"The greatest battles are not fought on bloodied fields, but within fractured minds and fraying souls. To conquer another is fleeting power. To conquer oneself is a lifetime of torment. Fail, and the monster takes the throne."
—Excerpt from the Writ of Reclamation, last recorded thoughts of Neghand Pheud, moments before the Shattering of Aethra.
————————————————————
A sudden shift in sensation.
He felt himself slowly gaining control—over something.
Then came the dread.
It crept up his spine, quiet and patient, followed by a deeper unease.
Not fear, but Something worse.
Displacement.
Existential nausea.
They were in his head.
Thoughts that weren't his.
Encroaching on the domind of his psyche.
Memories of stars he had never seen.
Aspirations he never had.
Wars he had never fought.
The dying scream of a "Mother" that was his.
Who was he?
Vance? Azarel? …Negeim?
The names circled like vultures. Their lives tangled, blurred. He couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
And the more he tried to hold onto them, the more they slipped. Like water through cracked hands.
Until he finally arrived at an answer.
He was Vance.
Vance Velcro.
He clung to that truth, let it root itself. But the moment he did, something shifted deep within—a click, not of sound but sensation. Alien. Heavy.
And then came the pain.
It struck like a hammer to the brainstem—waves of agony rippling through thoughts that were barely his own.
Not uncommon. But this time, it brought confusion.
Was this a dream?
His lungs burned as he sucked in a breath. Each gasp stung, like fire biting from the inside out.
His eyes cracked open.
A red haze swirled across the sky—lit by stars he didn't recognize. Moons. Too many moons.
"Where… am I?"
A feeling of unsettlement quickly begin to take root in his stomach.
And as if answering his unspoken question, a few seconds later—muffled sounds gradually became clearer.
Sounds reminiscent of clashing steel and shouts of rage, and defiance resounded from a distant yet unnervingly close area.
He was not mistaken.
The air carried the sound of battle, despairing cries, clashing steel, and the unmistakable scent of death.
Then—a voice shrill with terror—pierced the chaos:
"The city is lost! The Empire has abandoned us!"
A clearly more grounded voice following shortly after.
"Drakei hold!" The Ascendant's will be here any minute now!" Another voice, steadier yet strained, bellowed above the din, offering a sliver of hope.
Time seemed to stall as a flood of questions crashed into Vance's disoriented mind.
The city?
Empire?
"Am I in a play?"
Instinctively, he tried to turn his head, desperate for a better look at his surroundings. But even that simple movement felt foreign.
His body sluggish, and unresponsive in a delayed fashion.
He could feel his form.
There he lay sprawled on the ground in a contorted position, like a chalk outline.
A ridiculous thought. One that almost made him chuckle, if not for the sheer agony tearing through him.
Becoming lost in the sensation of the body seemingly recovering overing time.
Turning slightly, he felt a—unsettling wet
—and sticky sensation clinging to his back.
The march of time continued; as a realization quickly dominated all other thoughts in his mind.
He could feel it.
Gradually he could feel more!
A experience that he found eerily similar to wearing clothes that became more comfortable over time.
Then… something even more unsettling dawned on him.
"My body...?"
"Wait... this isn't my body!"
Panic surged as he forced himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest.
His breath came in ragged gasps.
His vision steadied, and he finally took in his form.
Thin arms, pale white skin—that clung to his bones, and a innate dissonance between his movements.
This body was too small. Too weak.
What is this?
A body that he was sure wasn't his.
A bitter chuckle almost his lips.
Was someone toying with him?
As feeling of rage springing forth.
Then, like a switch flipping, a strange sense of euphoria and clarity overtook his panic, a survival instinct honed from years of pushing himself to the limit taking over.
His nerves steadied.
His breathing evened.
Expectation and intrigue settling in.
Bracing against the pain, he pushed himself up from the ground. His limbs trembled under the effort, pain lancing through him like molten needles.
Taking a strange posture as he stood up, all over his back he could feel a dissipitating feeling of pain, as he finally took a glance at his surrounding.
Towering flames consumed wooden buildings, their flickering glow casting long, eerie shadows across cobblestone streets slick with blood.
Bodies littered the ground everywhere he looked, some whole, others mutilated beyond recognition.The street bordered by collapsed buildings made of a cobblestone like material with street lamps periodically placed along what he assumed to be sidewalks.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood, blood, and something far... far worse.
He could feel danger coming: an almost innate sixth sense acutely sending a wave of dread, excitement and anticipation coursing throughout his form as the body he found himself in quickly entered a flight or fight response despite the grievous injuries.
Posturing without a doubt was not an option.
The bodies of toddlers and adults lining the streets making him acutely aware of this fact.
He could feel it approaching, something that would cement his arrival into this new reality.
Beneath his feet, the earth seemingly trembled.
This city, or what little remained of it, was no dream. The constant, searing pain in his body made him aware of that.
This was when he saw it.
A figured entered the street before him with slow deliberate steps that promised a future without life.
Large.
Monstrous.
Unstoppable.
Even from a glance, Vance knew the figure stood at a height of atleast 6'7 feet; a beast of rippling muscle that would make even the most elite athletes seem frail.
It's dark green skin glistened under the fire's glow.
Fangs jutted from its mouth.
A long, dark ponytail hung over its broad back, swaying in the wind as the creature took unhurried steps. And in its grip, a massive club lined with barbed wires dragged something.
No—It was someone.
The figure donned in a strange mix of medieval armor, broken and dented in serveral locations.
A bloody trail mixed with fragements of flesh, and shards of metal lining the cobblestone was all that was left as the figured dragged the club across the ground.
Vance couldn't help but recall the shout of despairing cry from an individual earlier.
"Was this figure by any chance one of those persons?"
The being stopped. It sniffed the air.
Once.
Twice.
Then, slowly, it's head turned toward Vance.
A wicked grin stretched across its face. Emerald green eyes glowing amid the haze of fire and smoke.
Vance recognized the look instantly.
Predator.
Prey.
It was the same gaze a wolf had before striking its helpless game. The same expression his father used to wear when lining up a fresh kill on their hunting trips. A look filled with cruel amusement, the thrill of the chase, and a deep love for the inevitable slaughter.
A expression he—Vance—was all too familiar with.
And now, confused, disoriented, and expectant, Vance was the hunted.
The realization struck like a hammer. His pupils shrank, as his breath sped up, his heartbeat thumping with a vicious rhythm.
His breath hitched.
A familiar rush coursed through him, that exhilarating terrifying high he had felt countless times in extreme sports and on the frontlines.
"Fight?"
"Run?"
"Where would he even go?" Vance couldn't help but internally laugh. It seemed he had no choice but to confront this creature. His chances of making it out alive was abysmal… but not zero.
Besides if he was to run… how would he?
His legs felt weak. And he doubted he could outrun that thing.
"Arghhhhhhh," At this time, he heard one of the voices from earlier releasing a high pitched shriek.
Then, it hit him.
Where he was.
A hysterical chuckle escaping his lips. This was no accident. No mere disaster.
This was a battlefield.
A massacre.
And somehow... he was right in the middle of it.
Standing face to face with death itself.
In a reality that defied his own.
"Not Earth. Not a dream. Not his life. So whose was it?"