Luke was experiencing an unending dream. He didn't know when it started.
In the dream, he found himself living a life that wasn't his, a life through someone else's body. At first, everything was blurry: images, voices, places swimming in fog. The clarity that followed felt eerie- unlike the usual haziness of fading dreams. Instead, it was piercing and exact, as though he'd been observing someone else's life through a window. Faces became familiar with unnatural vividness and a voice that wasn't his own came out naturally when he spoke. He wasn't Luke anymore.
He was Vencian Vicorra. The third son of the Vicorra family, one of the noble marquis families in the Kingdom of Airantis. People called him Ven.
Vencian's life was everything Luke had never experienced. He was a prodigy, brilliant in academics, unmatched in swordsmanship, and gifted in tactical warfare. His tutors praised him. His father, a stern man known for his impossible standards, actually showed pride in him. Soldiers saluted him with respect, not obligation. Nobles spoke his name with admiration or jealousy.
He rose quickly. At age fourteen, he led a mock battle and defeated even the senior knights. At sixteen, he had won a small skirmish near the border using a strategy no one had thought of.
At seventeen, he passed the entrance exam for the most prestigious academy in the Kingdom of Airantis, a place where only the most elite nobles and gifted minds gathered.
Everything in Vencian's life was perfect, almost too perfect.
To Luke, it felt like he was watching someone else's highlight reel. There was no pain, no doubt, no hesitation in that life. Everyone looked up to Vencian. Everything he touched turned to success. It was like the world itself was tilted in his favor.
But then, without warning, it all stopped.
The dream shattered into a blinding white light. So bright that it made his mind recoil. He couldn't see anything, but he could feel it. The light wasn't just light. It had weight. Pressure. A presence.
It wasn't passive. It reached toward him.
He felt it creeping into his mind, pushing, squeezing. Like it was trying to overwrite something. Like it wanted to consume him or replace him.
Luke's instincts screamed at him to reject it. To not take its hand. It felt wrong. Like he'd lose something vital if he accepted it.
Then came the voice. Deep, commanding, and filled with a strange kind of forceful kindness. Too kind. It echoed directly into his thoughts, and he couldn't understand the words, but the intent behind them was clear.
And then, everything truly went dark.
No lights. No dream. Just black.
---
Luke's mind stirred, sluggish and heavy. He couldn't open his eyes or move a muscle, but his thoughts began to surface, brushing against the edges of wakefulness.
What the hell was that? That was just a dream, right?
He wanted to laugh, but his lips didn't move.
God... what kind of Disney-prince fever dream was that? Seriously? A noble kid? Genius? Everyone loves me? Sure. And next I'll ride a dragon to school.
The memory of it still clung to him, too vivid for comfort. The name Vencian Vicorra echoed in his head like it mattered somehow.
Vencian. Yeah. Vencian the prodigy. Vencian the golden boy. Vencian with the perfect life and perfect family. Must be nice.
I seriously need to lay off the late-night Reddit theories. This is what happens. One second you're in medieval fantasyland, and the next you're being nuked by a sentient lightbulb whispering universal truths at you.
He tried to move his arm. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
...Seriously though. This body pain sucks. I knew better than to jump back into workouts like I was still nineteen. I'm only twenty-three, not ancient, but damn...
Everything felt wrong. Heavy. Distant. Like his limbs were covered in lead, and his thoughts kept slipping off track.
The passage of time felt uncertain - minutes or hours could have slipped by unnoticed in this strange limbo between sleep and waking.
There was a pause. His mind went blank. For a second, he forgot what he was even thinking.
When does this sleep end, anyway? I can think, but I can't move. It's like I'm underwater. No... like I'm pinned down by nothing. Just pressure.
He felt himself drifting again. Not fully awake. Not fully asleep.
The pain helped Luke stay anchored. Each pulse of it made his thoughts clearer. His back ached against something hard, likely the floor. Slowly, he opened his eyes and sat up, finally breaking free from whatever that dream or memory had been.
The room around him felt wrong. It was too big. Too clean. The walls were decorated with ornate patterns. The bed nearby looked like something out of a historical drama, with a canopy, thick blankets, and embroidered pillows. He was lying on the floor beside it.
