The guards, growing bored with their endless taunts and jabs, eventually lost interest in the prisoner, their voices fading into idle chatter. Left to himself, the slave was finally free to stew in his darkening thoughts. The weight of his situation settled heavily upon him.
The tunnel's monotonous journey was interrupted as its narrow confines abruptly gave way to the yawning expanse of a vast cavern. In the dim light, a magnificent stone bridge came into view, spanning a chasm of indeterminate depth. The bridge, appearing to be carved from a single massive piece of rock, was as wide as the tunnel they had just left behind. Its smooth surface gleamed faintly in the low light, hinting at ancient craftsmanship beyond mortal skill.
As they approached, the echoing clatter of hooves and wagon wheels, along with the low murmur of the guards' conversations, seemed to fade, consumed by the cavern's ancient silence. The wagon creaked as it transitioned from the tunnel floor to the bridge's surface. A brisk crosswind swept across the expanse, whistling softly as it passed through unseen crevices in the cavern walls. The gust carried with it the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic, perhaps the remnants of long-forgotten ores embedded in the rock.
The sudden chill from the wind snaked under his skin, seeping into his bones and twisting his thoughts darker with each passing moment. The vastness of the cavern, barely visible in the gloom, seemed to press down upon him, amplifying the weight of his captivity.
As the noise around him faded into the stillness of the cavern, the chains of his despair seemed to tighten their grip.
Alone with his thoughts, the stranger turned his attention inward, assessing his battered state. His body ached from a wealth of scrapes, pains, and bruises. A dull throbbing persisted in his head, though oddly, these ailments seemed to have improved somewhat—as if his body clung stubbornly to survival despite its torment. Yet he was tired, a bone-deep weariness that went beyond the physical, born of his grim circumstances and the relentless anxiety of the unknown. Every fiber of his being yearned for the sweet oblivion of sleep, a fleeting escape from this waking nightmare.
But the bindings that cut into his wrists and the ceaseless parade of thoughts kept him anchored to wakefulness. Questions, fears, and fragmented memories churned in a dizzying maelstrom, denying him even the small mercy of rest.
This just isn't fair. The words rose unbidden, bitter and sharp, as if the very air around him had thickened with his frustration. His hands clenched into fists, the cold metal once again reminding him of his restraints.
For a brief moment, an image flickered in his mind—a blonde man in flowing robes, whining to a gleaming, metallic humanoid figure. The vision felt distant, foreign, and yet utterly familiar. He shook his head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came. Just a temporary distraction, he told himself, from the strange, nagging fragments that clung to his mind like persistent lines of buggy code.
And yet, with the fading of the vision, the darkness receded a little.
This is life, the spirit’s voice cut in, calm and detached. The strong dictate fate. You should know this.
Flashes of lives—strange, distant, and incomplete—ran through his mind, each one reinforcing the spirit’s bitter truth: the strong rule. Still, ideas of democracy and equality bloomed in his thoughts, as solid and immovable as the mountain walls surrounding them. Concepts of fairness, justice, a world where power didn’t dictate fate—they were real, weren’t they?
The spirit laughed, a sound like wind over a barren field, full of mirth and disbelief. What are these things you think of? it asked. They're like a child’s fairy tale. Empty dreams, wrapped in illusion.
Annoyed, the stranger muttered under his breath, “Well, this is an absolute dumpster fire if you ask me." He felt a tightness in his chest as he spoke, it was suddenly hard to breathe.
The spirit paused, the faintest ripple of confusion brushing against his mind. Dumpster fire? I do not understand your meaning.
The stranger barked a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. Figures. I barely understand myself.
The strange words—this strange language—had been tumbling through his thoughts since he woke. They didn’t belong in this world; he didn’t belong in this world. That much was clear.
His gaze drifted over his surroundings—the soldiers trudging with mechanical precision, the hollow-eyed captives slumped in resignation beside him. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat and despair, mingling with the stale odor of damp earth. This world was wrong, unfamiliar, yet disturbingly real. It gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch, like an incomplete program waiting for its final lines of code.
This isn’t the world I know.
