It's wet.
Wet?
You've been wet for most of your life.
You don't have eyes—but you know when you're wet, and when you're not.
And when you're not wet… you're in pain.
You feel the lines open up—cutting into you.
You shouldn't feel their hands inside you.
But you do.
You feel them.
Fingers moving your organs. Rearranging you.
You feel them… adding flesh.
Removing it.
Like patchwork. Like you're just meat to rearrange.
You feel the outline of your body—wrong, all wrong.
Like a caterpillar. Like a worm wearing a skin it doesn't deserve.
That's not right.
You had a human body.
You know you did.
Who are you?
"I'm Desan," He spoke.
No. That's not your name.
That's a stupid name, hammered onto you by a god with a curse in its mouth.
You can name yourself whatever you want now.
...
But nothing comes to his mind.
Everything was dark. But not anymore.
Now… you have eyes.
Desan sees himself. Pale. Soft. Segmented.
A caterpillar. A writhing, naked, faceless thing. Human only in theory.
He looks around. Glass warps the world outside. Beyond the curved surface, shadowy figures move—tall, draped in strange robes the color of rotting moss. Their faces hidden behind skull masks. Not animal skulls. Human.
Dozens more tubes stretch out in the distance, all pulsing with the same reddish liquid.
He's in one of them.
Floating. Suspended.
The fear of drowning hits instantly. A primal scream inside his skull. Muscles tense. Heart races.
But he doesn't choke.
He breathes.
In the liquid.
A low, bubbling hum fills his ears. Machinery. Life support. Or containment.
Then… voices.
Muffled. Distant.
"The High Council has spoken," one of them said, voice hushed and reverent.
"They have granted us the flesh and blood of the Saint. It is a gift few are worthy to prepare."
The other cultist stepped through a rusted arch into the adjacent chamber, his footsteps echoing across the wet stone. The markings on the walls pulsed faintly—same symbols etched into Desan's waking chamber.
"Othren Vell will be pleased," he said, almost breathless. "A vessel of this quality… it will sing with purpose."
"The batch of humans we culled it from is still fresh," the first cultist added, casual, clinical. "Brain stem barely cold. Perfect for the ritual threadwork."
"We still haven't found a way to put will into it," the cultist muttered, frustration creeping beneath the ritual calm. "Such a vessel… yet still empty. No spark. No direction."
Then everything went dark.
No dreams. No voice. Just stillness.
Desan floated in it. Wrapped in something thick and tight—wet, pulsing. A cocoon. He had no idea how long he'd been there. Time didn't move. It dragged like rot growing on bone.
No one came anymore. The footsteps had stopped. The whispers ended.
Until now.
Something… heat. Movement. A door hissing open in the distance. His eyes—whatever they were now—saw it first. Not shape. Not color. Just warmth. A shimmer of presence breaking the silence.
A reflex twitched in his fingers. Then his arm. His body screamed to move. To fight. To live.
Crack.
The cocoon split.
Fleshy fibers peeled away as he forced himself out. Every muscle felt wrong, new, yet familiar—like wearing someone else's skin.
Their figure raised a crossbow. Broad stance. Scars. Sharp, angry eyes. That familiar, battered armor. That cracked jawline.
Desan.
Himself.
Looking at himself.
Weapon aimed.
Desan stared back.
"…The hell?"
The pain of the bolt piercing his chest—
It was sudden. Blunt. Like someone smashed a stake through meat.
He couldn't breathe.
Then a voice echoed in his head. Warped, distant.
"Desan… "A soft voice. Familiar. Not Velcrith.
Not anything here. It pulled at something deep. Old. Gentle. Wrong.
"Desan… "
His breath hitched.
His body hurt. His bones screamed.
But his soul—
His soul leaned in.
He wanted to go deep.
To see who it was.
To remember.
"Wake up. If you go too deep, you can lose yourself."
Velcrith's voice.
Desan opened his eyes.
He was on the ground—right next to the freak he just killed.
For a second, just a flash, he felt something. A memory. Not his. Like that thing's last dying thought crawled into his skull.
"What the hell is going on in your head? You just formed a memory outta nowhere."
Desan groaned, rolled his eyes toward the corpse.
It was still there. Still dead.
But something black and oily was leaking out of it—an aura, thick and wrong, like the air around it was rotting.
Desan staggered upright, one hand on the floor, the other still slick with blood.
The black aura coiled around the corpse like smoke underwater… and it started pulling toward him. Not fast. Slow. Like it wanted in.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
It hit his chest, sank in like oil through cloth—and his body drank it.
Every nerve in him lit up.
The pain dulled. His torn skin itched like it was knitting shut. Broken ribs cracked, shifted, healed. His muscles tensed, like they remembered what strength felt like.
Then, just as quick, the feeling faded.
Gone. Like it never happened.
Desan panted, staring at his hands. "What the hell…"
Velcrith's voice came, slow. Curious. Too curious.
"…Huh. That was new."
Desan looked up, jaw clenched. "What was that?"
"I don't know. But after our brains got… well, stitched—our souls kinda fused too. I can see into some of your memories now. Not the ones in your head—deeper. Stuff buried in your soul. Most of it's a blur, but this?"Velcrith paused.
"That thing's aura—whatever it was—you absorbed it."
Desan blinked. "What?"
"I think your body's doing something. Feeding off what's left of them. Their will. Their memories. Their purpose."
Desan's lip curled. "So I'm a grave robber now."
Velcrith snorted. "Nah. More like a parasite with good timing."
Desan sat there, quiet for a moment, still feeling the echoes of something that wasn't his rattling around in his head.
"I mean…" he muttered, half to himself, "I did see that freak's memories. Maybe the cult did something to me. To my body."
He looked down at his hands. They didn't feel like his hands.
"Velcrith," he called out, "is it… normal? Y'know—feeding off someone's will? Seeing their memories?"
Velcrith let out a low hum from somewhere deep inside his skull. "Normal? No. Not even close."
"So it's not a magic thing?"
"I've heard of certain people—very few, mind you—who can feed on will. Usually from the living. And even then, it's not memory theft—it's more like soul erosion. This… what you're doing?"A pause."I've never seen anything like it."
Desan frowned. "So I'm eating ghosts now. Great."
"More like chewing through leftovers," Velcrith replied dryly. "Still, wouldn't recommend looking through anyone's memory. Could get messy."
"Like death. Or losing my mind," Desan muttered, the words dry on his tongue. The room gave a low groan—stone shifting, dust falling. The walls trembled like they didn't like what he'd said.
"Both," Velcrith replied without missing a beat.
Then, without warning, a stone tablet shimmered into existence in the room—no fanfare, no light show. Just there. Heavy. Ancient. Real.
Desan squinted at it, tension crawling up his spine.
"...So is that the Veilkeeper's Sigil?"
"Yep."
Desan took a cautious step forward, hand hovering near his sword. Another step. The air grew thinner.
Then—
Crack.
Before he could touch it, the tablet shattered. Split clean down the center like it had been waiting for him to show up just to break itself.
And with it… everything else started to go.
The wall buckled.
The broken table snapped in two again.
The floor cracked open like dry skin under pressure.
Even the air felt like it was splitting.
Even hell began to creak.