Darkness. Not the simple absence of light, but a profound void—a space defined by nothingness that paradoxically teemed with potential. In this formless expanse, consciousness drifted like fragments of shattered glass, each shard reflecting distorted memories, incomplete thoughts, partial identities.
A boy. A swordsman. A vessel. A mage. A traitor. A victim.
These fragments swirled without pattern or purpose, disconnected from the whole they once formed. Yet slowly, imperceptibly, certain pieces began to drift toward one another, drawn by invisible currents of familiarity.
Klaus Zagerfield. The name caught among the fragments like a hook, pulling disparate memories together.
I am Klaus Zagerfield.
The thought emerged from the void, gathering coherence. Memories coalesced around this core identity—not comprehensive, not complete, but enough to form a partial narrative.
I am Klaus Zagerfield, and I died.
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