He looked toward the window. It was night. Moonlight spilled into the room, enough for him to make out the details. He pushed his palm against the floor to stand up, but he stopped when a sharp sting shot through his hand.
He looked down. There was a deep gash across his palm. The blood had dried, crusted over. The sight jolted him.
Confused, he slowly got to his feet. His movements felt foreign - the reach of his arms different, his center of gravity shifted. Even the simple act of standing required conscious adjustment.
Thoughts rushed in. What the hell was happening?
Did someone kidnap me?
But then he dismissed it. Who would even bother?
"Not like I'm a rich guy. Or rich girl. Or a girl." he said out loud, trying to make light of it. The voice that emerged surprised him - deeper, more refined than what he expected. Even that simple joke sounded different coming from this throat.
"Still got both kidneys, right?"
He felt his sides, just to check. Everything seemed in place. It was stupid, but the joke helped calm him down for a second.
He chuckled weakly, but the joke felt hollow in the strange room. Something was still wrong. This wasn't his apartment.
Trying to keep his thoughts steady, he turned toward the full-length mirror leaning against the wall.
And then he froze.
The person looking back at him wasn't him.
Gone was his usual skinny frame, dull eyes, and unkempt black hair.
In the mirror stood a young man. Taller. Lean but clearly strong. Platinum white hair, not messy but naturally styled. High cheekbones. Clear skin. Sharp jawline. Someone who looked like he belonged in a movie.
His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Then, the name slipped through his thoughts.
Vencian...?
He stared at the reflection, heart pounding, mind blank.
This wasn't a dream anymore.
The ritual worked, then. But what happened to him - to Vencian? The thought carried no emotional weight, merely clinical observation of an impossible situation.
His heart started beating faster. This wasn't within anything he had prepared for. He hadn't calculated for this. The shaky composure he had managed to build after waking up was starting to fall apart.
Just a moment ago, the pain in his palm had made it clear that this wasn't a dream. This was real.
How the fuck did it come to this?
In his distress, he looked around the room again. His eyes landed on the study table in the corner. It stood out immediately. It didn't look like a normal desk.
Spread across its surface was a large piece of parchment. On it, a strange and detailed symbol had been drawn. Parts of it had been traced over in red, as if someone had rewritten certain sections. Candles were placed carefully at several points around the symbol, aligned in a symmetrical pattern - now burned down to mere stubs, wax pooled and hardened around their bases.
And next to it all, sat a knife. Its blade was stained with dried blood, the crimson now dark and flaking. Hours had passed since it was used.
Luke stared at it, then glanced down at his own hand. The gash on his palm matched too perfectly. The angle and the depth were so precise that it had to be self-inflicted.
He swallowed hard.
The setup was too methodical, too calculated. This wasn't some spur-of-the-moment decision.
What could have driven someone to this? The precision suggested deliberate action, not desperation.
In the corner of the parchment, something was written in a language he didn't recognize. The letters were unfamiliar, yet his mind insisted they meant something. It was like trying to remember a word on the tip of his tongue, only this word had never belonged to any language he had ever learned.
He leaned forward slightly to get a better look at the strange writing.
The symbols seemed to shift in the candlelight, and suddenly the room felt different. Colder. The shadows in the corners appeared deeper, and the silence pressed against his ears.
Something was watching him.
He felt it before he saw anything: a presence, patient and expectant. His skin prickled as he turned sharply toward the window.
Nothing. Just the night sky and moonlight.
He stood still for a long moment, pulse quickening. "Just my imagination," he muttered, but his voice sounded thin in the empty room.
He turned back to the table, trying to shake off the unease. The writing seemed important somehow, familiar yet foreign. His body moved on instinct, leaning closer.
As his eyes focused on the first character, something stirred in his mind. A recognition that shouldn't exist. The symbol meant something, and somehow he knew—
The presence returned. Stronger now. Not watching anymore, but reaching.
His vision blurred. The room tilted. He could feel something vast and alien pressing against the edges of his consciousness, trying to push its way in.
No. Not again.
His brain went numb. A sudden, crushing pressure slammed into his mind like a freight train, and the world exploded into that same blinding white light from his dream.
Then everything went dark, and he collapsed.