The scent of old parchment clung to the air like a ghost too stubborn to leave. Candlelight flickered, casting warped shadows that danced across the spines of the thousands of books lining the study walls. Shijinko sat motionless in a high-backed chair, spine straight, gaze heavy. A single tome lay open before him—one of the last he had yet to re-read.
The world now was no longer unknown to him.
He knew of Varethor, the continent carved by gods and greed. Of its fractured empires, bloodstained and proud. Of the Vaskyr Dominion's brutal conquest politics, of the Elarion Empire's obsession with perfection and hierarchy, of the heretical cults in the Nalrath Shroudlands who believed the world was already dead and rotting.
He knew of the Great Anima Wielders—beings who could bend space, tear through spirit, and rewrite life with a gesture. Each recorded power had been etched into his memory, their names now filed neatly into the vault of his mind.
He also knew of Lord Velyn's prodigies. Aerin, Sylas, Elise, Juro, Kaelen, Mirellia—each one powerful, unique, a rising force unto themselves.
But he had chosen silence.
They crossed paths in corridors, during training rotations, at lectures—but words were rare. They spoke to each other in ambitions, in displays of Anima talent, in brief glances laced with superiority. Shijinko, however, remained apart. Observing.
He didn't need recognition. He needed understanding.
And strength.
The training was brutal. Eight hours each day, his body pushed until it trembled from exhaustion. The once-lean frame of a lost boy was now forged with taut muscle and carved discipline. At eleven, he had the presence of someone far older—wiser, perhaps, but more... hollow.
And yet, inside him, something twisted still. Unseen by the others. Unfelt by the world. Something that hungered.
"Five years," he muttered to himself, closing the book gently. "Still... not enough."
The whispers hadn't spoken today. A rare quiet.
Or perhaps they watched him with growing amusement, waiting for the moment he'd think himself free.
His eyes drifted to the study's lone window, where the evening sun cast bleeding oranges and bruised purples across the sky. Constellations began to emerge. The same ones he traced years ago, still unknown to him.
He stood, his joints cracking lightly, and walked toward the glass, one hand against the frame.
In the reflection, he didn't see a boy.
He saw a shadow with eyes.
And in the silence that followed, the Voice stirred.
"Look at you... growing stronger, feeding that body of yours like a good little vessel," it murmured, low and serpentine, curling around the edges of his thoughts. "But strength alone is not evolution... You still carry the scent of hesitation, Shijinko."
He didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Instead, he blinked—and the world around him dimmed. The study, the books, the sky—all washed into grayscale.
A translucent panel bled into view before his eyes, eerie and pale like skin stretched too thin. His Anima System Interface. The gift or curse—he never truly decided—which had first appeared after the devouring began.
It pulsed faintly, alive.
Name:] Shijinko
[Tier:] Ashen Tier (I)
[Anima Core Capacity:] 23/50 (Absorbed Souls)
[Soul Stability:] 76%
[Corruption Index:] 19%
[System Status:] Stable | Whispering Active
Attributes
• Strength: 37
• Agility: 28
• Endurance: 57
• Intelligence: 19
• Anima Reserves: 20
• Anima Control: 30%
• Instinct: 100
Abilities
1. Memory Devourer – Absorbs knowledge, experiences, and abilities from devoured memories. Overuse leads to identity erosion.
2. Whispered Echoes – Extracts the lingering consciousness of absorbed souls, allowing him to hear their whispers.
3. Shadow Veil – Erases his presence from weaker minds and makes him harder to detect in dimly lit areas.
4. Anima Adaptation – The more Anima he absorbs, the stronger his body and abilities become.
5. Echo of the Lost – Can relive devoured memories as if they were his own, even experiencing the emotions tied to them.]
He stared at the data, eyes unmoving. The numbers didn't excite him. They weren't for pride or show.
They were reminders.
Of progress, Of control, Of what he must become.
The interface vanished with a blink. The grayscale faded. The room returned to its dull warmth. He turned from the window and stepped toward the desk, reaching for the letter sealed in Lord Velyn's sigil—its presence looming like a weight since the moment it was placed there.
Inside, his departure orders.
