CHAPTER 318: CHAPTER 317: IN THE MIND OF THE FALLEN

A world different from the one outside, quiet, and hazy like a memory half-remembered.

Lumberling opened his eyes and found himself standing in a small village. The smell of soil and sweat lingered faintly in the air. Children ran barefoot through the dirt roads, chasing one another with sticks. Among them stood a boy, still and distant, his eyes sharper than the rest, cold and calculating, far too mature for his age.

Darius Korrin.

The name echoed faintly in Lumberling’s mind, like a memory being pulled from somewhere deep inside. And in the next blink, he wasn’t watching anymore, he was him.

The world shifted, and memories began to flow like waves crashing against each other.

Darius grew fast, faster than anyone else in the village. His body hardened early, his hands calloused before his voice even deepened. By the time he turned twelve, no one dared to stand against him. He led the other children, fought hunters over prey, and even made grown men lower their heads when his temper flared. Strength came to him as naturally as breathing.

The first time he killed was by accident, or so it seemed. A wild boar had gone mad and mauled a child. Darius stepped in, armed only with a wooden spear. The struggle was brutal, filled with blood and fear. When the beast finally fell, its weight crushed the soil.

He stood there, panting, covered in dirt and blood. But instead of fear, he felt something else stir deep inside him, something fierce and intoxicating.

The rush of control. The thrill of having power in his hands.

It was like touching something forbidden... and realizing it belonged to him.

From that day on, life and death became nothing more than threads, and Darius Korrin learned he could cut them whenever he wished.

As the years passed, his strength grew, and so did his arrogance.

He stopped listening to the elders, ignored every warning, and treated rules like they were nothing but chains meant for weaker men. The village slowly stopped trying to correct him. People learned to stay out of his way. To him, the world felt small, something meant to be conquered, not respected.

Then, one day, a stranger arrived.

A Knight clad in silver armor.

The villagers bowed their heads as he passed, whispering in awe and fear. His presence alone carried weight, a calm silent authority that made even the bravest hunters lower their gaze.

But Darius wasn’t like them.

When he saw the Knight, he didn’t feel fear. He felt something else, curiosity, and beneath it, challenge.

He didn’t understand what a Knight was, or what the armor meant. All he saw was another man standing tall, daring to act strong before him.

So he did what came naturally.

He attacked.

The fight was over in an instant. Darius’s fists met steel, his body thrown back before he could even blink. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him. Still, he roared and charged again, again, and again, each time ending the same way.

The Knight never even moved from his spot.

When Darius finally collapsed, beaten and gasping for air, the Knight stepped closer. His expression was calm, unreadable, his shadow stretching over the boy.

"You’re brave," the man said, his voice calm. "And you’ve got power... but no direction. Power without purpose will only destroy you, and everyone around you."

That day, Darius Korrin’s life changed. The Knight didn’t strike him down, didn’t punish him for his defiance. Instead, he offered something unexpected, a path.

And so, the boy who once ruled a village left it behind, following the man into the city.

Under the Knight’s guidance, Darius discovered his true talent, the spear. It felt like an extension of his own arm, like he had been born to wield it. He learned faster than anyone, his movements sharp and deadly. Even among the other trainees, none could match him. His arrogance, once hollow, now had a foundation, confidence built from undeniable strength.

Years passed in blood and sweat.

He became a Knight, then a soldier of the empire. Battle after battle, he killed without hesitation, conquered without mercy, and rose higher with every victory.

His name spread through the ranks like wildfire. To his soldiers, he was a symbol of courage, a man who never backed down. To his enemies, he was a nightmare that walked with a spear.

Every rank he gained was bought with blood. Every triumph left a scar somewhere deep within him. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t know how. Fighting became his truth, his reason, his only way to live.

The empire soon recognized his worth. His victories piled up like mountains, his name whispered with respect and fear across every battlefield. Eventually, Darius Korrin was summoned before the emperor himself.

In the grand hall of marble and gold, he knelt, head bowed, as the emperor’s voice echoed solemnly through the chamber.

"From this day forward," the emperor declared, "you shall serve as one of the empire’s pillars of war, a Legate."

When Darius rose, the hall thundered with applause. Power, fame, command, all of it was his. He led armies that stretched beyond the horizon. Thousands moved at his word. Cities fell beneath his spear. His shadow reached across the land.

But then, something began to change.

At first, it was faint, a whisper at the edge of his dreams.

’Wake up.’

He ignored it, brushing it off as nothing more than a lingering thought, a trick of the mind.

But the whisper returned. Again. And again.

’Wake up.’

It followed him through the nights and lingered after every battle. Each time he sat alone in his quarters, the same question gnawed at him as he stared at his bloodstained hands.

The thrill of victory dulled. The cheers of his men sounded hollow. The faces of those he killed blurred into one endless sea of ghosts. Even the empire he once served so proudly began to feel distant.

And then one night, he found himself standing before a mirror.

The reflection staring back at him was the Legate, eyes sharp with the weight of countless deaths. But as he looked deeper, that faint whisper echoed again, clear as day this time.

’Wake up.’

Darius’s expression hardened. "Do you think a mere illusion can hold me forever?" he muttered.

The room darkened, the air thickening with tension. The reflection didn’t blink, it smiled.

Then the world around him shuddered.

The mirror cracked first, a single line running across its surface. Then another. And another. Until the entire reflection splintered into hundreds of broken pieces. The cracks spread outward, crawling across the floor, the walls, and even the air itself.

Everything began to shake. The world around him groaned like it was about to collapse.

Then, like shattering glass, everything broke apart.

The image of the Legate crumbled piece by piece, his armor fading into dust, his spear dissolving into light, his body falling away until there was nothing left but silence.

And standing there, alone in the collapsing void, was Lumberling.

His true self.

He gasped, his chest rising sharply as the flood of memories drained from him, all the battles, the victories, the deaths vanishing like dust carried by the wind.

When the storm of memories was gone, the world turned still.

Lumberling blinked, his breath shaky and uneven. The world around him was white and endless. It felt as though he stood inside a cloud, no ground, no sky, just an empty stillness that stretched forever.

Step by step, it took shape, first a shadow, then a man.

An old man stood before him, tall and broad, his posture straight like a warrior who had never known defeat. His sharp eyes glowed faintly beneath heavy brows, and a faint smirk curved his lips.

Lumberling froze. He knew that face.

Legate Darius Korrin.

The same man whose life he had just relived. The same monster whose memories burned still within his mind.

"So you finally woke up," Darius said, his tone calm but heavy with pride. He looked at Lumberling as if appraising him, like a general judging a new recruit. "You witnessed my life, my battles, my victories."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, boy, did you not feel it? The power I held? The authority I commanded? The fear I inspired?"

Lumberling frowned, his guard rising. "You’re just a remnant," he said. "A piece of memory."

Darius chuckled, a low, deep sound that echoed through the white space. "A remnant?" he repeated, amused.

He took a step forward. The sound of his boots echoed despite the emptiness beneath them. "No, boy," he said, voice dropping lower, heavier. "I am far more real than you think. You devoured my essence. You let me in."

He stopped just a few paces away, his eyes glowing brighter. "My soul, my strength, my will... all of it lives inside you now."

The air shifted.

Lumberling’s head throbbed as the white space began to distort. He felt it, the pull. Like invisible hands trying to grab hold of his mind, drag him down into the storm again.