"WAKE UP!"
The command struck him like a hammer upon the soul. Augustus lurched upright in a single, desperate motion, stumbling to his feet as his hands flew across his body in frantic disbelief. He grasped at his limbs again and again. His left arm was whole, firmly attached, strong beneath his fingers. His legs stood beneath him, warm and steady, blood coursing through them as if they had never known ruin. His eyes—burned moments ago beyond hope—now pierced the dimness with unnatural clarity.
The sudden spinning of the world made his mind reel. He staggered, then forced himself to stand still, breathing hard, staring into the space before him. There, in the shifting light of the cavern, stood a… something. The sight of it rooted him in place.
Perhaps he truly was dead.
Before him hovered a figure like a man long aged by centuries, his form wrinkled and thin, yet translucent and glowing faintly, as though lit from within by pale fire. The air around him shimmered, and when he spoke, his voice did not travel through the air but echoed and boomed directly within Augustus's mind.
"Congratulations," the ghost intoned, hoarse and vast. "You have survived the transfer. The Firmament devours many worlds. Its inhabitants rarely endure as you have." The figure's glow pulsed faintly. "She cares little for people. It is land and power she covets. For those, she hungers endlessly."
"What…" Augustus whispered, horror creeping into every syllable. "I've gone crazy. Or I've died." He laughed weakly, the sound breaking midway. "Is this what death is? Torment dressed as revelation?"
"Calm yourself!" the ghost commanded, his voice snapping like a thunderclap. The cavern trembled in answer. He raised a withered, luminous hand and pointed toward Augustus's right wrist. "You have been touched by the Firmament. That mark is not given lightly. It is a sign of distinction among survivors—a Divine Right to Rule. Those who touch the Heaven's Stones do not do so by chance. They earn it through fate."
Augustus followed the gesture with trembling eyes, staring at his wrist as though seeing it for the first time. His breath quickened. "Where am I?" he demanded. "Why am I speaking to a… ghost?" His hands flew to his head, fingers digging into his hair. "I've truly gone insane."
"CALM YOURSELF!" the ghost thundered again, and this time his voice shook the chasm itself. Dust drifted from unseen heights, and the light wavered like a disturbed flame.
Fear alone dragged Augustus back from the edge. He forced his breathing to slow, every ounce of will turned inward, holding his mind together by sheer resolve. When at last he stood still, shaking but sane, the apparition spoke once more—its tone now grave rather than wrathful.
"Calm yourself," it repeated. "Or death will truly touch your soul. It would be a shame if my memory were wasted so pathetically." The figure drifted closer, his glow casting long, wavering shadows across the stone. "You stand within the Firmament—a Greater World, existing in a realm far higher than your own. Of the true geography of this place, I know little. Such knowledge has long since faded from me."
The ghost gestured slowly around them.
"But this cave," he said, voice lowering with reverence, "is my temple."
The words came after a measured pause, one Augustus used to turn slowly and take in the vastness of the cavern around him. What he saw stole the breath from his lungs. The cave was no mere hollow of stone, but a cathedral carved by devotion and time. Everywhere rose towering statues, their number beyond counting. Each depicted the same figure: a man clad in resplendent armor, a blazing sword raised high as he struck down enemy after enemy, their forms twisted in defeat at his feet. In others, the same figure stood in serene triumph, one hand lifted toward unseen heavens, a radiant halo crowning his head. Thousands upon thousands of such likenesses filled the chamber, ranks upon ranks of silent witnesses.
"Behold," the voice said, resonant with pride and bitterness alike, "my existence, laid bare for the lesser folk of the worlds to witness."
The glowing figure drifted forward, his presence swelling until the air itself seemed to bend around him. "I am Morak Val Bloodflame," he declared. "Master of the House of Black. I ascended to godhood upon the blood of countless trillions. Even more beheld my glory and bent the knee, and an empire divine was forged beneath my will." His voice darkened. "Yet even gods may fall."
