How exquisite and agonizing the evening proved to be. The three bright moons were abnormally resplendent and beautiful, shining through the window, their light twisting the room into a nightmare of writhing shadows.
Solomon stood, trembling, his scarlet eye reflecting the bloodied light, his pitch-black hair matted with sweat and gore. His long coat, adorned with epaulettes bearing the Crimson and Azure Moons, clung to his corrupted body, soaked with blood that seeped from the gaping hole in his chest. Around his neck, the silver Crescent Moon pendant stood right by his skin, a remnant of the mysteries he'd chased to his doom.
"How unfair and cruel this world is…" he whispered, his voice barely heard over the dying wheeze of his breaths.
His face, once handsome, now bore the inevitable of death, his pitch-black hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. His unnaturally bright scarlet eyes stared out with a feverish intensity, as if seeing something beyond the room.
He was exhausted, for he was wounded deeply. The air reeked of iron and decay, the floor turning crimson with blood pooling beneath him. His right leg crumbled, ripped flesh screaming with every step. The socket where his left eye had been was only left with an unimaginable pain, and a wound in his shoulder poured out. Black veins crawled beneath his skin, throbbing with a corruption that promised of horrors beyond the stars.
He could only bleed out in despair, painting the floor red with every step he took. This was the price of his recklessness, of prying too deep into the silent things that lurked in the world's depths. All of his pain and failures gathered in one place, waiting for him with forbearance, lead him to his broken end.
Solomon glanced at his wretched state, a bitter weight settling in his chest, realizing how much of a burden he was going to leave behind. "I was only one step away…" he murmured. "If only I had enough power… If only… I had someone…"
He turned from the window, each movement feeling like a punishment, and sank into the armchair. It cradled him like a grave. He seemed to be aware of his impending death.
He slowly leaned back. Taking a pen and a sheet of paper, he wrote, his hand trembling as words bled onto the page. His eyes glistened, then spilled over, tears soaking the paper's edge.
When he was done writing after quite some time, he was exhausted like he had never been before, Solomon's lifeforce was being drained with every second that had passed. He put the pen and the sheet of paper on the large table in front of him.
He sat in a spacious but gloomy room, lit only by the feeble glow of a few candles. To his right was a small library, on its shelves were books on ancient tongues, lost faiths, and tales that blurred the line between fantasy and nightmare.
Besides the small library, a kitchen counter sat nearby. To his left was a small workspace with an old desk, papers scattered everywhere. A coat hanger stood near the old rusty desk where the entrance was nearby. One small bedroom was just near the workspace, down the hall. A little farther down was the bathroom, tucked away in the corner. And there was a dark rug covering the floor, giving the room a warm and inviting feel.
Solomon sat lonely in the dark room. He forced a smile, tears tracing paths down his face—sadness and joy entwined. Chuckling softly, he wiped them away, his gaze drifting one last time across the room.
Then his gaze settled on the long silver dagger stabbed into the table. It waited, silent and patient. The dagger bore inscriptions that seemed to vanish when he looked away, their meaning clear to him yet forbidden.
He dared not read them aloud, not for the fear of what might answer, but who it would attract. His intellect, vast as it was, knew the carvings held secrets he'd etched himself—knowledge that had already cost him everything.
Solomon had encountered cursed inscriptions, ancient slates and texts before, each bringing deadly consequences, summoning wrath and ruin.
But he feared that by reading this one again, it might attract the attention of not any being, but of an ancient deity—one that had long since withdrawn its claws and fangs from the earth.
The dagger itself was unremarkable, just a piece of material with no unique properties, a tool like any other he'd wielded. What was significant was the forbidden knowledge he had carved into it.
After a long stillness, Solomon grasped it gently, his strength fading by each second. He pulled, the blade rasping free from the wood as blood choked his coughs.
He held the dagger on top of him, directing the pointy end right onto the middle of his head. One minute passed, two minutes passed. His face was blank. When the five minute mark was upon him, there was a warm and sincere smile on his face as he uttered a sentence in his last breaths.
"Inevitable is The Dawn of the World!"
The dagger descended as it ripped open his skull while penetrating his brain. In his final moments, Solomon's hands pulled the blade down, splitting his skull in a grotesque display. Then, merely silence, as his body slumped, the dagger clattering to the floor.
No one would see the horror left behind. Solomon had never imagined he'd end this way, yet the choice was his —to see the story's end, and to witness what remained.
…
The sun crept over the horizon, spilling its first light into the room. It fell across Solomon's body, stretched out upon the floor. No wounds, no scars, no trace of the corruption that had torn through him remained. The blood-soaked clothes and the dark stains around him were the only proof that death had visited here at all.
Then came a voice. Soft, melodic, neither near nor far. It carried the warmth of a mother's touch, the hush of something older than words.
"Be awakened, and heed the unknown, for they are ever wakeful."
