Cold air.
Sterile light.
Pain that felt dull and distant, as if it were trying to claw at him through layers of fog.
Silias opened his eyes.
The world was no longer black stone and divine shadow. No bitter wind, no scent of old blood or bone-dust. Instead, there was a soft, regulated hum and the rhythmic beep of a monitor.
A hospital bed.
He was restrained—tight cords wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Some synthetic. Some metal. All of them far too familiar in their purpose: to hold down something dangerous.
Panic didn't rise. Not anymore. There was only the sinking weight of tired understanding. So… I made it.
Through the haze, fractured memories pieced together: the Harrowing Black Mountain. The divine altar. The sacrifice. The blessing. Then the return
The gate, the forsaken place he'd had one of his most gruesome encounters at…
'I collapsed… in front of it.'
That strange, low-grade Category 2 gate. Someone must've found him there. Brought his unconscious body out. He was alive. Alive… and awake.
More importantly—he was bound.
He shifted slightly, and that's when he heard it.
The communicator in her hand whirred softly, its screen pulsing with a faint blue glow. A sheen of reflected light danced in her eyes as she read, wordless, unmoved.
Silias didn't dare shift. The binds around him were far from ornamental—steel-laced polymer, reinforced with spelltech runes, some faintly glowing. He might've laughed if his chest didn't hurt.
She didn't look up from the communicator when she spoke, her voice cool and clipped, like snapping dry twigs.
"What are you looking at?"
It wasn't a question. It was a test.
Silias opened his mouth—then closed it.
He'd read this scene before.
In another life, another story. But this time… it was him sitting in the hospital bed, wrapped in chains, blinking at the cold blue eyes of someone terrifying and beautiful.
Her name wasn't needed.
He knew it.
Jet.
One of the strongest Ascended in the waking world.
And she was not fond of mysteries.
"…You."
His voice cracked from disuse; a threadbare rasp pulled from a throat that had screamed too much in the dark.
She blinked slowly. Then, without another word, her gloved hand tapped a button on the panel beside her.
With a mechanical click-hiss, the bindings snapped open—metal slithering back like retreating serpents. Silias sat up slowly, ribs protesting.
No resistance.
He stood.
So did she.
She stepped closer, the sharp click of her boots muffled by hospital tiling. Her movements were too exact, too smooth—like someone who had trained every gesture into efficiency. No wasted grace.
Then he saw it.
Peeking from under her dark sleeve, woven into the cuff: three pale stars.
Not a decoration. A declaration.
A Government Ascended. Someone strong enough to command the battlefield... or destroy it.
She looked at him with a ghost of a smile. Whether it was forced or genuine… he couldn't tell.
"I am Ascended Jet,"
she said, voice cool but not unkind.
"You may call me Master Jet."
Then, as though reading from a script already written in some secret book:
"I've been watching you for the past few hours. Good job, Sleeper…"
She tilted her head just slightly, and this time there was a flicker of amusement in her arctic blue gaze.
"…?"
An unspoken request. She wanted his name.
His hoarse voice came out—
Sharp? Hurting? No one could tell.
Not even Silias.
"…Silias."
It was less a name, more a statement of survival.
The only piece of himself he still recognized.
Jet's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, unreadable.
"Silias," she repeated, like testing the weight of it in her mouth.
Then she nodded, almost to herself.
"Well, Silias… welcome back to the waking world."
The communicator on her wrist pulsed softly—an alert or a report, he couldn't tell. Blue light shimmered across her cheekbones as she glanced down, reading something classified.
Then:
"You've been confirmed as an Aspirant. First Nightmare status verified. A Category Two Gate was found destabilized near your location."
She looked back up, still cold and still composed.
"You're lucky to be alive. Or cursed."
She paused.
He answered—too fast.
Words tumbling out like a man clawing out of a grave, terrified of being buried again.
"Ah, yes! I—I was stranded in the Dream Realm for some unknown reason. I'm from the outskirts, you probably know we rarely see gates open. I just woke up there one day and survived for a few days. When I returned, I was—mistaken for a wraith… cut down before I could speak. I answered the call after that, and… well, the rest you know."
He forced a breath in. His heart was pounding.
He'd never forget that look of fear on the woman's face. The blade. The pain. The judgment.
Jet looked at him, impassive. Not disbelieving… just uninterested in his excuses.
She waited a beat, then shifted her weight and said flatly:
"Get ready. You—and another sleeper—will be transferred to the Awakened Academy."
She started to walk away but stopped halfway, turning just slightly.
Her voice was quieter now. Not cold. Not warm. Just... honest.
"I'm from the outskirts too."
A pause.
"Make those legacy bastards remember how resilient we are."
