The head turned—slowly, without Ash's will.
Children stood on both sides, lined shoulder to shoulder. Each one is silent. Their eyes glowed with the same strange light Ash had seen before—radiant and deep, as if the stars themselves burned behind their gaze.
'Are they godborn too?'
The thought pressed against him.
'If they are… does that mean this body has those same eyes?'
A figure approached—an old man, tall and bent, with a beard like roots grown wild. His eyes carried the same light, but older… heavier. He moved to each child, stopping to take their hands, whispering something too ancient for Ash to understand.
Behind him walked another man, younger, broad-shouldered, carrying a dark bowl filled with water that shimmered strangely. This one had no glowing eyes, yet strength followed him like a shadow.
One by one, the children stood after being spoken to. The old man dipped his hands into the bowl, washed, and moved on.
Now he stood before Ash.
His presence filled the space—not with force, but with quiet weight.
"Name?"
The body raised its arms without hesitation. The voice that came from it was calm, steady, too composed for a child.
"Tachyros."
The old man's hand came down. His touch was gentle, but it carried power.
His eyes opened wide, and he looked into the child's eyes.
"Such power... A quiet storm beneath still waters."
The area seemed to darken around him.
"Even gods will dread your shadow. You do not boast. You do not blaze. But when you strike, all three realms will know."
He stepped back.
"Rise now, Tachyros. For you are no longer flesh alone. You are the Phantom—the ghost that walks the worlds, the silence before ruin, the whisper that ends kings."
Tachyros stood. Slow. Certain.
"Rise. For now, you have been given the title 'Ghost of all three realms'. Unseen and unbound. The shadow that walks where even gods do not tread."
A spark leapt between them, white, burning as if it were alive.
Then the world twisted again.
Tachyros sat in a quiet courtyard, book open in his lap. The sky above was dim violet, suns setting beyond white trees.
Ash noticed something odd—the pages of the book were blank.
Someone called his name.
"Tachyros."
He turned. Closed the book gently.
Its cover was bound in stitched skin, rough and uneven. No title marked it. The seams along its edge pulsed faintly, black thread-like veins. At its center, a single closed eye.
The book dissolved—turning into fine dust that shimmered and flew into Tachyros's chest, vanishing beneath the skin.
Ash felt it, like the air had grown thinner.
'What was that…?'
Tachyros stood.
A man waited at the edge of the courtyard, holding a bundle wrapped in white cloth.
"Come. Your mother's delivered safely."
Tachyros walked forward. Each step was smooth and quiet.
"I knew she would."
He looked down. A small hand reached out from the bundle, curling in the air.
Tachyros smiled. A true smile. But in it—grief.
Ash felt both. At once.
Then the light came again. Then the words echo. It wasn't just one person speaking. It felt like multiple voices from different ages and genders.
"Trial of ascension. Theme: Identity."
It paused for a second and spoke.
"Even gods cry, and when they do, their reflections remember."
The voice felt unfamiliar to Ash. But as echoes slowly dim.
The world opened to a wide plateau beneath a sky lit by a bright single sun.
Tachyros stepped forward, approaching a low golden pillar covered in ancient script. It shimmered faintly, and at its top floated a glowing cube. Light swirled inside.
Ash's breath caught.
To his left and right stood other pillars. Ten in total. Each one bore a mark, but only this one seemed to glow slightly.
Beside him, a boy with golden hair stood grinning. Seems to be the same age as Ash. His eyes glowed just as bright—carefree, like fire before the burn.
Tachyros smiled back.
"See? Stick with me and you'll win."
From behind, a voice—calm, but sharp. Feminine.
"You're right. But did you really have to let the others die?"
Tachyros didn't turn.
"They didn't listen. That's not my fault. Besides… too many on the altar would only cause chaos."
He reached for the pillar.
"I'll go first."
His fingers brushed the surface.
A beam of light struck him.
Tachyros vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Ash floated again. But this time, it wasn't space or memory. It felt like the inside of something—something deeper. Something dark.
Then something inside the body shifted.
He was back in front of the pillar. Still not in control.
The body twitched. Its lips moved, but the words came out twisted—backward, like echoes pulled through water.
Then the body started moving.
It stepped backward—slowly at first, like dragging through thick mud. Still facing the pillar. Still locked in place.
Ash tried to understand.
Everything around him moved in reverse.
