The gentle lapping of water and distant creak of ships contrasted sharply with the chaos still echoing in his mind. His thoughts were hazy, fragments of the berserker rage lingering like distant storms, only now subdued.
He flexed his fingers, testing his body, and felt the familiar weight of his "Vallas" persona restored. Calm, precise, collected… yet the memory of losing control still sent chills down his spine.
A figure stood nearby, waiting patiently. The presence was unsettlingly familiar, yet composed. Vallas pushed himself up, the creak of the bench echoing in the quiet docks, and asked cautiously, "Where am I?"
The man's expression brightened as if relieved by the simple question. "Good, you're awake," he said. "Any longer, and I'm afraid it might've been too late for you."
He stepped closer, bowing slightly in a formal but relaxed manner.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am known as the Keeper—or ShopKeeper, if you prefer. I was instructed by Althea to provide an extraction point once you had awakened."
He chuckled softly, his eyes flicking toward the water. "Though… it seems hers didn't go exactly as planned, now did it?"
Vallas' gaze hardened. The memory of the rage, the loss of control over his body, the raw burning fury within his soul, gnawed at him. The thought alone made his skin crawl—it was almost ironic, how powerless he had felt in that state.
"What… happened to me?" he asked, voice low, wary.
The ShopKeeper's expression darkened slightly, the humor fading. "A glimpse of your true potential," he said carefully, "and perhaps a warning of what could happen if you lose yourself again. But don't worry, we'll guide you. For now, rest and recover your strength. You've earned it… and there's much to prepare for."
"Well," the Shopkeeper began, his voice calm but measured, "what you experienced was a rapid surge of deteriorated mana in your body. That foreign mana clashed violently with your own pure mana, causing you to lose control—corruption took hold."
Vallas's eyes narrowed, the memory of that burning rage flickering across his mind.
"If deteriorated mana ever exceeds your pure mana," the ShopKeeper continued, "the corruption dominates. You become… a slave of evil, a vessel for destruction."
A shiver ran down the Archer's spine. His fists clenched. "And if that happens again… what will become of me?"
The ShopKeeper noticed the unease, his expression softening slightly. "Don't worry. I've infused you with a healthy dose of pure mana. You should be stable for a while."
He leaned back, smirking with a hint of mischief. "In other words… I saved your butt."
Vallas' glare softened just a bit, though he couldn't help a small, wry sigh. "You make it sound too easy."
The ShopKeeper simply shrugged, the smirk lingering. "Easy? Hardly. But manageable… for now."
Vallas gave a skeptical look, his blue eyes narrowing. "Don't push your luck."
The Keeper chuckled, a low, confident laugh that carried just the right amount of arrogance.
"You're a funny one. Remember who I am—the one who kicked your ass." He smirked. "Anyways, follow me. I'll explain everything along the way."
The Archer trailed behind the Keeper, ascending a path of cobblestone stairs. The town they entered was unlike anything Vallas had ever seen: serene, quiet, almost ethereal. At its center stood a massive tree, its petals glowing a soft, otherworldly blue. The tree's reflection shimmered in the surrounding lake, creating an almost dreamlike landscape. Near the tree, a colossal glowing orb rested atop a pedestal, casting ambient light across the plaza.
"Where is Althea?" Vallas asked, his voice low but edged with concern.
The Keeper waved a hand casually, though his tone carried a rare note of seriousness.
"Ah, you don't need to worry. I put her to rest in a nearby building. Her injuries are deep, but she should heal fine."
"As you know," the Keeper began, gesturing toward the tree and orb, "an unimaginable power lies in being able to take and control people's memories as if they were your own. A valuable gift, indeed."
He paused, his tone darkening. "However, there is a price. Corruption thrives within you. The more you wield this power, the deeper it sinks into your soul. And like all living consciousness, eventually… it will consume you. You, Althea, I—we could all become nothing more than violent husks, destroying everything in our path, lost to a forsaken world."
The Keeper's gaze shifted back to Vallas, serious and unflinching. "However… We can change our fate. I believe you are the key to what we seek."
He walked closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Long ago, there was a mage known as the Shephard. He understood the origins of this corruption and even theorized a possible cure. Unfortunately for him, he did not live long enough to see his efforts come to fruition. But fortunately… we can use your ability to recreate memories to recover the cure."
The Keeper looked down, troubled, his usual confidence dimming slightly. "The problem is… we have no idea where his body is. He could be buried sixty feet underground… or he could be one of the walking dead."
He extended a hand toward Vallas. "There is only one way for us to get through this together. Will you lend us your help?"
Vallas paused, looking down at the offered hand, his mind racing. He recapped everything: waking as a spirit, meeting a mysterious girl claiming Althea and the apostles served him, getting ambushed by a sinister figure, and, of course, the fight that left him nearly broken. The weight of the past hours pressed down on him, yet the Keeper's words carried a hint of hope, a thread he couldn't ignore.
The Keeper guided Vallas through a winding portal, and in an instant, they were transported to a quaint, secluded town on a remote island. The air was salty, carrying the faint hum of waves against the shore, and the streets were lined with cobblestones that gleamed under the soft sun.
Everything felt strange, almost surreal. For Vallas, it was disorienting and puzzling. He didn't even fully know who he truly was. His consciousness was dominated by the memories and persona of the frost archer, Vallas, and yet, he had the uncanny ability to peer into others' memories.
