The crack of a rifle. Dry air. Dust in his throat.
He blinked against the sun, a searing white that bled across the horizon like a wound. He was lying prone, high on some godforsaken ridge, his heartbeat syncing with the slow, patient rhythm of his breath. The sniper rifle pressed firm into his shoulder, its cold metal steady, familiar.
One target, fifty meters. Civilian clothes. Tall. Holding something.
"Confirm visual," a voice rasped through his earpiece—Johnson, his spotter.
"I see him," he replied, though the words felt like they echoed from some other life, some hollowed-out part of him.
The figure downrange shifted slightly. Was it a weapon? A phone? A decoy?
He adjusted the scope. Time stretched. Slowed.
His finger hovered.
A child's voice echoed suddenly—laughter, high and sharp. He blinked. The figure downrange blurred, then snapped into focus. It was a child now. No—it wasn't. He couldn't tell. The shape kept shifting.
"Take the shot," Johnson said again.
But he hesitated.
The ridge disappeared beneath him. He was falling now—no sound, no air, just weightless dread. The sky twisted. Colors bled together. His rifle vanished. His hands were soaked—red, thick, and warm.
He was back in the alley. Gunfire. Screams. Bodies.
And then… silence.
he stood in a field. The wolves from before, bloodied and lifeless, surrounded him. But when he looked down, his rifle was in his hands again.
He looked through the scope.
A mirror stared back.
His own amber eyes, wide and hollow.
A shot rang out.
Kain jolted awake in the dark, breath ragged, sweat slicking his brow. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked around the small room, disoriented. The moonlight through the window reminded him—he wasn't in the field, or on Earth anymore.
He was Kain now. And this world didn't need snipers.
Only survivors.
***
Kain sat up slowly, the morning light just beginning to bleed through the thin curtains of his room. His breath was uneven, the remnants of the dream still clawing at his mind. He rubbed his hands over his face, pausing when his fingers traced the scar again—this one was real, at least.
The air in the room was cold, still. Too quiet.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes staring at the wooden floor beneath his bare feet.
That dream…
It had felt too vivid to be just a dream. The dust, the glare of the sun, the weight of the rifle—it was all too familiar. Too close. The kind of memory that didn't fade with time, only got buried under other ones.
He clenched his jaw.
"I still remember the weight of the trigger," he muttered to himself, bitterly.
In his dream, he'd been a soldier again. A sniper. That life was supposed to be over. But the muscle memory, the instincts… they hadn't disappeared. They'd just been transferred into someone else's body. Kain's body.
His amber eyes glanced toward the mirror again, catching his reflection in the dim light.
"You're not him," he whispered.
But he didn't know who he was either—not yet.
He stood up, the wooden floor creaking underfoot, and moved to the window. The town of Desmain was slowly coming to life. Merchants setting up their stalls. Farmers heading toward the fields. A new day in a new world.
Still, the dream lingered—less like a nightmare, more like a reminder.
No matter how far he ran, parts of him hadn't left Earth at all.
Kain stood up, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his weight. He stepped over to the chest at the foot of the bed and knelt to open it.
He pulled out a pair of dark, worn trousers and slipped them on, then fastened his belt—aged brown leather with a silver buckle scratched by time and travel. Next came his black tunic, long-sleeved and snug around his muscular frame. It clung to him like a second skin, well-worn but sturdy.
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Kain grabbed his boots and slid them on over his socks, securing each buckle tightly around the lower part of his shins. He stood and reached for the armor he'd left piled on the floor the night before. Piece by piece, he strapped on the breastplate, shoulder guards, and gauntlets, adjusting them until they sat flush against his body.
He picked up his sword, still resting in its sheath, and slung the strap diagonally across his torso so the hilt jutted up just over his right shoulder—easily within reach.
Finally, he retrieved the last item from the chest: a long black scarf. He wrapped it loosely around his neck so that it covered the lower half of his face. The two ends hung down his back, draped over the sheath like twin shadows.
Kain packed the remainder of his belongings into his satchel and clipped it to his hip. He took one last look around the small, quiet room.
Without another thought, he wrapped his hand around the doorknob and stepped outside, leaving the inn—and the last trace of comfort—behind him.
Kain stepped out into the early morning chill, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he made his way along the narrow path leading back to the main building of the inn. The sky was still a pale blue, caught between the final moments of dawn and the first breath of morning. A faint mist hovered over the ground, curling around the bases of trees like ghostly fingers.
He reached the back door of the inn and slipped inside. The scent of burnt wood and stale pipe smoke still lingered in the air. The common room was nearly empty—only one or two early risers huddled over mugs of something hot, murmuring softly to each other.
