An endless Echo
Darkness. Not just the absence of light—something
heavier. A presence. It coils around me, dense, suffocating, pressing against
my skin like wet velvet. No up, no down. No walls, no ground. Just the void.
Then—pain. Not sharp. Not sudden. Slow.
Insidious. Like ice seeping into my skull, curling through my thoughts,
unraveling, rewriting. I try to move—no body. I try to scream—no mouth. Only
thought remains, sluggish, tangled in the fog choking my mind.
[Assimilation: 67% Complete]
The words carve into the void behind my eyes.
Wrong. Alien. Cold. Something is reaching inside, hollowing me out to make
space for itself.
I remember—
A field, gold-drenched beneath the afternoon sun.
The scent of tilled earth. The hum of cicadas. My hands, rough and calloused,
gripping the wheel of a tractor. The engine sputtering. A flash of metal.
Weightlessness. Impact.
Then nothing.
Now this.
Dead. I must be dead.
But the pain says otherwise. The pressure behind
my eyes, the sharp tug at my thoughts—too much. Too real. Something is digging
through me, sorting, reshaping.
[Cognitive Integration in Progress…]
A buzzing fills the emptiness. Static writhes
along my senses, crawling like insects beneath my skin. Words pulse, glitching,
half-formed. I can’t focus.
[Soul-Binder detected…]
[Parsing cognitive structure…]
[Error—memory partitioning incomplete…]
A system. A force beyond my understanding,
treating me like data. No permission. No explanation. It just takes.
I push back—instinct, desperation, sheer refusal.
But there’s nothing to fight. No enemy to grasp. My resistance is a ripple in
an ocean. Meaningless.
The pressure builds.
I stretch—no, I break, pulling apart and
reforming all at once. My past fractures. Memories twist, rearrange—puzzle
pieces jammed into the wrong places. The farm. The scent of fresh bread in a
quiet kitchen. Mornings in the fields. They bend, warp, become something other.
My mother’s laughter—lost. My father’s hand on my shoulder—fading. My name—
[Assimilation: 83% Complete]
The void pulses. Breathing.
Weight returns—the memory of movement without
form. My fingers twitch—except they don’t. I have no fingers. Just the thought
of them.
Panic.
My mind thrashes against the tide, but it’s like
fighting the pull of a river too strong to escape. It drags me under.
No.
I will not let it take me.
I reach—blind, desperate—for something, anything.
A lifeline in the dark.
And I find it.
A name.
Etched into my thoughts like a brand.
Grant Calloway.
[ Would you like to delete the persona? ]
[yes]/[no]
No.
The void shudders.
A crack splits the darkness. Jagged light seeps
through like torn flesh. The system flickers, uncertain.
I push harder, clutching the pieces of myself
before they can be rewritten.
I am Grant Calloway. I am not data. I am not something
the system can command.
The words anchor me. The static shrieks, but I
hold on.
I refuse to be erased.
The pressure in my mind snaps
Light floods in.
Gravity slams into me. My lungs seize, then
expand—air surging in like a dam breaking. The scent of stone and dust fills my
nose. A cold surface presses against my back.
I am lying down.
I am alive.
The void is gone. The system is silent.
But something else is here.
A presence. Vast. Patient. Watching from just
beyond perception. It does not speak, but I feel it. Ancient. Waiting. And
somehow, impossibly—familiar.
My vision swims. My body—wrong. Limbs sluggish.
Breath ragged. My nerves hum with an energy that isn’t mine. I sit up, muscles
screaming, my bones aching like they don’t belong to me.
I blink.
A throne looms before me.
Massive. Hewn from dark stone. Its surface worn
by time, etched with glyphs that pulse faintly, their rhythm matching the slow
throb beneath my skin. The air vibrates, thick with something old. Power coils
around it, shifting, watching, waiting to be claimed.
The seat is empty.
But not abandoned.
It waits.
For me.
The presence stirs. Expectant.
A shiver rolls through me. My stomach knots.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s
happening.
But I know one thing with absolute certainty.
I was brought here for a reason.
And whoever I was before—
No longer matters.
Because Grant Calloway, the farmer, the soldier,
the man—
I think he just died.
I wake in darkness. Again.
The first breath is sharp—air thick with dust and damp stone. Cold wraps around my bones, sinking deep. A shudder rolls through me, but I don’t move. Can’t. My limbs are heavy, locked in place. A low hum vibrates at the edge of my mind. Steady. Endless.
