He was falling again.
Through fire, through screams, through the echo of a name that felt like it belonged to someone else—someone he might have once been. Only, he didn't remember what that name was.
The dream was chaos: towers burning under crimson storms, an army of silver-armored knights kneeling before a black throne, banners torn and flapping like dying wings. A woman's voice called out through the haze, desperate, trembling, and familiar.
> "You promised me you'd never vanish again…"
Then—light. Pain. Silence.
He gasped awake.
And he was back in his tiny, dimly lit dorm room. The ceiling fan whirred lazily above him, flickering light across scattered textbooks, a half-empty pizza box, and a laptop that had long stopped working properly. The stench wasn't fire or oil—it was the sour odor of a week-old sock, instant ramen, and the faint metallic tang of his own sweat.
He coughed, lungs tight, as he tried to push himself upright. His limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. He looked down at his arms and froze. Faint, pulsing sigils glimmered beneath his skin, faintly luminous in the gloom of his room. Ancient, unfamiliar… but impossibly real.
He blinked. No. This wasn't real.
"Shit…" he muttered, gripping the edge of his bed. Another blackout. Another gap. Another memory lost. The last time had been during class—he'd been staring at the professor, then suddenly, he'd woken up outside the campus library with a scraped knee and no recollection of how he got there.
He rubbed his temples, trying to calm the storm in his mind. I'm just… losing it. Stress. Lack of sleep. Too many energy drinks. That's what he told himself, though the gnawing unease in his chest refused to be quieted. The memory gaps weren't new, but they were getting longer, more vivid. Sometimes he'd wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, feeling as though he'd lived a lifetime in a dream. And the worst part—he remembered fragments of that life as if they were real, pressing at the edges of his mind like a puzzle he couldn't solve.
A knock at the door startled him.
"Hey! Dude, you awake?"
He groaned, dragging himself toward the door. His best friend, Jace, leaned against the frame, backpack slung over one shoulder. Blonde hair mussed, eyes sharp, and a faint grin that seemed to know too much about him.
"You blacked out again in class, didn't you?" Jace asked, eyebrows raised. "Professor said you just… disappeared mid-sentence."
"I… maybe," he muttered, avoiding Jace's gaze. "Could've been… heat stroke."
"Yeah, right," Jace said dryly. "Or another blackout episode. You're really piling them up, man. Ever thought about seeing someone? Like a doctor?"
He shook his head, voice barely a whisper. "I'm fine. It's… nothing."
Jace frowned, skeptical, but didn't press. Instead, he stepped inside and tossed a crumpled notebook onto the bed.
"Check this out. I've been keeping a record of your… episodes."
"What… why?"
"Because, idiot," Jace said, smirking, "I've noticed patterns. You talk in your sleep sometimes. You mumble things that don't make sense. Last week, you screamed about fire, thrones, and… some woman. I've been writing it down. For… science. Or something."
He froze.
"Fire? Thrones? A woman?" His voice trembled. The fragments of his dreams—the flashes of another life—suddenly felt like shards stabbing through his skull.
Jace's gaze softened, noticing his reaction. "Hey, it's okay, man. I'm not saying it's real… maybe your subconscious is just… weird. But… dude, this isn't normal. I've been keeping track for your own good."
He ran a hand through his hair, heart hammering. No one knows… not really. No one sees the dreams the way I do.
He sank onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. His dorm room had always felt claustrophobic, but now it seemed like a cage. Posters of half-finished anime series, sticky notes with reminders of assignments he'd never done, and a cracked window overlooking the rainy campus quad—all of it felt… trivial. Compared to what his mind was recalling, everything here felt shallow and meaningless.
---
The next blackout happened in the campus cafeteria. He had been sitting alone, tray in front of him, when the world blurred. One moment he was eating a soggy burger, the next he was in the midst of firestorms, a black throne looming, silver-armored figures kneeling. The woman's voice whispered:
> "Find me, my emperor. Before the world burns again."
When he woke, he was on the cold tile floor, tray overturned, ketchup staining the cheap linoleum. Students stared. A security guard approached, concerned.
"Are you okay, son?"
He muttered something incomprehensible, grabbed his tray, and left without looking back.
Outside, the rain had begun, slicking the streets, reflecting the neon signs from the shops and bars. The city had a dreamlike quality, as if the mundane reality of campus life was bleeding into the visions from his dreams. Shadows stretched unnaturally, alleyways seemed to twist, and the air smelled faintly metallic, like burnt circuitry.
He wandered aimlessly, hood pulled over his head, each step punctuated by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional hiss of a stray robot cleaner skittering across the wet pavement. He was soaked through by the time he reached the neon-lit district of downtown—the place students called "New Seraphis" because of its glowing billboards and endless night life.
---
He stumbled into an alley, coughing and shivering, when he suddenly collided with a young woman.
"Hey! Hey— you okay?"
Her hair was black and messy, one eye cybernetic, a leather jacket worn like armor. The world around him blurred again. Sparks seemed to fall, the smell of oil and fire filled his nose, the hum of energy cores vibrating in the distance. He staggered back, almost slipping.
"Can you hear me?" she said, her tone edged with concern.
"I… yes. Maybe. I don't—"
Her expression softened. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe… someone else."
He blinked. In that moment, he saw it: the faint glow of sigils beneath his skin. No. It can't be…
"Name?" she asked, scanning him with a wrist device.
"I… don't know," he whispered.
Her eyes narrowed. "Memory wipe?"
"I… don't remember."
She paused, assessing him. Then she extended a hand. "Come on. You're not safe here. Not if… whatever this is…"
He took it.
---
Inside her makeshift underground hideout—stacked with scavenged tech, dim energy cores humming—he finally allowed himself to rest. She introduced herself as Lyra, tossing him a towel. Her cybernetic eye scanned him as if reading layers beneath the surface.
"You're lucky I found you first," she said softly. "The city… the Enforcers… they would've taken more than your memories."
He stared at the faint glow of the sigils under his arms. "Parts," he murmured.
She tilted her head. "You've got the look of someone running from more than bad luck."
As she turned, he noticed something etched on her neck—like the marks on him. For a heartbeat, the world shifted: flashes of another time, another battlefield, her face beside a throne. Then it was gone.
"Hey," she said, noticing his dazed expression. "You alright?"
"I… think I've seen you before," he whispered.
Lyra frowned. "Doubt it. I'd remember someone like you."
The storm outside raged—sirens, static, the city alive. He closed his eyes. The dream returned: the black throne, fire, kneeling armies. And the voice, whispering softly:
> "Find me, my emperor. Before the world burns again."
---
Lyra was the first to notice the patterns—the fragments in his sleep, the repeated dreams of fire and betrayal. She began recording them carefully, creating a map of memory shards. And he began to realize: these episodes weren't random. They were fragments of a life he had forgotten. A life of power, of betrayal, of an empire that needed him.
At night, alone in the hideout, he would stare at his arms, at the sigils glowing faintly beneath his skin. "I… I was someone important," he murmured.
Lyra didn't answer immediately. She simply nodded, understanding more than he could say. "And you'll remember," she said quietly. "But only if you're willing to face what you've forgotten."
The rain fell outside, neon reflections bleeding into shadows, and he realized the truth: he was more than a college student, more than a "loser" blacking out in class. He was the emperor who had forgotten himself.
And if the city—or the world—was to burn or rise, he would need to remember.