The Capital City of Carthadrax awaited him—its towers kissed by clouds, its streets paved with blood and secrets. His destination: the Obsidian Academy, where the Empire's chosen were shaped into instruments of power.
It was time.
Shijinko packed in silence. A simple black tunic, his training gear, two knives—clean and cold—and a single book he'd grown attached to, not for the content, but for the margin notes he'd written across its pages.
He paused briefly at the door to the study, feeling the presence of the estate breathing behind him—its corridors, its halls, the others who never dared understand him. No goodbyes. No last looks.
The servant awaited him with the carriage outside. Lord Velyn had not come to see him off.
Fine.
Shijinko stepped into the night, the door closing gently behind him like the end of a chapter he had long since outgrown.
As the horses began their slow descent down the winding path from the estate, he stared at the horizon. Carthadrax loomed in the distance like a beast waiting to feed.
And for the first time in years, the whispers returned—soft, distant, humming a lullaby made of screams.
"So close now... the place where kings are broken, and monsters are made."
Shijinko closed his eyes.
And smiled.
Hours later the wheels creaked along the dirt path, shrouded in mist. The forests flanking the road swayed gently, as if whispering secrets between the trees.
Shijinko sat in silence inside the carriage, the city of Carthadrax still a distant silhouette. His thoughts were quiet—for once. No voices. No whispers.
Until the coach came to an abrupt halt.
The horses neighed, restless.
Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. A knock at the door.
The driver opened it slowly, and two figures stood beyond the drifting fog—one tall and broad-shouldered with wild silver hair, the other smaller, graceful, and cloaked in a velvet blue coat.
Sylas and Elise.
Shijinko blinked once, expression unreadable.
"Shijinko!" Elise's voice cracked—not with anger, but disbelief. "You left without saying anything?"
Sylas crossed his arms, frowning. "What the hell, man? Not even a goodbye?"
The boy stepped down from the carriage, boots crunching against gravel. The wind was cold here. He looked at the two like strangers.
"I... don't understand," Shijinko said. "Why would I say goodbye?"
Elise's breath caught. "What do you mean? We—"
"We trained together. Ate together. Grew up together," Sylas cut in. "We are practically... your friends. It only reasonable for you to atleast say goodbye. Since when did u gain a superiority complex"
Shijinko looked between them slowly. Their faces were pained. But to him, they were nothing but names. Names from books. Faces from halls. Not memories.
"I don't remember that," he said flatly.
Something in Elise's face broke. Her fingers trembled at her sides. "That's not funny. Look I dont know why your acting so detached all of a sudden, atleast say goodbye so we can be on our way"
The silence that followed was brutal. A chasm between them.
And then it spoke.
A breath in his ear. A voice no one else heard.
"Of course you don't, Shijinko," it whispered, slick and slow like oil through cracks. "You lost them all. Every smile. Every warmth. I took them before you ever knew they existed."
Shijinko stiffened. The trees grew still.
"Happy moments are dangerous, child. They slow the blade. They soften the will. So I devoured them, long ago, like ripened fruit... and you let me."
His hands curled unconsciously.
"They wept for you once. Laughed with you. Called you brother, friend, light in the dark. But now, only ghosts remain. Their sorrow is sweet... and silence is safer."
He blinked. His head ached. His throat tightened—and yet, he felt... nothing.
Elsie saw the severe confusion in his face and decided to actually consider if he has some kind of memory lose.
Elise stepped forward. "Please, tell me you're joking. Tell me you didn't forget us."
"I didn't forget," Shijinko said slowly, his voice colder than the wind. "I just never had any memories of such things."
The words shattered something between them.
Sylas looked away, "The fucks wrong with you, is this some sort of prank, fuck your starting to scare us."
Elise stood frozen, her lips parted, as if trying to catch breath that never came.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But the moment was already dead. Honestly he never had anymore memory of being friends with Sylas or Elise.
Even if he did, he bet it wasn't anything special or fruitful in his eyes.
He turned, stepped back into the carriage. The door shut behind him with finality.
Elsie tried to open the door and confrot Shijinko, but Sylas held her back, "I don't know what's wrong with him, but let's just leave him be, he'll come running back saying it was a joke, than we'll punish him for playing with our emotions"
Sylas mentioned that last part as the thought of Shijinko truly not having any memories of them actually would hurt.
