Daemian's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry as he slowly regained consciousness. The sterile white walls of the school infirmary greeted him, their clinical glow casting an unwelcome pallor over the room. A faint, bitter scent hung in the air, mingling with the faint undertone of crushed flowers. As he tried to sit up, a sharp pain shot through his temples, causing him to wince.
It was then that he heard it—a melodic symphony drifting through the room, carried on ethereal notes that seemed to transcend time and space. It wrapped around his senses like a delicate mist, whispering secrets and unraveling mysteries in its haunting refrain.
The symphony was a masterpiece of darkness and melancholy, composed with such precision and artistry that it stirred emotions deep within Daemian's soul. It began with a soft, mournful melody, a lamentation of lost dreams and shattered hopes. The gentle strains of the violin tugged at his heartstrings, their bittersweet resonance resonating with his own inner turmoil.
As the symphony progressed, the music swelled, embracing the darkness with a ferocious intensity. The cellos and bassoons weaved a complex tapestry of deep, rumbling tones, evoking a sense of foreboding and impending danger. Daemian could almost envision shadows dancing in time with the music, their ethereal forms twisting and twirling in a macabre ballet.
But it was the interplay of the piano and the haunting vocals that captivated Daemian the most. The pianist's fingers danced across the keys with unparalleled dexterity, creating a cascade of cascading notes that ebbed and flowed like a river of sorrow. The singer's voice, a haunting soprano, resonated with an otherworldly quality as if she were channeling the very essence of the night itself.
Yet, there was something more to this symphony, something that Daemian's keen senses detected. Enerith, infused with the essence of life, laced every note of the symphony. It was a tangible presence, a subtle vibration that resonated deep within his core. The energizing power of Enerith gave the symphony an ethereal quality as if it were breathing and pulsating with a life of its own.
Daemian's eyes widened as he realized the significance of the Enerith-infused symphony. The presence of Enerith in "Night's Shade" hinted at a greater truth. As the symphony reached its crescendo, its haunting beauty washed over Daemian, infusing him with a renewed life the pain in his temples dulled, replaced by a surge of energy that coursed through his veins.
He turned towards his side, and there, seated beside him, was the originator of the symphony—a young woman with tousled, brown hair and a pair of thick glasses. "Night's shade," he whispered, his voice a blend of disbelief and awe.
"Oh, I'm surprised you recognize it, young lord," she responded, her tone filled with a hint of amusement.
Of course, he recognized the melody; how could he not? He was its original composer afterall.
"Where did you learn it?" he inquired, genuinely curious.
She placed a finger on her chin, gazing upwards in contemplation. "Hmm, it's quite a common one among healers, you know? Let's just say I acquired it during my schooling days," she replied, accompanied by a gentle, dreamy smile.
"What school? How could you possibly..." he began, but she swiftly interrupted him.
"Young lord!" she interjected, her voice filled with authority. "Don't you think I should be the one asking the questions here?" Springing up from her chair, she leaned in, inches away from Daemian's face.
"What do you—" he started, before being cut off once again.
"The playground!" she yelled, recoiling back and clutching her head with both hands. "You practically turned it into a trash heap!"
Suddenly, Daemian remembered. Right before waking up in the infirmary, his last memory was of obliterating the playground.
"Not to mention the children! They all refuse to leave the classroom! You scared the shit out them! Ah... I probably shouldn't use such language in front of a child, but seriously..." she continued, her words pouring forth without pause.
Growing weary of her incessant chastisement, Daemian leaped out of bed and humbly bowed his head, one hand crossed over the other. "I apologize, miss," he sincerely offered.
She seemed taken aback by his sudden apology but was more than willing to accept it. "Well, as long as you understand," she responded, clearing her throat. "Apologies can only go so far. The school is already struggling financially; we can't afford to repair the playground."
"Don't worry, miss," Daemian assured her. "I will speak to my lord father about this matter."
As he uttered those words, she shuddered where she stood, beads of cold sweat forming on her forehead. "The lord?" she stammered, her voice trembling. "N-no, there's no need to trouble him over such a trivial matter. I'll simply sacrifice a few months of my own pay to fix it."
