Memories

Sunlight poured through the towering windows of Emberhold, casting long golden beams across the stone corridors. The great castle, once a place of siege and death, now breathed with life. The murmur of conversation, the sound of footsteps against polished floors, and even the occasional laughter filled its vast halls.

The soldiers were no longer just warriors waiting for death; they were men and women rebuilding their existence. In the courtyard, some sparred with wooden swords, wood ringing against wood, while others worked to mend broken weapons, cook meals, or rest. Yet beneath this fragile normalcy, the scars of battle remained.

That sacred night—the night of the half-turned werewolf attack—had claimed seventeen lives. Of the hundred who stood before Emberhold's gates, only eighty-three remained.

And still, they considered it a miracle.

Edward had been unconscious for most of it. The last thing he remembered was warm blood on his skin, the eerie glow of runes forming in the air, and then… memories flooding inside his brain.

After waking up, two weeks had gone by. At that time, the forces of Emberhold had held firm. With his unyielding presence and masterful tactics, Commander Richard had led a counterattack, clearing the west side of the hill before reinforcing the crumbling East flank.

Thanks to his incredible strength, they had survived that night. As for now, they were safe.

However, the real threat remained. The genuine werewolves—those entirely overtaken by the Abyss—hadn't struck since that night. Instead, they observed. Each night at dusk, just past the treeline, shadows lingered—quiet, persistent, and watchful. Some rumored they were surveying, while others dreaded the thought of them amassing strength for a more significant attack.

Edward had heard all kinds of speculation as rumors spread like wildfire throughout Emberhold. Everyone had something to say about that night, from battle-hardened warriors to cooks and stable hands. Some of them even pointed to Edward himself.

The Awakened.

That was what some of the men had started calling him. Not everyone was able to see what happened that night. But words spread quickly—a young, one-armed warrior who slayed the beast alone. Even though it was just half-turned, it remained a force to be reckoned with. That is considered in the realm of the impossible without the blessing of the Runes.

Only Commander Richard successfully defeated a Werewolf creature. Now, Edward's name was mentioned alongside the commander's as well. 

He hadn't slain the beast because he was a hero. Edward was not so noble, but he did it because he had no choice. Even though he won, the price of victory still weighed on him. A bitter smirk curled at his lips as he wandered through the halls, listening to the murmurs and speculation.

Even now, staring at his reflection in a polished bronze mirror, he barely recognized the man looking back at him. White strands of hair framed his sharp features, and the tiredness in his eyes made him look older than he was. He had a slim, refined figure with shoulder-length, white hair that fell in soft waves—slightly unkempt yet effortlessly striking. His sharp facial features and well-defined jawline gave him an air of quiet intensity, while his posture conveyed confidence and mystery.

His most distinct feature is his heterochromatic eyes—one golden amber, radiating fierce intensity, while the other piercing icy blue, cold and inscrutable. The stark contrast between them renders his gaze almost hypnotic as if two separate souls were inhabiting him.

Edward ran a hand through his white hair. His golden and blue eyes stared back at him in the mirror. He remembered now.

Edward was from Earth, a planet with breathtakingly beautiful nature, magnificent structures, and vibrant life. The Abyss Realm was not a mystery—not an unknown phenomenon whispered by madmen. Humanity had known of its existence. They had studied, feared, and eventually accepted it as a reality. But that knowledge came at a cost. Every thirteenth day of the month, people vanished—chosen, marked. Nobody knew why or what determined who would be taken.

The youngest recorded was fourteen, the oldest twenty—a cruel, unpredictable selection. Some believed it was fate, and others said it was a test, a way to forge those with the most tremendous potential into something more. And the younger you were chosen, the stronger Abyss believed in you, "blessing" with strong Aether Scars or Void Imprints. The strongest soldiers of humanity were often those selected from a young age. After years of growing more assertive, they expanded humanity's knowledge of the Void through their remarkable feats.

Edward had never thought much about it. He was already twenty-one. Past the age when the genuinely gifted were taken. Past the point where he needed to worry. He just watched on the sidelines, but somehow, on the thirteenth of July, he was spawned in Schachtel to undergo the Reckoning.

It was a known fact that every person underwent a different Trial, so there were no guides, mentors, or second chances—just the cold, unwavering reality of the Void. And yet, some things were always the same.

The Runes, for example.

Everyone chosen by the Abyss received them. They were the only universal truth among the Reckonings—the feature granted to all who stepped beyond their world. It was a silent observer, a constant presence in the dark. If you could summon the runes, you could see your abilities, strengths, and sometimes future. But nothing else was certain.

To conquer your first Reckoning, you had to succeed in specific tasks. What were those tasks? Nobody knew. Some were forced to slay creatures, others to survive long enough, and some… had to face something even worse.

That was why, when the Abyssborn—those who survived their Reckoning—returned, they all spoke of different experiences. For some, mere hours had passed, while others claimed it stretched for days, sometimes even a week. But Edward? He had been in Schachtel for over two weeks. That was beyond usual. No one had ever spoken of a trial lasting this long.

Only those who had successfully undergone the Reckoning could see it: a split in the sky, a tear, in reality, itself—marking how vast and immeasurable the Abyss indeed was. It was called "The Hollow Rift".