This time, her smile wasn't robotic.
It might not have been warm—but it was real.
There he was.
***
Stripped out of his disheveled, bloodied clothes.
Standing beneath a warm shower—sterile tiles, humming pipes, and the slow rush of water against tired skin.
Silias let his eyes close.
For a moment, silence stretched around him like a cocoon.
"I get how he must've felt here," he muttered.
The "he" was unmistakable.
Sunny.
The CenterPoint of that story. The axis of something vast and cruel and bright.
If he had to describe the feeling in one word?
"Heavenly."
And yet even that felt cheap for what this comfort represented, after what he had endured.
He didn't let himself get too lost in the warmth.
The moment passed.
He cleared his mind with ease—it was always too empty anyway.
No room for clutter.
Only for survival.
It was time.
Time to look at his Aspect ability and a Flaw he didn't want.
Time to face what the Spell had truly branded into him.
He was reluctant.
The last time he saw the runes; he was on a mountain bleeding himself dry.
But now… there was no turning back.
He had a theory, too.
The flaw wouldn't be revealed until he understood the Aspect enough—
Which meant it already existed, nestled somewhere deep.
Waiting to surface.
So, he exhaled slowly…
And summoned the runes.
The runes formed slowly this time—hesitant, almost resentful.
They pulsed once. Then again.
A line of text appeared.
No flourish. No fanfare.
Just truth.
"A nameless heathen chased and shattered, broken by the Dream's design.
He bled at the altar of a forgotten god, not out of reverence, but longing.
The offering was not accepted. The prayer was not heard.
The gods are dead. He was never meant to rise."
"He who returned without permission.
He who walks where none were written to tread.
He who wears a fate that never belonged to him."
True Name: [Nullborn]
That was all.
No explanation.
No meaning offered.
No mercy.
Just a single word.
[Aspect Name: Deathless Crown.]
[Description: A throne carved from rot. A sovereign never born, yet never dying. Every step is defiance. Every breath, rebellion. This one was not chosen. He took.]
Innate Ability: [Throne of Refusal]
[Death approached. You said no.
This throne is not made of gold. It is made of denial.
When struck down — when death is certain — you may invoke the Throne.
For a few heartbeats, death is suspended. You remain unclaimed.
You do not move. You do not fight. You simply exist, and the world must reckon with that.
While seated upon the Throne, enemies suffer creeping decay — their vitality dims, their courage wanes.
When time ends, the price is paid. Yours… or theirs.
Use with purpose. Death will remember when you cheat it.]
All of it was as he remembered from the void, then he finally looked at his aspect ability,
Aspect Abilities: [Thorns of the Unburied]
Ability description: [It bypasses flesh and steel, striking at what lies beneath — the soul itself.]
Then came another look at it all.
Name: Silias.
True Name: Nullborn.
Rank: Dreamer.
Shadow Core: Dormant.
Soul Fragments: [14/1000].
He mumbled to himself.
"Three for the Harrowfang… five for the tree… six for the vile bird."
A pause. A frown.
"But why is it still a soul core?"
He pressed his palm against the cold wall of the dorm shower.
The steam rose. The silence lingered.
"I should've cracked… or changed. Should've had a broken core. A twisted one. Something."
His voice was quiet, not confused — disappointed.
Like a beast expecting to see scars and finding none.
Like a sinner who wanted proof of damnation.
Memories: [Hollowroot Mantle], [[Thornpiercer]
Echoes: —
Attributes: [Vestige of the Forgotten], [Graveborn],
[Hollow Crown], [Divineborn], [???]
Aspect: Deathless Crown.
Aspect Rank: Divine.
Aspect Abilities: [Thorns of the Unburied]
Aspect Ability Description: [It bypasses flesh and steel, striking at what lies beneath — the soul itself.]
The former was an armor.
The latter, a transcendent sword.
He hadn't yet checked what Hollowroot Mantle was.
So… he did.
The runes shimmered faintly, reluctant.
Like something that had been buried too long, and was now half-rotten in the light.
Name: [Hollowfang Mantle]
Rank: Awakened
Tier: II
Enchantments —
[Borrowed Hide]
[Predator's Silence]
[Borrowed Hide]:
The cloak retains the fading memory of the beast it was carved from. Once per day, it may turn a mortal wound into a glancing blow — sparing the life, not the pain.
[Predator's Silence]:
When still, the wearer's presence fades from the world — no breath, no scent, no rustle. Predators, both man and beast, hesitate to look too closely.
Then it happened..
[All power has a price.]
[Your Flaw is: Empath's Curse.]
Flaw: [Empath's Curse]
Description: [You carry the torment of every soul as if it were your own.]