Death...
The entity that seems to place an end to all life. Some would call it a glorious ending, a final curtain that closes with grace. Others would curse its existence, seeing it as an unfair executioner that steals without mercy. But then, there were those—insane enough to claim that death was something more enigmatic.
Perhaps... a door for one to pass on to the other side.
"Gahhh!"
A loud, raspy gasp for air broke the silence, echoing across the dim room like a broken violin string snapping under pressure. The voice sounded strange—unfamiliar—even to the one who had just let it out.
Like that was insane—how would the person that owned the voice find his own voice… strange?
This was disturbing. Deeply disturbing.
The disoriented boy didn't have time to process the unease. A torrent of memories—not his own—came crashing into him like a wave against fragile glass. Thoughts, images, emotions... lives. They flowed relentlessly into him. Many memories of another life, lived by someone else, by someone entirely different—up until this very point.
This moment.
The moment when he had inhabited the body.
Fang gritted his teeth, his fingers instinctively tightening into fists. He was apprehensive, alarmed even, but he calmed himself. Slowly, methodically, he looked around at the room he was in.
'No wonder everything feels so different... It appears I actually died. And this is someone else's life now.'
He thought quietly, trying to remain composed as his eyes scanned the room in search of context. The chair he was seated on—its carvings and the quality of wood—told a tale of meticulous craftsmanship. Around him, the room revealed an unusual blend of old and new: polished wood, electrical appliances like bulbs, a standing lamp, and a desk with pens—not quills—and clean white sheets, not scrolls.
'This is certainly not from the same time as mine—'
"Kahhh!"
The moment the thought crossed his mind, a bolt of pain shot through his skull. He doubled over, clutching the back of his neck with both hands, groaning in agony.
A new memory invaded his consciousness.
But this one didn't belong to him—it belonged to the inhabitant of this body... to Ragnar.
Fang paused.
He inhaled deeply and began to contemplate.
'Why have I been reborn? And why here, in a much more modern world? How am I even in this body? Does this mean I killed the guy just by being reborn?'
So many questions.
More memories surged forward, slamming into his mind without mercy. They weren't his, but Ragnar's. His body quivered with every flash—every alien scene, every foreign emotion, every distorted fragment. Each piece of information came with its own wave of pain, and if not for Fang's unnaturally strong intellect and mental will, he would have surely lost his mind within the first few seconds.
"Damn this headache!"
He slammed his hand on the table with a thud that vibrated across the wood. His veins throbbed. His fury peaked. And just as suddenly...
Everything went silent.
{All nerves have been calmed… You have successfully connected with the memories of Ragnar Rok.}
{Brace for memory merge.}
Fang let out a shallow breath of relief. The voice, whatever or whoever it belonged to, had gone silent—for now. He almost wanted to laugh, or maybe just grin in muted appreciation. It wasn't over yet, but that moment of peace felt like a blessing.
Then the pain returned. Worse than before.
It came like a hammer to the skull—a heavy, unbearable agony. Fang felt as though a monstrous hand had reached inside his head and was slowly tearing his brain in two. It was the kind of torment that made death seem like a mercy.
'Fuck! Just kill me! I don't wanna live—'
He screamed internally as his body slammed into the desk before him. He fell off the chair with a thud, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings violently cut.
Maybe he did that on instinct. Maybe his body thought hitting the floor might calm the pain. But nothing helped.
Agonizing moments passed, crawling at the pace of misery, until—finally—the pain ebbed.
The system, or whatever power was at play, ceased the torture. Fang lay on his back, his body trembling uncontrollably, as though he had been dragged out of icy water and left to freeze.
His breath stuttered. His nerves slowly began to calm. Though his body was weak and numb, his mind—curiously—felt clearer than before.
'My luck... sucks!'
The thought hissed through his skull with bitter amusement.
Then, his mind shifted focus. His thoughts wandered, conjuring up a strange visual—two long lines suspended in an endless void, both extending far beyond what his eyes could see. One line was red. The other was yellow. They ran parallel, never touching, surrounded by darkness. Just... existing.
{Core: One life, two minds, but fueled by darkness and destruction.}
A hologram floated before his vision, displaying this cryptic message.
Was it real?
Or was it his imagination?
Regardless, it was... confusing.
Fang blinked, and the vision faded. The strange space in his mind vanished, replaced by the reality he had momentarily escaped. He realized he was curled up on the ground like some pitiful beggar, limbs tucked in, like someone who had long since starved to death.
He pulled himself up with a grunt. His body still trembled, but the clarity of his mind was undeniable now. He could think—really think.
'Two minds, two ropes. Does that mean I can recall those memories as though they were mine? Or just fragments? Or only what Ragnar himself could remember?'
Questions buzzed like bees in his skull, and he was ready to begin the investigation—eager to dissect everything. But...
Fate never plays fair.
The door to the room suddenly swung open—hard, abrupt, as if someone had kicked it in. A tall, broad man walked in, his heavy boots thudding against the polished floor. His gaze scanned the room quickly and then landed on Fang.
There was no welcome in his eyes. Only disgust.
It was clear.
The man hated being there.
"Lord Ragnar, you are late for the last academy's meeting."
The man's voice was deep and stern. His tone—sharp, militaristic, filled with irritation and disdain.
Fang narrowed his eyes. He'd seen people like this before in his old life. Authority figures who thought the world bent to their presence. The type who lived to bark orders and judge. He frowned, then muttered,
"How late am I?"
The question made the man's brow twitch.
Was this boy toying with him?
He couldn't be sure. But something about that simple response infuriated him. Perhaps it was the calm tone. Perhaps it was the unbothered eyes.
"You are one hour late, Lord Ragnar."
With that, the man spun on his heel and exited without another word.
Fang—no, Ragnar—gritted his teeth and let out a long sigh.
'Looks like figuring out things will have to wait.'