Then—a flicker.
Light flares behind my eyelids. Artificial. Rhythmic. Like a failing screen blinking in and out. I brace for impact, for the raw vulnerability of waking on the ground.
But—
Again, I wake in darkness.
The same breath. The same dust, the same stone, the same hum gnawing at my skull. But this time, the cold is gone. The weight pinning me down? Gone too.
A flicker. The same light. The same rhythm. The same moment, looping.
Again. Again. Again.
This is wrong.
[Choose Awakening Origin]
The words pulse in the dark, shifting in and out of focus. Beneath them, a list:
[Lying | Vulnerable]
[Lying | Clothed]
[Standing | Vulnerable]
[Standing | Clothed]
[Falling | Vulnerable]
[Falling | Clothed]
The choices are too precise. Too… expectant. They wait for me. I don’t know how I know, but I do.
I hesitate. A test? A reset? My pulse pounds in my ears. Vulnerable or clothed—why does it matter? Standing or lying—does it change anything?
I don’t choose. My hand moves anyway.
The fourth option.
The world slams into place.
Weight vanishes. No fall. No impact. Just—standing. Clothed. Grounded. My lungs seize as I gasp, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. My knees threaten to buckle, but I plant my feet. Steady.
A flicker in my vision—symbols shifting at the edges, unfamiliar. Then, gone.
[Tutorial Quest Available]
I flex my fingers. My movements feel… off. Not sluggish, not weak—just measured. My body is calibrating. My skin tingles—not quite pain, but close. Like standing near a live wire.
I take a step. My boot scrapes against stone—too loud.
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Something shifts in the ruins.
Stone settling?
Or something else?
I freeze. Listen.
Nothing.
I exhale—slow, steady. I need to assess.
First—the system.
Second—the ruins.
Third—my body.
But for what?
I reach for my belt. Nothing. No weapon. No supplies. Just the clothes on my back—sturdy, practical. A long-sleeved tunic, reinforced trousers, durable boots. Functional.
A flicker at the edge of my vision. Instinct screams—move. I jerk back. Nothing. No movement. Just the ruins breathing around me.
I exhale. Slow. Steady.
“This isn’t Earth,” I whisper.
The words sound wrong here. The silence swallows them whole.
A pulse ripples beneath my feet.
I take another step. Another pulse. Not from me. From the ruins themselves. The runes shift—just slightly. Just enough to notice. A response.
I press my palm to the nearest wall. Rough. Weathered. Warm.
Alive.
I shouldn’t be here.
I feel it in my bones. In the way the castle breathes with me. Like I’ve trespassed into something old. Something sacred.
The silence stretches.
Then—another flicker.
A shape. No, three. A throne. A beast. A figure. Silhouettes burned into my vision, flickering like an afterimage from a too-bright flame. Then—
Gone.
I jerk back, chest tight. My breath quickens. The ruins don’t just know I’m here.
They recognize
I step through the archway.
The world shatters.
No warning. No time to react. The stale corridor air vanishes. Cold stone. Heavy silence. The scent of rain on old earth.
I’m back in the throne room.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The chamber looms—vast, hollow, watching.
Shadows coil in the vaulted ceiling, shifting like they’re breathing. The walls whisper, their voices buried beneath ivy and dust. Gold veins pulse through cracked stone—a slow, steady heartbeat that isn’t mine.
At the far end, waiting—
The throne.
My pulse slams against my ribs. My jaw tightens. This isn’t right. I was leaving. I was walking away.
Yet here I stand.
The throne isn’t just a seat. It’s a monument.
A jagged mass of black stone, streaked with gold veins that twist like living roots. Vines coil around its base—too green, too vibrant, too alive for a place so dead.
The air hums. Not with magic.
With awareness.
I turn sharply, striding toward the nearest archway. My boots echo—hollow, sharp. I don’t hesitate. The corridor ahead beckons—dim, empty, real.
I step forward—
—And the throne room swallows me whole.
My stomach lurches. The exit is gone. The corridors—erased.
I stand exactly where I started. Facing the throne.
A sharp, inescapable chime echoes in my mind.
[Landmark Discovered: Throne of the Beast Lord]
The chamber pulses. The stone trembles beneath me. The air thickens, pressing against my skin.
My voice barely carries.
No.
Not waiting.
Watching.
