From the scattered manuscripts of Arthel the Heretic, burned in the purges of the Ivory Inquisition.
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"A soul is no more divine than fire: it burns, it wanes, and it can be fed. The priests call it sacred only because they do not know how to touch it."
I have seen the shimmer.
When a man dies, something rises in the air—light, but not light. Some call it spirit, others breath, others essence. I call it resonance.
To touch it is agony. The first time I brushed against it, my skin blistered, and my teeth rattled as though lightning passed through my skull. But in that instant, I knew—the soul is not some untouchable gift of gods. It is energy.
And energy can be consumed.
The living hunger for bread, for water, for flesh. But deeper still, there is a hunger of marrow and thought. Those who have tasted a soul find all lesser hungers dull. They call them Fractured. I call them proof.
The priests burn my writings, claim my words are blasphemy. Yet they do not deny the truth:
A soul can strengthen the body.
A soul can sharpen the mind.
A soul can be broken, divided, and bled dry.
But there is cost. Always cost.
The man who devours a soul grows in strength, yet I have seen his eyes turn hollow. His laughter fades, his sleep vanishes, his hands tremble with unseen weight. He forgets the warmth of bread on his tongue, the joy of a lover's touch. Bit by bit, he ceases to be man, and becomes… other.
So I write this not as warning, nor as curse, but as record:
To eat a soul is to bargain with the abyss.
And the abyss is always hungry.
From the scattered manuscripts of Arthel the Heretic
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On the Shape of Souls
Though invisible to most, a soul bears form. I have drawn what little I could perceive:
1. The Core (Lumen) – a spark of light, pure and unbroken. In the young, it shines steady. In the old, it flickers.
2. The Veil – a haze surrounding the core, colored by memory, pain, and desire.
3. The Threads – countless lines reaching outward, binding soul to flesh. When severed, death arrives.
"The ignorant see death as ending. I see it as unraveling."
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On Fracture
When one consumes another's soul, the core does not merge seamlessly. It fractures. Pieces grind against each other, foreign light scraping the vessel.
Stages of corruption I have recorded:
Stage I – Hunger: The body strengthens. The senses sharpen. The taste of life dulls.
Stage II – Erosion: Memories fade. Old loves and joys are forgotten first, as if the new soul burns away the old.
Stage III – Hollowing: The vessel struggles to contain its weight. Flesh may twist. The eyes become windows of void.
Stage IV – Becoming: No longer man, no longer dead. The being is something… new.
Most perish before Stage IV. A few endure. Those few are spoken of in whispers: the Fractured.
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Final Note
The priests condemn me. The Inquisition burns my work. Yet I ask: If the gods truly cared for man, why gift him with souls so easily stolen, so easily consumed?
Perhaps the soul is not a blessing.
Perhaps it is bait.
—Arthel, in exile