He paused, gripping the railing of a nearby bridge, and muttered to himself, "Learning myself…"
Perhaps this path, the journey with the Keeper, Althea, and the strange mission ahead—would help him regain the memories he had lost, reveal who he truly was beneath the frost-tinged persona. The goal was clear in his mind: wander, explore, and uncover the truths of this accursed world, to see how this story would end. Or perhaps… it didn't matter. Perhaps it was just Vallas' personality bleeding into him. Either way, he shook off the thought.
Vallas extended his hand, gripping the Keeper's with quiet resolve.
The Keeper's lips curled into a broad smile, his eyes sparkling with approval. "Seems like you've made up your mind. Great!"
For the first time in what felt like ages, a thread of certainty threaded through Vallas' mind, a direction in the chaos—a step forward into the unknown.
The Keeper cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the hush beneath the Willow's glow. "Now then—let me give you a quick brief." He leaned forward, fingers steepled. "We believe the capital, Heart of Atlas, holds the information we need about the Shepherd. But we can't reach it from here; first we must cross into Riuaya, an outskirt city that guards the approaches." He made a small, bloody gesture across his throat, as if illustrating the finality of the plan. "There, at the center, sits the city's boss. He will have to be removed."
Vallas asked, voice rough around the edges. "When will we be going?"
The Keeper smirked, an expression that never quite reached his eyes. "Tomorrow." He swept a hand toward a thin column of light where a glassy orb hovered, suspended like a captive moon. The orb pulsed faintly, veins of cool blue running beneath its surface; when the Keeper tapped it, the tone that sang out was low and bell-like,
"That," he said, "is an anchor. We will be using that to get into Riuaya," He tilted his head, watching Vallas absorb the word. "Anchors lock a place on the map. Step into the beam while it's keyed, and it will carry us there." He moved closer, the light from the orb painting his features in shifting bands. "They aren't toys," he added quietly. "Anchors take energy to set, so rest up while you still can. Gather your thoughts and be ready for tomorrow."
The Keeper had told him to rest at the nearby inn, his room placed conveniently beside Althea's. As Vallas walked through the empty streets, he couldn't help but wonder how a place so beautiful could feel so abandoned. The cobblestones were smooth and clean, the buildings well-kept, yet there was nothing—no chatter of humans, no sound of animals, not even the faint rustle of life. Only silence, heavy and unnatural.
Above, the moon glistened like a silver coin suspended in the heavens. He lifted his gaze to it for a brief moment, its glow painting the rooftops in pale light, before lowering his eyes and pressing onward.
His thoughts wandered back to Althea. Who was she really? Her presence unsettled him in ways he couldn't describe. Standing before her door, his hand hovered inches from knocking, but hesitation struck him. She had been injured badly, torn down by that mysterious cloaked figure. She needed rest, not his questions. With a quiet sigh, he lowered his hand and turned to the room beside hers.
Inside, the silence of the inn felt even more suffocating. He closed the door gently, setting his bow against the wall before sinking onto the bed. Another sigh slipped out. Though frost coursed naturally through his veins, he felt cold in a way that went beyond magic. This wasn't the crisp chill of winter—it was an emptiness lodged deep in his soul, a frozen hollowness that refused to thaw.
He stared at his hands in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. These hands carried scars, faint reminders of battles past. Yet whose memories were they tied to? His own, or the fragments left behind by "Vallas," the frost archer whose body he now carried? The pieces tangled together, leaving him uncertain where one ended and the other began.
Slowly, he removed the quiver from his back and set it carefully beside the bed. The trench coat slid from his shoulders next, its weight leaving him strangely vulnerable. Finally, he unwound the scarf from his neck, pausing as his fingers brushed against the fabric. It was uncanny so much like Althea's. That resemblance left an ache in his chest, though he couldn't explain why.
Left only in his undershirt and trench pants, he leaned back against the bedframe, staring at the ceiling. The stillness pressed in, but rest refused to come. The more he tried to close his eyes, the more he felt the icy weight within him, like something buried, waiting to surface.
He laid in bed for what must have been an hour, staring at the ceiling, shifting his weight, and adjusting the sheets. No matter how he turned, the comfort of the mattress only made him feel more restless. It was too soft, too safe. Something about it gnawed at him it didn't feel right. Beds were for people who belonged somewhere, people who had homes to return to. He wasn't sure he had either.
With a quiet breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, the faint moonlight slipping through the window pulling his eyes upward. Beyond the glass, high above the island, stood the enormous tree. Its towering branches reached across the night sky like a guardian, its roots spreading deep into the land. Just looking at it stirred something in him, a pull he couldn't quite name.
He rose, gathering only himself, leaving his gear behind. Passing Althea's room, he slowed for a heartbeat, listening to the silence beyond the door. She was still recovering, still breathing. That was enough. He moved on.
The night air greeted him cool and fresh, far more comforting than the stuffy stillness of the inn. His steps carried him to the tree, and soon he stood before its vast trunk, a wall of age and strength. For a moment, he simply looked at it, then lowered himself to the grass at its base. He leaned back, resting his shoulders against the rough bark, his bow laid across his chest as if he were holding onto something dear.
"Much better," he murmured, almost to himself.
It was strange that he preferred the cold hardness of the earth to the warmth of a bed. The bite of the grass beneath him, the whisper of the wind through the branches… This felt familiar. This felt right. If Vallas had ever known a home, perhaps it had been something like this under the open sky, guarded only by his weapon and the quiet presence of the world around him.
Slowly, his eyes grew heavier. The night deepened, stars blinking faintly above. He drifted off in silence, carrying with him only fragments of memories not his own, echoes of the frost archer named Vallas, pieces of a life that both belonged to him and didn't.