"That's not necessary," Daemian insisted. "Thank you for personally attending to me, miss. I understand that, as the headmistress, you have more pressing matters to attend to. Let me handle this as a token of my gratitude. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
Before she could utter a word, he swiftly made his way out of the infirmary.
Softly, he murmured the name "Daemian Lunaeris" as he wandered through the echoing halls of the school. House Lunaeris, one of the esteemed high houses, is renowned for producing exceptional practitioners skilled in both the sacred arts and blade arts. The patriarch of House Lunaeris, was Daemian’s father, Daemos Lunaeris. However, the connection between father and son existed only in name, for ever since Daemian was deemed stained, he had been cut off from his father's presence. Daemos had six other children to attend to, after all.
Bereft of the ability to harness the sacred arts or wield a blade, Daemian was fated to endure a life marked by ridicule and contempt from those around him, powerless to alter his circumstances. Well, that would have been my reality if I had remained Daemian, he pondered as he gazed at his hand, sensing the pulsating surge of Enerith coursing through his veins. He was still grappling with the inexplicable transformation that had befallen him. As a stained individual, Daemian had never harbored any hope of accessing Enerith or Enera. Yet, since his awakening as "Killian," it appeared that his previous limitations had been shattered.
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A peculiar sensation enveloped him, as though two distinct minds had merged into one, with his younger self, Daemian, all but consumed by his previous identity as Killian. It was a disconcerting experience, more unsettling than merely odd. Despite his personal misgivings about his current predicament, there was one thing he urgently required: knowledge. The scant fragments he had gleaned from Daemian amounted to little more than fleeting glimpses and disjointed information, devoid of any true understanding. He was utterly ignorant of the world into which he had been thrust. However, he knew where he might find the answers he sought—the Lunaeris grimoire.
***
Guided by a resolute determination, Daemian’s steps quickened, leading him through the grand school corridors and toward the heart of the Lunaeris estate—a vast and majestic library. This repository of knowledge, known as the Lunaeris grimoire, housed an immense collection of texts that spanned countless shelves, reaching toward the towering ceiling. The library stood as a testament to the Lunaeris’s legacy, and it was within these hallowed halls that Daemian hoped to gain a better understanding of the world.
As he pushed open the ornately carved doors, a wave of reverence washed over him, immersing him in an ambiance of quiet wisdom and profound scholarly pursuits. Sunlight streamed through towering stained glass windows, casting vibrant patterns upon the mosaic floors and illuminating the countless tomes that lined the shelves. The air carried the faint scent of aged parchment and the soft whispers of countless pages holding ancient knowledge.
Daemian’s eyes widened in awe as he marveled at the magnitude of the library's offerings. He was acutely aware that this was not just a physical sanctuary but a realm of boundless possibilities, a gateway to understanding the mysteries that swirled within him. However, as he ventured further into the library, he noticed something peculiar—whispers of intrigue and curiosity that seemed to follow in his wake.
Peering through the gaps between shelves, he caught glimpses of scholars, students, and even curious passersby, their eyes briefly fixated on him before returning to their scholarly pursuits. Murmurs floated through the air, carried on a gentle breeze, as whispers of speculation and intrigue spread among the library's denizens. Some recognized the young man as a member of the Lunaeris bloodline, while others sensed the latent power that radiated from his stained aura.
Though Daemian’s presence in the library drew attention, he remained undeterred. The weight of their curious gazes and hushed conversations were no more significant than the flapping of a butterfly’s wing.
Dedicated hours were spent by Daemian, engrossed in an ardent search through a myriad of historical tomes, driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Gradually, the veil of ignorance lifted, revealing a profound revelation. A thousand years prior, an enigmatic event, shrouded in mystery, had occurred, forever altering the destiny of Enarathia, the very world from which his past self, Killian hailed. This cataclysmic event, known as the convergence, had seamlessly merged Enarathia with a previously unfamiliar realm, the new world, both unified in their essence.