People walked backward with jerking motions. Heads turned. Mouths moved in strange patterns, voices twisted and wrong—like time itself was unraveling.
The air grew colder.
Faster.
The group crept in reverse toward a line of bushes. The leaves are bent the wrong way. Feet landed where they'd already stepped.
Beyond the trees, shadows waited.
Figures stood in the clearing—twisted bodies, broken shapes. Some small, some towering. And in the center…
A man.
He has a beautiful face, but his eyes, his eyes were black as blood, seeming to pull that from it.
Wings stretched from his back—one snapped at the base. Blood soaked him from head to heel. He didn't move. Just stood there, arms limp, head low.
Ash leaned forward without meaning to. He couldn't see the man's face. But the silence around him—how the others moved, how Tachyros stared—made it clear.
Whoever this was… he mattered.
Then the ground shook.
Cracks tore through the earth. Light spilled out—thin, writhing tendrils of it, rising like living things.
Tentacles of pure energy coiled up and reached into the battlefield.
The bodies moved.
Dead ones began to float, twitching in reverse. Blood flew upward, pulled into torn wounds. Limbs snapped back into place.
And still, the scene reversed faster. Too fast.
Ash couldn't make sense of it. He caught glimpses—only glimpses.
Tachyros turning. Speaking. More figures are running.
A blur. A book snapping shut.
Tachyros closed the book.
The world turned.
The scene folded inward. A group of people walked backward down a mountainside, feet hitting rock in reverse. Their movements looked unnatural, as if time itself was choking.
It shifted again.
Now they stood in a wide clearing, raised voices cutting through thin air. The mountain wind carried fragments of their argument—anger, fear, urgency. But no words stayed long enough to understand.
Then it shifted again.
The beautiful blond man stood ahead of them. No wounds. No blood. His bloody black eyes were now hazel and beautiful. His torn wings now looked normal. They arched high behind his back, white and perfect. His clothes were clean, regal. He held a blackened branch—gnarled like something pulled from a grave. He stared at it, unmoving.
The wings moved—but in reverse. They flapped up, not down. And though his face slowly stretched into a smile, it did so backward, like watching joy rot into stillness.
Another shift.
A struggle.
Ash hands tied behind him. Dust and shouts. Then—
He floated.
No—not floated.
He was being carried.
The air rushed over his face. His body swayed with every heavy footstep. Light blinded him for a second before the sun steadied overhead.
Pain clawed into his skull. The visions he'd just seen—if they were visions—had torn through him like knives. Nothing made sense. Yet everything felt real.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds drifted lazily. A single bird passed by, too far to reach, too free to understand.
Then he saw it—his arm.
Bound. Rope twisted harshly against his skin. He followed the line of it with his eyes. His legs were tied too. Both limbs stretched out, pointing toward the sky, his body bent over a thick wooden pole that bounced with every step.
He twisted his neck.
In front of him moved a brown, hulking figure. Its skin looked like carved leather stretched over muscle. The creature's massive backside filled Ash's vision as it lumbered forward, holding the end of the pole over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Ash strained his neck back further.
Another prisoner.
Same pole. The blond boy from the altar. He dangled like Ash, face turned away in silence.
They were strung up like meat.
Ash turned his head.
There were a lot more. Dozens. People—men, women—hung by their arms and legs, two creatures for each. All were carried the same way. Bodies limp. Eyes widen. Some were breathing while some were not.
Then a voice came.
"When are we going to get there? I'm so very hungry."
The voice didn't match the scene. It was too soft. Too curious. Like a child wondering when dinner would be ready.
Ash's stomach sank.
He had fought creatures. Killed them. Bled because of them.
But they'd never talked.
Another voice followed.
"Shut up and keep moving. We're far from home. If they find out or if those creatures get to us, this whole hunt is wasted."
Ash didn't blink.
They were speaking. Thinking. Plotting.
They weren't wild beasts.
They were something worse.
Something aware.
The creatures who spoke first grunted and raised their free hand.
A wooden cage swung from its thick fingers like a toy.
Inside the bars, a small figure crouched—barely a fraction of Ash's size. She wasn't a child, but a fully formed woman, carved in miniature. Her limbs trembled. Her glowing eyes locked with Ash's. Not with fear, but with silent, pleading awareness.
He'd seen her before.
Not her face. But her kind.
In the reverse visions.