As he spoke, the cavern's light shifted. "Others like me—gods driven by hunger—thirsted for my power. They defiled my ascension and sought to bind me, to strip me of all that I had claimed." The glow of his form deepened, pale blue burning suddenly into a furious crimson. "I answered them with fire. I burned my godhood. I burned my spirit. I burned my will itself to escape their chains. And so I endure—not as flesh, not as god, but as memory. Bound to this world by wrath alone."
Augustus staggered back, his heart hammering as he met Morak Val Bloodflame's eyes—eyes now blazing red, vast with old fury and immeasurable loss. The very stone beneath his feet seemed to vibrate with the weight of that gaze.
"Those who shared my name," Morak continued, his voice trembling with restrained ruin. "My father…" He turned, and Augustus followed his gaze to one immense statue behind him. It depicted Morak kneeling, hands outstretched, as though receiving a sacred gift. From the statue's eyes, dark streams began to flow—thick and red, like blood drawn from stone itself. "They who claimed to be my family sought to use my blood as a catalyst to further their own ascension. They would have fed upon me as carrion feeds upon the fallen."
The fury contained within the memory could no longer be held. The statue shuddered, cracks racing across its surface, and then it collapsed in thunderous ruin. The impact shook the cavern, sending a storm of dust and stone exploding outward. The echoes rolled on and on, as though the mountain itself cried out in shared anguish.
"You will not survive this world."
Morak spoke the words calmly, almost gently, and that calmness unsettled Augustus more than any rage could have. He stumbled backward, his thoughts lurching as the being before him shifted so effortlessly from fury to stillness, as though wrath and peace were but two notes in the same endless chord.
"Your body is weak," Morak continued, his voice measured and inexorable. "It will not endure the Firmament as it is. Your mind, however…" The red glow of his eyes narrowed slightly. "Your mind shows promise. Yet promise untended withers. It requires cultivation."
He drifted closer, the air growing heavy with his presence. "I will surrender myself to you. My constitution shall become yours, and your flesh will be reshaped—drawn nearer to what I once was. You will inherit an instinctive grasp of my greatest work, the labor that defined my existence. With these gifts, you may yet live." His voice deepened. "And with them, you will fulfill my sole demand."
The cavern seemed to darken as Morak spoke again, his tone thick with memory. "Long ages ago, I swore an oath upon my own corpse before those who betrayed me—my family—that I would return in blaze and glory. That my legions would eclipse the stars above their heads, and my shadow would drown the ground beneath their feet." His gaze locked onto Augustus. "Fulfill this vow, and you shall gain all that you require to endure this merciless world."
He raised his hand toward Augustus, and now he stood within reach—close enough that the heat of his presence could be felt like the breath of a furnace.
Augustus turned his head away, heart pounding, his thoughts racing. This was no dying dream, no delusion born of a shattered mind. The weight of the moment pressed too heavily for that. This was real. Truth, raw and unforgiving. And if the specter before him were false, then nothing would come of his consent. There was no greater loss to fear.
Slowly, deliberately, Augustus raised his own hand.
In an instant, Morak vanished—only to reappear directly before him. His grip was sudden and absolute as he seized Augustus's head, spectral palms pressing hard against his temples. The world seemed to recoil.
"I was a god, boy," Morak declared, his voice roaring through Augustus's mind. "My constitution is vast beyond your reckoning. But the talent born of my life's work is greater still. Surrender yourself to it—or it will crush you utterly."
The pressure mounted, not of hands alone, but of presence, of ancient will bearing down upon fragile flesh. "I will guide you," Morak continued, his tone lowering. "I will appear to you, that you may wield these gifts with purpose. Yet understand this well: I am only memory now. I possess no more power over this world than the echoes of your own past."
His grip tightened once more. "If you do not seize what I offer, then you will die regardless. This world will show you no mercy."
The cavern spun, and Augustus collapsed to the stone floor. His body felt weightless once more, as it had when he first fell into darkness—caught between breath and oblivion, between what he had been and what he was about to become.