To an ordinary person, the world seemed normal. But for those who had survived, the truth was clear: The Abyss was slowly and unstoppably consuming the Earth. The only things standing in its way were the Abyssborn. This is why humanity dispatched its chosen ones beyond the veil, or more accurately, on the 13th of every month, they were taken by the Abyss itself.

Every time a Reckoning occurred, they were thrown into an unknown world, tasked with something that could stall the Abyss' advance. It wasn't just about power; it was about humanity's survival. Even the strongest of humanity—those who had returned victorious time and time—could one day step into the Abyss and never return. The deeper one went…, the greater the unknown.

Edward exhaled slowly. Standing in a world that was not his own, in a body that felt familiar and foreign, Edward finally understood his situation. Nevertheless, some things remained strange, like his missing hand. He had never heard of anyone waking up in the Reckoning with a missing hand or no memories.

'And I couldn't summon The Runes from the start...' he scratched his head while looking in the mirror.

"So this world will die." the thought settled in Edward's mind like a bitter weight, echoing the grim reality Michelle had told him. His gaze drifted toward the window at the back of his room while his body instinctively moved toward it.

The sun stood high, bathing Emberhold in golden light, marking another beautiful day.

'What a cruel irony.' he thought, leaning against the windowsill, his eyes stretching far across the horizon, observing rolling green fields, winding rivers, and distant mountain ridges painted in a serene blue haze.

It was breathtaking. Untouched. But he knew the truth. Beyond this illusion of peace, villages burned. People died. And the Abyss devoured. Exhaling sharply, Edward shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He didn't know how long he would be stuck here, but one thing was sure—waiting for better days wasn't an option.

His thoughts shifted to Michelle.

The young woman who had overseen him while he was unconscious had asked him to meet her. She had guided him through the fortress, showing him its layout, structure, and people.

Edward turned away from the window, glancing at his reflection one last time. Same face. Same body. But a different world. He steadily exited his room, walking down the long, dimly lit hallway, heading for the barracks.

'Great. What do I do now?' the question circled his mind as he walked through the fortress corridors. The living quarters stretched long, requiring a fair walk before reaching the main halls. But he didn't mind. He liked the silence. Since he was young, peace had been the one thing he always strived for. And yet, here he was. Thrown into a Reckoning, he never asked for.

Almost at the end of the hallway, Edward began to hear the sounds of life within the fortress—low chatter, the rhythmic chopping of wood, the scrape of tools against stone. As he stepped closer, the scene unfolded before him. A group of men worked in silent efficiency—some splitting logs, others stacking the cut pieces into neat piles, preparing for the cold of the night. The scent of fresh timber lingered in the air, mingling with the distant smoke of the cooking fires.

As he passed, he noticed that their work slowed. Edward felt their gazes settle on him—sharp, evaluating, uncertain. They weren't openly hostile, but they weren't welcoming either. They were studying him. His steps remained steady, but with the corner of his eye, he caught the way their eyes lingered—some filled with curiosity, others with something unreadable, as if they were trying to figure out what he was.

Tch.

Slightly shifting his head, Edward met their stares with an expressionless, poker-faced, unwavering gaze. His heterochromatic eyes—one gold, one icy blue—cut through them like daggers. A few of the men flinched, quickly turning back to their tasks. Others held their gaze a second longer before looking away, feigning focus on their work.#

'Why are they staring so much? I'm not some damn zoo animal.' his lips pressed into a thin line as he kept walking, irritation prickling at the back of his mind. It was no different than on Earth, where people stared, too. They had whispered behind his back, eyes filled with judgment over something so insignificant. His heterochromia wasn't a curse, nor was it some freak condition. There were plenty of people born with different-colored eyes. But that never mattered.

People always look for a reason to tear others down. And being different? That was enough. They belittled and ridiculed him if they weren't gawking in silent curiosity. Not because there was anything wrong with him—but because they needed someone to take their frustrations out on.

Edward let out a slow breath, shaking off the thoughts. It didn't matter now. Those people were gone. And these men? They could stare all they wanted. He had far more significant concerns than their judgment. Edward pushed open the barracks door, the dim lighting casting long shadows against the worn wooden walls. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and old parchment, and the quiet hum of conversation was barely audible from deeper within.

Then, his gaze locked onto Michelle. She sat at a table near the room's far end, her usual graceful posture replaced by something… unnatural. Once healthy and vibrant, her skin was now alarmingly pale, almost sickly. Her emerald eyes, which always carried a sharp glint of confidence, looked dull, sunken—exhausted beyond measure. Her arms rested limply against the table, and the moment Edward stepped closer, he noticed how her fingers trembled ever so slightly. Something was wrong.

"…Michelle?" asked Edward, with a concerned look. The Mage didn't react at first. Edward furrowed his brows, stepping closer. Had she even noticed him enter? Finally, as if snapping out of a trance, Michelle lifted her gaze toward him. And that's when he realized—she looked like she hadn't eaten in days.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern evident. For a second, she just stared at him. Her lips parted, hinting at a reply, but before she could answer, she faltered.

Edward surged ahead, reaching out with his hand, driven by instinct—