The words still echoed in the silence.
So this is the Hunt.
The Umbra shivered around him, like the surface of a lake struck by an unseen pulse.
The golden light in his chest fractured, spreading outward in ripples.
The world twisted—
and then reformed.
When Orien opened his eyes, there was no fire.
No ruin.
No dragon.
Only the quiet hum of a day that should have never mattered.
---
A small village stretched before him.
Wooden houses, low fences, a dirt road winding through fields of gold.
The air smelled of sun-warmed grass and distant smoke.
Somewhere, a woman was humming.
Orien blinked.
His hand wasn't his.
It was small. Soft. Dusted with flour.
He froze.
He wasn't himself anymore.
A voice — bright, young, and full of life — escaped his lips without his will.
> "Mama! I'm home!"
The door creaked open.
Inside, light spilled through wooden shutters, warm and gentle.
A woman turned, wiping her hands on a cloth. She smiled.
Something inside Orien tightened.
It was the kind of warmth he'd never known.
The kind that belonged to a world untouched by loss.
> "Come, help me hang the laundry, sweet one."
"Okay, mama!"
And he obeyed — or rather, she did.
---
They stepped into a small yard.
The sun glimmered on white sheets that flapped in the breeze.
The girl's — his — hands pinned them to the line while her mother hummed an old tune.
The fabric swayed, casting soft, shifting shadows on the earth.
Every sound, every smell, every flicker of light — it all felt real. Too real.
The warmth of the wind.
The scent of soap.
The laughter in her throat.
Orien tried to resist, to pull himself away,
but the Umbra didn't let him.
It made him feel.
Every detail. Every heartbeat that wasn't his.
---
Time moved gently, almost kindly.
They set the table together.
A pot simmered on the fire, filling the air with the scent of herbs and broth.
The mother's voice was soft, calm, human in a way that made Orien ache.
> "Your father will be home soon."
"I know."
He could feel her excitement — the simple joy of waiting for someone you love.
It was unbearable in its innocence.
And for a moment, he forgot.
Forgot that he was trapped in a memory that wasn't his.
---
The sky turned golden outside the window.
Then—
a sound.
A low, distant rumble.
The bowls on the table trembled.
The mother froze.
Orien — the girl — watched as she turned toward the window.
Smoke rose on the horizon.
Thick. Black.
The humming stopped.
The warmth was gone.
> "Mama?"
The woman didn't answer.
She grabbed the girl's hand.
> "Come. Quickly."
They ran outside.
The air had changed — hot, heavy, full of ash.
The smell of burning wood stung their lungs.
And somewhere far away, something roared.
---
Flames bloomed across the fields.
The village was no longer a place — it was a wound, opening wide.
Orien saw people running, falling, burning.
He saw the shadow in the sky — vast, black, alive.
For a heartbeat, he — she — saw a man sprinting toward them.
The father.
Then light swallowed him.
Gone.
Screams.
The earth itself seemed to weep.
And then, the world began to fall apart.
The mother wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her close.
Her voice trembled, but her grip never loosened.
> "Don't look. Don't open your eyes."
The heat pressed closer.
The air turned white.
And then there was nothing.
---
When the fire finally faded,
Orien found himself kneeling in the ashes.
The world was silent.
The air was still.
Cinders drifted down like snow.
He looked up — and through the settling smoke, he saw her.
The girl.
A ghost of light and ember, standing where her home once was.
She stared at him.
No anger.
No fear.
Just one quiet question in her eyes:
Why?
---
Orien lowered his head.
The answer wasn't his to give.
And then the voice came — deep, calm, ancient — resonating through the air and his bones alike.
That was my first hunt.
The Umbra rippled again, and the next vision began to form.
***
The world twisted again.
Ash turned to darkness.
The fire became weight.
Cold metal bit into his wrists.
Chains.
He could feel their weight.
He could feel everything.
The air reeked of rust, sweat, and dried blood.
Somewhere above, a dim light bled through an iron grate.
