Miguel dreamed of a drowned forest, endless and ancient. Towering trees, each at least a hundred meters tall, rose from beneath dark waters, their trunks vanishing into the depths like half-forgotten gods. But in the distance—far beyond the drowned horizon—stood one tree that dwarfed the rest. It was monstrous in scale, easily ten kilometers tall and five across at the base. Its vast branches stretched in every direction like a canopy trying to cage the sky itself. Its greenish-black leaves blotted out the sun, casting a deep shadow over much of the forest.
Time moved backward.
Water rose from the earth, flowing in reverse, defying gravity, and returning to the clouds. The submerged forest slowly dried. Trees rejuvenated, bark healing, leaves regrowing. Sunlight, dim and off-color, crept across the land—rising in the west and setting in the east—as if the world had flipped its script. Hundreds of years passed in reverse at a pace that defied reason.
Then, without warning, time snapped back into place. The forest stilled.
A voice—not human, not even close—rattled through Miguel's mind like a cracked bell.
[Aspirant. Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your first trial.]
The voice was sharp, rude even. Miguel blinked. "Yeah, not like I had anything else to do," he muttered dryly. His sarcasm wasn't for anyone but himself.
The dream now had weight. Miguel found himself standing on solid ground—muddy but firm. He was dressed in plain leather armor, rough and utilitarian. Nothing special. At his side was a long odachi, the sheathed blade tied tightly to his waist. He reached down, gripped the hilt, then looked around the alien forest.
"Where the hell am I?" he asked the silence.
No answer came. Only the quiet rustle of leaves and the echo of time misplaced.
Thinking quickly, he focused his thoughts on the words that made sense in games and stories: Status, Information, Myself.
In response, glowing runes shimmered in the air before him. He didn't know the alphabet, but the meanings arrived in his mind as clear as spoken language.
Name: Miguel
True Name: —
Rank: Aspirant
Soul Core: Dormant
Memories: —
Echoes: —
Aspect: [No one]
Aspect Description:
You have nothing to live for, and nothing to die for. Your existence is meaningless. No one cares.
Miguel blinked. "Damn," he said, flatly. "That's... grim."
He scrolled down, checking his attributes.
[Fated]
The strings of fate are tightly wound around you. Miracles and disasters follow in your shadow. Some are blessed. Others cursed. You... are both.
[Demonic Physiology]
Your body is demonic in nature. You absorb soul fragments from what you kill—corrupted or not. You see through shadows and pure darkness.
[Mark of Divinity]
There is a faint scent of godhood upon you. Long ago, something divine brushed your soul.
[Sparda's Kin]
You are blood of Sparda, the outworldly warrior. His power echoes in you.
[Sword Saint]
You are a master of the blade. Swordplay is not skill to you—it is instinct.
He nearly choked when he read through them. "What the hell? These are actually cracked," he whispered, a small grin slipping onto his face. "Except maybe that divinity thing—no clue what that's supposed to do."
Before he could dig deeper, a low growl rumbled through the trees.
Miguel froze. His body went cold as the sound settled into his bones. He turned, eyes scanning the dense underbrush, until he saw it.
It looked like a tiger—if a tiger had been juiced with steroids and hatred. Its body was massive, nearly five meters long and over two high. Its striped fur shimmered with an unnatural sheen. Its claws clicked against the earth, and its jaws opened just enough to show teeth large enough to crush a skull like a grape.
Miguel swallowed hard.
He knew—knew—he couldn't outrun it. Couldn't overpower it. Probably couldn't even hurt it.
But he could try.
His hand shot to his sword. In one smooth motion, he drew the odachi. The weight felt... right. Like it belonged in his hands, like he'd held it in battle a thousand times before.
The beast roared.
Miguel flinched. The sound shattered his eardrums. Blood ran from his ears, warm and sticky, and a high-pitched whine drowned out everything else. He stumbled but didn't fall.
The tiger charged.
Instinct took over. He stepped back just in time and brought the odachi up in a clean arc, aiming for the creature's face. Steel met fang—sparks flew—and the blade slid along the beast's maw, carving a shallow line through flesh and gum.
The monster hissed and backed off, more pissed than hurt.
Miguel tightened his grip, forcing his knees to hold.
The tiger lunged again, this time faster.
He met it head-on.
The blade and the beast collided, claws scraping against metal, but this time Miguel didn't hesitate. He leaned in with his whole body, twisted his stance, and struck low in a fluid, cutting arc.
The odachi sang.
The beast's front leg split open with a sharp crack. It howled in rage—but it was off balance.
Miguel didn't give it the chance to recover. With a burst of movement, he stepped in and drove the sword upward through its skull.
The beast dropped like a stone. Dead before it hit the ground.
[You have slain an Awakened Beast: Dread Tiger]
[You have received a Memory: Killing Spree]
Miguel exhaled and nearly collapsed. His ears still rang, but his arms didn't shake. He'd won. Somehow.
He looked up at the shimmering notification.
"Lucky... my first memory," he muttered, then opened the new window to inspect it.
Memory: Killing Spree
Memory Rank: Awakened
Type: Weapon
Description:
Once, there was a hunter who killed everything in his path—ants, elephants, men, monsters. Until one day, he met someone with nothing left. That someone refused to die. Not unless the one who came to kill him was worthy. The hunter wasn't. And he died for it.
Miguel narrowed his eyes. "That's... oddly poetic."
He slid the memory into his sword, feeling the surge of strength settle into the weapon.
"Screw it," he said to himself, sheathing the blade. "Let's finish this damn trial already."
With no clear path but one obvious goal, he turned toward the colossal tree looming in the distance—the heart of the forest—and started walking.