And with that thought came another, one far more chilling: But what world do I know?
Am I crazy? The thought hit him with sudden, jarring force. Am I sitting in some padded cell, drugged out of my mind, trapped in my own delusions? His breath quickened, panic threatening to shatter his fragile composure.
I am very real, the spirit snapped, its tone sharpened by irritation. The sudden force of its presence was like a mental jolt, dragging him back from the brink of hysteria.
He exhaled slowly, struggling to ground himself. Right. I have to assume I'm not crazy. This is a problem I can solve. Focus on what I know first. His thoughts felt brittle, ready to splinter at any moment, but he clung to this thin thread of rationality.
The stranger closed his eyes, trying to organize the chaos in his mind. Facts. He needed facts.
This world... it was wrong. Magic, cultivation—concepts that should be fantasy were undeniably real here. Images of sleek computers and bustling cities flashed through his mind, a stark contrast to his current surroundings. Science, not sorcery, shaped the world he knew.
And yet...
A nagging sense of familiarity tugged at him. As if he'd seen this before, lived it somehow. The thought sent a chill down his spine.
But there was more. Something stirred within him, ancient and powerful. It whispered of forgotten knowledge, of a deep connection to this alien world. He gripped the edge of the wagon, his knuckles white, as he grappled with this realization.
After a time, he realized he was staring at the grim reminder on his wrists—the cold, unyielding grip of the iron shackles. My immediate problem is I’ve been captured, and whoever these people are, they mean to make me a slave.
The thought brought a simmering anger, but he pushed it aside. Anger wouldn’t help. Information might. Speaking in the language the spirit had shared with him, he leaned toward the other captives and asked, “Do you know where we’re being taken?”
The response was immediate—and disappointing. They shrank back, their heads dipping low, eyes darting away from his as if meeting his gaze might invite further misfortune upon them.
“Well, so much for that,” he muttered under his breath.
What assets do I have?
His gaze dropped to his clothes, starkly out of place among the other captives. Despite the dirt and damage, they were functional—sturdy blue pants with fine stitching that hinted at quality craftsmanship, held up by a utilitarian brown leather belt, its surface slightly worn but in good condition. White-laced shoes, marked by a swoosh, though scuffed, still had plenty of miles left in them. A sleeveless gray shirt bore an odd emblem: a flat disc-like structure with a spindly metallic body beneath it. The letters "Star Trek" arced across the chest, while "NCC-1701" stood prominently above the disc. The fabric, though worn, felt durable against his skin, a stark reminder of a world where such materials were commonplace.
In contrast, the others wore little more than tattered rags. Their clothes, threadbare and patched beyond repair, hung loosely on their gaunt frames. Most were barefoot, their feet calloused and filthy from years of hard labor. A few had crude boots or sandals, but none looked like they could withstand the grueling conditions these slaves endured.
“Kirk would find a way out,” he muttered, a bitter half-smile playing on his lips. “After sleeping with the woman. Picard? He’d just talk his way out.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he noticed the other captives flinch at his strange speech. They tried to shamble further away in fear, as if that were possible, but the cramped confines of the wagon prevented any real escape
The brief moment of levity died away with the response from the other prisoners. Yet, some of the gloom and anxiety evaporated as well. His mind shifted to the spirit within him. Surely it was an asset—it had to be.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Do you have a name? he asked tentatively, projecting his thoughts toward the presence within him.
The response came, calm and unhurried. You may call me Zephyrion. I was known by that name during my life.
Why are you here? Why me? His tone betrayed a mixture of hope and frustration. He needed answers—something solid to grasp in the swirling uncertainty.
A long silence followed, heavy with contemplation, before the spirit replied. I do not know.
The blunt admission hit him like a kick to the head, leaving him momentarily speechless. But Zephyrion continued, Perhaps I am merely a legacy. A remnant of what once was.
Then you’re here to help me advance, the stranger pressed, his voice firm as he sought something concrete amidst the chaos
Another long pause stretched between them, the silence echoing like the void between stars. Finally, the spirit answered, Yes.
The single word carried weight, a faint ember of reassurance in the oppressive darkness.
