In the morning, when the sun had risen from the horizon, and at a certain forest on a cliff.
Märchen felt the warmness of the sun through the window at which the bed was positioned in a way that let the morning sun shine directly toward his figure.
It was a clever way to wake someone in the morning, especially now that the sun was brighter than usual.
He lifted his eyelids, his vision greeted by the sunlight as he stood up. Dust motes danced in the light, their tiny bodies glimmered as they floated in the air.
Still groggy, Märchen cracked his neck and let out a yawn, covering his mouth as his eyes scanned the rather unfamiliar room. Then, it struck him— the dream, or rather… the nightmare.
From the complete wipeout of his party to the enigmatic yet grand pal—uh, mansion, Märchen ruminated on the events that had transpired. He reflects deeply on his past actions, swearing that he would never make the same mistake again.
To be frank, he was genuinely surprised by how long the nightmare lasted, not to mention that it seemed so drawn out and vivid as though it had truly happened. The torment lingered freshly in his mind, almost as if it had occurred yesterday.
Nonetheless, Märchen didn't bother to dwell on it. After all, he was here now, resting peacefully in bed.
Pulling the corners of his mouth into a satisfied grin, he muttered himself, "What a nightmare. Hmm… I wonder, when did we even lodge at an inn-" Abruptly, he trailed off as he widened his eyes, noticing something was amiss.
Märchen instinctively reached for his throat. If memory served, his voice had always been a little bit husky and soft; a stark contrast to the energetic, deeper voice that now escaped from his lips.
Swallowing hard, he tilted his head down as he stared at his arm that was stroking his throat, noticing that his skin had significantly tanned.
Wha– Instinctively, he threw the thin, woolly blanket away and sprang from the bed, his eyes observing his surroundings.
The room wasn't that large but it was quite spacious. It was furnished with a table paired with a chair, a human-sized bookshelf, a cabinet, and his bed. At the corner near the table and the door sat a large leather bag.
There were two windows at the rear of the room, opposite from the door, casting a soft glare over his bed and the adjacent bookshelf. The windows were transparent and unobstructed, making it too clear to serve as a makeshift mirror.
Shifting his gaze, his eyes reflected the plain yet well-crafted cabinet situated between the two windows. He approached the nice cabinet and pulled the twin handles on it, revealing a neatly arranged set of clothes. Inset at the left rear of the cabinet's opening was a modest mirror.
There, he saw an unfamiliar figure on the surface of the mirror. It was a young man with a tanned complexion, curly raven-black hair, and ocean-deep eyes that seemed to draw one in.
His sharp jawline, high nose bridge, and well-defined cheekbones gave him an air of distinction. Tall and healthy, his frame exudes a strapping, athletic presence. He was undeniably handsome—maybe even resembling a prince from a far-off land of the southern or western hemisphere.
"W-who is this?" Bewildered, Märchen widened his eyes, raising a hand to touch his face, only for a sudden surge of memories crashed to his brain.
With a grunt, he fell on the wooden floor with a hand clutching his right temple, creasing his eyebrows as he narrowed his eyelids. The tides of memories were vivid yet disjointed, rushing through his head like torrential waves.
In the sea of memories, a thought emerged from the flood and drifted toward his focus. Then, Märchen, who recognized the thought, suddenly grasped the truth before him.
It seems that Märchen had transmigrated into the past and now inhabited the body of a renowned historical figure: Keylan.
The thought itself was scarce, however. He only concluded the conjecture because his appearance bore a resemblance to Hero Keylan's younger portraits and statues around certain places, especially from the southeastern lands.
Feeling lightheaded, he stood up and sat on his bed with an unusual ease. Märchen paid no heed to the excellent coordination of his body. Instead, his thoughts turned inwards, drawn toward the resurgence of memories of the Hero Keylan.
Märchen exhaled slowly, taking a few deep, rhythmic breaths to steady himself. After almost 15 seconds, skipping the second step entirely, he guided his thoughts and consciousness with deliberate precision.
This was the final step of the meditation that he learned from Sirce. Once the mind was emptied and had regained its awareness inwardly, it was possible to steer one's very consciousness to what one intended to do.
Märchen skipped the second step since a flood of memories was occupying his mind. By employing the final step, he can directly shift his focus to the flood of memories without the need to divert his awareness into his mind.
Throughout the mental exploration, Märchen "recalled" the Hero Keylan's childhood memory. To say the least, it wasn't that pleasant.
During his childhood, the only worthwhile thing that had transpired was the enigmatic tutor, whose methods of training and adopting a child were anything but kind. Swordsmanship and survival were drilled into the hero's head through relentless discipline with no room for gentleness.