A shiver skates down my spine. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching for a weapon I don’t have. I turn—another exit, another path—
And I am here.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The throne looms. Unyielding.
I drag a shaking hand down my face. My breath comes sharp, ragged. My heart pounds"Alright. Fine. Son of a bitch."
I step forward.
The air thickens. Moving feels like wading through unseen tides, something clawing at my limbs. The golden veins glow brighter, pulsing faster. My breath shudders.
My fingers brush the armrest.
A shock
Not pain. Not quite. More like a thousand unseen hands pressing against my mind, rifling through thoughts that aren’t my own.
Memories crash over me in flashes—
A beast with molten silver eyes.
A warrior in obsidian armor, standing atop a battlefield of fallen titans.
A name whispered in reverence and fear.
[Accessing Legacy Data…]
The voice isn’t sound. It’s inside me, threading through my thoughts. No static. No distortion. Just cold, undeniable truth.
Designation: [BEAST LORD]
The words settle over me like chains, sinking into my bones. My knees lock. My chest tightens.
[Soul-Binder Protocols Unlocked.]
The throne vibrates beneath my touch.
Rejecting.
The air fractures. The chamber groans. Dust drifts from the vaulted ceiling in slow, lazy spirals.
Something is wrong.
A second presence coils around me—not the System. Older. Harsher.
The castle.
It presses against me—thick, suffocating—toying with me.
A pulse of resistance thrums through the throne. I rip my hand back, gasping.
The System needs me. The castle does not.
The throne… warns me.
A vibration hums beneath my boots. Faint at first, then rising. It burrows into my bones. Into my skull. Not sound.
Something older. Something alive.
The walls shift. The air warps. Heat-shimmer distortions ripple before me—coalescing into shape.
I stop breathing.
A figure
It tilts its head.
Mirroring me.
My pulse spikes.
I step back. My heel scuffs against something—smooth, cool stone. I glance down.
A mirror.
It shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t here.
But I see myself.
No—I don’t.
The mirror does not hold my face.
It holds nothing.Featureless. Empty.
My throat locks.
I lift a shaking hand, fingers tracing where my jaw should be—where my lips should be. There’s nothing. Smooth, blank nothing.
The reflection shifts.
The figure on the throne leans forward.
And it has my face.
The System chimes.
[Welcome, Soul-Binder.]
I don’t respond. I hardly breathe. My ghostly
twin stares back at me, motionless, its eyes unblinking. Is it a memory? A
recording? No, this thing is aware. Alive, or something close to it.
The ruins pulse again, a slow, rhythmic throb
that reverberates through my bones. The sound is ancient—like the heart of the
world itself, beating beneath me. Each pulse sinks into my skin, my muscles.
For a moment, it feels as though the stone itself is alive, judging me.
[First Tutorial Quest Available: Reshape Your Avatar.]
The words hum in the air, final and cold, as if
the very atmosphere around me tightens. I can’t move forward until I accept.
I exhale, trying to calm the panic rising in my
chest. The pull to comply gnaws at something deep inside me, but I resist—for
now.
“Accept,” I whisper. The word hangs heavy in the
air, heavier than it should be. The stone beneath me groans as if it feels the
weight of my decision, as if it, too, is holding its breath.
Then—
Light explodes around me.
The world twists, distorts, a storm of light and
shadow wrapping around my body, stretching and pulling, reshaping me like clay.
My skin burns—not with pain, but with the sensation of being molded, altered.
Every nerve screams as invisible hands bend my bones, shift my muscles,
rearrange everything I thought I knew. The sensation is like fire, like
ice—like being torn apart and rebuilt in an instant.
It’s not comfortable. It’s wrong.
Then—
Darkness crashes in.
A growl tears through the void. It’s deep,
guttural, and it rattles my very core, echoing in the marrow of my bones.
[WARNING: Entity Detected.]
The air grows thick, suffocating. The ruins
themselves seem to recoil, as though the earth can feel the threat approaching.
The growl comes again, closer this time—too close.
[Guardian of the Throne Approaching.]
I feel it—a presence, ancient and feral, creeping
toward me like a predator stalking its prey. My heart slams in my chest, each
beat a drum of dread. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my lungs tightening as
if the air itself has turned to stone.
I don’t have time. No time to think.
I need a weapon.
A chime, an intrusive click. A prompt.
[Primary Armament Selection Available.]
