"The Trial of Wrath really fucked my mind up if this is how everything is now," I muttered, pulling myself back from the jagged edges of the memory—the panicked drive, the broken phones, the silence shattered by gunfire. Or maybe it wasn’t the trial at all. Maybe my mind was broken from the start, some part of me already cracked under the weight of everything that happened. Either way, it didn’t matter now. At least the Trial of Wrath gave me some semblance of mental resistance, something to dull the edges, if not repair them.
My thoughts drifted to a conversation I once had with my father before any of this. He’d explained to me how the average human brain could store up to 2.5 million gigabytes of memory—a staggering, nearly incomprehensible number, but somehow, it made me feel small. In this new existence, this universe where my limits had been ripped open, I wasn’t sure what my capacity might be. I wasn’t even sure if I could measure it. I had something completely different than before as a human. If only I knew more about brains and had another of my species, I could test them to see my physical limits. Plus I have plans of living for a very long time so I need something just in case so I never forget something important.
I couldn’t let that happen.
This universe, with its twisted rules, might even allow me to bypass the physical limits of memory. I could reforge my mind to hold onto everything, a fortress of memories that would never fade, never dull. To recall anything on command—those agonizing days, every agonizing detail, the strength I clawed from the ashes. The echoes of their voices, each drop of blood that spilled that night—I needed them intact, etched into the deepest layers of my mind.
So why not rewire my memory entirely? Design it, like a computer, with categories, compartments, and a flawless search function that would summon any thought or feeling on demand. Efficiency. I could isolate the worst of it, shield the more fragile pieces, and call up only what I needed without letting it slip away.
It’s strange—I never would have thought I’d end up needing to catalog my own pain, like some twisted library of suffering.
But with my mind twisted like this, there was no telling if those memories would start bleeding together, merging into something that might pull me even further into the abyss. Insanity was a looming shadow, a constant threat that grew sharper with every chaotic thought, every broken recollection that drifted up unbidden.
So, I turned inward, clawing through the clutter. It was like sifting through ash, fragments of memories slipping between my fingers, all of them scattered and stained with bits of rage and pain. But I didn’t have a choice. If I left it like this, I’d lose myself to the madness—my mind would eat itself alive.
Piece by piece, I began to catalog them, drawing what clarity I could from the twisted, broken shards. I separated the faces from the voices, the emotions from the images, forcing each one into something like order. I locked the good memories far into the depths of my mind to protect them inside a safe that should keep them from being corrupted.
It was exhausting, and each memory, sharp and vivid, scraped at the edges of my mind. But I kept at it, needing something to hold onto, something that might keep me anchored to reality. If I could create even a semblance of order, it would be one small barrier against the creeping insanity that loomed just out of sight.
I imagined it like some mental library, a twisted archive where every horror, every precious piece of the person I once was, had its place. I didn’t need peace; I didn’t need the memories to feel any less painful. I just needed them to make sense, to stay intact.
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After what felt like hours, I stood amidst towering shelves in my mind’s dark gothic library, a small sanctuary in the vast chaos. Dim, shadowy chandeliers hung overhead, their candlelight casting eerie flickers across the stone walls. Each shelf seemed ancient, filled with memories I’d bound tightly, like books locked in iron chains to protect what little light remained in me.
In a hidden corner, I’d placed every last good memory—the gentle moments with my family, my mother’s laughter, my father’s steady voice. Each one was sealed tight behind a locked, heavy iron door. Those memories were untouchable now, protected from the darkness that twisted through the rest of my mind.
Through the entrance to the library, I looked out into the fragmented, sprawling landscape of my mind—a mess of shattered memories, clumped together in an endless, chaotic stretch. Pieces lay jumbled, their edges sharp and jagged, still bleeding into one another. One day, I’d bring order to every corner of this place, give each memory a proper home, a space where they could be controlled, and contained.
But for now, the library would do. It was a temporary refuge, and I felt something close to relief knowing that at least a part of my mind was secure, and organized. It may take a little longer to find things in here until I find a way to make the search automatic.
