Chapter 19: A Shard of Revelation

The void was absolute, the darkness so profound it seemed to swallow even the concept of light. Arc floated in this abyss, disembodied, detached from everything except the faint awareness of his consciousness. There was no ground beneath him, no air to breathe, no sensation to anchor him to reality. Yet he knew he existed—his essence persisted like a lone flame flickering against an eternal night.

He was unable to feel his body or discern his location. Was he alive or deceased? The lack of any point of reference rendered it impossible to determine. The abyss was timeless, a space where seconds stretched into hours and hours collapsed into fleeting moments. At times, it felt as if he had been there for only minutes; at other times, it seemed he had spent an eternity in the vast, oppressive silence.

And then, the silence broke.

A tremor began as a whisper in the void, faintly stirring, then swiftly intensified into a thunderous fracture. A resounding flash of light erupted from nowhere, cutting through the darkness with blinding brilliance. Arc’s awareness surged at the sight--he felt alive in that instant, the sensation rushing through him like a shockwave. But just as quickly, the feeling dissipated, fleeting and cruel.

The abyss dissolved, swallowed whole by the intensity of the light. And then Arc was falling.

There was no sensation of air rushing past, no wind to catch against his skin--just an endless descent into an infinite white expanse. The void had transformed, replacing the suffocating blackness with a blank, blinding canvas. For a moment, it was featureless, devoid of form or meaning. But as he fell, flickers of something began to materialize.

At first, they were faint streaks of light, dancing against the white canvas like the afterimages of a dream. Then they solidified, turning into flashes of imagery, fragmented and distorted. They came together like pieces of a mosaic, though their jagged edges refused to align. Arc watched in bewilderment as the fragmented scenes played out, flipping like the pages of an ancient, torn picture book.

The pages moved backwards, accelerating in reverse. Time, the first concrete concept that Arc perceived since his arrival in this realm, manifested as the scenes around him flickered with increasing velocity. He understood that time was reversing, the realization hitting him with stark clarity.

Desperation gripped him. Arc attempted to concentrate, to seize the details of his vision, but the harder he tried, the quicker the pages flipped. Faces, locations, and instances were all there, yet they made no sense. The images twisted and flickered, slipping from his grasp as they altered too rapidly to be understood.

And then he was inside the book.

The flipping of pages ceased, and Arc found himself amidst a fragmented tableau. The whiteness gave way to muted colours, the blurred details of a memory forming around him. The air here felt heavy, thick with something Arc couldn’t define. He looked down at his hands--his body was his again, but it moved without his will. He was no longer in control, each motion feeling alien and automatic.

Then came the voice.

“Arc…”

It was faint, distant yet achingly familiar. Arc turned toward the sound, though the action was not his own. From the swirling mists of the fractured memory, two figures emerged. They were small, no more than children, but their features remained cloaked in shadow. Silhouettes against the hazy background seemed real and unreal, their presence like the faint echo of a song half-remembered.

“Who are you?” Arc tried to ask, but no words came out.

The figures moved closer, their voices carrying a strange, distorted resonance. He should recognize them--he could feel that much. But their identities slipped through his grasp, elusive and undefined.

“Arc,” one of them said again, the tone gentle yet commanding.

Their words grew muffled, their voices warping like a damaged recording. Arc fought to respond, his will pushing against the strange force controlling his body. He strained to speak, to move off his own accord, but his struggles only made the figures retreat.

The distance between them grew. The more Arc fought for control, the farther away they drifted.

“No… wait!” he thought desperately.

The figures stopped. One of them raised a hand, a gesture filled with sadness and finality.

“Good. Now, we are safe. You should not venture into places you are not yet ready to…”

The voice broke mid-sentence, fragments of its words scattering into the void.

“Looks like the connection is weak. Perhaps we should speak at a later time… perhaps… if there is another time…”

With those words, the figures and the memory dissolved, vanishing as though they had never existed. The picture book snapped shut and dissolved into the encircling whiteness, leaving Arc in solitude once more.

But the void was different now.

The darkness returned, but it no longer felt hollow. It pressed against him, heavy and oppressive, with a texture he could almost touch. Arc tried to move, to reach out into the suffocating black, but his limbs remained unresponsive. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Trapped in this new abyss, he could feel time slipping by, though how much was impossible to tell.

And then the darkness began to crack.

Faint sensations crept into his awareness--pain first, sharp and electric, followed by warmth. The cold emptiness faded as a familiar heaviness settled over him. His body, frail yet substantial, was restored bit by bit.

He was no longer just a consciousness adrift. He was whole again.

“I’m… Arc,” He whispered, the words materializing not only in his mind but also on his lips.

Reality reasserted itself, and the weight of the waking world settled over him. Darkness gave way to dim light, and the first faint sounds of movement reached his ears. Arc was alive.

A faint creak echoed through the room as Arc’s body stirred, his fingers twitching weakly against the soft fabric of the bed. Nearby, a maid, dressed in the pristine uniform of her station, gasped, her delicate hands flying to her mouth. She had been tending to him in silence, her routine task of ensuring his still form remained comfortable interrupted by the sudden, undeniable signs of life.

Arc’s chest rose ever so slightly. She hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest as she stepped closer. Was it real? Was he waking? Carefully, she leaned in, her face hovering inches above his, her ears straining to detect his breath.

And then, his eyes snapped open.

Two piercing, sharp pupils stared back at her, wide with surprise yet maintaining a stoic calm. Arc's expression was composed, and his demeanour remained unreadable, even after this startling return to consciousness. His gaze, steady and unwavering, locked onto hers as he dryly remarked,

“This… looks odd.”

