Ash opened the book, the spine creaking faintly under his fingers, but before his eyes could trace a single word, something sharp burst behind his eyelids, like the snap of light through a cracked lens, memories flickered, clicking in rapid flashes, one after another, too fast to breathe through, too real to be ignored.
First, he saw a younger version of himself, or rather Ash Elliott, smiling beneath a gold evening light, hair messy, eyes soft, his laughter echoing through a narrow street. Then, the light blinked white, and there was a man with black hair, pale skin, and eyes too alive to belong to this world. Rain Elliott, he was smiling, that kind of smile which didn't belong to grief, the playful kind that a father convey to his kid.
Another flash clicked, harsher this time, the color drained out of everything. Rain Elliott was standing before a few people, his head bowed, and Ash Elliott was shouting, voice cracking, tears streaking down his face, his hand reaching out to him as if the air between them was a wall he couldn't break. Then, the last flash, he was dying, right there, lips curved upward in that same smile, a smile that looked like forgiveness and surrender at once.
When his consciousness snapped back, Ash's breath tore through the silence, his body stiff, eyes wide, sweat crawling down the side of his face, his heart punching against his ribs like it wanted out.
"What—" he said, voice rasped, the word escaping like a broken piece of air.
"I guess it was Ash's memory," the voice murmured in his mind, a quiet observer, maybe even amused. Ash didn't answer, maybe he couldn't, his gaze was fixed on the red book lying open on the desk, his chest still heaving slightly, "he died," he muttered, the words dry and thin.
He flipped the first page, his hand trembling only a little, and his eyes caught the neat writing across the top: 28th December, 1098. The timeline hit him, it was completely different from his modern world.
He read further, his lips moving quietly with the words, "I'm Ash Elliott, and I'm an Adherent of Lord Muni."
"Lord Muni?" he repeated the unfamiliar name under his breath.
He continued reading, slower now, "Uncle, if you're reading this, then I'm most probably dead. I'm doing a ritual. It's a rare case but my soul is expired and I don't have much time. I need to refresh my soul, and I'm not sure if I would be able to do it. I don't know what'll be the consequences, but I can't just die like this, without taking papa's revenge. All self proclaimed lord have to fall."
Ash's eyes stilled on the last line, maybe his heart skipped, maybe it didn't, but the silence felt heavier, the newbie eighth-world's soul in his head broke it first, "his secrets are deeper than wells."
Ash leaned back slightly, his hand resting on the cover, his reflection faint in the window glass, "so my soul transmigrated in his body," he said, half to himself, half to the quiet room, and then closed the book slowly, as if it could still breathe beneath his palm, "but with my consciousness." The clock ticked somewhere far away, the air smelled faintly of dust and cold soap.
Ash stared at the closed book for a while, the faint ticking of the clock mixing with his shallow breaths. "Who's Lord Muni?" he finally said in thoughtful and low voice.
"Interesting name tho," the voice in his head replied lazily, as if tasting the syllables for amusement.
Ash exhaled, slow and quiet, his hand reaching for the buttons of his gray coat. "He was not a normal person," he murmured, slipping the coat off his shoulders, folding it neatly over his arm as though the simple act might steady his thoughts. The voice hummed softly. "He had a vendetta against some lords," it said, half mockery, half curiosity.
Ash moved toward the wardrobe, opened it, and hung the coat inside with mechanical calm. "What are you doing?" the voice asked.
Ash didn't answer immediately. He took off his waistcoat, and hung it beside the coat. "I'll wake up at six," he said at last, reaching for his tie. "University at seven-thirty, and I've got a coffee shop to handle." Aardh snorted faintly. "And what about Ash and his past?" Ash's hands paused at the collar, the button half undone, before his expression settled again, neutral and almost detached. "I'll think about it later," he said, pulling the tie free. "For now, this is my new normal life."
He turned slightly, noticing a piece of paper tucked between neatly folded shirts in the wardrobe. Curious, he lifted it and unfolded it. The name printed at the top caught his eye: Ash Elliott. Below it, a formal stamp read: Graduated from Ryo University with Outstanding Numbers.
"Oh," Ash muttered, blinking once. "I'm already passed out?"
He folded the paper back, placed it where it had been, and shut the wardrobe softly. The faint creak echoed for a second before the room fell silent again. Ash crossed to the bed, the floor cold under his bare feet, and sat down, then lay back with a long sigh, his body sinking into the mattress. "You always do unexpected things," the voice said, half teasing.
Ash didn't reply right away. His eyes wandered toward the ceiling. "What's your name?" he asked finally.
"I've no name," the voice replied instantly.
Ash's lips curved faintly, tired but sure. "Hmm… I'll call you Aardh from now."
A quiet pause followed, then a dry chuckle echoed faintly inside his mind. "Whatever you wanna say." Ash adjusted the pillow, slid the white blanket over himself, and exhaled again, like someone finally ready to rest. The faint scent of old soap, wood, and moonlight filled the room. Ash's voice came low, steady, as if testing the edges of a new conviction, "You said you're my source of power, but what type of power?"
Aardh answered without haste, voice like a thought that had learned to speak aloud," Every Eighth World soul is divided into tiers, different souls, different tiers, by experience you pass from one tier to the next and gain new faculties as you ascend."
"How powerful?" Ash asked, the question small but urgent.
"It depends on you," Aardh said, almost amused, "you could be the strongest if you are willing to be."
*Why can't you grant all the power instantly?" Ash pressed, impatience curdling into curiosity. *We don't give power as a gift," Aardh replied, "we develop within the host, the host yields effort, resources, risk, and we convert that into strength." Ash was quiet for a moment, watching the moonlight move across the floor, thought humming like a single steady chord, then he said, "I'll become powerful."
Aardh didn't answer at once. When he did his voice was cool, almost kindly, "You look determined, but many fall before they even begin."
Ash's face hardened, a shadow of something old and hungry sliding into his features, " Do you know that the weak are like chickens," he said, words clipped, almost clinical, "born for others' benefit and slaughtered when convenient."
Aardh's tone softened, "It is a universal law."
Ash continued, as if setting down a testament, "I was one of them. I knelt in the dust of a world that did not want me, my body failed, my spirit thinned, in those last hours I learned a truth harsher than any scripture: no divine hand reaches down to lift the fallen, they only laugh as if watching a farce." "Cruel," Aardh said in observing tone. "But now," bright and terrible words started escaping from his throat, "I've a second chance. This power is not born of empty and meaningless prayer, it's not a gift, it's a tool, and with it I'll carve out a place the gods never bothered to secure for me, this time I'll not be weak, this time I'll be me."
Aardh's reply was almost a whisper of wind, "Remember, many fall before their shadow grows long."
Ash's smile was small and steady, not gentle, not kind, "Lets see."
Silence folded back in, the moonlight steady, the room listening as if the world itself were taking account.