Men lay scattered across the stone floor — scarred, half-starved, their eyes hollow.
Orien tried to move, to speak, but his body didn't respond.
It wasn't his.
He breathed through someone else's lungs.
Felt another man's heartbeat pounding in his chest.
The body was large, powerful — but broken by years of combat.
Across his chest, burned deep into flesh, was a mark: I.
The mark of the champion.
Beyond the bars, faint echoes rose — chains clinking, boots scraping, a thousand voices above, waiting.
The crowd.
The Colosseum.
---
The bells rang.
Low and heavy, shaking the dust from the walls.
A guard appeared, face hidden beneath a bronze mask, and dragged him toward the light.
Orien staggered forward, blinded by the sudden brilliance.
The sound hit next — a roar, endless and alive.
An arena stretched before him.
A sea of sand, crimson banners, and blackened stone.
Tens of thousands of people screamed his name — or rather, his number.
One.
The undefeated slave.
The beast they adored.
> No… not again, Orien thought.
Don't make me watch this.
But the body moved on its own.
He stepped into the arena.
And the world exploded into noise.
---
Five men faced each other across the sand.
Five slaves.
Five condemned souls.
A voice rose from a high balcony, cold and triumphant.
> "Let blood purify glory!"
The bell sounded.
And the killing began.
---
The man moved before Orien could think.
The sword felt alive in his hand, part of his flesh.
Steel met steel.
Screams tore through the air.
Blood splattered across the sand, hot and bright.
Every motion was perfect — not wild, not desperate.
Calculated.
Beautiful.
A dance built from pain.
He killed with elegance, precision, purpose.
One by one, the others fell.
And when the crowd roared, Orien felt it in his bones — the sick rhythm of their joy.
He wanted to close his eyes, but the Umbra wouldn't let him.
It forced him to see.
To feel.
To learn.
---
Days blurred into weeks.
Weeks into months.
Orien stopped counting how many died.
Every morning, the gates opened.
Every night, he returned to the cell, bleeding, breathing, still alive.
He watched the body heal, scar, and fight again.
Again.
And again.
A year passed — or an eternity.
The crowd loved him.
The First.
The immortal slave.
And Orien learned.
Every movement.
Every angle of the blade.
Every way to survive when death stood an inch away.
But with every battle, something else slipped away.
Faces blurred together.
Voices faded.
The screams no longer sounded human.
Until only the silence inside him remained.
---
At night, when the noise was gone and the torches died,
the man dreamed.
Of her.
A woman's hands dusted with flour.
A kitchen bathed in morning light.
Her voice, soft and tired, whispering against his ear:
> "I'll be waiting."
It was the only thing that kept him standing.
The memory of something gentle in a world that had forgotten mercy.
---
Then came the day the sky broke.
The bells rang again — louder this time.
The crowd cheered, unaware of what approached.
But when the light dimmed, they saw it.
A shadow moving across the sun.
A roar that shook the bones of the earth.
The dragon.
The Colosseum trembled.
Walls cracked.
People screamed.
Flames rained from the sky.
The guards fled.
The slaves were released — not for freedom, but to die on open ground.
The champion — the First — took his sword and ran toward the fire.
Not out of courage.
But because there was nowhere else to go.
Orien felt every step, every heartbeat, every thought.
The dragon's shadow fell upon them.
Its roar was the sound of ending.
Fire swept across the arena.
Men turned to light and ash.
The stone itself melted.
And in that final moment, as the heat closed in,
the man saw her face again.
He smiled through the smoke.
> "I'm coming home."
And the world went white.
---
When Orien opened his eyes, he was on his knees once more.
The Colosseum was gone.
Only the golden mist of the Umbra remained.
His hands trembled.
His breath came shallow.
But his eyes burned — not with fear, but with understanding.
"He fought all his life… just to go home."
The dragon's voice echoed, deep and ancient, surrounding him.
Every life I have taken left a scar.
And you, Initiate… will carry them all.
The Umbra rippled again.
And the next memory began to awaken.