It felt as if he had been plunged into an icy abyss. A bone-chilling cold seeped into his very bones, and a polar gust of wind whipped over him.

He opened his eyes instantly. Before him, lying on his side, the sun hung low in the sky, casting a pale light. There was no warmth, no safety. Just cold.

Propelled to his feet, he hastily brushed the snow off of him, which had clung to him like a second skin.

But before he could catch his breath, another ferocious gust of wind howled down the mountainside. He exhaled in shock feeling his breath being stripped from his lungs. His heart raced wildly, pounding against his ribcage as his eyes widened in shock by the cold.

He clutched his body as he stood naked atop the rocky remnants of a great mountain, now fractured and desolate. The biting cold nipped at his skin and the snow rose just halfway up his shins. The land below and all around him was draped in a thick blanket of snow.

Gazing down the slope, he saw trees that sprawled out from him slowly gathering together to form a sprawling icy pine forest.

He turned back up the mountainside, his breath coming in ragged gasps, each exhale forming thick plumes of white smoke that lingered and then dissipated. And then he spotted it---up the slope, a small stone structure stood, perhaps a home, but more importantly for him, it was a shelter.

With that singular thought anchoring him, he began his hike up the mountain side. The harsh cold air bit at his flesh like a hundred daggers, the snow crunched beneath his feet, each step utterly painful. He clenched his teeth and bore through the pain, tossing away the notion of surrendering to the cold.

The incline wasn't too harsh, but the danger of slipping still off the mountain filled his mind. He took extra measures to drive his feet deep into the snow, testing the ground beneath him before fully committing his weight.

With a final, agonizing step, he reached the icy foundation of the stone structure. Glancing down, he saw his feet were covered in numerous cuts, inflicted by the snow and ice.

They aren't blue... He thought.

Such a dim thought, but the Dream Realm didn't show mercy for those that dreamt. He stepped forth peering cautiously into the interior of the building. The air felt stale, and it appeared to him that no one had been around for ages. he paused, granting his eyes a moment to adjust.

Once adjusted, he stepped inside, leaving the biting cold behind him. The first thing he noticed was the furniture arranged in a purposeful wall-like formation, as if to keep something---or someone out.

He stepped closer to the makeshift barricade, his cold fingers fumbled to grab the edge of the heavy table that was tipped on its side. He strained with a grunt, dragging the table across the stone floor. His chilled muscles struggled, but he managed to move the heavy piece of furniture without accidently causing any additional damage to his already battered feet.

Once the table was finally out of the way, Zerin froze. What he saw sent a shiver down his spin, far colder than the air surrounding him. Leaning back against the corner of the room was a corpse.

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It was a man, likely in his mid-twenties, his features were distorted to terror, frozen in time as if the icy chill of horror gripped him in his very last moments. His eyes were wide, yet they weren't focused, while his mouth was displaying a silent scream.

Zerin struggled to even look at the man, it was disturbing to see such a sight, and he wondered what happened to this man, and how long he has been dead, hoping that whatever it was that got to him was long gone now.

The wore a heavy jacket, its fabric weathered and worn, but it still seemed capable of withstanding the elements. The legs of his pants were tattered at the bottom. A sturdy pair of boots, still tightly laced, remained firmly secured on his feet.

As his eyes took in the lifeless figure, a single thought filled his mind: warmth.

Zerin did what anyone would have done. He knelt beside the body and reached for the heavy jacket. Stripping clothes from the dead would typically be seen as a violation of the dead, but the desire for warmth drowned out any concept of hesitation.

Slipping the jacket over his shoulders, he felt better, a deluding placebo. The jacket was sturdy and well made, he really felt like he was lucky to get his hands on a coat. He put on the man's pants the fabric was coarse, a bit uncomfortable but it was protective, and he also found that they hung a bit loosely around his waist. The boots, though slightly large, felt rather comfortable.

He exhaled, sending a warm stream of air from his lungs into his icy hands, rubbing them together to generate heat. "Thanks for the clothes..." he murmured softly.

His words felt more like a prayer for forgiveness, but the dead do not answer your prayers.

He found himself staring at the body he had propped up awkwardly against the wall.

With the dead man's clothing stripped away, it revealed the ghostly pale blue hue of his skin. Just beneath the surface, his veins held an azure hue, which stood out starkly.

He couldn't leave him like this.

Zerin grasped the lifeless body, his hands closing around his cold wrists, and began dragging him outside. He wrestled with the body; labored gasps escaped his lips as he pulled the body over the rough stone foundation.

But when he left the stone foundation, the struggle intensified. The soft white powder resisted, attempting to swallow the lifeless body, turning a merciful task into a fierce battle.

During this struggle, a dark thought crossed his mind, but he ignored it, deeming the act of tossing a body off the mountainside far too inhumane.

Breathless and grimacing, he finally managed to pull the body a short distance away from the entrance of the building. He chose a spot up the hill instead of down; it required more effort, but he did this to avoid having to pass the body up and down in the future.

But as he walked away, he paused and glanced back up the incline. He sighed heavily.

"Not good enough." He muttered.

Unsatisfied, he stuffed his chilled hands into the pockets of the heavy jacket and continued back to the stone structure.

Once inside, his mind was set on a new goal: to build a fire.

He began reorganizing the room, approaching the wooden table. Being warmer he was able to move much more efficiently and with a grunt of effort, he hoisted the table upright positioning it vertically to block the single opening---the doorway. It stood sturdily, though not perfectly, with only a few inches left at the top for airflow. Though it wasn't perfect it would shield him from the elements, at least for now.

He shifted the stacks of chairs and brought them out towards the center of the room. He pulled out the mat that the chairs were placed upon, shaking it vigorously to get rid of the dust that clung to its surface before rolling it up tightly and setting it aside.

The sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the room, Zerin scanned his surroundings for anything that could aid him in building a fire. His eyes darted to the corners of the building, and then something caught his attention—something nestled in the dark corner where the body had once been.

As he moved closer, disbelief filled his features. There, blending into the shadows of the structure, was a sword. Quickly, he reached out, grasping the hilt.

[You have received a memory.]

He lifted the sword above his head to catch a better glimpse of the blade. He raised the blade up and it caught the light. In that moment, the blade transformed from dull black color to the starry night sky, casting a astral light that filled the shadowy space around him.

The sword was single edged from the looks of it, designed for slashing, its longer and wider back tapering towards its cutting edge. The craftmanship was extraordinary, even an amateur like him could realize that. The hilt featured a minimal cross-guard and was wrapped in a comfortable type of leather. He noted how the pommel allowed just enough space for his fingers to rest comfortably, ensuring he could wield it with ease.

After examining the memory's physical appearance, he through its runes.

Memory Name: [Astral Blade]

Memory Description: Forged from the fallen fragments of the skies, greatly diminished as a blade.

Memory Rank: Awakened, Tier IV

Memory Enchantments:

[Astral Edge] - "Once, the Skies waged war against the Shadow. This was the moment it all began—the war that every being testified to, marked by the Astral light heralding the beginning of the end."

Waged war against the Shadow...

It seemed to him those shadows, especially the Shadow God, had a bad reputation. Whether or not it was justified, he found this to be consistent. From the First Nightmare to the Temple of Nocturne, shadows were always unpopular. Perhaps those philosophers were right all along—people truly do love to hide from their own shadows.

He dismissed his runes and looked around the room, thinking he should get back to the fire. He sat cross legged and grabbed a chair and began to work.