Ragnar slowly walked down the cold, questioning halls, his footsteps echoing like whispered inquiries through the hollow, ancient space. The rhythmic sound of his boots tapping against the marble floor reverberated, as if the very structure was asking why he walked them once again. Each echo was a reminder — a questioning of his presence, a beckoning toward reflection.
At a time like this, a peculiar clarity had settled upon him. His presence here wasn't a mystery anymore. In fact, for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt grounded. Grounded not as a confused wanderer or fragmented soul, but as someone who had come to accept the life of Ragnar. In a strange way, it now belonged to him. The memories, the emotions, the hatred — they felt far too natural. He wasn't just a soul that had taken over Ragnar's body — he was becoming Ragnar.
The corridor stretched long and grim before him, illuminated by the flickering flames of torches mounted on the walls. Their dim orange glow barely pushed back the gloom. Yet, the path was familiar. These halls were etched into his mind like scars — he could recall them like the back of his palm.
'Not this palm anyway,' he thought dryly.
Carved into the grey walls were ornate depictions of ancient beasts and battles long forgotten. At every pillar, senile stone gargoyles watched him, their unmoving gazes etched with disdain. Their grotesque faces, twisted and broken by time, seemed to snarl as he passed.
He hated this place. Not just from his own instincts but from Ragnar's memories. There was a deep-rooted resentment embedded in him — a history soaked in pain and scorn.
Fang, in his first life, had always seen nobles as figures of dignity and lavish pleasure — people who basked in authority, surrounded by gold, silk, and power. He once admired them from afar, a lowly peasant living a life of dirt and desperation. It wasn't diplomacy or noble blood that had earned Fang power — it was raw strength. The strength of a demon.
But Ragnar's life was different. Despite being a gifted child of noble birth, his torment had been mostly mental rather than physical. The life of a noble wasn't as sweet as peasants believed. It was a life of manipulation, of secrets whispered behind walls, of trust constantly betrayed. It was a pit of snakes — filled with liars, thieves, and schemers.
'It was a life far more chained than that of a peasant,' he mused. 'One wrong move could get your head lopped off… or worse.'
Even as the son of a noble, he had witnessed horrors inflicted on others with higher status than his own. No one was ever truly safe. It was suffocating.
'What was that saying again?' Fang folded his lips thoughtfully, slowing his steps. 'Yes… strength only brings more problems than freedom… no, that's not it.'
He rubbed his temple, annoyed that he couldn't recall it properly. It was something his best friend once said — a dear friend who had died by his own hands.
'Wasn't my fault that bastard tried to kill me first...'
He paused mid-step, gasping softly, startled by the realization of how deeply he had been lost in his thoughts — thoughts that now spoke to him like a second voice. His inner monologue was becoming… too vivid.
Could it be the presence of Ragnar's memories was making him... unstable? Perhaps even insane? It wasn't normal to converse with oneself this way — to blur the lines between memories and identity. His subconscious wasn't just his anymore; it had grown into something else. Something separate, yet bound to him.
'Let's just concentrate on this meeting,' he exhaled, regaining composure.
With renewed focus, Ragnar strode toward the massive arched doors at the end of the hall. They stood imposingly tall, ancient and powerful, their surfaces adorned with intricate carvings of battles and divine trials. The artistry was hypnotic, but he didn't stop to admire. As he recalled from memory, he pushed both doors with effort. The ancient hinges groaned in resistance, but slowly, the heavy wood swung inward, allowing him entry.
The doors slammed open with thunderous force, announcing his presence to everyone within.
A deafening silence followed. Every head turned. Dozens of eyes landed on him — evaluating, judging. He hated it. Not just Fang, but Ragnar too. The hatred for attention was mutual.
He scanned the room with a practiced frown. About seventy students stood in lines, all around his age. Their attire was a strange blend of ancient and modern — trousers tucked into boots, collared shirts under leather chest-pieces, all bearing subtle designs. Most wore shades of white or grey, yet only five others wore black like him.
Ragnar immediately recalled who they were — fellow Lords, sons of nobles just like himself. A title he detested.
At the head of the room stood an instructor — old, perhaps broken in body, but not in spirit. He was cloaked in black, with a long white beard that draped down his chest, giving him the image of a wise elder. Yet, his posture exuded discipline and a warning not to be tested.
"You are late, young Lord Rok," the instructor said with measured scorn.
Ragnar's eyes narrowed.
'You're barely even older than me, damned fool.'
Without uttering a word, he walked past the rows of students and headed toward the Lords' section. Silence followed him like a shadow. The instructor's gaze bore into him, perhaps hoping to break him with mere presence — to humble him.
But Fang had stared down demons and tyrants. He knew intimidation well, and this… this was a bluff.
He reached the other Lords and stood with practiced grace. The instructor, realizing his attempt at authority had failed, cleared his throat and continued the lesson from where he had paused.
"You will all be given the week free. Use it how you will — slack off, train harder, prepare, or perish. Just remember: by the week's end, you will be sent into the First Realm. Only those who awaken will return. Your decisions in these last days will determine whether you live through it or not."
The air grew heavy. No one spoke. Even the Lords tensed slightly.
All except Ragnar.
This world was nothing like Fang's original one. There, to gain power, one cultivated through relics, spiritual energy, or training under ancient trees that breathed wisdom.
Here… here, they had to enter a realm — an actual, separate world.
A realm was something inexplicable. A world of monsters and magic, of darkness and trials. No man had ever truly described it — the experience was too overwhelming. It was like stepping onto another planet entirely, one forged by nightmares and divine judgment.
Succeed in the realm, and one would return changed. Stronger. No longer human. Awakened.
According to Ragnar's memories, six realms had been discovered. Each more dreadful than the last. The fifth was the highest any had ever cleared. None had ever returned from the sixth.
But for now, they only had to survive the first.
'Only the first,' Ragnar thought bitterly.
A throb pounded in his chest. Was it fear? Dread? Maybe both.
'Reaching the pinnacle of this world... it's starting to seem like an impossible dream.'
He recalled the rumors — whispered stories that the realms were not trials but curses. Torturous dimensions designed to break you until you became something… else. Something greater, or something broken.
He clenched his fists.
He was reborn into this for a reason. That much he was certain of. He didn't know the reason yet, but what he did know… was that he wanted more.
He wanted to see the realms.
He wanted to conquer them.
He wanted to ascend.
Not just himself, but Ragnar's mind craved for the same.