The stranger barely noticed when the wagon train left the cavern behind. The heavy echoes of hooves and wheels grew louder, amplified by the narrow stone-lined tunnel, replacing the open, expansive silence of the cavern. The air grew thicker, more stifling, settling in like an old, familiar weight. It was as if the cavern had never existed, swallowed up again by the unyielding rock of the tunnel that stretched endlessly ahead.
Then what do you remember? he pressed, careful to mask his doubt.
I remember a lifetime of memories, Zephyrion said, his voice distant as though recounting the tale of a dream lost to time. But this... iteration of me, this existence, began only two days ago. Beyond that, I cannot say.
The words echoed like the faint tremor of a storm long passed, leaving an unsettling weight in the air—a sense that something vast, once real and vibrant, had now faded into mere recollections.
Zephyrion’s spirit stirred, as if he were recalling the glory of a time when his name was legend.
You wish to know of me? His voice was like the crash of a storm against a distant mountain. Very well. Hear this.
Zephyrion had been a name—a symbol—across the length and breadth of Tal'Rayan. In his prime, he was more than a cultivator. He was a force of nature, a living tempest.
By the time he reached the Nascent Soul stage, envy had consumed many who believed his rise was too swift. Yet none could deny his power or refute his brilliance. He was the undisputed master of his craft, the sword that cleaved the heavens.
When he assumed the mantle of Sect Leader of the Celestial Harmony Sect, he did so with the same relentless precision that he brought to the battlefield. For five centuries, Zephyrion led the sect, molding it into an indomitable force. His name was spoken in awe, not just in grand halls but in every hidden cave and every mountain peak where cultivators trained. He commanded Fire, Air, Metal, and Earth with a mastery beyond any living cultivator; these elements bowed to him.
And as a martial cultivator, his feats were the stuff of legends. A Sword Saint, he was said to split entire armies in two with strikes sharp enough to cleave mountains and summon storms of fire and wind. His mastery of the sword was beyond all measure, a perfection of technique that only those who dared stand in his shadow could comprehend.
Who could challenge me? Zephyrion asked rhetorically, arrogance seeping back into his words like a forgotten echo. None. No one.
He paused, savoring the echo of his former glory. The stranger could almost feel the vastness of Zephyrion’s pride thickening the atmosphere around them.
Until the demons came.
I was a general in the battle against the demons, Zephyrion continued, his voice darkening. The invasion... His words hung heavy as he relived the horror. The demon horde had torn across Tal'Rayan, a relentless tide of destruction that sought to devour everything. But Zephyrion did not flinch; he stood as the shield for his people, leading his sect’s armies with the ferocity of a storm.
For decades, the battle raged on. Zephyrion was not merely a commander—he was a weapon forged in war's crucible. With elemental mastery, he shaped the battlefield itself: summoning storms of flame, winds that razed cities, and mountains of metal to crush demons beneath their weight. The earth seemed to heed his call; it was said that in his presence, even the skies trembled in fear.
His martial prowess was unmatched; every victory added to the myth surrounding him. He became a living legend whose name was whispered among brave warriors—his very presence instilling fear even in demons.
I was the terror of the battlefield, Zephyrion’s voice grew stronger with pride. I made them tremble. No one could stand before me.
The stranger felt the heat of Zephyrion’s memories—the power and certainty of a time when the world had been his to command, when elements bent to his will. He had been a force beyond reckoning.
Yet beneath layers of pride lay something else: a glimmer of loss—something even Zephyrion could not fully grasp.
And how did it end? What about the demon scourge? What became of it? the stranger asked, his voice laced with urgency. These are humans who’ve captured me, not demons.
Zephyrion’s presence rippled with a faint tension, frustration tinginging his thoughts. I do not know, the spirit admitted. What came of it lies beyond my understanding. My memories… are incomplete.
The stranger frowned, the spirit’s uncertainty only deepening the enigma. Despite the gaps in Zephyrion’s memory, the knowledge the spirit had shared was vast. He seemed to be a true prodigy of cultivation—remarkably, the stranger found that he himself seemed to share some of that knowledge, at least in part. Almost instinctively, he realized he possessed a fundamental understanding of cultivation, an awareness that should have taken decades, if not centuries, to acquire.
