Extract from the -{ Tome of Light }- the divine scripture of the Church of Light.

"As the sun rises in majestic splendor, so too do I, the sovereign of all realms. Surrender your doubts to my unwavering brilliance, and bask in the certainty that my light alone guides the righteous to everlasting glory." (The Inevitability of Light - 1:2)

................................................................................................

A deafening crash of thunder reverberated through the dense forest, shaking the very foundations of the cave Asher had called home for the past week. The sound ricocheted off the stone walls, amplifying its fury and sending a flock of terrified birds screeching into the tumultuous sky above. Their panicked cries were quickly swallowed by the howling wind, a haunting chorus that seemed to whisper of impending doom.

Asher huddled closer to the meager fire, its warmth a stark contrast to the relentless storm that raged outside. The cave, once a sanctuary, now felt more like a prison. The constant patter of rain against stone created an eerie rhythm, occasionally punctuated by the crack of lightning that illuminated the forest in brief, ghostly flashes. In those moments, the trees outside transformed into twisted, gnarled figures, their branches reaching out like grasping fingers.

The tempest had made hunting impossible, a fact that gnawed at Asher's mind even as he took comfort in his stores of dried meat and firewood. The forced inactivity left him restless, his body still humming with the residual energy of recent battles. His fingers twitched, muscle memory reaching for weapons that weren't there.

A sharp pain in his shoulder drew a hiss from between clenched teeth. "Ugh," Asher grunted, his voice barely audible over the storm's cacophony. With practiced movements, he began to undo the leather wrappings around the wound, each layer peeled back revealing the toll of his recent encounters.

The bite mark, an angry red against his pale skin, served as a visceral reminder of his brush with death just two days prior. As Asher inspected the wound, the memory of that fateful hunt played out in his mind with startling clarity.

The pack of Dire Hounds had set their trap well. Their troops had engaged him, a whirlwind of snapping jaws and razor-sharp claws that demanded every ounce of his attention. It was then, in that crucial moment of distraction, that the pack leader had made its move.

Asher could still feel the hot breath on his neck, the pressure of jaws powerful enough to crush bone. His hand had moved on pure instinct, knife flashing upward in a desperate bid for survival. The blade had found its mark, wedging between the beast's teeth and sparing Asher's throat from being torn out.

Even now, safe in the confines of the cave, Asher's heart raced at the memory. He had activated 'the heart of Chronos' in that moment, the world slowing to a crawl as he extracted himself from certain death. But the pack leader had escaped, disappearing into the forest with its troops before Asher could land a killing blow.

The following day had been spent in agony, his body screaming for rest even as his mind raced with plans for revenge. When he finally hunted down the pack leader, the battle had been brutal and swift. Now, its hide adorned the cave wall, a trophy and a warning to any who might challenge him.

Asher's fingers probed the infected wound, eliciting a fresh wave of pain that threatened to overwhelm him. The healing paste he'd concocted provided some relief, but progress was frustratingly slow. Still, he mused, it was better than relying solely on natural recovery. Without the paste and the healing spring he'd discovered, each day of battle would have required four days of rest – a luxury he couldn't afford in this unforgiving wilderness.

As he reapplied the bandages, Asher reflected on the changes wrought by his constant struggles. His body, once soft from a life of relative comfort, had been forged in the crucible of survival. Each battle pushed him to his limits, and with each limit surpassed, he felt himself growing stronger.

[ Physical limits surpassed Strength +1, Agility +1, Endurance +1, Vitality + ]

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

But it wasn't just his body that had changed. Asher could feel a darkness growing within him, a primal hunger that reveled in the bloodshed. His mastery of weapons had increased, yes, but so too had his capacity for violence.

[ Name: Asher Whitlock ]

[ Race: Human ] [ unawakened ]

[ Skills: Beginner Sword Mastery L.v 1, Beginner Knife Mastery L.v 3, Beginner Close-Combat Mastery L.v 3, Bloodlust L.v 2, Eyes of Odin (Sealed) ]

[ Bloodline Skills: The Heart of Chronos (Sealed) ]

[ Quests: 3 active quests ]

[ Titles: Seeded Trainee *, Conqueror of the Mighty, Beast Slayer I. ]

[ Skill: ‘Bloodlust Lv.2’ (Passive):

* The user lets out an aura of bloodlust during combat or a state of extreme anger or excitement.

