The scene was so obvious now—the bloodstains on the table and the flooring of the room. Such a disheartening predicament… and yet, how hadn't he noticed it before?
Ragnar was puzzled.
He stepped closer to the table and dismissed his Arcana Eyes, letting his natural vision take hold. And yet again, what he saw chilled him—it was unmistakable. The surface was smeared and crusted with dried-up blood.
"How had I not noticed this?" Ragnar asked himself again, but his mind quickly snapped to the next, far more pressing matter.
Who had killed the original Ragnar?
A lump swelled in his chest as he tried to recall what had happened a few hours prior—right before he took Ragnar's body. But that was the most terrifying part.
A cold chill spiraled up his spine, and the young Lord fell backward into his chair, disbelief painting every flicker in his gaze. His eyes trembled in their sockets.
His lips parted to speak… but then closed with a tremble.
"I can't… I can't remember."
And that—that—was the harrowing truth.
Fang Zhen couldn't recall a single memory of what had happened to Ragnar that day. Every time he tried, it felt like standing naked in a battlefield of blinding, warlike darkness that clawed at his sight and sanity.
He violently shook his head, attempting to cast out the creeping fog from his mind. Something's wrong, he thought, grimacing. Not just that I can't remember—but...
He frowned deeply, his expression darkening. I can see the memory… somewhere beyond the fog. But the moment I look too closely, it's gone. As if my eyes are forbidden from gazing too long…
I've been bugged.
Nothing about this was natural—it felt off, unnatural, wrong. He was certain now: some kind of ability had been used on him.
To confirm his suspicion, he tried thinking back to yesterday.
Grudges—ones worth killing over—rarely began and ended in a single day.
He strained, reaching into his recollections. And this time, he got farther. He could remember most of yesterday… until the shadow struck again. Like an impenetrable wall, it blocked off everything after a certain point.
Ragnar clenched his fists and did everything he could—incantations, mental dives, even obscure mnemonic tricks—to break through it. He tried again and again to recall the details he had seen just moments before… but each time, they dissolved into nothingness, forgotten the moment he reached for them.
And then, just like that, the darkness passed. He found himself lying on his bed, waking up… again. The phantom had stolen something from him—again.
He tried the same process for the days before. The result was the same: critical hours vanished behind that same wall of darkness.
It had gone on for a week. Exactly one week—and then, it stopped.
Fang Zhen reached a grim conclusion.
"Whatever happened to Ragnar… it was triggered sometime within that week. But I don't know what to think of this. No suspects. No clues. Nothing." His lips twisted bitterly. "Nice work, killer."
He had to give it to whoever orchestrated this. They hadn't just killed Ragnar—they'd managed to cloak him from even the most advanced magical readings during death. It was a perfect clean-up. But what chilled him further was another thought:
Did the killer know transmigration wasn't an impossible outcome?
He had too much on his mind—too many pieces, too little sense.
But then, it came.
A sudden hum echoed in his skull, and a grey hologram flickered before his eyes.
{You have been acknowledged.}
"Acknowledged?" Ragnar muttered, narrowing his eyes and rubbing his temples.
Another notification appeared, drifting through the air like ash from a dying fire.
{The Shadow of Distrust: A phantom—trustworthy, yet a slave to betrayal. Serves loyally, but to two masters. Be wary not to place too much faith in the shadow.}
He read it aloud, voice low, uncertain. "What does this mean?"
He didn't get an answer. But he could guess. This… "Shadow of Distrust"… was likely the entity responsible for his memory blackouts.
Another window followed:
{Description: Hides many, shows none. A shameless companion, seeker of shadows. Trustworthy only to its true Master.}
As the final words hovered in front of him, Ragnar's skin prickled with goosebumps. His throat dried up.
And then—he heard it.
A sound.
Something moved beneath him.
"What the hell—?" he muttered, his gaze snapping down.
But when he looked… there was nothing. The ground beneath his feet was clear. Still.
Yet Ragnar kept his eyes fixed there. His instincts screamed. His time as Fang Zhen had taught him to listen to that inner voice.
And then it happened.
A slow, deliberate movement beneath his legs. Once. Then again. Smoother this time. Rhythmic—like a dance.
He looked again.
And there, stretched across the ground—three shadows. Not one. Three. Each one shaped differently. Each alive.
The first—a dancer—moved in eerie, elegant steps, whirling around Ragnar's feet. Sometimes it detached completely, becoming its own figure before gliding back beneath him with surreal grace.
The second sat still, completely separate from him, cross-legged on the floor. A shadow book in its hands, it scribbled furiously with inkless pens. It was less human—its form sprouted several extra arms from its sides and back. The arms resembled infant limbs—tiny, malformed baby hands that all moved at once, writhing in disjointed harmony. A silent symphony of madness.
And the third...
It stood.
Tall. Imposing.
Only two arms. But chains wrapped around its neck and shoulders. Its head bore horns—grotesque and sharp. It was like a chained beast… and it was watching him.
Ragnar could hear the chains tightening with each breath the thing took. He could feel the grin spreading across its unseen face.
He said nothing.
A lesser man would've screamed. Gone mad. Maybe even clawed at his own eyes to escape what he was seeing. But Ragnar stayed quiet—at least outwardly.
Inside, his sanity scraped the edge.
A dancer shadow that strayed. A scribe with infant hands. A chained monster that stared.
Three shadows.
One host.
"What… what does this mean?" he whispered. "Does this signify something? Is this a message… or just madness made manifest?" Ragnar was utterly confused, he took his time a lingered there for a moment to think through it all.
Then—suddenly—an idea struck him.
These were the Shadows of Distrust.
Three of them.
Bound to him. Yet their loyalty belonged to another.
Ragnar didn't understand.
He turned to the strange grey hologram, hoping for more answers. "What is the meaning if—"
He was cut off.
A loud noise—his door creaked open. Then came the thunder of approaching boots, crashing down with no care for subtlety.
Someone was invading his space.
And then he stepped in.
Ragnar's eyes widened as he looked up. He knew this man. Too well.
Dark-haired, weary-eyed… his face carried a quiet storm. But what struck Ragnar most wasn't the fatigue—it was where the man was headed.
He didn't stop at the threshold.
No.
He came straight toward Ragnar's worktable… toward the dried blood that belonged to Ragnar.
Ragnar's breath caught.
"…Aaron," he whispered.