The hall buzzed with distant chatter, but Ashen barely heard it. Breakfast had passed without issue, just tasteless gruel and bread. No one noticed him, no one cared. Just the way he liked it. Yet, as he stood to leave, the heavy echo of footsteps and laughter from the others seemed to dig deeper into his thoughts.
He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded as if bored — though his mind was anything but.
Weapon ranking board. Second last.
Just above a boy who had fainted during the Trial.
It wasn't that Ashen felt shame — he didn't have time for things like that. But the world watched numbers, and to stay invisible in a place like this, you either had to be powerful or be nothing.
And right now, he was pretending to be nothing.
His boots thudded lightly against the hallway floor, the military compound's cold metal walls stretching endlessly. Other recruits passed by, chatting, sparring, or bragging about their weapons. He didn't even look up.
"Second last..." he muttered under his breath. "Not bad. They'll think I'm weak."
He reached his room — bare, tight, a single bed, a cabinet, a small metal desk bolted into the wall. No warmth, no color. Just a box to sleep in. It suited him.
Ashen locked the door behind him and sat on the bed. A long breath escaped his lips.
No audience now.
No masks needed.
He opened his palm. Slowly.
A faint shimmer appeared above it, like dust catching the light. Then, as if time bent around his fingers, something ancient bloomed into reality.
A sword.
Not made of steel, but a colorless substance, like glass mixed with shadow, constantly shifting. Not too long, its blade whispered with memories, shifting with engraved patterns that danced and faded like half-forgotten dreams. Its hilt was wrapped in old black cloth, frayed but strong, pulsing faintly with warmth.
Its name etched in quiet whispers in his mind:
"The One Who Remembers."
Ashen's eyes softened.
His real weapon.
Not the rusted short blade he had shown during registration. That thing was a tool. This was a part of him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the sword, placing it across his lap. "You must hate being hidden."
The sword didn't reply, of course. But something in the air shifted — as if it understood. The memories it held weren't just from him. It carried echoes of something older. Something that lived in the space between thought and truth.
He rested both hands over the blade and closed his eyes.
A sudden rush surged through him.
Not just strength. Not just clarity.
It was a wave of awareness, of things remembered and forgotten.
He could hear it — voices he had never known, faces flickering behind his eyelids, places scorched by time, laughter long silenced, pain buried in ash.
The weapon was him, and yet more than him. It was made from the essence of a god's will, long forgotten.
His power wasn't flashy, wasn't the kind that drew awe in a duel.
He could manipulate memory.
Forget a blow before it lands. Recall a future that never was. Restore a dying man's final words. Plant false hope, or erase the scent of fear.
He could remember everything — and that made him dangerous.
But no one could know. Not yet.
Not in the Blood Kingdom, where only the Blood God was worshiped, and all other powers were heresy. Memory was not strength in this world. It was suspicion.
And suspicion... meant death.
"I need to survive," he whispered again, opening his eyes. "To live, I have to hide. But one day…"
He looked at the sword.
"…you won't need to hide either.
Ashen stood.
The weapon pulsed faintly in his hand, then dissolved into mist, vanishing into his skin like ink in water. It left behind nothing — no heat, no light — only the cold silence of the room.
His hands trembled. Not from fear, not from weakness, but the weight of restraint. He could feel it now — how close he was to breaking free. But freedom came with a price.
He paced slowly, barefoot across the cold floor. Thought spiraled inwards.
They all had powers.
Seraphine with her overwhelming presence and divine grace.
Raynar, noble-born, eyes full of judgment, strength rigid like glass.
Elira — warm, military-bred, calm in the chaos.
Rett and Mina, who laughed even when tired, who trusted even when foolish.
And then… him.
A boy born from ash. Alone. Cursed. Remembering everything.
He walked to the metal desk. On it sat a half-broken mirror. The facility didn't offer much, and this one had a cracked line running through its center.
He stared at his reflection. A boy of fourteen, thin, tired eyes, hair unkempt, but with something dark hiding behind the silence.
"I'm not weak," he said to himself.
And yet, the system would treat him as such. Rank was everything here.
He opened a drawer and pulled out the blade he had used during the trial. A dull, iron thing. The kind you'd use to cut rope, not fight monsters.
"Let them think I'm harmless."
He sat back down.
He knew how this worked. He had read the history books — those that survived the burning. In this Kingdom, strength was worshiped. Power was truth. Obedience was virtue.
And above all, memory was sin.
Why?
Why was the god of memory forgotten?
Why was remembrance cursed?
He didn't know yet. But one day… he would. That was the promise his weapon made. That was the contract carved into his soul the day the Trial ended and he heard the echo of the forgotten god's voice.
"When you are ready… we will remember together."
He didn't know if it was truly a god. But he knew it wasn't human.
Ashen closed his eyes again and focused.
In his mind, a library unfolded — endless, shifting, made of doors and keys and old parchment that screamed when opened. The weapon had given him this place. It was where he stored everything — even memories not his own.
And as he grew… it would grow too.
His strength wasn't physical, not yet. But his mind — that was something no one in this camp could match.
Already, he could recall every step Caelthorn took during sparring. The hesitation in Seraphine's breath. The odd hand twitch Elira made when lying.
He didn't just see. He recorded.
And with time, he would use it.
But not now.
He couldn't stand out. Not until the Second Trial, where they would unlock their Blood Essence. Then, and only then, could he show even a glimpse.
Until then, he would play the fool. The silent one. The background.
A shadow.
He lay down and stared at the ceiling. The lights hummed overhead.
One day, they would all come to him. One day, they would beg to remember what they had lost. One day, when the world crumbled again, and truth drowned in lies…
He would be the last one who remembered.