"Aether..." The name fell from his lips as he stepped into the halls of the Museum of Narratives. He turned back, his gaze lingering on the massive gate he had just passed through.
"I can never get used to this place," he sighed, his fingers brushing against the fabric of his clothing.
"You'd think a soul wouldn't have cloth," he mused, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His hand drifted to his face, fingertips encountering the dampness left behind by his earlier tears. "My true state or whatever that guy said."
Steeling himself, Aether focused on the task at hand. "Alright, Text," he called out—to the better teacher, at least compared to anyone up until now.
"Time to see how really useful you are." His voice echoed slightly in the vast space, bouncing off exhibits that chronicled the rise and fall of civilizations in eras, continuing on and on.
As he walked, passing by displays that shimmered with otherworldly energies, Aether began to list his queries. "Give me all the names of the current sages, plus their availability in current affairs," he started, his pace quickening as his curiosity grew.
"Also, explain the way the sages of the 21st realm do the tally or whatever to know who's going to be in charge for the next 500 years. Use an analogy of a drummer."
The words tumbled out, each question more urgent than the last. "Plus, last but not least, give me all available top tiers in Ghent."
He finished with a huff, slightly out of breath from both his rapid-fire questions and the brisk walk through the museum's winding corridors.
"And how do I even leave? Last time it was—" Aether's contemplation was cut short as the floor beneath him suddenly gave way. Unlike his previous transitions between realms, this time he was actually falling.
The sensation was jarring—wind whipped against his skin as his spectral form phased in and out of solidity. "Aren't I... a ghost?" The thought barely had time to form before it was whisked away by the rush of his descent.
As he plummeted, texts began to materialize around him, as if the very air was responding to his earlier inquiries:
"First answer: unknown," it proclaimed before dissipating like smoke. "Second answer: depends on the compensation." "Third answer: compensation or meeting." "Fourth answer: First: —— Second: —— Third: ——"
"Well, I take back what I said," Aether muttered, cursing.
Aether had little time to ponder their meaning as the district below Sky materialized beneath him, and at its edge, the imposing stem of the sage Rolhim.
Aether's descent accelerated, drawing him inexorably toward the stem. "Wait, wait!" he cried out, his arms flailing uselessly against the pull of gravity. But his protests were in vain as he phased through the massive structure. For a moment, darkness enveloped him—a split second of nothingness that felt like an eternity.
In that fleeting instant of blackness, a door flickered into existence. But before Aether could process its significance, it vanished, leaving only a lingering impression in his mind. The darkness gave way to a brief glimpse of an estate, and then...
The awakening.
Consciousness slammed into Aether like a physical force. He found himself attached to a machine in the air, shirtless and disoriented. The room around him was dimly lit, the darkness beyond the large window seeming to press in on all sides. As his senses slowly returned, Aether became aware of a network of tubes sprawling across his body.
With great effort, he lifted his right hand, his muscles protesting the simple movement. "What is this...?" he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper.
The tubes pulsed with a strange, bubbling liquid that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Steam rose from his skin, carrying with it the acrid scent of chemicals and something... else.
Aether's eyes widened, their amber hue dulled by exhaustion and fear.
His disheveled hair clung to his temples, matted with sweat. Every pore on his body seemed to be working overtime, expelling whatever foreign substances had been pumped into his system.
As his gaze drifted to his left arm—or where his left arm should have been—Aether's breath caught in his throat. "Wait, what? It should be back..." The words came out as a strangled whisper, each syllable a monumental effort.
He felt like a newborn, weak and helpless, reminiscent of his first entry into that other realm.
The realization of his missing limb hit him like a physical blow. It was one thing to lose an arm in that ethereal realm, but here, in what he presumed to be the real world, the loss was devastatingly concrete.
A scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. The sound echoed off the walls of the room.
"Please... just save me, please..." Aether begged, his voice cracking. He found himself suspended in the air, the tubes continuing their relentless work of circulating fluids to and from his battered body.
Tears welled up in his eyes, each drop making an audible splash as it hit the floor below. "That place was better," he whimpered, his amber eyes losing their luster as despair threatened to overwhelm him.