Soulweaving had changed Hector. Not just in how he cast magic, but in how he existed.
He was no longer alone. Every night for five years, dreams had come like waves. Each one etched another life onto the tapestry of his soul. He had not realized it then, but with every sorrow he remembered, with every cry he echoed, something had been left behind—a soul, caught in his melody.
Now, they were part of him.
He walked the forest paths of Kael-Terun, humming, as hundreds of voices echoed faintly beneath his skin. Not voices in the mind—voices in the soul. Some whispered in ancient tongues, others wept in silence. Some laughed, children who never grew. Some never spoke at all. But they were with him.
A choir of the forgotten.
And they gave him strength.
At his will, they became memory, and memory became spell.
In one hand, he formed a barrier that pulsed with protective warmth—the will of a mother who died shielding her child.
In another, he shaped a narrow bolt of flame, born of the rage of a warrior who had perished in a betrayal.
He could now translate human and elven spells through soulweave. It was imperfect—raw—but functional. His mana core resonated with each soul added to its spiral, and his control deepened.
But still… he was weak.
For all his progress, for all his brilliance, Hector was just eleven. An angelborn boy with no wings, no known lineage, and no divine mark upon his brow. His spells lacked force. His barriers faltered after heavy hits. Even his soul constructs—while stunning—could not yet hold up to real battle magic.
And it frustrated him.
"Why am I still this weak?" he muttered one evening, seated atop the hill that overlooked the elven city.
The Tree's pixie hovered nearby, watching him with that same knowing melancholy.
"You expect your soul to be heavy enough to bend the world," she said.
"I've lived more lives in dreams than anyone I know. I've created a new kind of magic. And still I can't match a senior elven apprentice in a duel."
"Because you're not meant to burn bright yet," she said softly. "Your magic is a vessel. It needs depth, not fire."
"But depth doesn't win battles," he whispered.
"No," she agreed. "But it wins wars."
He sat in silence, wind tugging at his white hair, eyes reflecting the ember glow of a distant sunset.
That night, he did not sleep. He trained.
He practiced old sword forms and merged them with soulweaving. He danced with shadows of forgotten warriors, asking them to guide his hands. He recited the names in his book, one by one, calling on their feelings—their fears, their strength, their dreams.
He meditated.
He failed.
He wept.
And still, he rose again.
Each time, a little sharper.
Each step, a little more stable.
He would become a force not through brute strength, but through resonance.
His magic would not shout. It would echo.
He remembered a dream where he had been a blind craftsman, building instruments by touch alone. The man had died in obscurity, but his last instrument, a stringed harp, had been flawless. He wove that memory into his training, letting that careful, tactile patience guide his swordplay.
Another night, he wove the memory of a runaway girl who had found shelter beneath a collapsed temple, living off roots and old stories. Her hope, flickering and soft, became the warmth in his barrier spells.
Every soul had something to offer. Some taught fear. Some taught joy. Some taught how to endure.
He began carving a pattern in the soft clay floor of his training chamber—a spiral that matched his mana core's shape. With each line etched, he added a name. It became a wheel of memory, a map of power that was not his alone, but shared. In the center, he sat cross-legged and hummed their names into life.
He heard them respond.
Not as words.
But as light.
And when the moon rose, he stood again, feeling not one voice inside him, but a thousand.
He was not a boy learning to cast.
He was a vessel of remembrance.
---
At dawn, standing beneath the awakening Tree of Life, Hector whispered:
"I remember all of you. You are not gone. You are me. And I will carry you forward."
His mana core pulsed once, and the grove shivered.
He opened his eyes.
Then looked at his hand.
And conjured the shape of a hundred lives.
---
Status Window — Hector
Name: Hector
Race: Angelborn
Age: 11
Mana Core: Formed (Spiral-type) — Rank: Initiate
Unique Magic: Soulweaving
Imprints:
Thren the Moon-Eater (Memory Before Consciousness)
The Whispering Spiral (Infinite Yearning)
Drosu the Candle Without Flame (Hidden Wounds)
Nahliv of the Mirror-Sky (Reflections & Duality)
Soul Count: 1,830 remembered souls (harbored)
Magic Affinities:
Soul Resonance (Major)
Emotional Transmutation (Major)
Elemental Spell Translation (Minor, unstable)
Combat Ability:
Swordsmanship (Intermediate, memory-augmented)
Barrier Weaving (Low-tier)
Echo Constructs (Unstable)
Notes:
Due to angelic physiology and non-human soul alignment, traditional human and elven magic systems are incompatible beyond surface mimicry. Magic potential lies in emotional magnitude and spiritual connection rather than mana volume or elemental control.