The maid froze, her cheeks crimson as a startled squeak escaped her lips. “Um, are you okay, sir?” She stammered, her voice trembling with a blend of relief and panic. Without awaiting a reply, she spun on her heel and dashed from the room, leaving an awkward silence that lingered in the air like a delicate mist.

For a moment, Arc stared at the ceiling, his mind spinning. What just happened? The memory of the maid’s startled expression lingered, and to his dismay, he felt a faint blush creeping across his face. Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus.

His thoughts turned inward, back to the fragmented dream that had consumed him during his unconscious state.

“What was that?” he murmured under his breath, the words barely audible. “Was it a dream?”

It certainly felt like one, yet it carried an unnerving weight, as though it had clawed out of some deeper realm of his mind. Arc sifted through the fragments, searching for meaning in the chaos. He remembered the flashes of blue flames surrounding him before he fell unconscious. He remembered the surreal dreamscape, the mosaic of shattered memories, the shadowy figures with their familiar yet elusive voices. And most of all, he remembered the cryptic warning:

"Good. Now, we are safe. You should not venture into places you are not yet ready to…"

The words echoed in his mind, incomplete and enigmatic, mocking his inability to grasp their meaning.

Arc muttered the phrase to himself, hoping repetition would bring clarity. It didn’t. Frustrated, he pushed himself upright, his muscles trembling with the effort. As he moved, the door to the room swung open--not with care, but with a sudden, forceful snap that startled him from his thoughts.

The abrupt entrance heralded the arrival of a figure he hadn’t seen in years: Sharla Azatoth.

“So, you’re back from the dead, huh, boy?” she said, her sharp voice carrying a hint of dry humour.

Arc blinked in surprise. Sharla? Here? He recognized her immediately--Sharla Azatoth, a renowned researcher working for the Crafters, infamous for her sharp tongue and sharper intellect. His memories of her were few, scattered across the brief encounters of his younger years, and none of them particularly pleasant.

“Sharla?” Arc said, his tone laced with puzzlement. “Is that… you?”

She smirked, brushing a strand of unruly hair from her face. “Oh, I see you still can’t get my name right. No surprise there. At least your brain isn’t completely fried from whatever mess you got yourself into.”

Arc straightened slightly, adopting the noble composure he reserved for most interactions. Yet with Sharla, it always felt strained. The two had an odd rapport, a dynamic marked by her relentless sarcasm and his quiet resolve to endure it.

Sharla wasted no time. “You’re lucky, you know,” she said, crossing her arms. “If it were anyone else, you might not be sitting here, looking all clueless and stoic. But since you’re alive and kicking, let’s get straight to the point.”

Her expression darkened, frustration brimming as she launched into a tirade. It was as if years of pent-up annoyance had found their outlet, and Arc became the unfortunate recipient. He listened in silence as Sharla vented, her words sharp and cutting. To him, it felt like a one-sided argument with no end in sight.

Finally, her fiery energy began to wane. She took a deep breath and adjusted her tone to calmer, almost professional. "Listen," she started, "here's the gist: whatever happened to you and your team was far from pleasant. You're fortunate to be here."

Her explanation was disjointed, filled with gaps and secondhand accounts. She wasn’t there when it happened--her knowledge was pieced together from reports and rumours. Yet, she depicted a bleak scene that further intensified Arc's disquiet.

“And one more thing,” Sharla added, her tone shifting again, now carrying a hint of curiosity. “When we were handling your tattered clothes, we found something… peculiar. Elown decided to keep it for now instead of discarding it, believing it might be important. You should thank her when you get the chance.”

A butler soon entered the room, interrupting the conversation. He walked gracefully but swiftly and without much pleasantry moved closer to Sharla trying to tell her something of great urgency. He whispered something in Sharla's ear, causing her expression to change slightly. "I think we will have to continue our talks later Arc. It looks like something needs my attention." Immediately after making that statement, she started to arrange the room with help from the butler. As she did so she turned and reached into her pocket and tossed a small object that landed straight into Arc’s hand. "here take this."  it was the shard that Arc had with him back Without another word, she turned to leave, throwing one final command over her shoulder.

“Oh, and don’t even think about leaving this room. Rest up. We’ll talk more later.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Arc alone once more.

He glanced down at the item Sharla had handed him. It was small, cold to the touch, and oddly familiar. It was the identical shard that Strossburg had given him back at the camp. Yet he couldn’t place it. As he held it up to the light, the object began to change, shifting and morphing in his palm.

Before his eyes, it transformed into a fragment of a blade. Its surface shimmered with a faint, otherworldly glow, sharp yet broken. It was no ordinary weapon--its fractured form hinted at both power and tragedy. Startled by its sudden change in appearance, he swung the sharp shard, now a blade fragment, from his weakened grip across the bed, casting it to a safer distance from himself. "...What the hell.." he spoke in a rather high tone for his current state but the sound did not match the intention implied by the arc.

Despite his condition, Arc struggled to move beyond his bed, utilizing any nearby object for support. After significant effort and depending on these aids, he ultimately arrived at the fragment's location. Arc was surprised at this point as what he saw was rather strange. The piece of the blade he had tossed had now turned into a tattered piece of paper no less.

“What do we have here?” Arc murmured, as he began to pick the piece of paper in his hand.

As soon as Arc lifted the paper the paper began to glow again. This time the paper showed its true form turning back into the blade fragment he saw earlier tilting the shard against the light he stated. "this looks interesting..."

His fingers tightened around it, the glow reflecting in his wide eyes as curiosity and unease swirled.

What was this strange artefact? What secrets did it hold?

***