He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the harsh light, trying to piece together his reality. Propping himself up, he swept his gaze across the shimmering horizon—nothing but an ocean of burning sand, stretching endlessly in every direction. Now what? Where was he? More pressingly: how had he come to be here? The answers would have to wait.
He got to his feet, brushing off the grit, and glanced down at his clothing—little more than tattered rags. Instinct guided his hand to his waist, where his fingers brushed a cool, cylindrical object. It felt like a hilt. Curiosity piqued, he gripped it and drew it free.
At that moment, blue letters flared into existence before his eyes.
[System Call]
[Primary Weapon Detected]
[Codename: Aetherblade]
"What is this?"
[Level: 1]
[Class: Swordsman]
"Swordsman? Me? Are you sure?" The words tumbled out, his excitement impossible to disguise.
[Confirmed. Foreign Individual – Swordsman Class.]
"By the way… who are you? Why are you inside my head?"
[I am the Soul of the World. Few are granted access to me.]
He mulled over this new information, feeling the relentless heat press against his skin. With no better plan, he started walking, his feet sinking into the scorching sand. The silence was so absolute, even his own breath felt intrusive.
"Can you hear me all the time?" he called out, glancing around the empty expanse, still adrift without direction.
[Yes. As long as you remain in this world, I will be present.]
"And where exactly am I? Is this some kind of test?"
[You have been transported to Ardaron as one chosen by the System. You should feel honored.]
He paused, letting those words settle. Then, a broad grin broke across his face, and his eyes sparked with exhilaration.
"No way! This is actually real? I was chosen… like an isekai protagonist!" He gave a little jump, thrusting his fists into the air. "Haha! This is just like an RPG video game! I'm on my own adventure!"
For a moment, the desert's oppressive heat faded into insignificance. His heart thundered in his chest, and he could barely restrain his glee.
"Alright, what now? What do I do first? Are there quests? Skills? Can I level up?"
The Soul of the World seemed to hesitate, perhaps startled by the outburst. Then, it replied:
[I see you are already adapting, swordsman.]
"And this weapon? What does it do?" he asked, tightening his grip on the hilt.
[The Aetherblade is your ally. It will adapt to your growth and respond to your will. Wield it wisely.]
He squinted at the horizon, where the dunes blurred into the sky, and started forward again. The heat and thirst gnawed at him, but the strange voice offered a peculiar comfort.
He remained alert for any sign of life. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed movement atop a distant dune, but it vanished—a trick of the light, perhaps.
His throat parched, the search for water grew desperate. He trudged onward, trying to ignore the ache, when a troubling thought bubbled up.
"By the way… what's my name…?" He stopped, brow furrowed. He searched his memory—a voice, a face, even a single word—but found nothing. It was like chasing the remnants of a forgotten dream. "I… I don't remember my name." The confession sounded alien, even to his own ears.
[Your name was lost during the passage between worlds. If you wish, I can grant you a new one—one that resonates with your new essence.]
He hesitated, a hollow ache settling in his chest. Then he nodded, determination filling the void.
"Yes. I want a new name."
[Then, from this moment on, you shall be called Marel.]
The name echoed in his mind, and a surge of energy rippled through him. The air shimmered, the desert's haze warping for an instant. The Aetherblade blazed with a spectral blue light. He felt lighter somehow; his senses sharpened—he could hear faint rumblings beneath the sand, feel the sun's heat without flinching. Even his thirst receded.
At his feet, the sand curled outward in delicate spirals, as if tracing the boundaries of a newfound power. The wind whipped up, swirling around Marel before dying away. He stared at his hands, awestruck by the raw energy coursing through his veins.
"Wow… that was incredible…"
[Your true path begins now, Marel. Remember: names hold power in Ardaron.]
A low, metallic rumble rolled across the desert, shaking the sand beneath Marel's feet. He froze, heart thundering, searching for the source. The dunes ahead shimmered, and then—impossibly—parted. From the breach emerged a monstrous figure, scales gleaming like tarnished brass, steam hissing from vents along its serpentine neck. Twin eyes glowed with an ancient, inscrutable intelligence.
The creature halted, coiling its massive body, and inclined its head with an unsettling grace. When it spoke, its voice was impossibly smooth, layered with a courteous warmth that only made it more terrifying.
"Good day to you, traveler. I am Karak, the Steam Dragon." The words echoed, polite and precise, as if practiced over centuries. "I regret to inform you that I must devour you. Please do not take this personally."
Marel's mouth went dry. He stumbled backward, clutching the Aetherblade. Run, his mind screamed. He obeyed instinct, dashing across the burning sands. The dragon's laughter—gentle, almost sympathetic—carrying after him.
The desert became a blur of panic and heat. Marel's feet slipped, sand searing his skin, lungs aching as he darted behind dunes and rocks. Every time he risked a glance back, Karak advanced at a measured pace, as if in no hurry, steam trailing in his wake.
"You are quick, for a newly Named Soul," Karak called, still impossibly civil. "But it is best to accept your fate."
Marel's terror only grew. He tripped, scrambled to his feet, ran again. The world shrank to breath, heartbeat and the pursuit.
He, Marel, was not a hero! Actually, he ran because there was nothing else he could do.
But somewhere in the chaos—a flicker of something stubborn. A refusal to surrender. As the dragon's shadow swept over him, Marel gripped the Aetherblade tighter, chest heaving, and turned to face the impossible foe. For the first time, fear began to mingle with a glint of resolve.
Then, without warning, everything changed.
A surge of energy flooded through Marel's body—not his own, but something vast and ancient. The Soul of the World. His limbs moved before his mind could process the commands, guided by an intelligence far beyond his comprehension. His feet shifted with impossible precision, his body bending and twisting in ways he didn't know were possible.
Karak lunged forward, jaws wide enough to swallow a carriage whole, steam erupting from his throat in a scalding blast. But Marel was already moving. His body rolled to the side with inhuman grace, the movement so fluid it seemed choreographed. The dragon's teeth snapped shut on empty air, missing him by mere inches.
"What—" Marel gasped, but his voice was cut short as his legs propelled him forward in a sprint, faster than he'd ever moved in his life. It was as if invisible strings pulled at his joints, directing every muscle with surgical precision.
The dragon whipped its massive tail around, a sweeping arc of brass scales that could have pulverized stone. Marel's body leaped—higher than should have been possible—tucking into a somersault that carried him over the deadly appendage. He landed in a crouch, sand exploding outward from the impact, already springing away as Karak's claws gouged the earth where he'd been a heartbeat before.
"I'm not doing this," Marel panted, his heart hammering. "This isn't me!"
[Trust me, Marel. I will guide you.]
Marel froze.