He stepped through the door.
The first thing that greeted him was darkness — thick, damp, suffocating. Yet somewhere in that abyss, faint lights flickered. Small torches clung to the walls like desperate stars, their flames breathing slow, golden light into the black. Shadows crawled along the stones, alive in their own quiet way.
Avin squinted. "They’re lit?" he murmured. "That means... someone’s here."
The words echoed softly, bouncing off unseen corners. His boots tapped against the cold stone floor — tap... tap... tap — the sound oddly lonely in the cavernous silence.
Then, faintly, came another noise.
Metal striking metal.
He froze. The sound rang through the hall like a heartbeat. Steady. Unhurried.
He turned toward it, as slowly as he could.
As he walked, the noise grew louder — clang, clang, clang — each strike sending tremors through the narrow space. The closer he came, the more the darkness began to peel away, as though pulled back by invisible hands.
After what felt like minutes of walking, another door appeared before him.
This one was nothing like the last. Its surface was carved with intricate sculptures — figures holding different weapons, frozen mid-battle, their faces half-worn by age but still carrying an intensity that made the air feel heavier.
Avin hesitated. Every instinct told him to stop. This entire place reeked of omen. But curiosity — that damned, magnetic pull — whispered louder.
He reached for the handle.
The door opened on its own, slow and creaking, as if it had been waiting for him.
The next room was bathed in flickering orange light. Sparks leapt into the air like fireflies, rising and dying in seconds. The smell of burning metal and ash filled his lungs.
He moved closer, eyes narrowing against the light.
And then, between the flashes of sparks, he saw a figure.
Bent low over an anvil, hammer raised high, striking metal again and again with deliberate rhythm.
Avin stopped several feet away. His voice caught in his throat. "Is that... a child?" he whispered.
The figure’s silhouette was scrawny, barely reaching Avin’s chest in height. Each movement seemed both frail and impossibly precise — the hammer rose in thin hands, then fell with power that no child should have possessed. Every strike sent waves of heat through the room, the light flaring in time with the impact.
The metallic song filled the chamber, drowning out every other sound.
Avin swallowed. His throat was dry. He wanted to speak, to call out, but his voice cracked uselessly. "H-Hey—"
The hammer froze mid-swing.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then the figure turned.
The face that met him was young — no more than fourteen, maybe even less. Skin pale like untouched paper, hair white as snow that had never melted. His eyes... were the strangest of all. Grey — so light they seemed silver, yet glassy, almost blind.
The boy’s lips curved faintly. "I was waiting for you."
Avin blinked, startled. "Me?"
The boy gestured with his chin to his right. "Take a seat." Orıginal content can be found at 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝕟𝕖𝕥
Avin turned — and nearly stumbled.
A stool had appeared beside him. It hadn’t been there before.
He hesitated. The logical part of him screamed not to move, not to trust this eerie child who spoke like he had been expecting him. But deep inside, something else whispered — a strange warmth, a quiet familiarity that made him feel safe.
It was like meeting an old friend whose name you couldn’t recall.
So he stepped forward and sat down, exhaling shakily.
The boy said nothing more. He simply turned back to his work.
The hammer struck again, sparks bursting in rhythm.
The sound filled the silence between them — not uncomfortable, but heavy with something unspoken.
Avin couldn’t take it anymore. "So..." he began softly, "who are you?"
The hammer stopped mid-air.
The boy chuckled quietly. "This is not about me, Clive. It’s about you... and who you’ve become."
Avin froze. The name hit him like a blade through the chest. "You—"
"Know your name?" the boy finished smoothly, still not looking at him. "Yes."
He resumed hammering, each strike echoing the pounding of Avin’s pulse.
Avin’s mouth went dry. "But... how? How do you know that name?"
"I’ve known you for quite a while," the boy said casually. "Why would I not know your name?"
Avin’s brows knitted. "You’ve known me? That’s not possible. I just—"
"—entered this world?"
