Some say the self is a collection of many things unseen. But I learned otherwise. The divine truth is far simpler.
The self is life's greatest gift. It is neither flesh, spirit, nor soul, but essence. The Father's greatest gift.
Many dead still walk, for they have been tainted, wearing masks that long ago poisoned what it meant to be them.
"Dear essence, he wears your face, but he is not you."
—From the Scripture of Innäska, attributed to Neghand Pheud, Member of the Pale Seers
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A sudden shift in sensation.
Something was shifting back into his grasp.
So… dark. In this space he could feel the blindness of all his physical senses—yet somehow he was sure others remained, for he could still 'feel' the dark space surrounding his form.
It crept up his spine. Slowly. Quietly. And patiently. A adhesive prelude to a forbidden revelation. A sensation not from fear, but something far worse. He could feel it.
After and unknown time adrift in the darkness. Thought bubbles or what he would call memory fragments started encroaching on the domain of his psych. Approaching from all directions like streaks of stars while crashing with the familiarity of waves, along the shores of California's mavericks.
The memories were fleeting, yet impressionable. Distant, yet close.
Visions of stars he had never seen, but he was sure someone else did.
Aspirations that stood parallel to his own.
Wars he had never fought.
Obsessessige fondness of tea too much for his personally liking.
And the most chilling.
Who am I?
The questions only released another flood of confusion.
"Vance? Ael? Negeim?"
The names circled like vultures. Their lives tangled, blurred; he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Still, he knew they existed.
However the more he tried to hold onto them—to focus on their memories, the further away they slipped. Akin to cupping water with broken palms.
Slowly fragments of a familiar life began to coalesce, and he finally arrived at his answer… he was Vance.
Vance Velcro.
And clung to that truth, letting it root itself. And the moment he did, something shifted deep within… a resounding click, not of sound, but sensation. It was Alien. Heavy. And ancient.
That was the sense it gave, followed by the feeling of his very essence reducing to a impossible small size before releasing outwards with unstoppable momentum.
Pain was the only thing that followed.
Striking like a hammer to his brainstem, releasing waves of agony that ripped through thoughts that were already fragmented.
The feeling of Migraines weren't new to him but this… this was different. It wasn't just pain; it was chaos.
Was this a dream? Was he waking from a deep sleep? Was there an accident?
The questions piled up, but no answers came…only pain, followed by a sudden jolt of awareness.
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,and moons. Too many moons. Since when did earth have purple moons?
A knot of unease took root in his stomach.
Where am I?
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 area not too far from his own.
He was not mistaken. That was the sound of metal clashing.
Then—from what vance assumed to be a street close by a voice shrill with terror—pierced the chaos: "The city is lost! The Empire has abandoned us!"
"Drakei, hold!" The Ascendants 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 difficult. Came delayed, slow, and unresponsive.
Still, his body was here. He could feel it.
There he lay sprawled on the ground in a contorted position, like a chalk outline. The backdrop of a crumbled wall overshadowing his form.
A ridiculous thought. One that almost made him chuckle, if not for the sheer agony tearing through mhim.
The pain ebbed on, and he became lost in the sluggish return of sensation. 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 was feeling more! Sensation in the more intricate parts of his body, such as his fingers and face, were returning. It reminded him of slowly became more comfortable the longer one wore them.
Wait… my body? This isn't my body!
Panic surged as he forced himself upright, muscles screaming in protest.
His breath came in ragged gasps.
Steading his vision, he finally took in his form.
Thin arms, pale white skin that clung to his bones, and a innate dissonance between his movements, even though it wasn't as pronounced as before.This body was too small. Too weak.What was this?
He was certain. This isn't mine. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.
Had someone discreetly juiced me up on psychedelics? That was the only logical conclusion for his current predicament.
A surge of rage sprung forth.
Then. Like a switch flipping, it vanished. In its place came clarity—a survival instinct honed by years of pushing himself to the edge."
His nerves steadied. His breathing evened. Maybe this wasn't all bad.
Expectation and intrigue began settling in. Bracing against the pain, he pushed himself up. Limbs trembled, pain lancing through him like molten needles. As he rose into a strange posture, pain rippling across his back. He finally glanced at his surroundings.
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 felt danger coming. An instinct deeper than reason sent dread, excitement, and anticipation surging through him. The body reacted on its own, launching into fight-or-flight despite the injuries.
The bodies of toddlers and adults told him that plainly.
He could feel it approaching, something that would cement his arrival into this new reality.
The earth 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, it's slow, deliberate steps promising nothing but death. Even from a glance, Vance knew the figure stood at a height of atleast 6'7 feet; a beast that would make even the most elite athletes seem frail.
It's dark green skin glistened under the fire's glow. With short fangs jutting from it's mouth.
A long, dark ponytail swayed over its back. In one hand, it dragged a massive club wrapped in barbed wire—something heavy sticking to it trailing behind.
No. Someone.
The figure donned in a strange mix of medieval armor broken and dented in serveral locations, brought together an unknown fabric leather.
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—with the unfortunate dud hanging on the barbed edge. Vance couldn't help but recall the two shouts of despairing cries from earlier. Was this one of them?
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.
The same look a wolf had before striking prey. The same look his uncle wore before a kill. Cruel amusement, thrill of the chase, and love for the slaughter.
A expression he knew all too well, and now, confused, disoriented, and expectant, Vance was the hunted.
The realization struck like a hammer. His pupils shrank, his breath sped up, 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 i 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… where would he?
His legs felt weak. And he doubted he could outrun that thing.
"Arghhhhhhh," At this time, he heard a voices releasing a high pitched shriek.
Then, it hit him.
Where he was.
A hysterical chuckle escaped his lips. This was no accident. No mere disaster.
This was a hunting.
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?
A cruel smile of amusement couldn't help but spread across his face.