Opening his eyes after passing out was nothing short of a revelation—a divine experience that seemed to ripple through the very marrow of his being. Augustus felt… fundamentally altered. Every sense had been magnified, reshaped, refined beyond the fragile limitations of mere humanity. His vision alone was extraordinary. The world stretched before him in impossible clarity. Far-off objects, once lost in distance and shadow, now revealed their hidden textures. He could see ants crawling along a distant statue, each segment of their bodies etched in astonishing detail—the leathery, porous skin, fine bristling hairs, the slight sheen upon their backs—as if they rested atop his eyelids.
And yet, while he observed these minute details, he could also perceive the whole. The expanse of the cavern, the angles of the statues, the faint light cascading through unseen fissures—all of it flowed into his mind simultaneously. It was as though an immense torrent of optical knowledge had poured into him, a flood that pressed upon his consciousness like a weighted blanket, comforting and inexorably grounding him. The sensation was both terrifying and gentle, a paradox of overwhelming clarity and serenity.
His other senses had been expanded in kind. The soft patter of water droplets, far beyond the reach of ordinary hearing, now fell like a drum at his side. He could not only hear each droplet strike stone, leaf, or moss, but smell the cold, mineral-rich scent of water striking earth, the faint, living tang of algae and stone beneath the falls. Clenching his fists, he brought his attention to the golden rune that shimmered above the central arteries of his newly enhanced body, feeling it pulse faintly beneath his skin as though alive.
Morak appeared before him again, the spectral god now equal in form to Augustus, his presence heavy and undeniable. "It is a rune of power," he intoned. "Place your palm upon the skin of a Power Stone, and it shall bear your will. Its domain shall bend to you. Seek a human settlement. Therein lies a Power Stone, and there your dominion shall begin."
"Dominion," Augustus echoed, tasting the word on his tongue as though it were fire.
"Yes…" Morak drew the word out, harsh and deliberate. "This world is forged upon power. I devoured all for myself, yet surrounded myself with weak allies. My enemies cultivated generals, ministers, rulers who governed vast territories… and they served them well. My empire, though immense, was weak. Filled with those too frail to uphold me when the hour came. You shall do differently. You shall cultivate a dominion so vast, so absolute, that it will shake the heavens themselves. But beware… if you fail to shackle them, if you grant freedom to those who would oppose you, your rule will collapse like sand through fingers."
And then, just as abruptly as he had appeared, Morak stepped into nothingness and vanished, leaving Augustus alone, armed with knowledge both immense and troubling. Questions rose like waves upon a storm-tossed sea, yet there was no time to linger in uncertainty. He would first enter the temple itself, seeking supplies and tools to begin shaping his newfound power.
The terrain before him was deceptively simple. Rocky ground stretched away in gentle undulations, dotted with small boulders that might have posed difficulty to a normal man—but for him, they were mere obstacles to stride over. Each step was effortless; each motion precise, a reflection of the enhancements now coursing through his body. The temple loomed ahead, waiting, silent and eternal, promising both the beginnings of dominion and the tests of mastery that would define his ascent.
He reached the temple in far less time than he would have once thought possible, his altered stride carrying him swiftly across the broken ground. As he approached, the vast stone door answered his presence without touch or command. With a low, grinding moan, it began to move. The massive slabs crawled apart second by reluctant second, protesting their long neglect. Dust billowed outward in pale clouds, and ancient cobwebs tore loose, drifting like ghosts disturbed from centuries of sleep.
Within, the temple lay in ruinous silence. The air was stale, heavy with the weight of abandonment. Cracks veined the stone walls, and the floor was layered with dust so thick it muted his footsteps. This was not a place recently forsaken, but one that had waited a very long time for its purpose to return. The hall was singular and straight, drawing the eye inevitably forward. At its far end stood a solitary plinth, and upon it rested an open book. From a narrow window set high behind the altar, a shaft of pale light descended, illuminating the pages as though the heavens themselves had chosen this single object to remember.
Augustus approached slowly. The book's pages were blank—utterly so—yet they seemed to drink in the light, as though waiting to be written upon by something greater than ink. He reached out instinctively.
A hand struck his back with sudden force, halting him.
"Careful, Augustus."
Morak's voice rang with sharp warning. "That is my greatest work."