And as the wheels turned again, carving a trail through mist and regret, the Voice chuckled in his mind.
"Shijinko, this is for your own good. All bonds rot eventually. I should know, for memories are a limiter of perspective, you must learn from all perspective."
Shijinko understood the Whispers words but was still disturbed by how it stole his memories.
"I didn't steal them, you merely just don't remember, in fact, where are you from Shijinko"
Shijinko quickly thought for a second as he already knew, he's from the village of—wait, village of....near. Shijinko realized...he had no idea.
"What the fuck are you doing to me" Shijinko spoke as he looked horrified, he couldn't remember his own village or the occupants. It's as if they were there than the next second they weren't. It felt so weird. He knew his Village had a name, it was at the tip of his tongue, but he struggled to figure it out.
It was frustrating, as he now completely forgot about the Village, his horrified gaze changed into a neutral one, "What Village? I was born and raised by Lord Velyn as one of his prodigies."
"Much better..." The whisper spoke with a chuckle. It's voice altering into a more demonic voice.
And as the wheels creaked forward once more, carving a trail through mist and regret, the sky darkened into bruised violet. Clouds hung low like suffocating thoughts. The forest gave way to wide, uneven roads lined with forgotten shrines and overgrown milestones—relics of empires long decayed.
Inside the carriage, silence had become suffocating.
Shijinko sat motionless, lips slightly parted as if still trying to speak a name he no longer remembered. His fingers clenched the fabric of his trousers. Nails dug deeper with each passing moment.
The Voice had grown quieter, more intimate, like a worm curling around the base of his skull.
Shijinko exhaled and leaned back, staring up at the worn wood ceiling above. He didn't even question it anymore. It was easier that way.
But in the deepest part of his mind, something shivered.
A distant memory screamed in silence, clawing against walls made of his own forgetting.
Hours passed. The air turned heavier.
And then, in the distance, rising like a wound upon the earth—Carthadrax.
The capital city unfurled beneath a blood-soaked horizon. Like a graveyard of towers. Each building stretched unnaturally high, their architecture twisted into sharp angles and impossible arches. Bridges stretched between monoliths like veins between organs. The entire city pulsed with movement and heat, yet felt unnervingly still.
It was a city built atop its own dead.
Even the sky seemed afraid to look down.
The carriage approached the outer gates, where colossal statues of chained angels flanked the entryway. The angels bore no eyes—only mouths stitched shut by golden wire.
A line of travelers waited—pilgrims, merchants, scholars—all watched by guards clad in obsidian armor and veils. Every movement was documented. Every face examined twice.
Shijinko leaned forward, peering through the window, expression unreadable.
The guards waved them through without hesitation. The crest on Lord Velyn's seal demanded silence and swift passage.
As they crossed into the city, the whispers began again—but not just from within.
Carthadrax spoke.
Not in words, but in pressure. In invisible chains that wrapped themselves around newcomers' necks, testing the weight of their worth.
The smell hit him first—iron, oil, incense, ash.
Then came the voices. Thousands of people speaking at once. Beggars crying praises to false gods. Street vendors offering charms against curses that didn't exist. Priests with rusted bells. Children without purpose.
The estate was nestled in the high quarter, past the Venari Spires. It stood beside the marble wall separating the inner sanctum from the rest of the city. The mansion itself was less elegant than Lord Velyn's provincial estate—its beauty cold and calculated, designed to intimidate rather than welcome.
The carriage stopped.
An attendant opened the door without a word.
Shijinko stepped out.
The cobblestone underfoot was warm, like it remembered fire. The statues above the gate stared down like gods of judgment.
"Welcome to Carthadrax, prodigy of the Lord," the attendant said, bowing with mechanical grace.
Shijinko didn't respond.
His eyes lingered on the gargoyle above the gate—a stone beast with a cracked face.
"What are you feeling, Shijinko?" the Voice asked, its tone now velvet wrapped in razors.
Shijinko narrowed his eyes.
"…Like I've been here before."
The Voice laughed low.
"That's the trick with forgetting. Everything becomes familiar eventually."
The gates opened with a long groan, revealing the estate's darkened halls.
Shijinko stepped forward, leaving whatever he once was—behind.