Before the System can list options, my body moves
on instinct. I don’t think, I don’t hesitate. A sword. Simple. Reliable. The
weapon I know best. The one I can wield without question.
[Secondary Armament Selection Available.]
The prompt buzzes again, but something catches my
eye. A flicker of light. A strange absurdity.
No. No way.
There it is. Right there.
A rifle.
[Weapon Class: Ranged]
[Weapon Type: Magitech-Carbine]
I don’t think, I just choose.
[Primary Weapon: Magitech-Carbine]
[Secondary Weapon: Shortsword]
The steel forms, light coalescing into solid
shape. It’s cold, real—too real. The weight of the rifle is familiar, too
familiar. Like a memory, a dream, an echo of a life that never truly was. But
it’s here now, settled in my grip, heavy with purpose. The cold metal sings
with power, with precision. I feel it, a spark of intent running through me.
I steady myself, trying to push back the rising
dread. The growl is louder now, closer, vibrating through the air.
The void trembles again.
I tighten my grip on the rifle.
“…Shit.”
Light rips through my vision. The world lurches.
I blink—
And then—
I wake.
The throne. The room.
But not me.
I blink again, feeling the weight of my
limbs—different. Balanced. Sharpened. Every movement feels precise, deliberate.
The aches of old wounds—years spent in a body worn down by time and battle—are
gone. My muscles respond without hesitation, fluid, powerful, the groan of old
joints replaced by smooth, practiced motions.
I lift my hands and stare. They’re mine, but not
quite. Sharpened. Refined.
I flex my fingers, curling them around the
rifle’s grip. My body listens to me now, every movement flowing together like
the rhythm of a song I’ve learned long ago.
I am my avatar now.
A voice breaks the silence. Calm, sharp, almost
philosophical, like the quiet before a storm.
[You have accepted your role, Soul-Binder. Good. Do you
understand the depth of the task ahead of you?]
Her voice lingers. It carries the weight of
untold centuries, a tone of someone who has witnessed the rise and fall of
countless worlds. Her words are calm, calculated, wrapped in infinite patience.
She’s been preparing me for something—something I don’t yet understand,
something I can’t yet grasp. I sense her doubt, her scrutiny, as if she’s
waiting for me to prove I’m worthy of whatever task lies ahead.
But there’s something else—something softer. A
flicker, an almost imperceptible pull at the edge of my awareness.
The Castle’s voice slips in, high-pitched,
childlike, masking its excitement with authority.
[Play with me! You look fun! Come! Let’s see what you
can do!]
The words tumble out in a rush, full of
breathless, unrestrained excitement. It’s like a child begging for attention,
desperate to be noticed. It doesn’t care what I do—it just wants me to do
something, anything, to show it I’m worth its time.
But then—
A growl cuts through the air again, deep and
primal. The Throne speaks, its voice thick with disgust, brutal and raw, every
word dripping with contempt.
[Weak. You are weak. This is not your throne.]
The Throne scoffs, its disdain palpable. It wants
me gone. It doesn’t believe I belong here. It sees me as an insect, unworthy to
sit in its seat, unworthy of the power that it commands. It wants me out. Wants
me to leave, to prove my strength before it’ll even consider me worthy.
All three voices pull at me—the System, cold and
distant, demanding that I prepare for something greater than myself. The
Castle, playful and needy, calling me to entertain it, to prove I’m worth its
attention. And the Throne, scornful and harsh, wanting me gone, wanting me to
leave, wanting me to know just how small I am.
The tension between them thickens, vibrating in
the air, like the calm before a storm.
Then—
Something stirs deep within the castle's depths.
The air shifts. A tremor shakes the ground
beneath me. For one fleeting moment, everything pauses, as if all three are
holding their breath, waiting.
The System. The Castle. The Throne.
They hesitate.
Then, in an eerie harmony, they agree.
They need me.
They want me.
For their own reasons, they’ve all come to
understand that I’m now part of this strange, twisted existence—whether I like
it or not.
The System’s voice softens, almost reluctantly.
[It would seem… we have little choice.]
The Castle giggles again, but there’s something
different—an edge of desperation, of pleading.
[We need you. Come on, let’s see what you can do!]
The Throne growls one last time. But now,
something has changed. There’s a flicker of need beneath the disdain, a subtle
shift.
[Help us.]
The words hang in the air, thick, suffocating.
All three want me.
All three need me.
And I… I’m caught between them.