He couldn’t help coming back to his situation and how he’d gotten into it. The way he’d been shunted around like a hockey puck. He felt like he had no agency. No control. He wasn’t doing anything but reacting, and it was getting him nowhere. Fast. He had no real power, just some vague prophecy, a weird mark, some newly acquired gear, and no idea what was going to happen next.

Then a flash of insight struck him, and he zeroed in on the thought.

That was it, he thought excitedly. He knew what he needed.

He needed to acquire Power. Not in some abstract, distant sense, but real, tangible strength. He needed to become someone unstoppable, someone unyielding. He needed to rise quickly - no, immediately - and reach heights no one else had. Only then could he claim the Legacy of the Immortal and reshape his fate.

But what did that title even mean? The Immortal. It sounded grand, almost mythical, but the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. From everything he knew of Gilgamesh, the man had failed spectacularly in his quest for immortality. Every chance at eternal life had been snatched away, stolen by fate, by gods, by forces beyond his control. In the end, the great king of Uruk had resigned himself to mortality, to leaving behind a legacy etched in stone and memory rather than flesh and blood.

And wasn’t that supposed to be the point? The ultimate lesson? That true immortality was in what you left behind, not in the life you clung to.

Liam frowned, gripping the hilt of his dagger tightly. That wasn’t enough. Not for him. The idea grated against his very soul. Sure, legacy mattered. He understood the sentiment - planting trees for future generations to rest beneath, crafting works of art that would outlast your own hands. But what good was a legacy if you weren’t there to see it? To live it? To feel its impact?

What was the point of creating something if you didn’t get to share it with the people you loved? If he wasn’t there to hold Sarah, to see his little girl laugh, to watch her grow into the kind of person who made the world brighter - then what was the point of any of this? Of fighting? Of surviving?

No. True immortality was both. It was building the future for those you cared about while being present enough to savor it with them. He’d heard some old saying once, something about planting trees whose shade you’d never sit under. It sounded noble, poetic even, but it rang hollow now. Legacy without life was just a story people told after you were gone. And Liam refused to be another dead legend.

He thought about all the artists he’d read about - the ones who toiled in obscurity, giving everything they had to create beauty or meaning, only for others to profit from their work long after they were buried. Dead legends, dead masters. Liam wanted no part of that story. He didn’t want to be a cautionary tale or an inspirational footnote in someone else’s history.

“I’m going to be a living legend,” he muttered, his voice firm, low, and unyielding. “A living Legacy.”

The words resonated, filling the small cave with an energy that felt almost tangible. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, Umbra nestled against his side, her faint bioluminescent glow casting long shadows. The dagger in his hand seemed to gleam with its own inner light, the intricate runes along its hilt catching and refracting Umbra’s glow in mesmerizing patterns.

He traced his fingers along the dagger’s edge absentmindedly, his thoughts swirling. The Jackal had put him on this path, but to what end? Was he just a pawn in some larger game, a piece to be moved and sacrificed at will? It didn’t matter. Madame Maev had hinted that there were many players in this world, each with their own goals, their own plans. If that was true, then he’d find a way to rise above them. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s pawn. He was going to be a true player – more than a king, or even a god, if that’s what it took.

The Legacy of the Immortal wasn’t about living someone else’s dream or carrying someone else’s torch. It was about reclaiming his own future, about writing his story on his terms. And if that meant conquering the path of the immortal, so be it. If it meant standing against gods, monsters, and the Jackal himself, he’d do it.

“Not because of some great prophecy,” he whispered, staring into the flickering light. “Not because of some cosmic game. But because I have people waiting for me.”

His mind flashed back to the visions the slime queen had shown him. Sarah’s face, warm and radiant. The laughter of his daughter, so pure it hurt. Those weren’t just dreams. They were his purpose, his reason to endure. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of his resolve settle over him like armor.

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The gold inlaid into the armor he’d scavenged glinted faintly as he reached out to touch it, the cold metal smooth under his fingertips. It was a reminder, a symbol of what he’d already endured and what he was prepared to do. He would wear it as a badge of honor, as a statement to anyone who dared stand in his way.

“I’ll show them,” he muttered, his voice growing stronger. “The Jackal. Madame Maev. The gods, if they’re watching. This isn’t their game - it’s mine.”

Umbra shifted beside him, her warm, jelly-like form pressing against his side in silent support. He patted her absentmindedly, the motion grounding him. “We’ll figure this out, buddy,” he said softly. “One step at a time.”

