The blackness was absolute, a sensory deprivation tank that swallowed Adam whole. The cold of the PSO chair, the sterile stench of antiseptic, the grating voice of the old policeman—all of it vanished, replaced by a void so complete it felt like un-being.
Then, the voice. It was not one of his chorus. This one was different. It was crystalline, vast, and utterly alien, resonating not in his ears but in the very core of his being. It was a voice of absolute, impersonal power.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]
The words were not sound; they were concepts hammered directly into his soul. Before he could form a coherent thought, a torrent of images flooded his mind.
He saw a forest, but not one from any nature documentary. This was a primeval, suffocating jungle. Giant trees, their bark like weeping iron, clawed at a bruised purple sky. Canopies woven so thickly they turned day into a perpetual, gloomy twilight. Vines thick as his arm hung like serpents, and the air shimmered with visible, malevolent spores. He saw shadows move with a sentient hunger, and heard the distant, chittering cries of things that had never known the sun.
The vision shifted. Now he was on the ground, his feet bare and caked in black mud. He was part of a line of ragged, hollow-eyed people, all shackled at the ankle by a heavy, rusted chain. They were prisoners. Slaves. Their clothes were tattered furs and rotten leather, and they stank of fear and filth. Armed guards, clad in mismatched armor of bone and chitin, prowled the edges of the line, their faces hidden behind grotesque, insectoid helms.
Time flowed backwards. He saw the slaves fall, their bodies torn apart by unseen predators. He saw the chain break, links scattering into the undergrowth. He saw them being herded into this miserable line from a rickety wooden cart. The vision stabilized, and the flow of time resumed its normal course.
Adam blinked, and the vision was reality. The greasy chill of the ossuary was gone, replaced by a damp, oppressive heat that clung to his lungs. The smell of rust and decay was now the smell of wet rot, blooming fungi, and something else… something metallic and sharp, like ozone before a storm. He was shivering, but not from cold. It was a full-body tremor of shock and a deep, primal fear.
He looked down. His threadbare coat was gone. He wore a stiff, uncured hide tunic that chafed his skin. His feet were bare, already sinking into the cold, black mud. A heavy iron manacle was locked around his right ankle, connected by a short, stout chain to the manacle of the person in front of him and behind him. The metal was cold and rough against his skin.
'This is it. The First Nightmare.'
The thought was a shard of ice in his gut. The policeman's words echoed in his memory: "The Spell usually tailors it to the Aspirant." Of course. Of course it would put him in chains. His entire life had been a different kind of chain—poverty, hunger, the voices. Why should his trial be any different?
But alongside the fear, another instinct, honed by years of survival in the ossuary, kicked in: assessment. He was still alive. He had a body, seemingly his own, though it felt stronger, free of the perpetual gnawing hunger he was used to. He was in a terrible situation, but it was a situation. And situations could be manipulated.
He glanced around, keeping his movements small, his face a mask of the same vacant despair he saw on the others. The line of slaves was maybe thirty people long, trudging through a narrow path carved between monstrous, twisted trees. The guards—four of them—walked with a confident swagger, their strange weapons held ready. One carried a spear tipped with a jagged shard of obsidian. Another had a club studded with sharpened teeth.
The person in front of him was a hulking brute with a scarred back, his shoulders tensed with suppressed rage. The one behind was a wiry, older man with quick, darting eyes that constantly scanned the jungle, his lips moving in a silent, frantic prayer.
'Don't think of them as people,' the policeman had said. 'They're part of the test.' Adam stored the advice, but didn't fully accept it. People, real or not, had uses. They could be shields. They could be distractions. They could be tools.
First, he needed to know what tools he had.
Remembering the instructions, he focused inward, thinking of the word Status. The world didn't waver, but in the periphery of his vision, a cluster of shimmering, silver runes appeared. He concentrated, and they slid to the center of his view. The language was alien, a series of intricate glyphs, but their meaning was as clear as if they were spoken in his ear.
Name: Adam
True Name: —
Rank: Aspirant
Soul Core: Dormant
Memories: [None]
Echoes: [None]
His eyes skipped down, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. His Aspect. His chance.
Aspect: [Mimic]
A cold knot tightened in his stomach. Mimic? He'd heard of Swordsmen and Pyromancers, of Berserkers and Shadow-Walkers. What in the cursed depths was a Mimic?
Aspect Description: [The Mimic does not possess a voice of its own. It borrows, it steals, it reflects. You can replicate any voice you have heard and any sound you can comprehend. Imitation is not merely flattery; it is a weapon. Use it to deceive, to terrify, to confuse. The fidelity and potency of the mimicry is dependent on the user's resonance with the source and their own strength of will.]