In the quietest corner of my gothic library, I’d made a small, almost comforting space, a final anchor to a life that felt a thousand lifetimes away. Against the far wall, above a carved, shadowy fireplace, hung a single portrait of me with my family. The image was soft, weathered by age, capturing a moment of simple happiness—the kind that, now, felt like a cruel mirage. My father’s arm rested around my mother’s shoulders, and my younger self stood between them, beaming like I’d just been given the world. Looking at the portrait all I felt was pain inside my heart, like glass shards were dancing around inside of it.
Beside the fireplace stood a tall, ornate mirror, its frame dark as obsidian and etched with delicate, twisting patterns. On its surface, my reflection stared back—empty, hollow-eyed, a distorted version of the boy in the portrait. I looked at my reflection for a long time, wondering if any part of that boy still existed, or if he’d been buried beneath the twisted, monstrous creature I’d become.
The chair in this corner was worn but sturdy, something that felt out of place in the gloomy, gothic landscape of my mind, yet somehow, it fit here perfectly. I sank into it, feeling the weight of my memories settle around me like a heavy cloak, the faint warmth from the fire at my side casting a small circle of light in the encroaching darkness.
The portrait, the mirror, the chair—all of it a fragile reminder of who I used to be. And, perhaps, a reminder of who I could never become again.
As I stared into the mirror, my reflection split in two: on one side, the boy I used to be, all soft edges and a spark of innocence; on the other, the twisted creature I had become. My past self looked almost painfully approachable—calm, with eyes that hadn’t yet witnessed the world burn. His hair fell in messy locks, and he had an easy, open expression, something that felt foreign to me now.
Beside him, my current self was a monstrous sight to behold. Even I had to admit—I looked like a nightmare born from the depths of hell. One of hell's twisted abominations was sent to drain the blood of innocent children.
“Damn, I look terrifying…” The words slipped out, quiet but honest. "If I had looked like this when I met the boy, he might’ve fainted outright." A bitter chuckle escaped me. I had been wearing armor, obscuring most of my monstrous features, but even that could only do so much. If he’d seen me fully—every unnatural detail, every cruel contour—who knew how much worse his reaction would have been? It was strange, the small tug of regret. If I still had my old face, I could’ve managed things differently, made allies, or at least connections beyond the realm of demons. A human face had advantages I hadn’t considered back then—advantages that felt distant now.
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The boy in the mirror, the human I used to be, stared back silently, judging me from the past. A reminder of how far I’d fallen, how much I’d left behind. I could probably use blood to make a mask to cover my face so it is easier for the boy to talk to me. But I will have to keep the helm on with one visor up so it is easier to trick the elf.
But there was no time to linger here. With one last look at my family’s faces, I stood, shutting out the warmth of the fire and the quiet nostalgia of the space. The elf boy still waited in the waking world, and I had a job to do. I forced myself to step away from the mirror, away from the faces and memories that would have to wait.
I rose from the small, fresh pool of blood behind the throne, feeling my body stiff from the weight of sleep—or whatever passed for it in this twisted form. I stretched, feeling sinews loosen and bones settle, the discomfort ebbing as I fully awoke. Once my limbs no longer felt stiff and alien, I moved toward the pool's edge, emerging from the crimson depths.
A faint glow flickered in the corner of my vision—an alert. It was another reminder that something had changed, but I didn’t open it. Not yet. I needed to focus on something more pressing: finding a way to make myself look… not exactly human, but at least less monstrous. I wouldn't be able to recreate my old face yet but I should be able to mimic it.
I sighed, irritation pulling at me. The thought of my reflection again. I'm hoping my next evolution might bring me closer to that old human appearance and might grant me some recognizable features rather than what I have now.
With that thought, I extended my hand, reaching out with my mind to mold the blood around me, visualizing a mask that might pass for something human.
The blood rose before me, twisting and writhing in the air as I focused on shaping it. It wasn’t the first time I’d tried to mold blood, but creating something with detail—something close to human—was far more challenging than summoning a crude weapon or armor. I stared at the thick, dark liquid, trying to visualize how to craft a face, a mask that would look even halfway natural.
Art had never been my strength. I could sketch out a blade, and imagine a suit of armor, but when it came to people, I could barely make it past stick figures. Still, I wasn’t going for a masterpiece; just something… convincing. Something that wouldn’t make people’s skin crawl the second they looked at me. My fingers moved slowly, tracing vague lines in the air, and the blood began to respond, thickening and curving as it followed the shape of my thoughts.
