Erick stirred briefly from the dark void of unconsciousness, his body wracked with searing pain. His first sensation was motion—rapid and jarring. His eyes fluttered open, though even that small effort felt like dragging himself through molten iron.

  The world around him was a blur of movement and color. Cold wind whipped against his face, and the faint metallic tang of blood mingled with the sharp crackle of ozone. His body was being carried, cradled against the chest of someone—or something—that moved impossibly fast.

  Through the haze, Erick caught a fleeting glimpse of the figure carrying him. Storm-gray armor etched with jagged lightning marks that glowed faintly, pulsing with energy. The man moved like a force of nature, his strides blurring the desolate landscape into streaks of gray and black.

  An armored giant? Erick’s sluggish mind tried to process the information.

  The man’s yellow, lupine eyes flicked down briefly, meeting Erick’s gaze. They were cold, detached, neither cruel nor kind, but calculating—like a predator assessing its prey. Erick tried to speak, to ask something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

  A sudden, searing pain surged through his chest, and Erick gasped, his body convulsing weakly. Deep within, he felt something strange—foreign, alive, and pulsing like a second heartbeat. He tried to lift a hand, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. His vision swam, then darkened as the pain consumed him once more.

  And then, there was nothing.

  The Citadel

  When Erick awoke again, the world had changed. No longer was he surrounded by motion, cold, or blood; instead, there was warmth—a soft bed beneath him, the faint scent of lavender and cedar in the air.

  Groaning, Erick forced his eyes open. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating an opulent room. The high ceiling was carved from pale stone, gilded with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer in the golden light. Banners adorned the walls, emblazoned with the crest of a blazing golden sun encircled by a silver laurel wreath.

  His body felt heavy, but the sharp pain from before had dulled to a faint ache. Erick shifted slightly, wincing as he raised his hand to his chest. His fingers trembled as he pulled back the tunic he now wore, his gaze locking onto his bare skin.

  There was nothing. No wound, no scar, no sign of the injury he knew he’d sustained. His chest was unblemished, smooth, as if the clawed hand that had pierced his body had never touched him.

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  “How?” Erick whispered hoarsely. His voice cracked, unfamiliar to his ears.

  He frowned, a chill creeping up his spine. Something wasn’t right—not just the lack of scars, but his body itself. His hands were smaller, his arms thinner, the muscle mass he had once prided himself on reduced to almost nothing. He reached up to touch his face, his fingers tracing unfamiliar angles and smoother skin.

  This wasn’t his body.

  Panic surged through him, his thoughts spinning out of control. Erick clenched his fists, his breathing quickening as memories flashed through his mind—his life on Earth, his old job, the monotony of city life. But those memories felt distant now, like echoes of a world that no longer existed.

  He swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he muttered, “What… is this? What’s happening to me?”

  Before he could unravel his thoughts further, the sound of a door creaking open snapped him out of his spiral. Erick’s head shot up, his eyes locking onto the figure entering the room.

  The man was clad in black and gold armor, the pauldrons shaped like roaring dragons. His stern face, framed by dark hair streaked with silver, exuded authority. His piercing gray eyes settled on Erick with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

  “You’re awake,” the man said, his voice calm but firm.

  Erick struggled to sit up, his movements sluggish and unsteady. “Where am I?” he rasped, his throat dry and raw.

  “You are in the Citadel of House Hill Saint,” the man replied evenly. “In the heart of the Etherean Empire. You were found in the ruins of a village near the southern zone. The Grand Knight Ragnar Falkir brought you here.”

  The name Ragnar sent a shiver through Erick. He remembered the towering figure who had carried him, the inhuman eyes that had regarded him so coldly. And the village—the blood and the bodies, the grotesque figures. Erick clenched his fists, his chest tightening.

  “The village…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “They’re all gone. Everyone… they’re all dead.”

  The man’s expression hardened, though his voice remained steady. “Yes. The village was lost. But you survived, and that is no small feat. The Grand Knight believes there is more to you than meets the eye.”

  “Why?” Erick asked, his voice trembling. “Why did he save me?”

  The man stepped closer, his heavy armor clinking faintly. “Chaos does not touch the ordinary without purpose,” he said. “The Grand Knight suspects you are connected to what happened there.”

  Erick felt a strange warmth pulse faintly in his chest, the same alien sensation he’d felt before. He pressed a hand to his chest, his brow furrowing as he whispered, “What does that mean?”

  The man’s gaze was unyielding. “Rest for now. The Paragon is meeting with the Grand Knight, but he will return soon. He has questions for you, and you will answer them. Until then, you are under the protection of House Hill Saint.”

  Without waiting for a response, the man turned and strode out of the room, his presence as heavy as his departure was abrupt.

  Left alone, Erick slumped back against the pillows, his hand still pressed to his chest. The faint, rhythmic pulse beneath his palm felt too real to ignore, a reminder of how much his world had changed.

  “What am I doing here?” he whispered into the stillness. His voice quavered, filled with confusion.

  But the question that truly haunted him, the one he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, echoed in his mind: Who am I now?