Reincarnation into Madness
Darkness. A void without stars. A whisper slithers through the abyss, incomprehensible yet familiar.
—"Flesh is temporary. Mind is an illusion. Only the cycle remains."
The whisper pulls at his soul. Then, pain. His existence is torn apart, reshaped, and reconstructed. When the agony ceases, he opens his eyes.
A damp alleyway. The scent of mold and rotting corpses. Cold rain drips from above, mixing with the filth of the cobbled streets. His body is weak—malnourished, clad in rags, with scars tracing his arms.
Memories surge forth like a broken dam. Engraving refinement, Inscription Paths, immortal warlords, church inquisitors, eldritch monstrosities lurking beneath the surface of reality.
This is not the world he once knew.
A smile creeps across his lips. Reincarnation.
His name? He remembers now. He was once feared—an immortal warlord who manipulated time, consumed enemies, and mastered countless Engravings. Now, he is a destitute orphan in a city of looming gothic spires, where the streets are ruled by both crime syndicates and zealots of Churches.
He clenches his fist. Weak, fragile—but alive.
A whisper returns, echoing within his soul.
—"Do you wish to return?"
He lowers his gaze. A small, shifting Engraving glows dimly in his palm, fused with something unnatural—a tiny bloodshot eye, carved directly into his flesh, staring into eternity.
His path is clear. He will climb again, from the shadows, through schemes and blood. Engraving refinement and the Paths of Inscription—both shall be his.
And this time, he will seize not just immortality, but dominion over the very fabric of reality.
*****
Cold rain splattered against the uneven cobblestones, soaking through his tattered clothes. The city breathed with a damp, rotting stench, the filth of countless lives abandoned in the gutters. His body trembled—not from fear, but from hunger, exhaustion, and the deep-seated realization that he had returned to existence at its lowest rung.
He forced himself upright, muscles protesting with a dull ache. He was young again, barely fifteen, his body thin and malnourished. Yet his mind was untouched—he retained the knowledge, the cunning, the sheer ruthless ambition of his past life.
Faint echoes of the whisper still lingered in his consciousness. Engraving refinement. Inscription Paths. The Cycle.
His gaze lowered to his palm. The engraving embedded in his flesh pulsed faintly, a shifting rune of unnatural geometry. The bloodshot eye at its center twitched, staring into the void beyond sight.
What was this?
His past life had been dedicated to the study and mastery of Engraving refinement, inscribing the essence of existence into the flesh, soul, and artifacts. He had risen through blood and deceit, crafting powerful inscriptions that bent reality to his will. And yet, he had never encountered anything quite like this.
A new kind of engraving, unlike anything known before.
Suddenly, he felt a headache and remembered. This was the engraving he worked on creating all his life, but he died before trying it.
Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminating the city in jagged shadows. The towering spires of cathedrals loomed over the decayed streets, their bells ringing solemn hymns into the storm.
He needed to move.
Staying here, vulnerable and exposed, was a death sentence. He knew the nature of this world—the predators that lurked in alleyways, the inquisitors that burned the heretical, the shadowy factions that wove their conspiracies through the veins of society. He was nothing right now, a weak-bodied orphan with no resources.
But that would change.
He clenched his palm, feeling the heat of the inscription sear into his skin. It was incomplete, an engraving that demanded refinement, evolution.
Power had been granted to him, but power alone was never enough. He would master it, twist it, and wield it to carve his name into eternity.
With that resolve, he turned from the alleyway and stepped into the city, into the storm, into the unknown.