The minutes stretched on, and my impatience fought with my need for control. I had time, though. Vorthan wouldn’t be back with the elf boy for a few more hours, and that left me alone, here in the dim silence, with nothing to focus on but the swirling blood. I used the time, adjusting lines, rounding edges, trying to picture how I’d once looked—how any human looked.
The mask slowly began to take form. It was crude, maybe a bit unnatural in how still and unyielding it was, but it had structure. Eyes, a nose, even a semblance of a mouth. With luck, it would give me a passably human appearance… or at least something less monstrous.
With one final adjustment, I held the mask in front of me, feeling its weight, knowing it wasn’t perfect but that it was close enough.
Just as I finished shaping the mask, another notification blinked to life in the corner of my vision, pulsing softly as if impatient for attention. With a sigh, I shifted my focus, reluctantly pulling my mind from the mask to check the new alert. So I opened them.
New skill gained.
Dark Mental Library R2 Level 1/10
The Dark Mental Library is an intricate, ever-expanding mental archive designed to house every experience, thought, and memory its user collects. This mental fortress has the unique ability to store memories in a way that prevents even the slightest detail from slipping into oblivion.
Upon activation, the library opens, revealing vast, dimly lit corridors filled with towering bookshelves. These shelves are divided into various sections, each dedicated to a different category of memories: battle tactics, encounters, betrayals, and other impactful life events. The atmosphere within is heavy, tinged with the weight of every experience etched into the mind, giving the user an unbreakable connection to all that they've learned.
Happy or good memories are safeguarded in a secure, isolated chamber deep within the library, locked behind a barrier that protects them from corruption or decay. Here, the few treasured moments of light are safely hidden, allowing the user to keep these memories untouched despite the otherwise darkened surroundings.
Once a memory is placed within the Dark Mental Library, it becomes permanent—impossible to lose or forget. With each new memory added, the library expands, forming additional hallways and rooms to hold the ever-growing archive. This powerful skill grants its wielder unparalleled recall and an eternal mental library immune to the ravages of time.
New Skill Gained.
Blood Mask R1 Level 1/5
Blood Mask allows the user to craft a flawless, temporary face over their own, concealing their true identity and granting them an untraceable visage. By manipulating blood magic, the user molds this mask from a layer of blood that reshapes itself into a realistic disguise. This face can be customized in detail—adjusting facial structure, features, skin tone, and even small imperfections to ensure complete anonymity.
When active, the Blood Mask looks and feels as real as skin, undetectable to the naked eye, and even difficult to sense with low-level magic detection skills. Designed to be worn for long periods, this skill allows Blood Assassins to seamlessly blend into crowds or take on any appearance necessary to approach their target unnoticed. The mask can withstand moderate damage, healing itself with blood from the user, though extensive injuries may cause it to deteriorate.
Upon deactivation, the mask dissolves seamlessly, leaving no trace of the disguise behind. This skill is an essential tool for Blood Assassins when they leave their sanctuary, ensuring their identity remains unknown and their faces remain a mystery long after they’ve vanished into the shadows.
However, due to the low rank of your skill, it will be hard to fool anyone. Raise the rank and skill level to make more realistic masks.
A grin stretched across my twisted maw, one that would’ve been unsettling to anyone watching. My first two skills formed almost effortlessly. A taste of the control I’d been craving since this nightmare of a transformation began. If it was this straightforward to create new skills, then who knew what else I could pull from my twisted thoughts?
I held up the Blood Mask, feeling the slight weight of it, testing its texture. As I fitted it over my face, it clung tightly, molding to the contours of my features, masking the worst of my monstrous visage. I adjusted it, feeling a strange satisfaction as it settled in place. Then, I pulled my helm down over it, the visor lowered to obscure anything that might peek through.
When Vorthan returned with the elf boy, I would be ready—able to manage the interrogation without risking an immediate recoil of fear or disgust from my appearance. The mask would do for now, though the power it took to maintain it hummed quietly at the back of my mind, a reminder that everything here had its price.