The space Astar found himself in was… fantastical.

  Gone were the damp stone walls and the foul stench of the dungeon. Around him stretched an endless expanse of deep black-blue. But this darkness wasn’t frightening. It was thick like velvet—soft, and strangely comforting. And all around him floated shimmering lights. They didn’t fall, didn’t rise—just hovered, suspended as if by invisible currents of air.

  Astar turned, feeling his breath slow. He cautiously took a step forward—but felt no solid surface beneath his feet. His body simply floated in this strange place, as if the very space itself was holding him up.

  “Goddamn…” he whispered, glancing around. “This is getting more and more absurd. If this is a dream, it’s devilishly realistic.”

  His words seemed to dissolve into silence. There was no echo here, no familiar sounds—only the gentle flicker of sparks and a strange sense of calm.

  And then, something happened—something he hadn't expected at all.

  Astar felt a strange, yet unmistakable sensation. He stopped, trying to grasp what exactly was happening. It was like a flash of intuition—but far deeper.

  Each of the lights surrounding him seemed to whisper in an unknown language. But their whisper wasn't made of words—it was felt in his heart, in his mind. It was like the softest music, where every note was connected to him by some invisible thread.

  “What is this…” he murmured, reaching out toward the nearest spark.

  It flared brighter, as if responding to his presence. But it didn’t touch him—only drifted slowly away from his palm. Still, Astar felt its warmth, and suddenly understood: he wasn’t just seeing these sparks. He could feel them. Each and every one.

  Some stronger, some weaker—but every spark was part of something whole. And more than that, they were connected to him. They belonged to something shared, linked together by unseen strands, like a vast web. A web that bound them all…

  “This… this is madness,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest, where he felt a faint vibration.

  The lights seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, as if resonating with his thoughts. The strangest, most unsettling part was that the sensation reminded him of something he had only imagined—the feeling people must have when surrounded by family. A feeling he himself had never truly known.

  The realization hit Astar like a wave crashing into his chest. His parents. His orphanhood. His childhood dreams. All of it seemed to rise before him in this infinite space. The sparks, bound to him by invisible threads, suddenly reminded him of something he’d never experienced: belonging. Of parents he had always longed for, even as he rejected the idea out of self-preservation.

  He clutched at his clothes, not noticing how his breathing had become ragged. His chest tightened under the weight of rising emotions, as if long-buried memories had finally broken through the dam he had so carefully constructed around his soul.

  “Goddamn it…” he muttered through gritted teeth, feeling his eyes sting with tears.

  Orphanhood had always been his deepest, most forbidden wound. He had sealed that part of himself away, building walls of sarcasm and cynicism to avoid feeling weak. He always told himself that family meant nothing. That he didn’t need it. That he was stronger than anyone because he had survived alone—because he had built his life from nothing.

  But now…

  This feeling—strange, warm, almost painful—overwhelmed him. These sparks, linked to him and to each other, had given him something he had never known before. Kinship. Belonging. He felt it with every fiber of his being.

  “What the hell is happening to me?!” he whispered, curling his fingers so tightly his nails dug into his palms.

  A single tear slid down his cheek, but Astar inhaled deeply, pushing the weakness away. He couldn’t afford to break down—especially not in this place. His gaze hardened, and the muscles in his face tensed, as if preparing for a fight.

  “No. I won’t let this place break me!”

  His eyes were still glistening, but with sheer force of will, he straightened his back. He wiped away the tears and stared at the lights as if challenging everything they represented.

  "Is this some kind of damned trial or what?! I won't give in!"

  Yet despite the defiance in his mind, he couldn’t ignore the warmth the lights continued to radiate. It wrapped around him, calming him, gently reminding him—he wasn’t alone.

  Astar stood amidst the endless expanse, watching the flickering lights float around him. But then one of them began to change. It stood out—not by brightness, but by darkness. Unlike the others, which glowed softly, this one seemed to absorb the light around it, creating a sense of something deeply alien.

  The dark flame drifted slowly toward him, leaving behind a faint trail. Astar froze, a strange mix of curiosity and unease rising inside him. His gaze locked onto it, drawn by something unseen. He could feel a connection, a pull—there was definitely something between him and this fire…

  “What are you…” he whispered, reaching out.

