The room was still.
Too still.
Dust clung to the edges of the shelves like forgotten memories. The scent of old wood, parchment, and faint smoke from the Bastion still lingered on Aden's cloak as he pulled it off and let it fall over the back of a chair. It was the same room he had once slept in during his youth—when the world was simpler, and death didn't hang like a guillotine over every decision.
Now, everything felt wrong.
Too small. Too quiet. Too familiar.
He stood for a long moment at the center of the room, his eyes drifting to the corners. The desk was exactly as he'd left it. A few notebooks, the spine of one torn. A dull, blackened ink bottle. A broken pendant tucked beneath a pile of old scrolls. His gaze fell on the window.
Beyond it, the estate grounds hummed with a strange new tension—servants walking faster, knights patrolling in tighter formations, nobles murmuring behind closed doors. The storm had already begun. He had merely lit the first match.
But now... there was something else clawing at his mind.
A hollow in his memory.
He sat down heavily, elbows pressing against the cold wood of his desk, and buried his face in his hands.
Something's missing.
Ever since the Wrath trial, pieces of him had begun to slip. He could feel them sliding through his fingers like grains of ash. His body, his sword, his instincts—all growing stronger. Sharper. But the him that once knew warmth, that once saw things from a different lens, was being eaten away by the fire burning inside.
Yet tonight, a fragment returned.
Not a feeling.
A word.
Walpurgis.
His breath caught.
The Sword of Walpurgis.
His fingers trembled slightly as he leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. How had he forgotten?
That name meant everything once. The book he used to read before sleep. The one that had haunted him after transmigration. The very novel that this world belonged to.
He had buried it somewhere in the avalanche of blood, survival, and politics—but it had always been there, lingering in the farthest recesses of his mind.
His heart pounded.
Yes. I read this. I read this story.
And Aden Vasco… was never supposed to matter.
The realization left a bitter taste in his mouth. In that massive, twisted world of politics, blades, gods, and monsters—he had only been a footnote. A disgrace. A criminal. Someone executed before the first major arc even began.
"Aden Vasco, convicted of murdering a comrade during an imperial expedition. Sentenced to death. Body never recovered."
That was it. That was all the novel had to say.
No grand arc. No redemption. Just a sentence. A ghost.
He clenched his fist, jaw tightening.
Then why the hell am I still alive?
The only answer he could find—was that his very existence had changed something. That his survival had twisted the script. The gears of fate had shifted, skipping over the lines once written in ink.
Maybe the author never meant for him to have a story.
But now he did.
And it was up to him to write the rest.
His thoughts turned to Dahaka—the cursed zone. A place that even the Emperor hesitated to breach without careful planning.
There had to be something there.
He pushed aside the old notebooks, flipping through them at a frenzied pace, searching his memory, trying to squeeze out details from the original plot. Much of it was vague, blurred by the haze of time and trauma. But then—a name.
Sector Twelve.
It clicked like a blade locking into place.
A region dominated by a High Lich's cult, infested with undead, sealed centuries ago by a ritual gone wrong. The novel had hinted at it being a breeding ground for one of the major antagonists in the third arc—a ritual that would turn the dead into vessels of godlike power.
Aden leaned forward, pulse quickening.
If he could get there first...
If he could use that place...
He could not only survive—but thrive. Turn a disaster into a miracle. Offer the Emperor something no one else could. The pieces were already in play—he just needed to act faster than the novel's original cast.
He stood up, pacing.
This changes everything.
But just as he turned to sketch out the framework of his plan—
Knock.
A sharp rap on the door.
Aden paused.
"Come in," he said, voice low.
The door creaked open, and a familiar silhouette entered.
Ed Vasco.
His father.
No armor. No sword. Just a dark coat and a quiet expression.
"Aden," Ed said,
"We need to talk."