Sylas sat on a bed that creaked more than it comforted. The room smelled like mildew, regret, and maybe even rats, judging by the scratching in the walls. His mind, tired and running on nothing but leftover spite, tried to figure out where the universe had dropped him.
It didn't take long for the name of this remote village to surface in his mind.
Duskwick.
A quiet village nestled at the edge of a dense, fog-laden forest known as the Whispering Hollow.
It lay near the border between the Kingdom of Shenzara and the unclaimed wildlands. The people here were reclusive, steeped in superstition.
"This place practically screams poverty," he muttered to no one but the mold on the walls. "If the fog doesn't kill you, the prices will."
His eyes drifted to a letter, sitting on the rickety table beside the bed.
"Mother, huh…" he murmured, leaning back with a slow, weary sigh.
The word brought back a memory from his past life: standing in a warm kitchen, small hands helping his mother cook, their laughter filling the air as the smell of food surrounded them.
Funny how the brain clings to the soft things, even when you beg it not to.
He took the letter and unfolded it with steady hands. His eyes settled on a single name.
Evan
He stared at it in silence. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes, shards of memories not his own flickering behind his eyelids, like scenes from a life he'd never lived.
"Tch." Sylas scoffed, reopening his eyes. "My predecessor sure was a sentimental fool."
Evan Mortis, my little stepbrother. The surprise no one asked for... yet somehow, everyone adored him. Even those who once swore they loved me.
Alright, no more stalling. Let's unravel this mess.
Evan was born of Ruo Ziyun, third wife of Sylas's father. Once the jewel of the fallen Ruo clan, a cultivation family that fallen into ruin.
When their power crumbled, they did what desperate clans often do, they traded away their daughters.
Ziyun, the most beautiful, was offered like a fruit basket to a starving wolf—the king who mistook his hunger for love.
It's always the beautiful ones they ruin first.
Sylas sighed, his chin resting in his palm, his gaze distant and cold.
I remember a girl like that. Lived just down the hall back in my old life. Her laughter used to dance through the walls.
Then one day, it didn't.
My mother looked me in the eyes and said, "Some women don't get to choose."
I didn't understand back then.
But this world had a way of teaching you things—slowly, cruelly, and without asking.
His thoughts drifted, carried by the silence of the room. There were always more pressing things to remember.
"The Kingdom of Shenzara," he murmured, as if saying the name might make sense.
The kingdom was divided between two dominant powers—
The noble houses, who wielded mana drawn from their very souls, and the ancient cultivation sects, who channeled qi from the heavens and earth. Though their powers stemmed from different sources, they maintained a fragile alliance.
Both factions held seats on the Kingdom Council.
"Just like a bad wuxia crossover," he muttered under his breath, sliding the letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
And Evan, his dear little brother had awakened the holy power of Eluria, the Light Goddess worshiped throughout the land.
The moment it happened, the king and his council didn't hesitate. In the blink of an eye, they stripped Sylas of his title and crowned Evan as the new heir.
The original Sylas, poor bastard, didn't take it well. Threw a tantrum in the throne room. Begged, screamed, threatened. Of course that didn't work out for him.
So, in a fit of desperation and pride, he did what all fools drunk on entitlement do—he plotted. Gathered a handful of bitter nobles, threw coin at mercenaries, and set a plan in motion to poison the golden boy.
But of course, everything fell apart fast. His "allies" turned on him before the ink dried. The golden boy survived. And Sylas was branded a traitor. Exiled.
"And now here I am, babysitting the legacy of a moron who poisoned his career with actual poison."
He exhaled, long and loud through his nose. "Fantastic. From heir to exile in ten treacherous steps. What a headache."
He rose to his feet and walked over to the crooked window, the warped frame creaked under his touch.
Outside, the view greeted him like a painter's cruel joke—a fog-laden forest with only a sliver of sunlight, rotting fence posts jutting from the earth like broken teeth.
"Charming," he muttered. "If you're fond of plagues and quiet despair."
With a flick of his fingers, he straightened his collar.
"Time for a stroll, perhaps... or to find a few fools in need of salvation."
~~~~~~
The muddy paths of Duskwick squelched beneath his boots, each step sinking slightly into the wet earth.
The village smelled of mildew, smoked fish, and unease. From behind cracked windows and open doors, villagers peered out, whispering behind gnarled fingers. Outsiders were rare in Duskwick and nobility, even disgraced ones, were rarer still.
Sylas walked calmly, head held high, each step deliberately placed. He caught fragments of quiet whispers, fleeting glances, and the subtle shift of curtains. The fog curled around him like a creature sniffing out his scent.
The villagers feared the forest.
Children were pulled back when they neared its edge. Elders spat prayers into the wind. They called it Whispering Hollow—a place said to hum with voices when the night grew still enough. Some believed it was cursed. A place where the dead still listened… or spoke.
Lately, people or rather, children... had been disappearing.
Which made Sylas all the more curious.
He strolled further into the village, passing a tavern tucked between an apothecary and a chapel, where villagers whispered over drinks and an old man sold charms carved from yellowed bone.
Eventually, Sylas found himself at a small market. Old stalls and uneven tables filled the square.
A few sellers called out, selling vegetables and dried meats. One old woman sold hard candies from a chipped glass jar. Children ran past holding wooden toys carved to resemble beasts and birds.
Then, between a fish seller and a sweaty blacksmith shop, he spotted a small stall made of mismatched cloth, like a patchwork tent.
He was already walking past, until a tug at his coat broke the silence.
A boy, no older than ten, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Brother, brother, could you buy something from that stall?" he asked, a half melted candy sticking to his small fingers.
Sylas stared at him, motionless.
For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes. It wasn't pity or warmth. It was colder, quieter, almost like recognition, hidden deep under years of pretending.
A boy. Alone. Reaching out.
A faint memory.
Then it disappeared. His face became calm, controlled, and unreadable again.
Then, with a faint smile and a low chuckle that barely touched his eyes. He ruffled the boy's hair absently, already turning—but then paused.
That stall… it did look out of place.
A tug of curiosity or maybe boredom pulled him back, and just like that, he strolled toward the mismatched tent, as if it had always been his destination.
Inside the stall were scrolls, dusty trinkets, and a worn-out book.
The shopkeeper was a lean, wiry man with a crooked smile and eyes like polished coal looking up with interest as Sylas entered.
"Ah, good eye, sir. That one's special... Rank 1 cultivation manual," he said with an easy grin, voice smooth as silk.
"You won't find anything like it around here. Fifty gold coins, a real bargain."
Sylas crouched in front of the manual, brushing off a film of dust with deliberate slowness. His touch was almost affectionate. The cover was worn, the ink faded, but the title remained.
Silent Pulse Vein-Threading Scripture
He repeated the name under his breath, voice laced with the faintest awe. "A core manual…"
Then he looked up, and whatever warmth had been in his tone was gone. His gaze pierced through the shopkeeper.