The boy finished his sentence for him again, not even looking up.
Avin’s breath hitched. "Stop doing that."
The boy chuckled again, the sound disturbingly kind. "I know a lot of things, Clive. It’s sad that you don’t remember."
The word hit harder than any hammer strike.
It echoed in his head.
Voices began whispering from every corner of the room — familiar voices, layered over one another, chanting that same word. The tone shifted between pleading and commanding. They weren’t coming from outside. They were coming from inside his head.
"Stop—" Avin gritted his teeth, pressing both hands against his ears. The noise only grew louder. His skull felt like it was splitting open. "Stop it—stop it—!"
A small, cool hand pressed gently to his forehead.
Silence rushed in like water filling a void.
Avin gasped. His eyes met the boy’s again — those clouded grey eyes that seemed to look straight through him.
The boy smiled faintly. "It seems... He has invoked—" His voice distorted, twisting into static. The next word came out mangled, a sound Avin’s mind couldn’t hold — like language and meaning had both shattered.
The boy blinked, his mouth tightening as if catching himself. "Hm. I suppose he’s not powerful enough to do that yet."
He tilted his head upward, staring at the ceiling — or maybe beyond it. His eyes seemed to focus on something Avin couldn’t see.
Avin followed his gaze, but saw only black stone.
The boy’s voice grew softer, almost pitying. "You’re not the same, Clive."
Avin turned to him, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
The hammer rose again.
The words sank deep, like cold water creeping into bone.
The boy kept striking the metal, his voice rhythmic with each blow.
"Your transfer was weak," clang, "and so was the body you took." Clang. "It was already infested — filled with emotions that weren’t yours. So much that even when he left the body, he couldn’t take them with him." Clang. "Now they’re inside you." Clang. "Clouding your judgment."
Avin’s grip on his knees tightened. The boy’s words crawled under his skin.
He looked down at his hands. They trembled faintly — not from fear, but from something else. Recognition.
Ever since he’d arrived in this world, he hadn’t been himself. He’d been softer. Sentimental. Weak in ways he never allowed himself to be before.
Maybe... maybe it wasn’t just him.
Maybe it was Avin — the original — still haunting this flesh, still whispering through the cracks.
"Those," the boy said, voice hardening, "are shackles."
He lifted the sword he’d been forging. The metal shimmered with heat, glowing faintly red-orange like living fire. "And shackles must be broken if you are to grow."
Avin swallowed. "How... how can you break them?"
For the first time, he looked directly at Avin.
His grey eyes gleamed like molten silver, their cloudy film gone for an instant. The light of the forge danced across his face, half-angelic, half-demonic.
Then he smiled — gently, but it chilled Avin’s spine.
The sword moved before Avin could blink.
He barely had time to see the blur of red-hot steel arcing through the air toward him.
Instinct screamed. He raised his arm — too slow.
The blade’s edge sliced through air, and in that instant, something inside him shattered. Not his skin, not bone — something deeper.
It wasn’t pain that filled him. It was release.
A shock rippled through his body, searing heat giving way to cold clarity. His lungs spasmed, his vision flared white. Every thought, every emotion, every chain of guilt and tenderness and hesitation — all of it cracked apart like glass under a hammer.
His hand hit the cold floor, the sound echoing like a heartbeat fading into distance.
Above him, the boy stood motionless, the sword’s tip resting against the anvil again.
"You’ll thank me later," the boy said quietly.
His voice was fading now, like wind disappearing into fog.
"Remember, Clive... the self you carry is not the self you are."
Avin tried to speak — to ask what that meant — but his voice came out as a whisper.
Then the room began to fold in on itself. The torches snuffed out, one by one. The air thinned.
The boy’s figure blurred, dissolving into pale smoke.
And in the final flicker of light, Avin saw something etched into the anvil — a sigil, burning faintly, shaped like an hourglass bound in chains.
Then everything went dark.