By the time he turned 12, he endured enough to flee, successfully escaping from the tutor's grasp. However, Märchen felt that something was odd with the tutor's behavior, especially how easy it was to escape despite the tightness of the tutor's home.
Märchen didn't linger too long on the grim details of the hero's childhood and instead shifted towards what came after. Most of Keylan's survival in the outside world owed itself to the teachings of that enigmatic tutor.
Along his journey, he crossed paths with a powerful witch who, by chance of fate, saved him from becoming a pack of wyerns' next meal. The witch guided him back to his hometown by the time his 13th birthday came, only to break him so thoroughly that he lost all will to keep living.
With the witch's guidance and strange but emotional sessions, Keylan discovered a new, transformative way to live—to travel around the world, to be known by it, and to dine out freely as a human who embraces both wealth and recognition.
Beyond that, the young Keylan mostly followed the witch out of convenience, and, of course, for protection due to her overwhelming magical prowess—even if he didn't sense it physically or mentally, leaning only at the intuitive side.
But how little did he know, the so-called great witch squandered all of her time and fortune on basically useless stuff: like counterfeit grimoires, impractical tools and artifacts, and all sorts of obscure literary works.
The cherry on top? she was aware. She knew that everything was useless—yet she did it anyway.
Additionally, the witch would often request him to fix her hairstyle, treating more like her maid. She'd sleep too well that could extend into the afternoon, and she would disappear frequently without a warning, let alone Keylan's awareness.
At the very least, the former had him obtain some impressive dexterity; he could weave intricate braid patterns with practical ease.
To cope with the witch's impulsiveness, the young Keylan had to become mentally sharp. He found himself consulting the witch more often to be mindful, especially now she had a companion beside her.
Along the course of their journey, Keylan and the witch kept jumping from one place to the other, earning small achievements in many ways as Keylan grew.
By the time Keylan turned 15, they journeyed south toward the renowned Bergan Kingdom and eventually settled near Rehëten—a prominent country known for its stable industry, prospering economy, and gaining the status as one of the "capital of capitals" around the world.
They build a cozy two-story, cabin-like building on top of the cliff, just outside the country's border, seemingly resting from their 2-year adventure. With the witch's teachings and guidance, Keylan was soon accepted into one of the 4 Grand Scholarly Academies—revered educational institutions across the whole globe—one of which stood proudly near Rehëten.
Currently, Keylan–Märchen has enough time to enjoy a bit of leisure in the forest before attending the grand school. He has about 2 days and 1 night before the Orientation Phase commences at dusk.
As Märchen decided to open his eyes, shifting his focus out of his mind, he couldn't help but let out a hollow chuckle as he grinned grimly and slanted, not out of twisted amusement, but from a bitter taste of defiance and helplessness inside him.
"So…" Märchen murmured, pausing as his gaze fell to the palm of his hand. "The 'nightmare' really did happen. Hehe… I suppose that denying it wasn't an option." His voice trembled with a trace of disbelief.
What he meant is that, since he had transmigrated into the past, the memory that comes before the time he woke up is one of the leads that he can use to know how he got into this mess. Even if he wanted to believe that event didn't happen, he still has to.
Putting the past aside, he crossed his legs on the bed and closed his eyes once more, drawing in deep, steady breaths as he centered his thoughts.
After a couple of seconds, he outlined an apple covering a blazing sun in his flooded head. He then returned his attention to his memories, guiding himself through the tangled stream of memories, from the first, and everything that followed.
He recalled the decision he made; a decision that convinced the whole party to press forward.
He remembered how the Fourth Floor of the Exalted Imperial Dungeon, at first, seemed manageable to them.
He recalled how they encountered an entity. The entity that separated them throughout the floor, like scattering leaves in a storm.
He remembered how each and every one of his companions died before his eyes. He recalled their final words. Their faces. Their life fading.
He recalled how grotesque, how brutal, each dead was.
He remembered his own desperation. His struggle to survive and escape for how many days.
He recalled how he was chased by an entity, and how he barely escaped from its grasp.
Every memory was deeply ingrained in the deepest part of his mind like it had tainted his very own core. Not quite a trauma, but close enough to haunt him until he dies.
Märchen's expression darkened, his meditation teetering on the edge of shattering. As he tried to prevent the meditation from shattering, he recalled what came after.
He remembered how he entered and survived in the grand and lofty mansion, on a lonely, greeny pasture, shrouded in a pale blue mist and surrounded by fields of dreamy, swaying flowers.
He recalled how he court with death, and completely avoided it.
He recalled his forceful, quiet yet startling trek from the doll's demand toward the library… Library…
…
"What?"
"What? Are your ears not functioning as you expected them to be? Or you can not even comprehend such a non-mystical title like mine?" The Lady of Wisdom snided, her tone full of authority with a teasing edge.