“It’s fragmented,” he murmured aloud, “and only surfaces when I notice something new or focus on a question.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “Is there a way to trigger more of these memories?”
As if in answer, a subtle spiritual tug jolted his awareness, drawing his attention toward the front of the wagon train. With newfound clarity, he sensed it—a thin, delicate thread extending from his center, connecting him to something beyond. No, not just one thread—dozens of faint spiritual lines stretched outward, their paths winding in unseen directions.
But one stood out, brighter than the others, pulling at him with an intensity that cut through the haze clouding his mind. Something was trying to reach him, to draw his focus. He hesitated, uncertainty creeping in. Was this a key to the answers he so desperately needed, or another layer of danger waiting to ensnare him?
With his hands literally tied, there was nothing for him to do at the moment. Perhaps, once they reached their destination, he’d find an opportunity to retrieve the item he’d sensed earlier.
For now, his mind latched onto the one thing that might offer him hope—cultivation. If he could unravel its mysteries, it might provide the answers he needed, or at least a way to escape his dire circumstances.
Turning his focus inward, the stranger sought the faint spiritual presence he’d sensed earlier. What he encountered took him completely by surprise. His dantian pulsed with a faint energy, already alight with his own qi. Not enough to ignite it and start his journey—but it was a start.
From his dantian, faint spidery threads of luminous energy snaked through his spiritual body, connecting to nodes at strategic points along his meridian system. The nodes were all dormant, but surprisingly, they weren't filled with the impurities one might expect. In fact, he could trace the entire network—all 361 nodes—clearly and without difficulty. He instinctively knew that this shouldn't be the case. The intricate pathways felt real, tangible, as though they had always been his. This... this was a foundation, a potential he hadn't realized existed within him. And yet, it felt like the beginning of something much greater, just waiting to be unlocked.
Roused from his contemplation, the spirit’s voice pierced through his thoughts, laced with disbelief. Impossible, it declared. It takes years of training to even come close to sensing your dantian, let alone this. If you were already on the path, you would have ignited your dantian years ago. And yet, after just two days, your dantian is a quarter full—even with chi-dampening shackles suppressing you.
The voice faltered, as if grappling with the implications. But you… you shouldn’t be able to trace your meridian system. This should not be.
And he knew Zephyrion was right.
Somewhere during Zephyrion’s recounting of his past, the stranger had lost track of time. The spirit's voice, rich with tales of glory and power, blurred the edges of the present, leaving him adrift in the vastness of what had been and what could be. Afterwards, he turned his attention inward, tracing the miracle of his spiritual system. The intricate web of energy, fragile yet impossibly strong, held him mesmerized, a tapestry of potential woven into his very being.
“We are nearing the gate. Get ready, you sacks of rotting turnips! We’re almost there!”
The harsh bark of the guard’s voice shattered the stranger’s concentration, cutting through the haze of his thoughts like a blade. The weight of the spirit's revelations still pressed heavily upon him, but the sudden interruption yanked him back to the grim present.
Reality struck with a piercing clarity, scattering the fragile threads of understanding he had only begun to grasp. This wasn’t just another turn on a road to nowhere; this was a threshold. Whatever awaited ahead would decide everything—the nature of his captivity, his next step, perhaps even his survival.
Zephyrion's words lingered in his mind like an unfinished melody. A quarter full... you shouldn’t even be able to sense your meridians. The luminous web of his qi network seemed at once fragile and impossibly strong, a riddle woven into his very existence. They were a lifeline.
The stranger’s gaze was drawn to the tunnel ahead, where faint glimmers of ghastly green light filtered through the darkness, hinting at an end to this journey. The threads within him still tugged faintly, the most prominent one leading toward the front of the wagon train. Whatever lay at the other end of that connection felt both foreboding and inevitable. Soon, he might finally be united with it—for better or worse.
As the wagon lurched forward, a sudden, unshakable urgency took hold of him. He needed answers. He needed clarity. And whatever waited up ahead, he would meet it head-on.