but his voice trailed off as he turned back to face the figure.
The deity's figure faded into shadow, and its grin lasted only a minute.
"Targrin, you have already made your decision. Will you survive?" What comes next?" is the question.
Targrin's body dropped, as if gravity had reasserted itself after an eternity. The air around him shifted, rushing by as if sucking him down through a tight funnel. Lights—bright, sharp, and burning—shot past his eyes. He braced for the impact, but the landing was... soft. The cool air gently brushed against his face, carrying with it the subtle scent of damp earth and pine.
When he opened his eyes, everything had changed.
He lay on his back, marvelling at the canopy of trees above. The sky, barely visible through the thick foliage, shimmered with silver and pastel blue. His body felt heavy, strange, but... whole. He felt no weight from his armour. His hands, calloused and muscular, moved with unusual ease.
A piercing, frightened voice rang forth.
"Eadrin! Get up! "If we are late for practice again, Father will have our heads!"
His head was snapping towards the source of the noise. A youngster no older than fourteen, with wild brown hair and a puffed white shirt too big for his size, loomed over him. His face was red from effort, and he held a wooden practice sword. Eadrin blinked, confused. "Eadrin?" The name was unfamiliar to him.
"Come on! You are going to make both of us seem horrible. Get up!"
Instinct took control. Eadrin forced himself up, his muscles rejecting the unusual use. His surroundings became clearer: a training area marked with mud patches and wooden dummies. Beyond it, a fortified house towered, its foundations layered with large stones, while yellow and black banners billowed in the wind. They bore a knight's symbol, emblazoned with crossed swords and a breastplate.
The boy reached down and offered his hand. Eadrin hesitated but took it.
"You're acting strange," the boy remarked as he pulled him up. "Did you hit your head when you fell asleep out here?"
Eadrin didn't respond. The weight of this new world—this new life—crushed down upon him. He was no longer Targrin, the departed soul from the nothingness. Here, he was Eadrin, a knight's son bound to a low-ranking family. "A second chance," the deity had stated.
Nonetheless, a solitary idea lingered in the back of his mind.
What's the cost?