Augustus froze.
"I was born a demigod," Morak continued, his tone shifting into something reverent and terrible, "to the race of vampiric monsters who bore the Bloodflame name. It was I who forged a path beyond their limitations. I took the greatest weaknesses of my kind and turned them into wellsprings of strength—light itself, and flame." The glow around him deepened faintly. "With it, I ushered in a new age of power and ruin, for ally and enemy alike. Misuse this knowledge, and you will be reduced to ash."
Augustus withdrew his hand, heart pounding. "I thought," he said carefully, "that as a memory, you were incapable of manipulating anything in this world."
The question was not idle. If Morak could still intervene—still touch—then the line between guidance and possession was dangerously thin.
Morak laughed, a low sound filled with knowing. "You misunderstand the pact we have made, mortal," he said, his voice echoing with unsettling intimacy. "You are no longer Augustus… just as I am no longer Morak." He stepped closer, his presence overlapping Augustus's thoughts like a shadow. "There is no need for possession. We have already become one."
His gaze burned with certainty.
"To announce you is to announce me. To see you is to see me."
A pause, heavy and final.
"We are Augustus Bloodflame."
Morak turned his attention back to the book. "This is not a spell nor a prayer," he explained. "It is a method—a means of creating a new organ within ourselves. An engine to digest and refine the energies of light and flame. The process is called Cultivation, guided by Techniques or Methods. This one is mine. _Monarch's Light_." His voice darkened. "I fell before it could be completed. We will finish it—if we are to destroy those who betrayed me."
Augustus swallowed. "How do I use it?"
Morak's expression softened, just slightly. "It will show you."
Then, dismissively, he turned away from the plinth entirely. "But this is not your most pressing concern." He gestured vaguely at the book, as though it were suddenly small. "You must find civilization. Alone, you will not endure—not yet."
He looked out beyond the temple walls, as if seeing worlds layered atop one another. "Our enemies cannot yet see into this realm. The Firmament shields it until it reaches maturity. We will not require millennia to rebuild what was lost." His voice hardened with purpose. "Find civilization. Subdue it. Shape it. And take from this pitiful world every scrap of knowledge it can offer."
The light upon the book continued to shine, silent and patient, as if waiting for Augustus Bloodflame to decide when he would truly begin.
"You are a memory of a god, and yet you cannot tell me of this place—of this world and its hidden systems?" Augustus voiced his confusion, his words edged with faint mockery, though unease coiled beneath them like a sleeping serpent. The question lingered in the air, unanswered. Morak offered no reply. Instead, the god's fading echo turned and strode calmly into the void beyond sight, his form thinning like mist beneath the morning sun, until even his presence unraveled and was no more.
"Very well," Augustus said at last, the word falling hollow in the vast stillness.
He turned once more to the plinth, where the ancient tome yet lay open, its pages pale and waiting. With measured care he set both hands upon the worn leather covers and closed the book gently, as one might seal a grave or bid farewell to an old king. In that instant, agony seized him. A cry tore from his throat as his hands seemed to melt against the surface, flesh aflame as though cast into a living furnace. Fire raced through his veins, devouring sensation—until, as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished, leaving him collapsed upon the cold stone floor, gasping.
When his vision steadied, the book was gone.
It lay neither in his hands nor upon the podium, nor had it fallen to the ground. It had vanished utterly from the realm. And yet, he felt it. Not as weight or warmth, but as a presence—subtle and insistent—like the sharp pressure before a sneeze, lurking just beyond reach, waiting to be summoned.
"How irritating it is," Augustus muttered as he forced himself upright, "to know so little about so many new things."
With that, he turned from the temple and strode out with renewed haste. The ancient hall watched him depart in silence. He possessed nothing now but himself and the ragged scraps of coarse cloth that hung from his frame like a poor man's tunic. His feet were bare upon the unforgiving stone, his stomach a hollow abyss that gnawed at him without mercy. The world beyond awaited him—vast, indifferent, and unknown.
He would need supplies. He would need a means to defend his life. And, gods willing, he would soon need a pair of shoes.