* The aura increases the user's strength by 2%.

* Beings weaker than the user are inflicted by the status ‘Fear’ ]

Asher's eyes lingered on the skill descriptions, a mix of pride and unease settling in his gut.

The storm outside seemed to mirror the turmoil within Asher's mind. He was grateful for his increased prowess, but the cost... the cost weighed heavily on his conscience. Each day brought new battles, new scars both physical and mental. The routine had become almost mechanical: hunt in the morning, gather resources in the afternoon, and spend the evenings grappling with the mysteries of his sealed skills.

It was during these quiet moments of introspection that Asher had made a breakthrough with 'The Eyes of Odin'. For days, he had sensed something just beyond his perception, like a door hovering at the edge of his vision. Each attempt to focus on it caused it to vanish, until finally, on the fourth day, he had grasped the elusive handle and stepped through.

The world beyond that door defied description. A realm of swirling grey mist, punctuated only by the crumbling remains of what must have once been a magnificent castle. Asher had explored cautiously, his every step feeling like an intrusion in this otherworldly space.

Now, with the storm raging outside and his body forced into stillness, Asher saw an opportunity. He settled against the cave wall, the fire's warmth at his back, and closed his eyes. The patter of rain became a soothing rhythm, guiding him down into the depths of his own mind.

The transition was smoother this time, the grey fog parting to reveal the familiar ruined castle. Asher approached the massive doors, their scale still awe-inspiring despite his previous visit. As his hand reached out to touch the ancient wood, a spike of pain lanced through his skull. Gritting his teeth, Asher pushed through the discomfort, refusing to be denied entry.

The gates swung open with surprising ease, revealing a corridor that seemed to stretch into infinity. Giant statues lined the path, their broken forms hinting at past glories now lost to time. Each step Asher took echoed ominously, the pressure in his mind building with every foot of progress.

Finally, he emerged into a grand hall, its ceiling open to the churning grey sky above. Broken pillars reached upward, as if straining to hold back the roiling clouds. At the far end of the hall, atop a raised platform, sat a throne that seemed to call to something deep within Asher's soul.

The first step onto the platform sent a jolt through his entire being. Thunder crashed in his ears as the sky above began to churn with increased fury. Asher's mind reeled, threatening to shut down under the assault, but he forced himself to focus.

With each subsequent step, the world around him seemed to rebel against his very presence. The wind howled, carrying whispers of forgotten languages. The pillars groaned under the weight of the descending clouds. Yet Asher pressed on, driven by a need he couldn't fully comprehend.

As he neared the throne, something within Asher snapped. The carefully constructed walls of his psyche crumbled, releasing a torrent of rage and defiance. His body exuded an aura of pure bloodlust, his eyes cold and calculating even as his lips curled into a feral grin.

This wasn't Asher anymore. This was something older, something primal that had been awakened by the trials he had endured. It threw its arms wide, challenging the very fabric of this strange realm.

"You dare stop me," it roared, its voice carrying the weight of eons.

The final step onto the throne's dais felt like a declaration of war against reality itself. The sky split asunder, revealing glimpses of cosmic horrors beyond mortal comprehension.

"This throne is no longer yours. BEGONE!!"

In an instant, everything snapped back to normal. The fury of moments before was replaced by an eerie calm, as if nothing had happened at all. Asher, once again himself, clutched at his head as waves of agony washed over him.

"Huh...ARGG!!" he cried out, his voice echoing in the empty hall. The memory of what had transpired was already fading, leaving behind only the lingering taste of rage so potent it made him dizzy. Wrath, so strong that he wanted to rip out his own flesh and paint the world with it.

A warm trickle down his face drew Asher's attention. His fingers came away red, the familiar sight of blood doing little to calm his racing heart.

"Blood?" he muttered, confusion and fear warring for dominance in his mind.

Before he could process what it all meant, darkness claimed him. Asher's body crumpled before the ancient throne, leaving him sprawled and vulnerable in a realm he didn't understand.

The grey mist swirled around his unconscious form, secrets yet unrevealed hanging heavy in the air. What transformations had been set in motion? What price would Asher pay for the power he sought? These questions remained unanswered as he lay there, adrift in a sea of forgotten memories and untapped potential.