So many of them—some towering, others tiny. All with the same burning glow in their eyes. The same soul-light he now recognized in his own.
Godborns.
Like the body he now occupied.
The creature chuckled. A wet, rumbling sound that bounced off the stones.
It put the cage on the other hand while still holding the pole.
It hooked a single claw through the cage bars, flicked the door open, and pinched the woman between two fingers.
Her mouth moved, begging without sound.
Then—
He shoved her into his maw.
A single crunch. Wet and Final.
Blood spilled from its jaws like spilled wine, coating its lips and chin in deep crimson.
The thing shuddered.
Its shoulders swelled. Veins thickened. Muscle bulged beneath its hide like something growing too fast, too wrong.
It licked its teeth.
"I can feel it. The power. Godborns really are this good."
Ash's jaw clenched.
His breath burned in his throat.
They were eating them. Feeding on them. And somehow gaining strength from them.
He wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
Not without knowing where he was. What had happened? Whether his brothers had been dragged here too.
He pulled.
The ropes tightened around his wrists. He yanked harder.
The pole groaned beneath him.
He twisted, shaking it with his whole body.
The blonde beside him stirred.
"Tachyros. Stop. You'll get yourself killed."
Ash didn't stop.
He didn't hear him.
The pole wobbles. His body shifted. Then, finally, the pole rolled.
Then it slipped.
One end fell from the creature's grip.
Both prisoners crashed to the dirt. A heavy thud. Dust was rising around them.
Ash coughed, pain flaring through his chest. Hand and leg were still tied to the fallen pole.
The blond boy next to him turned his head, blinking through strands of hair.
"So what now?"
Ash didn't listen.
Both creatures bared their jagged teeth.
One stepped forward, fists clenched.
"Oh? Another one trying to be brave."
Ash didn't flinch. He wasn't listening. His teeth were locked around the rope at his wrist. That was the point of the fall—getting close enough to bite.
Fibers tore against his molars.
The creature moved, heavy steps crushing dry grass. Its fist drew back, ready to pound Ash into the dirt.
Ash shifted his weight. The punch swung wide, smashing the ground where his head had been.
He bit harder. The rope gave.
One arm came free.
The next punch never landed.
Ash caught it.
His fingers tightened around the creature's thick wrist and twisted. Bones snapped. The creature roared and staggered back.
A sword was strapped at the creature's side. Ash noticed this earlier. This was one of the reasons he felt confident of defeating them.
Ash didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the hilt and drew it in a single motion, the metal flashing in the sun. Then quickly. The blade swept clean across the creature's throat.
Its eyes widened.
It clawed at its neck, stumbling. Blood sprayed in arcs. Then its body dropped backward, twitching as it hit the earth.
Ash didn't wait.
He hacked at the rope around his ankles, rolled free, and sprang to his feet just as the second creature lunged.
Its foot came down like a hammer.
Ash darted aside, the stomp crushing the space where he'd been. He spun behind it and slashed deep across its chest.
The creature didn't even flinch.
Its head turned. Eyes blazing with anger.
The creature raised its fist—
Ash ducked, pivoted, and drove the sword straight through its skull.
The blade slid in with a sickening crunch.
The creature froze mid-step.
Ash ripped the sword free.
The body crumpled, silent.
Then, from the soul space, a familiar voice echoed.
"[vanquished. You have killed a Stage 1 creature: Gralkin]"
"[vanquished. You have killed a Stage 2 creature: Gralkin]"
Ash blinked.
That voice wasn't his.
The Soul space always used his voice.
This one—
It sounded more like Tachyros.
Of course. This wasn't his body.
But still… Gralkins? Stage 2?
He looked down at the sword in his hand.
These creatures looked strong. But they fought like wild beasts.
'Why hold a sword when you won't even use it. How the hell did the godborns fall to this? To this Tier 2 trash?'
The blonde coughed beside him, still bound to the fallen pole.
"Tachyros! Hurry! Free me. I can fight!"
Ash didn't answer.
He stared ahead.
More of the Gralkins were gathering now. Dozens of them, their bodies tense, their glares sharp. They had seen everything.
Ash exhaled.
This body was slow. Too slow. Weak in places he wasn't used to.
He had to change every stance, every motion, just to make it all work.
But he'd lived in that place for years.
Stage 1 hell.
Where you either adapt…
Or die.