  The moment his fingers touched the dark flame, reality exploded.

  DU-DOOM!

  A blinding pain tore through him, as though a thousand searing needles stabbed into every cell of his body. His chest tightened, his skull felt like it was splitting open, and a scream of agony burst from his throat, echoing through the infinite darkness.

  “Aaaaaagh!” he cried, collapsing to his knees. But his hands seemed fused to the flame, unable to let go.

  The pain wasn’t just physical. Something foreign and incomprehensible began clawing into his mind, rifling through his memories. It felt like he was losing himself—his past, his identity.

  Through the searing agony, Astar saw a black stream of energy flowing from the flame into him. Other currents appeared from afar, as if summoned by the flame—dark tendrils from another plane, converging on him. It was as though they were marking him, claiming him.

  And then—visions.

  Scene after scene flashed before his eyes, as if he were reliving someone else’s life through their eyes. A man in black robes. His face shrouded in shadow. Dark violet energy swirled around his hands, curling and dancing like the silhouettes of living beings. He wielded it with destructive grace—laying waste to strange cities unlike anything from Earth. Each movement was filled with power, control, and terrifying intent.

  "What is this?! Who is he?!" Astar thought in panic, but the pain was too overwhelming to focus.

  Another vision: the same man hovering in the sky above ruins. That violet energy spiraled around him as he looked down at vast hordes of monstrous creatures. He was saying something, but no sound came—only a low hum that filled the space around him.

  Each vision pulled Astar deeper into chaos. He couldn’t tell what he was seeing. The past? The future? And why him? Who was this man?

  "No… these aren’t just visions," flashed through his mind—just before another wave of pain and images overwhelmed him, nearly tearing his consciousness apart.

  Then, just as he was about to vanish in the storm, the chaotic images fell away… sifted out… leaving behind something specific. A fraction. A fragment. A shard of knowledge—some sliver of the man’s understanding—transferring directly into Astar’s mind.

  He felt like his entire body was burning from the inside, his mind flooded by wave after wave of unbearable pain. But even in the torment, something changed: the chaos began to take shape. This wasn’t just suffering. This was… learning.

  Tiny fragments of understanding bloomed in his thoughts, as though someone were opening doors to mysteries he’d never known existed.

  "What is this…?" he whispered inwardly, clenching his jaw to keep from screaming again.

  The visions returned—but now in order. Like pages of a book he had never read, but which was now becoming a part of him. He saw the face of the man at last—golden eyes, sharp and unforgiving. Long violet hair. A deep scar running across his face. And Astar was no longer a spectator. The knowledge was becoming his own.

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  He watched as the man manipulated the violet energy with perfect mastery. It flowed from his hands, forming shapes—spirits of shadow, bound to his will. Every movement was precise, as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. His forehead glowed, and something began to take shape—an object, dark and strange. A tablet. Black, with glowing runes etched into it.

  Astar didn’t know how, but he understood: the tablet held a technique. A sealed art, bound in spirit form—and it began to form before him in this space, surrounded by the countless lights.

  "This is his power… But why am I seeing this? Why am I feeling this?" he murmured, but no answer came.

  More knowledge poured in—not just images, but understanding. Astar realized this wasn’t simply being shown to him. It was being given to him. These insights weren’t foreign anymore—they were becoming his. He could feel his mind stretching, expanding, as if subtle threads of comprehension were weaving themselves into his soul. What had once seemed like mysticism was now suddenly... tangible.

  And then he realized something else—something far more terrifying:

  This flame, both dark and brilliant, wasn’t just some foreign entity...

  Alongside the strange black tablet came understanding—fragments of knowledge, of fundamental concepts from this world that was still so alien to him.

  “Memoria,” “Source of Memoria,” and “Ancestral Memory.” These weren’t just words—they were the key ideas passed to him through the visions! Nothing more—and nothing less.

  At that moment, Astar’s eyes seemed to flood with blood. A dreadful realization crashed over him—one he desperately did not want to accept.

  “No! That’s not possible!” he shouted through clenched teeth, his voice strained with pain. “There’s no way I was born in this world!”