Behind the bar stood the same bartender from the night before, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. He looked up as Kain approached, his expression unreadable but clearly recognizing him.
Kain reached into his pocket and pulled out the old rusted key. He set it gently on the counter.
"I'm done with the room," he said, voice low but firm.
The bartender paused, eyes flicking from the key to Kain's face. He nodded slowly, setting the cloth aside.
"Leaving so soon?"
Kain gave a faint shrug. "Got things to take care of."
The bartender picked up the key and slid it into a small box behind the counter. "
Kain adjusted the strap of his satchel as he turned to leave, but the bartender's voice stopped him.
"You sure you don't want to stay a little longer?" the man asked, leaning an elbow on the counter. "You look like someone who's still got ghosts crawling behind his eyes."
Kain paused, his hand resting on the doorframe. "Ghosts don't go away just because you stay still. They just catch up faster."
The bartender gave a slow nod, watching him with a tired gaze. "You headin' to Malika, then?"
Kain glanced over his shoulder. "Eventually. But I've got a few stops first."
The bartender scratched at his beard, then nodded once more. "If you make it through whatever you're heading into… try not to come back with more ghosts."
A faint smirk tugged at Kain's lips. "No promises."
With that, he stepped through the door, the early morning sun washing over him as he walked down the street—leaving Desmain behind. The town slowly disappeared behind the trees, swallowed by the forest ahead.
Kain's boots crunched against the dirt path as he left Desmain behind. The cool morning air clung to his skin, and the scent of damp earth and pine drifted from the surrounding forest. As he walked, he slowed his pace, letting his thoughts unravel.
'Alright… if I'm gonna make sense of this world, I need to figure out where I stand.'
He reached into the back of his mind, pulling at the tangled web of memories—some his own, others inherited from the Kain of this world. Flashes came like bursts of static in his brain: maps, faces, names, all scattered and half-formed.
A river town called Velinford came to mind first. Small but well-connected. It sat on a trade route that crossed several territories. He remembered hunting wyverns in the cliffs just north of it. The inn there had good ale. Reliable work. But too close to Malikan influence—dangerous, if any word of his survival had spread.
Then there was Myreheart, a fog-drenched settlement deep in the forested east. Not many soldiers wandered that far. Too many old ruins, too many legends about cursed spirits and forgotten beasts. Kain remembered a job gone wrong there. Something about a burial site and whispers in the trees. The pay was high, but so were the stakes.
Lastly, Rovalt, a fortified mining town in the northern highlands. Tough people, tougher work. Kain had never been there personally, but the old Kain had always meant to visit—rumors of a mage who could read the flow of magic like others read books. If anyone could explain what was happening to him—his abilities, the fusion of souls—it might be there.
He stopped walking and looked up toward the faint light spilling through the canopy.
'Velinford is the safest bet. Work, gold, and food. But if I want answers… Rovalt's my best shot.'
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the quiet around him—the hush of wind through branches, the occasional chirp of a bird far off.
Decision made.
He opened his eyes, expression steady.
"I'm going north."
Kain moved through the underbrush, the dirt road from Desmain now behind him. As he walked, he dug deeper into his inherited memories—fragments and echoes that slowly pieced themselves together like an old map re-forming in his mind.
Rovalt.
Northwest. Past the Grenheart woods. Through the Iron Creek crossing. Then up the lowland ridges into the high country. It would take about a week on foot, maybe less if the weather held and the roads stayed clear of bandits or beasts.
Kain adjusted the strap of his satchel and checked his sword at his back. Everything was secure. He inhaled slowly and started moving northwest, letting the sun guide him.
The forest around him began to thin, the trees spreading farther apart as he entered the edge of the Grenheart woods. The shadows were longer here, stretching like fingers across the dirt and moss. Birds occasionally chirped from the branches above, and in the distance he heard the soft rustle of something small moving through the brush—likely a hare or fox.
Despite the stillness, Kain's steps were purposeful. His body moved like a man used to marching long distances, even if his mind still flickered with tension.
'I've got time. A week to think. A week to plan.'
As twilight began to settle in, casting the forest in shades of blue and gray, Kain found a clearing beside a shallow stream. He knelt beside it, splashing cold water onto his face, then drank deeply from his cupped hands.
After a quick meal of dried meat and a heel of bread from his satchel, he gathered some fallen branches, set up a small campfire, and settled in for the night.
The flames crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the trees. Kain sat with his back against a thick oak, scarf still around his neck, sword resting beside him.
His eyes drifted to the stars above.
'Rovalt... let's hope you're worth the walk.'