The body stirred. Eyelids fluttered open. Solomon—or the man who now wore his form—drew in a sharp breath. His hands shot to his head as though pierced by invisible spikes. He toppled forward, knocking the table aside with a loud crash.
Pain tore through him, relentless. He writhed across the floorboards, gasping, half-shouting, half-weeping, every nerve in his body aflame. It went on and on until at last the agony ebbed, leaving only trembling limbs and a shallow breath.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his thoughts scattering, then circling back, one question after another clawing at his mind.
Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here?
Fragments of unknowns drifted through his head. A castle vast and cold, hallways stretching into forever. But they weren't his memories. They couldn't be. Before this, he remembered nothing more dramatic than sitting in his room, a book in hand. Had he passed out? Was this some fever dream, the kind they called "lucid"?
A sharp throb in his skull made him flinch. The air tasted real. Too real.
His eyes swept the room. Peeling walls. Rust creeping through the iron fixtures. The smell of damp and blood clinging heavy. He clutched the arm of an old chair and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet.
"Where… the hell am I?"
The sight of the blood made his stomach knot. He tore the coat from his shoulders and let it fall, his chest heaving. None of this made sense—his clothes, the place, the silence pressing in on him.
Not a dream. Not a dream at all.
On the floor, amid the overturned table, lay a dagger, a pen, and a folded piece of paper. The dagger's blade caught what little light the room offered, polished, sharp, untouched by rust. He bent down, gathered them up, and slid the weapon into his belt almost instinctively.
Only then did he turn the letter in his hand, eyes narrowing at the strange script crawling across the page—letters unlike any he had ever seen.. The letter read:
"To The New Keeper of My Body
This letter is for the dear new host of my body, you who is reading this letter I have left behind, my friend. I am aware that what lies ahead of you may be shrouded in bewilderment and seem confusing. Yet, I trust in your strength, your wisdom, and your resolve to find the exit of the labyrinth you now find yourself within.
Once you have read and comprehended these words in their entirety, destroy this letter. Burn it to ash and scatter the remnants outside so that "they" will not be able to find you. This seemingly harmless piece of parchment carries the risk of drawing the gaze of those who must not find you. The remnants of my existence carry a danger I cannot fully describe. Heed my warning well, for I cannot offer it twice.
I cannot explain the full nature of "them," neither their identity nor their purpose, for even inscribing about them would risk inviting their presence. What I leave behind for you is not knowledge of "them," but the essentials for your survival.
The little place I have found for you may seem old and rusty at first, yet, it should be sufficient enough. I hope it serves you well in your time staying here. As for the clothes you will be wearing, I have purified them of my presence so that no danger befalls you because of me, though I must apologize for the blood they will carry. Wash them when you can—being clean is essential. There is a meager sum of money in the pocket of the coat I left you. It may provide initial sustenance; however, use it wisely, as my circumstances allowed no more than this.
I do not know who you are but adapting to this place will be your first trial. The truths of this world, its veiled mysteries, its concealed horrors, and more are yours to uncover, if you so choose. I will not force you to tread a path against your will.
If you find yourself struggling, or in doubt, I must guide you to one last hope. Seek Cardinal Beowulf in the largest church of Sol Victus City, where you are currently located. He will be your guide and mentor. You can trust him with your life, you have my word. He is the only human left who still remembers me and is not an enemy of mine. If you fail to find him there, you may have to wander across the continent in search of him. Should you fail entirely, then please do care for yourself.
I must trust you with one thing: the necklace. It bears a subtle blessing, luck of a kind you may not understand, but which will reveal its nature in time. Wear the necklace at all times and offer your prayers to the mighty who once graced me. "She" may favor you as "she" did me. Then again, your faith may lie elsewhere—that, too, is your choice.
Should you wish to know who I am, you must grow-physically, mentally, and spiritually. As you gather strenght, meet certain requirements, and delve deeper into the mysteries of this world, fragments of my memories will become yours. Fear not; even if you reclaim every piece of my memory there is to remember, you will still remain as yourself. But take heed: not all memories are kind.
Dear future me, the history tells lies, and I am no more, and so are you. You are the bearer of a legacy that others have sought to bury. I would wish for you to create a peaceful life, one that I never had, maybe even a partner. It is sad, however, even if we both want such luxury, it would appear to be an unreachable goal.
To you who bears this body yet carries a soul unknown to me: I am Solomon, the very Eternal Sovereign of Forgotten History.
I want you to choose a new name for yourself in this age you are reborn in, for the name you once held will pose a threat to your very being in the near future.
I am truly, from the bottom of my heart, so sorry for what you have endured and for what you will yet endure. The burden on you is unfair, and the world is cruel. I wish things could have been different.
When you finish your journey, come and find me. I will be waiting for you at the very end of this corrupted world.
From the depths of my heart,
Solomon."
"Host? 'they', new name…" He talked to himself as he was trying to digest the thing he had just read.