Adam stared at the runes, a bitter laugh caught in his throat. This was his salvation? A party trick? A useless skill for a crazy slum rat who already heard voices? The universe, it seemed, had a truly vicious sense of humor. He wasn't a warrior. He was a parrot.
'There are no useless Aspects. Well… almost none.'
The old policeman's caveat rang hollow now. What was he supposed to do? Talk the monsters to death? Impersonate a bigger, scarier predator? The absurdity of it was almost enough to make him give up right there.
But the ossuary had taught him one unshakeable lesson: you used what you had. You used everything. Even the garbage. Especially the garbage.
He turned his attention to his Attributes. Maybe there was something there, some small advantage.
Attributes: [Fated], [Mark of Chaos], [Mark of Divinity], [Blessed by the Unknown]
His eyes widened slightly. Four Attributes? He'd heard most Aspirants started with one, maybe two. This was… unusual. He focused on each in turn.
[Fated] Attribute Description: "You are a nexus of improbable events. The threads of destiny are tangled around you, pulling both great fortune and catastrophic misfortune into your path. You are neither blessed nor cursed, but a walking anomaly where the impossible becomes likely."
That tracked. It explained his useless Aspect, his miserable life, and his current predicament. He was a magnet for the extraordinary, both good and bad. He'd have to be ready for anything.
[Mark of Chaos] Attribute Description: "You carry the scent of primordial disorder. Reality is slightly less stable in your presence. Predictions fail, systems glitch, and probabilities warp. You are a wild card, an unaccounted-for variable in the great equation."
Chaos. It sounded dangerous, uncontrollable. But in a structured system like a trial, chaos could be a tool. If nothing could be predicted, then his enemies couldn't predict him.
[Mark of Divinity] Attribute Description: "An echo of a forgotten touch lingers on your soul. You have been brushed by a power beyond mortal understanding, leaving a faint, indelible stamp. Beings of order and creation may regard you with curiosity or reverence. Beings of destruction may see you as a threat."
Divinity? Him? The idea was laughable. What god would waste a glance on an ossuary rat? But the description was clear. It was another tool, another lever. He filed it away.
[Blessed by the Unknown] Attribute Description: "Something that exists outside the known domains has taken an interest in you. Its intentions are inscrutable, its nature undefined. This blessing does not grant conventional power, but instead offers a unique affinity with the void, the silent, and the things that dwell in the spaces between and it allows ones mind to be near unbreakable and their heart truly encompassing to their true self."
The voices. It had to be. The chorus in his head, the woman who warned him… was this their mark? A blessing from the Unknown? It sounded more like a curse, but the description mentioned an affinity. An affinity for what? The silent places? He was never in a silent place.
He dismissed the runes. The information swirled in his mind, a chaotic stew of potential and despair. He was a Mimic, a creature of borrowed voices, marked by Fate, Chaos, a forgotten God, and something… else. He was the most complicated, poorly equipped Aspirant to ever walk into a nightmare.
more time passed it have been a few dozen minuets or hours
A sharp crack echoed through the trees, followed by a cry of pain. One of the guards had lashed out with a whip, striking a slave who had stumbled. "Keep moving, scum! The Nest won't wait forever!"
The Nest. The word sent a fresh jolt of fear through the line. It sounded like a destination, and in a nightmare, destinations were never good.
The hulking man in front of him, the one with the scarred back, let out a low growl. "The Nest. They're feeding us to the Web-Spinners. I knew it."
The wiry man behind Adam whimpered. "Quiet, you fool! Do you want to be next?"
"Better the whip than the spinner's fangs," the big man grumbled, but he fell silent.
Adam stored the names. Web-Spinners. So, his enemies were here. The monsters of his trial. The policeman said the first thing to do was find his Aspect. He had. Now he had to use it.
But how?
He decided to start small. He focused on the sound of the jungle—the constant drip of water, the chittering in the canopy, the squelch of mud underfoot. He picked one sound: the distinct, three-note call of a unseen bird nearby. He concentrated, feeling the sound, trying to understand its texture and pitch. He opened his mouth slightly and pushed air through his throat.
What came out was a weak, raspy croak that sounded nothing like the bird.
The wiry man behind him snorted. "What's the matter, boy? The damp got your tongue?"