  He gasped for breath, chest rising and falling like someone who had just broken the surface of an icy lake. The words “I was born in this world” echoed in his mind, each repetition ringing like a bell, striking deeper into his psyche.

  “No… it’s a mistake… a mistake!” He clenched his fists, but the weight of the revelation, compounded by the weakness in his limbs, kept him frozen in place. “I... I grew up on Earth! I had friends! A career! My parents were just bastards who abandoned me!”

  The visions returned in waves, each one reinforcing the knowledge he had absorbed. Now he knew: the dark flame was the soul of a long-dead man—and the most horrifying truth was that this man had been one of his ancestors, as were all the other flames in this place.

  And if that was true… then he himself must also be from this world.

  “Memoria.” “Source of Memoria.” “Ancestral Memory.”

  These words, passed to him by the flame, now echoed in his mind with chilling clarity. Coupled with fragments of the man’s memories, their meaning began to crystallize…

  The energy Astar had been absorbing from the crystals in the mine—it was called memoria. Memoria was the primal substance that permeated this world; and according to the locals’ beliefs, even souls were woven from it.

  And from what he now understood, nearly every living being used memoria at some level. When a being died, its soul and memories returned to the Source of Memoria—a collective space where all knowledge, emotions, and experiences merged into one.

  From this arose the concept known here as Ancestral Memory. When a new being is born, their parents pass on a spiritual imprint, forever linking the child to one of the ancestral lines—either the father’s or the mother’s. This wasn’t mere genetics. It was a soul-deep bond sealed in the Source of Memoria.

  The information Astar had received was scattered, fragmented, and lacking clear structure. He didn’t fully understand how it all worked… But one thing was clear: by absorbing enough memoria, one could break through to a new state of existence. In that moment, the being would enter the Source of Memoria—where the souls and memories of deceased ancestors resided, bound by lineage.

  It was a ritual—one undergone by all who were capable of gathering and cultivating enough memoria to reach that threshold. Astar didn’t know how, but during this process, a connection would be made with one of those ancestors, and a piece of their knowledge would be passed down. In this way, a family’s strength and legacy were forged.

  And this was the realization that horrified Astar most—because it was exactly what he was experiencing now. He had reached the Source of Memoria… and received the memories of someone he was spiritually connected to. Someone of his own bloodline.

  But Astar was convinced: he had grown up on Earth. No magical threads or ancestral bonds could undo that truth.

  “This is a lie! It has to be a lie!” he cried into the void. But only silence answered him—pure and absolute.

  The flame before him continued to pulse softly, almost reassuringly, while the black tablet slowly materialized beside it. It felt as though the soul of the ancestor was waiting—for Astar to accept what had been passed down. But Astar wasn’t ready.

  “I’m not a part of this world... I can’t be!” His voice trembled, filled with fury, fear, and despair.

  Yet alongside his denials, something else stirred inside him—something he couldn’t push away. He felt a connection to this place. To the flame. To the man from the visions. The bond was deep, intimate, undeniable.

  “Could I really belong to this strange world? What the hell is happening to me?!”

  That thought pierced his defenses like a dagger driven straight into his heart. Astar clenched his teeth, fighting the scream threatening to rise in his throat. He didn’t want to accept this—but everything inside him, every cell in his body, every emotion sharpened to a painful edge, affirmed the truth.

  Homeland? Home? Who was he now?

  Tears fell silently from his eyes. A mix of rage, pain, loss—and something else he couldn’t name. Maybe it was a longing for something he never knew he was missing. Or maybe… it was the fear that his life on Earth had never really been his.

  It all felt like one giant, cruel joke.

  The physical pain that had ravaged Astar’s body began to subside, and the flame finally drifted away. It felt as if the searing needles piercing every cell of his being had finally withdrawn, leaving only a faint tingling behind. He still felt weak, but alongside that weakness came a strange relief—like the entire experience had somehow purified him.

  The memories, fragments of visions, images of the man who had wielded streams of dark violet energy—those too began to fade. They receded into the shadows of his mind, falling into the background until they were nothing more than hazy silhouettes. But not all was lost. A piece of that knowledge remained, firmly embedded in his consciousness.