But it wasn’t just about survival anymore. Survival was the baseline, the bare minimum. He wasn’t content with just scraping by, with dodging death and clinging to life by the skin of his teeth. He was going to thrive. To conquer. To win.

He stared out at the cave’s entrance, the roar of the waterfall still loud but less oppressive now. The world beyond the curtain of water was wild, chaotic, and indifferent. It would crush him if he let it. But he wouldn’t. He refused to be battered against the shoals of fate or drowned in the tides of chaos. If the universe was built on randomness and disorder, then he’d impose his will upon it. He’d carve out order from the chaos, starting with his own life.

“I’m not going to drift,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a vow. “Not in some game. Not in someone else’s story. This is my story. My world.”

The cave seemed to echo with his words, the sound reverberating off the damp walls. Umbra pulsed faintly, her glow brightening as if in agreement.

“Whatever this threat is that the Jackal hinted at, whatever grand plan he’s playing at - I don’t care.” Liam’s eyes burned with determination, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. “I’m not here to play his game. I’m here to win it. For Sarah. For my daughter. For me.”

He rose to his feet, his armor and weapons gleaming faintly in the dim light. The path ahead would be treacherous, filled with dangers he couldn’t yet comprehend. But he didn’t care. He would find a way to claim the Legacy of the Immortal - not as a story left behind, but as a future he could live.

Liam manifested his Prismata Core, and watched it hover before him for several moments before he reached out to take it. It was cool to the touch, and yet it gave him a counter heat of energy in a strange trick of circumstance.

He pondered the Prismata Core in his hands, its surface cold and unyielding, yet alive with potential. The last time he had interacted with it, back in the psychic slime’s trial, it had forced him to confront truths he would rather have ignored. Like some spectral version of Scrooge, it had dragged him through visions of pain, regret, and revelation. But now, with Umbra at his side, he wondered - could he wield it differently? Could he direct its energies, plunge deliberately into his past lives to claim the skills and knowledge he needed now?

His gaze shifted to Umbra, her soft glow illuminating the core’s intricate surface. The faint hum of her psychic presence resonated with the core, and as if in response, its runes flared to life. “Alright, buddy,” Liam murmured, tightening his grip. “Let’s see what you and this thing can do together.”

Focusing his mind, he reached out, his consciousness brushing against the core’s energy. Umbra reacted instantly, her form shifting as she extended psychic tendrils toward the orb. The runes ignited in a kaleidoscope of colors, glowing with a brilliance that pulsed in time with her movements. Without warning, a sudden burst of energy erupted from the core, linking Umbra to Liam in a luminous chain of light.

“Umbra, what-” was all Liam managed to say before the connection overwhelmed him. The world tilted, the cave dissolving into a stream of light and thought. His body felt weightless as his consciousness hurtled forward, faster than he could comprehend. The Prismata Core pulsed in rhythm with his racing heartbeat, dragging him deeper into its facets.

A notification blinked briefly in his mind’s eye: "Prismata Sequence Activated. Accessing Past Self…"

Umbra’s soft psychic presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality as he was swept into the core’s depths. And then, with the force of a tidal wave, he was there.

***

The smell of smoke was the first thing that hit him, acrid and choking. His eyes snapped open to a scene of utter chaos. He was standing in the middle of a village engulfed in flames, its once-peaceful thatched roofs now consumed by roaring infernos. The air was thick with ash, and the sky above was a hellish shade of orange. Screams pierced the cacophony of crackling fire and the clash of steel on steel, and the ground beneath his feet trembled with the thunder of hooves.

People ran in every direction, their faces etched with terror as warriors on monstrous mounts cut them down indiscriminately. The beasts, - Greylocks, he knew without understanding how - were like nothing he’d ever seen. Massive and scaled, their bodies a grotesque hybrid of Komodo dragon and warhorse, with slitted eyes that glowed like embers. The riders atop them, clad in jagged armor and wielding cruel weapons, shouted in a guttural language that sent shivers down Liam’s spine.

He stood frozen for a moment, his mind struggling to process the sheer scale of destruction. This was a massacre. The village - its cobblestone streets, timber-framed houses, and humble market stalls - was being reduced to ruin. The air was thick with despair, a palpable weight that pressed down on his chest.

Then he heard it - a high-pitched scream that cut through the chaos like a blade. His head whipped around, his eyes locking onto a small figure in the distance. A little girl, no older than five, stood in the middle of the street, her tiny body trembling as a massive Greylock bore down on her. The beast’s claws tore at the earth, and its rider raised a barbed spear, the weapon gleaming in the firelight.

“Not today,” Liam growled, the words escaping before he realized he had spoken.