reseter18

A reclusive sorcerer with unlimited mana, a suspiciously misplaced fortress, and a deeply regrettable experiment has found himself stranded in a world where spirits power everything from kingdoms to kitchen appliances. His fortress is falling apart, his magic is flickering like a dying candle, and—oh, right—the cosmic horror he accidentally woke up is now very interested in his existence. Fantastic. With paranoia as his closest friend and alcohol as a questionable coping mechanism, he must navigate political chaos, reluctant spirit contracts, and a reality that seems personally offended by his presence. Fixing the Nexus should be priority one, but first, he needs to survive long enough to do it—preferably with all his limbs and sanity intact. No promises on the latter.

The Recluse Sorcerer

The Sleeper retaliated. An unseen force clamped down on me, absolute and undeniable. My limbs refused to move. Not paralyzed—no, paralysis was something I understood. This was different. This was like reality itself had decided I no longer had the privilege of mobility.

And the connection—it was stronger now. A thread binding me to it in ways I couldn't yet comprehend. Before, I had only sensed its presence, a vague awareness pressing against me. But now, it was looking.

Is this what they mean when they say not to look into the abyss? Because the abyss, apparently, looks back. And it judges.

It wasn't fire, nor ice, nor anything resembling earthly pain. It was wrong. A searing, invasive force that didn't just burn my flesh but rewrote it, layer by layer. My nerves howled as something deeper than pain took hold—a crawling, gnawing corruption that slithered beneath my skin, into my bones, my marrow.

I wanted to scream, but my throat locked. My body was open, not physically, but in a way that defied explanation. My mind—my very essence—was being branded. The sensation wasn't just felt; it echoed, reverberating through my existence like an immutable law being carved into stone.

Something fundamental had changed. Something had been added to me, something I would never be rid of.

I could taste it—metallic, sharp, like biting down on a live wire. The air thickened, congealed around me, and for a brief moment, I swore I could hear something slithering between the folds of reality. A whisper, just beyond hearing, crawling along the edges of my perception.

I collapsed to my knees, chest heaving, sweat soaking through my robes. The unseen grip had relented, but the damage was done.

I looked down at my left palm. It was there.

It moved. Shifted. Rearranged itself with slow, deliberate motion, like a living thing coiling beneath my skin. It wasn't ink, nor a scar, nor anything remotely natural. It pulsed with a rhythm that wasn't mine, a sickening counterpoint to my own heartbeat. It was watching me.

I flexed my fingers. The mark shifted in response, writhing like something alive, something hungry. It wasn't just on my skin—it had infested me, woven into the very framework of my being.

I exhaled sharply. "That's going to be a problem."

The Sleeper didn't respond, but I felt the weight of its attention lessen, withdrawing into whatever eldritch void it had come from. The connection, however, remained.

I knelt there for a moment, mind reeling. Rationally, I knew I should be preparing for whatever this was going to bring down on my head.

But instead, I muttered, "Future Me will deal with that."

Present Me was getting a drink. Several drinks. Maybe the whole damn bottle.

Chapter 9