Sullivan strolled through his new office, the scent of old wood hung in the air as his hand traced the runes carved into the wall—powerful, unforgiving. He was reminded of his childhood, the moment his path was sealed shut.
Was he ever really alive? Did he ever really get to choose?
It matters not, what reason he became the way he is.
Only now, what he chooses to do with it.
His gaze dropped to the floor—to the dying man that had shaped him. The architect of his ascension—gasping for breath. His blood spilled like ink across the oaken floor. A trembling hand clutched at his throat, gurgling out an answer he would never hear.
The old man reached out to him, gurgling out a noise.
Sullivan knelt by his side. "Father, You may rest now, your mission is complete."
His father's eyes widened, clouded with confusion.
Sullivan noticed it and furrowed his brows. "Is this not what you trained me for? The reason I was born?" His hand snaked towards his throat. "To become the heir you always wanted. One capable of inheriting your legacy of blood and control?"
His hand settled on his throat. "I have become you."
Sullivan gripped his fingers, feeling the throat crumple, "A better you."
Father grabbed his hand, the once powerful arm that had struck him, trembling beneath his grip.
Sullivan whispered in his ear. "Accept your death with resolve."
His father gurgled, raising a trembling hand against him before slashing at his face in desperation.
Blood streaked across his eyes. Sullivan's lip curled in disgust. "A blood spell? Is that how you wish to die? How you want your last act to be? One of desperation?"
Sullivan stared at him with disgust, "I see, you were incapable of living the life you said you did."
With his words, the blood glowed. A magic circle bloomed beneath his feet. Runes glowing white as the air rushed inward as the mana levels rose around him.
Then there was silence, a silence before thunder.
Before the world shattered, hands bursting from a wound across reality.
Grasping, grabbing at his limbs dragging him into an unknown fate.
His father's eyes locked with his, a thousand words with no way to speak it.
The portal widened as more hands grabbed him, gripping his throat as it screamed against creation. Sullivan stood his ground, unfazed. "You wish to take me down with you? Even at the cost of your soul?"
The old man's gaze turned away, afraid to see his fate, afraid to see his creation.
The hands multiplied, gripping him with force beyond, even his control.
"How unsightly." Sullivan whispered as he vanished.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
Then—nothing.
He felt weightless.
He felt immaterial.
Nonexistent, all the memories, burdens thrown to the void.
And he allowed it, if this is what is to be of men like him.
Then it must be so.
Breath. He gasped.
Air rushed into his lungs as he awoke.
His fingers curled into a fistful of mud and blood.
It was always those he woke up to.
He stood up steadily, confused and concussed.
His limbs ached with familiar weakness, his magic passable.
And yet a mere drop of what it once was.
He scanned the unfamiliar scenery. Weapons and blood littered the ground with the scent of burning flesh curling into his nostrils like an old friend. The scars of magic scattered throughout the battlefield as his eyes flickered to the banners of lords, fluttering with the setting sun.
With a body that was not his.
In a time where nobility exists.
And a world where magic is used so freely.
Can only mean he had found himself in another world.
How…vexing.
"Halt! Who goes there!?" A shout cracked against the silence of the battlefield.
Sullivan turned slowly, mud drying from his hand as blood dripped from his clothes.
Coming face to face with half a dozen knights, swords drawn, eyes narrowed.
And with no magic to speak of, no reputation to use.
All he could do was smile, the kind of smile that has left people at ease.
The kind that made him look unimpressive, less of a threat.
Sullivan waved, "Good evening."
"State your name." One asked as he went down his horse.
"Uhhh… I can't remember…sir knight." He rubbed the back of his head.
The man narrowed his eyes as stood before him, a head taller, sword sheathed. "I see."
His eyes settled on the knight's chest.
A stone embedded in his armor, the same stone glowing at the sword's hilt.
Mana. It was familiar, but different and yet works all the same.
His thoughts were interrupted as the knight seized Sullivan's collar.
Fingers brushed past the dried blood and crusted mud—then paused, eyes narrowing. With one rough motion, he wiped the fabric clean... and froze.
"The Symbol of House Everine." The knight muttered in shock, before shock turned to rage.
Everine? It was clear that from the anger on the man's face—he was an enemy.
"What does 'Everine' mean?" He asked, confusion written all over his face.
"The only person that has the name Everine could only be Prince Lucien."
Lucien Everine is the name of this body.
A noble, a good asset, that means he wouldn't be killed anytime soon.
The knight grabbed his throat.
Sullivan felt the hand squeeze the air out of him.
He allowed panic to bleed over his face. Hand shaking as he raised his pitch, "Wait!—Wait!"
"Let him go," Another offered, pushing the hand aside, granting him reprieve.
"We can't kill him, you know what the rules are." The voice spoke, commanding.
"Then, I'm just supposed to let this bastard go?"
"Tie him up, his majesty will have better use of him than dead."
The man scoffed as he threw Sullivan against the mud, face slamming against the dirt.
And there it was. A knife with a faintly glowing stone set in its hilt.
As if planted, creating for him an opportunity.
How convenient.
Sullivan's gaze flickered to the other man, a comely smile, a somber expression.
Most importantly, they all looked to him for instruction. A Leader.
He offered his hand as Sullivan seemingly hesitated with a relieved smile. "Thank you."
Then he struck.
The knife flared—mana roaring into flame.
It punched through armor, burned through the barrier.
In one clean, practiced arc.
The man's head fell. One.
The First Knight roared.
Sullivan's knife flashed through the air.
Buried it deep in his throat.
The man staggered, choking.
Sullivan unsheathed the fallen leader's sword.
Fire surged free along the blade.
Before slashing it in a sweeping arc.
The flames leaped at the four's direction, the horses neighing in panic, uncontrollable.
The First knight ripped the knife of his throat, blood pouring.
The wound glowed as his armor pulsed.
Flesh stitching itself together.
Sullivan charged to meet him.
The man raised his arm, fire running across his sword as he slashed down.
Flames raged towards Sullivan.
But Sullivan charged in regardless.
He leapt through the flames, skin blistering, clothes alight.
Eyes locked on his opponent.
The knight hesitates and that was all he needed.
And with a clean arc, his head flew. Two.
Sullivan charged the four who struggled to steady their mounts.
He seized the knife and threw it.
It sank into another knight's throat, giving the horse a moment to throw him off.
Skull smashing against a stone. Three
Then without losing momentum.
He weaved between the hooves.
Slashed at their mounts, as they fell on their knights.
Dodging their disoriented strikes amid chaotic flames.
Before their horse gave way, crumpling down with them.
Both dying beneath their mounts. Four, Five.
And as the flames flickered slowly.
The smoke cleared.
Sullivan stood before the last one.
Covered in blood.
Sword in hand.
Bloody. Burnt. Unbroken.
He stabbed the sword at the ground. "What do you wish to do?"
The knight stared, his comrades laid before the man in front of him
And like his life before, those that had witnessed his might.
They all turned and ran.
Sullivan walked slowly to the spear in front of him, one of many littering the ground.
He wrenched it free and hurled it.
Spear whistling through the air before piercing through his throat. Six.
He stood there, alone in the setting sun, heaving.
A small flutter echoed behind him. The soft beat of wings made him turn.
A crow settled upon a spear, the knife in its beak as Sullivan stared.
Noticing Its black feathers doused in red ink.
As its crimson eyes stared in discernment.
And as the urge to run sets in.
He knew this was no crow, no creature he can contest with.
And like he had before like those before it he bowed.
"I am immensely grateful for this intervention. O great one."
The crow opened his beak, a million voices melded into one asked.
"Who are you?"