Hours passed before Lior woke up.
His mind still hazy, he looked around. Oddly enough, his surroundings were clearer. The dark snakes remained still, not approaching.
He rose to his feet, stumbling slightly. After a moment of adjustment, he stood upright.
Something's wrong.
Looking down, he noticed his point of view had shifted.
"Weird," he muttered, frowning.
Taking a step forward, his knees buckled. He tripped and faceplanted right into the cold, stone floor.
Ouch.
He wiped his nose, then paused to examine his hand. His blood had taken on a much darker shade of red. He licked it.
"Blergh," he grimaced. "Why is it so bitter?"
Placing a hand on his knee, he tried to rise. His body felt heavy and sluggish, foreign. The aching in his muscles and bones—gone.
He barely managed to stand. Stretching out his arm, the realization struck.
It was longer than before. Still slender, but the muscles were more defined, with hardly any fat. His fingers—long and bony, almost feminine. Calluses were gone. His skin—smooth and soft, like butter.
He gently pressed his hand to his face. A few pokes made his skin protrude slightly before bouncing back. It clung tightly to his jaw, making its angles more prominent.
He traced his lips. They were fuller now, more delicate. Moving upward, he noted his nose was smaller, the bridge slightly upturned.
I wish I had a mirror, he thought, lowering his hand.
Shrugging off the now-undersized, tattered military top, he glanced down.
What...?
His upper body—lithe and defined—displayed sculpted chest and abdominal muscles, like a statue carved by a master artisan.
But that wasn't what shocked him.
"My soul," he whispered, eyes fixed on the spot above his heart, "was it always this dark?"
Until now, he'd needed intense focus to perceive a soul. Even then, he'd never been able to see his own. He had no clue what color it had once been. Now, a dim gray flame flickered faintly in his chest.
"Wait," he gasped. "Right before the trance—I felt something attacking my soul."
Eyes widening, he wrapped trembling fingers around his mouth and muttered, "Did that energy corrupt my soul somehow? No... surely not."
"But if it did—what does that mean?"
He dug through his memories, trying to sense a difference. All his past lives. This one too.
The resentment, grief, and regret—they remained. If anything, they'd grown slightly stronger.
But when he recalled moments of genuine happiness, he felt... nothing.
Lorenzo's time with his wife? Might as well have been with a stranger. Her face now sparked only hatred. If she stood before him, he'd kill her without hesitation.
"Shit. Think about something else."
He shifted focus to Anna and her grandfather. Not much had changed. He hadn't cared deeply to begin with—just a few words exchanged, no real connection.
No surprise there.
He paused. Should he revisit Fenric?
The wounds were still fresh. But to fully understand the extent of the corruption, he forced himself to go back.
Fenric's warm smile. The cottage. The scavenging. The hunts. The awful military rations they shared—each memory had once meant something to him.
Now? He could barely muster a weak smile. The feelings were distant. Faint echoes.
With a sigh, Lior raised his head, eyes landing on the sealed trapdoor above.
"Why is this happening?" he whispered into the silence.
"Am I cursed to be nothing more than a walking bundle of hatred?"
Then came the image of the boy wrapped in wild flames. The stench of burnt flesh still lingered. His agonized screams echoed—too loud to ignore. Too real to forget.
"Damn it," Lior muttered, wiping away tears.
Just then, he noticed a smoky black sigil engraved on the inside of his forearm.
"What's this?"
He raised an eyebrow, reading the name and the quote aloud.
"Ash Vein — I died once. I won't do it again."
"But I've died more than once," he scoffed. "And what the hell does 'Ash Vein' even mean?"
He froze.
"Wait—" he exclaimed, eyes widening.
Amidst the shock of his new body and the creeping dread of soul corruption, he'd nearly forgotten the one thing he longed for since awakening in Solmira.
"I've formed a core!" he shouted. "How the hell did I forget?"
He dropped to the floor. Still unfamiliar with his new body, he slipped.
Shit, he thought, rubbing his behind.
Gritting his teeth, he waited for the pain to subside.
"Alright. Let's see…"
He inhaled deeply.
Essence flowed with calm precision—from the core in his chest, through every channel in his body, then back again. A complete, steady circuit.
He exhaled, relieved.
He stood, this time more smoothly.
"What now?" he murmured, staring at his clenched fists.
Recalling how he'd subconsciously used the energy during his trance, he focused. Black smoke exhaled from his body, curling and flowing freely around him.
What is this strength?
His body felt lighter—like a mountain had been lifted off his back. The sluggishness vanished. Every twitch of muscle responded instantly. Every sound around him held depth and clarity.
He looked around.
The entire ditch was visible. The snakes trembled, recoiling in fear. Jagged walls loomed around him.
"Incredible…"
To test his strength, he funneled essence into his clenched fist. Each contraction surged with power.
Inky tendrils spiraled around his hand, growing denser with each passing second.
He swung at the nearby wall.
The ditch trembled. Dust and debris fell. A fist-shaped crater remained.
Lior stared—first at the wall, then at the lingering smoke.
After a beat, he spoke in a low voice.
"Umbra…"
---
Time passed slowly. Solmira remained unchanged. Endless snow. Piercing winds. The ever-present scent of death.
Far west of Arenhast—a modest, fortified city recently restored by the Xiaran forces—a group of indigo-cloaked mages trudged across the snowy plains.
"Damn it," one muttered, pulling his cloak tighter. "Why the hell do we have to come all the way out here?"
"Keep quiet," snapped the mage leading the group. "It's Warden Ernest's orders."
"And what exactly are the orders?" asked a woman, her shoulders trembling.
The leader eyed her. He hesitated, then said:
"To make sure the Ghost is dead."
"The Ghost?" she repeated. "You mean the dormant kid who slaughtered the wounded warriors?"
"That's the one," he replied quietly. "If, by some chance, he's still alive—we finish the job."
They continued forward, finally reaching the trapdoor embedded in the snow.
The leader raised a hand, calling out.
"Listen up! We're going to op—"
He was cut off by a loud thud.
The door rattled violently.
"Wha—" the woman began, but he silenced her with a gesture.
Nervously, she stepped forward.
Then dark tendrils surged through the gaps in the wood, twisting into the air.
With a shaky breath, she opened the trapdoor.
The hinges groaned. The opening yawned wide.
But nothing could be seen. The darkness swallowed the light.
Then—a hand emerged.
Slender. Inhuman.
It seized her by the throat and yanked her inside.
She vanished.
"Damn it!" the leader yelled, panic flaring.
Yet no one moved.
A few seconds later, the hand rose again—this time holding something.
Her head.
Hair clenched in its grip. Neck torn jaggedly, ripped clean with brute force.