Aldric did not open the book immediately.
It sat on his desk like an accusation, dark and silent beneath the candlelight. The chains lay coiled beside it, inert now, as if their purpose had ended the moment they were removed. He half-expected the book to react—to hum, to resist, to do something to justify the secrecy surrounding it.
It did nothing.
That, somehow, unsettled him more.
He paced the room once, then twice, fingers flexing at his sides. The estate had returned to its quiet rhythm outside his door, but inside his chest, thoughts collided relentlessly.
This book was real.
The archives were real.
And the fact that no one had stopped him meant either the estate's defenses were flawed—or they had judged him harmless.
Aldric wasn't sure which possibility disturbed him more.
Finally, he sat and opened the book.
The first page was not written in grand script or ceremonial language. No invocation. No warning carved in blood or fire.
Just a title.
On Craft, Blood, and the Price of Ascension
Aldric frowned.
"That's… direct," he muttered.
He continued reading.
The opening chapters were methodical, almost academic. Definitions. Classifications. Observations recorded not by priests or prophets, but by scholars—men and women who approached the subject with caution and restraint.
Craft, the text claimed, was not magic.
It was expression.
A fundamental force embedded within humanity, locked behind biological and metaphysical limits. Only under extreme conditions—ritual, trauma, or near-death—could those limits fracture.
Aldric scoffed softly.
"Convenient," he said. "Explain the impossible by making it conditional."
He read on anyway.
The book detailed historical instances of Craft awakening. Wars. Catastrophes. Famines. Times when humanity stood at the edge of extinction and something answered.
Patterns emerged.
Not random.
Not divine.
Predictable.
That was what troubled him.
The author did not describe miracles. They described responses. Cause and effect. Pressure and release.
Craft awakened when the human vessel was pushed beyond endurance.
Aldric closed the book again, exhaling sharply.
"No," he said quietly. "That's not how reality works."
In his old world, power was constrained by physics, biology, systems that could be tested and replicated. Extraordinary claims required extraordinary evidence.
And yet—
He pressed his thumb against the edge of the desk, grounding himself.
And yet he had woken up in a body that wasn't his.
He had died.
Regression was not possible.
Reincarnation was not possible.
And yet here he was.
Slowly, reluctantly, Aldric opened the book again.
The next section focused on bloodlines.
Craft affinity, the text explained, was influenced by heritage—not because power was inherited, but because certain lineages had been exposed repeatedly over generations. Survival bred adaptation. Adaptation bred resonance.
The Ashcombe family was named explicitly.
Aldric's jaw tightened.
According to the text, Luther Ashcombe's awakening during the Great War had left a metaphysical imprint. His descendants did not inherit his power—but they inherited a pathway.
The Swan Pride.
A physical Craft focused on endurance, precision, and unwavering will.
Aldric leaned back in his chair, eyes unfocused.
"So that's why," he murmured.
Why the crest mattered. Why the family was watched so carefully. Why even the royals tread lightly around the Ashcombes.
This wasn't nobility born of politics.
It was nobility born of threat.
He turned the page.
The ritual.
This time, there was no attempt to soften the language.
The Ashcombe Awakening Ritual was not safe. Not controlled. Not guaranteed. It demanded prolonged physical and mental strain, deprivation, and absolute isolation.
The ritual did not grant Craft.
It forced the body to either adapt—or collapse.
Aldric read the warnings carefully.
Failure resulted in permanent physical damage. Psychological fracture. Death.
Success was not described as triumph.
It was described as survival.
He closed his eyes.
In another life, he would have dismissed this as fantasy. A dangerous fantasy, perhaps, but fantasy nonetheless.
But that life had ended in a sterile hospital room, surrounded by machines that could not save him.
This world operated on different assumptions.
Different limits.
Aldric stood and moved to the window, staring out at the estate grounds. Moonlight traced the edges of stone and grass, everything pristine, orderly.
This life could be easy.
He had wealth. Protection. Status.
He could ignore the book. Pretend he never found it. Live comfortably and let others handle the monsters, the rituals, the secrets.
The thought lingered.
Then faded.
Because beneath it lay another truth—quiet, but undeniable.
He would never feel safe ignorant.
Not when monsters existed.
Not when organizations hunted them.
Not when power was hidden behind bloodlines and secrecy.
And not when he had already crossed one impossible boundary by waking up here at all.
"If regression is possible," he said softly, "then power is possible too."
He returned to the desk and opened the book once more.
This time, he read the ritual in full.
The instructions were precise. Painstakingly detailed. Every step accounted for, every variable minimized as much as possible.
Still, the margins were filled with notes.
Corrections.
Names crossed out.
Dates followed by brief, brutal conclusions.
Failure.
Heart stopped.
Mind fractured.
Survived—unstable.
Aldric swallowed.
The ritual required isolation. Eight hours minimum. No interruption.
The body would resist. The mind would rebel. Hallucinations were expected. Loss of consciousness was common.
If the subject quit, the backlash could be fatal.
There was no middle ground.
Aldric closed the book slowly.
He did not rush into the decision.
He spent the next two days preparing.
He ate well. Rested. Studied the estate's schedule to ensure privacy. He rehearsed the ritual steps until he could recite them from memory.
Not out of courage.
Out of calculation.
When the night came, Aldric locked his door and drew the ritual circle exactly as described. The symbols etched themselves into the floor with unnerving ease, as if the stone welcomed them.
He sat at the center.
He started say the incantations.
The moment he did, the air changed. As he said each word as if they carried weight.
Then as he reached the last stanza his eyes turned pitch black like a void with no light in sight.
Pressure slammed into him like a physical force. His breath hitched. Muscles seized as if gripped by invisible hands.
Pain followed immediately.
Not sharp.
Not dull.
Total.
It spread through his body, compressing bone and nerve alike. Aldric clenched his teeth, refusing to scream, refusing to move.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
His sense of time disintegrated.
Thoughts fractured. Memories surfaced unbidden—his childhood, his failures, the loneliness that had followed him even into death.
The pain intensified.
It demanded surrender.
Aldric refused.
He clung to awareness with sheer will, even as his vision blurred and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then—
The pain stopped.
Not faded.
Stopped.
His consciousness tore free from his body.
He floated—not through space, but through structure. Reality unfolded around him in layers, vast and incomprehensible.
Seven pillars stood beyond all measurement.
Each radiated authority.
One turned toward him.
The Outer.
Aldric understood without words.
This was not power offered.
This was power recognized.
His body collapsed.
Darkness took him.
He woke two weeks later.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. His limbs felt heavy, but intact. Strong.
A servant gasped nearby, dropping a tray as word spread rapidly through the estate.
"The young master has awakened!"
Aldric closed his eyes briefly.
He felt… different.
Not stronger.
Aligned.
Three days remained before the university resumed.
And the world had just changed.