The nascent years following this cosmic amalgamation were far from idyllic. Instead, they were marred by the grim specter of warfare, transforming the once vibrant realms into a nightmarish hellscape, awash with the grim palette of blood and ash. In the midst of this unrestrained chaos, a select group of visionary individuals emerged from the quagmire, driven by an innate understanding of the formidable consequences brought forth by the unfettered release of boundless energies.
These individuals, having borne witness to the wanton destruction that ensued, recognized the dire need for regulation and mastery over the unleashed forces. Embracing the diverse cultural tapestry woven by the newfound world and drawing inspiration from the enigmatic allure of Enarathia, they united under the banner of a revered council, now known as the Enerith Conclave.
The Enerith Conclave stood as an embodiment of enlightenment and sought to intertwine the collective wisdom, practices, and beliefs from both realms, striving to mold a harmonious equilibrium and establish a fresh order. Their aspirations extended far beyond mere assimilation, as they endeavored to forge an unparalleled union of martial prowess, spiritual enlightenment, and arcane energies.
With steadfast dedication, they undertook arduous study, conducted audacious experiments, and sought guidance from enlightened masters. Their unwavering resolve and unwritten pact with knowledge itself culminated in the formulation of the foundational pillars of Enerith and Enera, realms where tradition and innovation converged in harmonious synergy, creating a paradigm hitherto unexplored.
In the wake of the establishment of the Enerith Conclave, the realm began a slow process of recovery. The scars of war remained, but a newfound equilibrium had been achieved. The new world cultures adapted to the influx of Enarathians, incorporating them into their traditions, architecture, and way of life. The new world, too, found solace in the wisdom and order of Enerith, curbing its malevolent impulses.
Enerith became the bedrock of the new world, a testament to the resilience, adaptability, and transformative power of the realm. It symbolized the unity of once-divided cultures. The Convergence marked a turning point in the history of the realm, forever entwining the destinies of the new world and Enarathia, giving birth to a world now known as “new Enarathia”.
As Daemian's eyes scanned the words sprawled across the pages, an overwhelming surge of disbelief and disdain consumed him. Each sentence seemed to deepen his incredulity, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of vexation. "What the fuck is this bullshit?" Daemian muttered under his breath, his voice laden with a mixture of irritation and contempt.
The convergence, Enera, and the new world, none of it held any significance to him. Such matters were trivial and inconsequential compared to the burning questions that tormented his mind. Where was Galen, the wretched soul responsible for stripping him of everything he held dear? Where were those who had callously torn his life asunder? Daemian's thoughts were consumed by an unrelenting hatred, an insatiable thirst for vengeance.
In a fit of uncontrolled fury, he flung the book he had been holding with an intensity that reverberated through the air. The impact reverberated through the shelves, causing them to tremble precariously as if they were on the verge of crumbling under the weight of his rage.
"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!" he bellowed, the words escaping his lips like a raging inferno. His mind was ablaze, consumed by a tempest of emotions, leaving no room for coherent thought or rationality. Revenge, bitter and elusive, loomed before him, just out of reach, mocking his fervent desire to bring those who had wronged him to their knees.
Suddenly, a voice, meek and trembling, pierced through the chaos of Daemian's internal tempest. One of the servants, summoning the last vestiges of courage, dared to address him. His eyes, still smoldering with fury, bore into the servant's trembling form, his gaze slicing through the air like a sharpened blade. The servant stumbled backward, visibly shaken by Daemian's wrath, and in a voice tinged with trepidation, he spoke. "Y-Young lord, the lord... he instructed me to inform you that dignitaries from House Daine are due to arrive..."
"Daine?" Daemian repeated, the syllables rolling off his tongue with a mixture of intrigue and malice. A sinister grin began to form on his face, contorting his features into a grotesque mask of malevolence. "Of course," he muttered, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Hahaha, disappearing into the annals of history would be far too kind of an end for these parasites."
A manic laughter bubbled up from within him, its echoes reverberating through the room. "Good! That's great!" he exclaimed, his voice resonating with deranged delight. "We shall have a grand welcome-back party, won't we?" The words dripped with sarcasm and a twisted sense of satisfaction. Daemian's mind, once a turbulent whirlwind of rage, now embraced a newfound purpose, a morbid anticipation of the impending reunion.