  The conclusion was simple and merciless: from the flood of information that had overwhelmed him, only a few things had stayed with him. Scraps of understanding about memoria, its essence, the soul’s connection to the Source of Memoria, and the concept of Ancestral Memory.

  But most importantly—the tablet beside him had finally taken its complete form.

  “Corruption Devouring Technique,” Astar murmured, suddenly aware that this was the only thing he remembered clearly about it.

  He also knew that to unlock the technique, he would have to activate the tablet. The only problem was… he lacked the foundational knowledge of this world to truly grasp what that even meant.

  "What does this technique actually do? And why would I need it?" He clutched the tablet in his hand, feeling a strange warmth pulse through his body. Questions swirled in his mind, but no answers came.

  He recalled the way the dark flame had drifted toward him. It hadn’t been hostile. On the contrary, it had seemed to offer something—something Astar was meant to receive. As if their souls, their natures, had recognized something familiar in each other, despite the chasm of life and death between them. That sensation of belonging… it terrified him more than anything.

  “I was born here,” he whispered—and the words rang like a hammer striking an anvil.

  The realization was terrifying—but inescapable. Knowledge burst like sparks in his mind, undeniable truths come alive: Мemoria, Source of Memoria, Ancestral Memory, the spiritual imprint of lineage...

  “And what the hell am I supposed to do now?!” he shouted into the void. “Then where the hell are my parents?! My entire damn bloodline?! How did they even send me to another world where I wasted my whole life working for nothing?! Are you kidding me?!”

  “Shit! I’d rather be lying on a beach right now, wrapped around some gorgeous girl! To hell with a calling—I was at least comfortable!” Rage and bitter frustration boiled inside Astar. Everything he had done, everything he had built and taken pride in, had just been smashed and flipped on its head.

  Then he remembered it again—those final words he’d heard before leaving Earth. He had heard them clearly: “Forgive me, son…” The memory only added fuel to his fury.

  Astar was ready to scream again, to release the storm inside him—but then he noticed something. The space around him—the Source of Memoria—was beginning to change. The black-blue void, dotted with flickering lights, trembled as if struck by invisible waves. Its borders began to blur, becoming translucent, as though reality was slipping through his fingers.

  “No... what’s happening?” he whispered, glancing around.

  The lights that had once surrounded him with warmth and a strange sense of belonging began to vanish, one by one. They evaporated like drops of water on a hot surface, leaving behind only faint trails of light. The space around him flattened, losing its depth, turning into a faceless, hollow void.

  Astar reached toward the nearest spark, his hand trembling.

  “Wait!” he cried out—but the words came out muffled, as if the air itself had thickened and swallowed the sound.

  The last remnants of the Source of Memoria began dissolving rapidly, and before Astar could even process what was happening, an invisible force gripped him. The sensation was unpleasant—like being yanked somewhere against his will. His body grew heavy, and his consciousness sank back into a thick, murky fog.

  He screamed—but not even he could hear the sound. His body plunged through an unseen membrane, and then came the drop—a sharp fall that lasted only a heartbeat.

  And suddenly, he jolted awake.

  “Kgah!” he gasped, feeling a chill surge through him.

  His eyes snapped open, and he sucked in a breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his head spinning. The flickering lights were gone. The mysterious realm had vanished. Instead, he was met by the familiar, hateful reality.

  He was lying on the filthy, damp floor of his prison cell. The stench of rotting flesh, spoiled food, and human sweat assaulted his nostrils, nearly triggering his gag reflex.

  But before he could speak, Dalanar—sitting nearby—gawked at him with wide, stunned eyes and pointed at him in shock. And then, something truly strange happened.

  Astar understood his words.

  “What the hell… Fool, did you just break through to the stage of Premarch?! How the hell did you manage that in a pit like this? Did they forget to sever your link to the Source of Memoria?!”

  The words still sounded like another language—but somehow, Astar understood them perfectly. As if he’d been fluent all his life.

  Hearing those words, Astar looked down at himself in shock… At that moment, his body was radiating a faint, shimmering gray mist! And he wasn’t the only one who saw it—every surrounding prisoner was staring at him in disbelief!