Adam ignored him, his mind racing. It wasn't just about hearing. The description said "comprehend." He needed to understand the sound, to resonate with it. He closed his eyes, filtering out the other noises, and listened to the birdcall again. He focused on its loneliness, its simple, territorial purpose.
He tried again.
This time, a perfect, clear replication of the three-note call came from his lips. It was uncanny. It felt as if his vocal cords had been momentarily replaced by the bird's.
The wiry man jumped, his chain rattling. "Seven Hells! Sounded like it was right on your shoulder!"
A small, grim smile touched Adam's lips. So. He could do it. It was a weapon. A subtle one, but a weapon nonetheless.
The line trudged on for what felt like hours. The oppressive heat and the constant, gnawing fear were exhausting. Adam used the time to practice. He mimicked the drip of water, the rustle of leaves, even the specific grunt of the big man in front of him. Each time, the fidelity improved as he learned to focus his will, to align his intention with the sound's essence.
His opportunity came sooner than he expected.
The path began to narrow, forcing the line to squeeze between two massive, moss-covered boulders. One of the guards, the one with the club, was standing to the side, watching them file past. His helmet was turned slightly away, listening to something deeper in the forest.
An idea, cold and cunning, sparked in Adam's mind. It was a risk. A huge one. But [Fated] demanded risks. [Chaos] thrived on them.
He waited until the big man in front of him was just passing the guard. He focused on the guard with the club, studying his posture, the way he held his weapon. Then, he looked deeper into the jungle, in the direction the guard was facing. He saw a thick, shadowy tangle of thorns.
He concentrated, pouring his will into his [Mimic] Aspect. He wasn't just trying to make a sound; he was trying to create a presence. He thought of fear, of sudden alarm. He thought of a predator stumbling upon prey.
From the thicket of thorns, he projected a sound. Not a roar, not a scream. Something more subtle. The sharp, startled intake of breath, followed by the faintest click of a chitinous limb snapping a twig.
It was perfectly timed. The guard with the club snapped his head around, his weapon coming up. "What was that? Did you hear that?"
The other guards tensed. "Hear what?" one called back.
"Something's in the thorns! Moving!"
For a moment, chaos reigned. Two of the guards moved to flank the thicket, their attention completely diverted from the slave line. The one with the club took a step forward, peering into the shadows.
It was the distraction the big man in front of Adam needed. With a guttural roar, the slave acted. He yanked his chain with all his might, pulling the guard closest to him off balance. Before the man could recover, the big man swung his own manacle, the heavy iron connecting with the guard's helmet with a sickening crunch. The guard crumpled.
"Now!" the big man bellowed. "Break the chain!"
Pandemonium erupted. Slaves screamed and pulled in different directions. The remaining guards shouted, turning from the phantom in the thorns to the very real rebellion at their feet.
Adam didn't join the fight. He didn't try to break the chain. While the big man wrestled for the fallen guard's club, Adam dropped to his knees in the mud. His target was the guard who was still down, the one whose helmet was now dented and still.
He scrabbled at the man's belt, his fingers finding the cold metal of a key ring. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. The shouts and clashes of combat were all around him. He fumbled with the keys, his hands slick with mud and fear, trying one after another in the lock of his manacle.
Click.
The lock sprang open. The weight fell from his ankle. He was free.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't look back at the big man who had started the revolt, or the wiry man who was now trying to copy his idea. They were part of the test. They were tools he had used.
He snatched the obsidian-tipped spear from the fallen guard's limp hand and, without a backward glance, plunged into the deep, waiting darkness of the jungle.
The sounds of the struggle faded behind him, replaced by the hungry silence of the forest. He was alone. Unshackled. Armed.
And his Aspect, which he had thought was useless, had just saved his life.
He found a hiding place a few minutes later, a hollow under the roots of a colossal tree, shielded by a curtain of weeping moss. He crouched in the damp, dark space, clutching the spear, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He listened, but the forest had swallowed the evidence of the slave revolt whole.
'You're a survivor,' the policeman had said.
A slow, cold smile spread across Adam's face. It wasn't a pleasant expression. It was the sharp, predatory grin of something that had been cornered its whole life and had just learned how to bite back.
"Thank you," he whispered to the empty jungle, the old habit returning. This time, he wasn't sure who he was thanking. The Spell? The voices? His own cunning? It didn't matter.
He had survived the first minute. Now, he had to survive the rest.
From the deep, shadowy recesses of the jungle, a new sound reached his ears. It was a soft, skittering noise, multiplied a hundredfold. The sound of countless chitinous legs moving in unison through the rotting leaves.
the creature was approaching
The trial was beginning in earnest.