Sylas sat on his worn-out bed, the musty scent of old wood clinging to the air, his mind drifting through scattered memories, trying to piece together where he was now.
It didn't take long for the name of this remote village to surface in his mind.
Duskwick.
A quiet village nestled at the edge of a dense, fog-laden forest known as the Whispering Hollow.
It lay near the border between the Kingdom of Shenzara and the unclaimed wildlands. The people here were reclusive, steeped in superstition.
"This place practically screams poverty. If the fog doesn't kill you, the prices will."
His eyes landed on a letter resting on the rickety table beside the bed.
"Mother, huh…" he murmured, leaning back with a slow, weary sigh.
The word tugged at a long forgotten memory—his past life, standing in a warm, sunlit kitchen, small hands helping his mother prepare a meal, their laughter simmering with the scent of home.
He took the letter and unfolded it with steady hands. His eyes settled on a single name.
Evan.
He stared at it in silence. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes, shards of memories not his own flickering behind his eyelids, like scenes from a life he'd never lived.
"Tch. My predecessor sure was a sentimental fool," Sylas scoffed, reopening his eyes.
Evan Mortis, my darling little stepbrother. The surprise no one asked for... yet somehow, everyone adored him. Even those who once swore they loved me.
Alright, enough stalling, let's dive back into the story.
Evan was born of Ruo Ziyun, the third wife of Sylas's father, and once the jewel of the fallen Ruo clan, a cultivation family that had long since fallen into ruin.
When their power crumbled, they did what desperate clans often do, they traded away their daughters.
Ziyun, the most beautiful among them, was offered like a fruit basket to a starving wolf. And the king, his father blinded by her beauty, claimed her without hesitation.
Sylas sighed, his chin resting in his palm, his gaze distant and cold.
It reminded him of someone from his past—someone who lived just down the hall in his childhood apartment. Her laughter used to spill through the cracked walls, bright and careless, until one day... it stopped.
His mother had simply said, "Some women don't get to choose."
He hadn't understood it then.
But this world had a way of teaching you things—slowly, cruelly, and without asking.
His thoughts drifted, carried by the silence of the room. There were always more pressing things to remember.
"The Kingdom of Shenzara," he murmured, as if saying the name might make sense.
The kingdom was divided between two dominant powers—
The noble houses, who wielded mana drawn from their very souls, and the ancient cultivation sects, who channeled qi from the heavens and earth. Though their powers stemmed from different sources, they maintained a fragile alliance.
Both factions held seats on the Kingdom Council.
"Just like a bad wuxia crossover," he muttered under his breath, dry amusement flickering in his eyes as he slid the letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
And Evan, his dear little brother had awakened the holy power of Eluria, the Light Goddess worshiped throughout the land.
The moment it happened, the king and his council didn't hesitate. In the blink of an eye, they stripped Sylas of his title and crowned Evan as the new heir.
The original Sylas had been enraged. He confronted the king—his own father—but of course, that changed nothing.
So, in a fit of desperation and pride, he did what all fools drunk on entitlement do—he plotted. Gathered a handful of bitter nobles, threw coin at mercenaries, and set a plan in motion to poison the golden boy.
But it all unraveled quickly. Some of those nobles turned on him before the ink had even dried.
"And now here I am, exiled, babysitting the legacy of a moron who poisoned his career with actual poison."
"What a headache," Sylas let out a long, annoyed breath through his nose.
He rose to his feet and walked over to the crooked window, the warped frame creaked under his touch.
Outside, the view greeted him like a painter's cruel joke—a fog-laden forest with only a sliver of sunlight, rotting fence posts jutting from the earth like broken teeth.
"Charming," he muttered under his breath. "If you're fond of plagues and quiet despair."
With a flick of his fingers, he straightened his collar. "A stroll, perhaps... or to find a few fools in need of salvation."
~~~~~~
The muddy paths of Duskwick squelched beneath his boots, each step sinking slightly into the wet earth.
The village smelled of mildew, smoked fish, and unease. From behind cracked windows and open doors, villagers peered out, whispering behind gnarled fingers. Outsiders were rare in Duskwick and nobility, even disgraced ones, were rarer still.
Sylas walked calmly, head held high, each step deliberately placed. He caught fragments of quiet whispers, fleeting glances, and the subtle shift of curtains. The fog curled around him like a creature sniffing out his scent.
The villagers feared the forest.
Children were pulled back when they neared its edge. Elders spat prayers into the wind. They called it Whispering Hollow—a place said to hum with voices when the night grew still enough. Some believed it was cursed. A place where the dead still listened… or spoke.
Lately, people or rather, children... had been disappearing.
Which made Sylas all the more curious.
He strolled further into the village, passing a tavern tucked between an apothecary and a chapel, where villagers whispered over drinks and an old man sold charms carved from yellowed bone.
Eventually, Sylas found himself at a small market. Old stalls and uneven tables filled the square.
A few sellers called out, selling vegetables and dried meats. One old woman sold hard candies from a chipped glass jar. Children ran past holding wooden toys carved to resemble beasts and birds.
Then, between a fish seller and a sweaty blacksmith shop, he spotted a small stall made of mismatched cloth, like a patchwork tent.
He was already walking past, until a tug at his coat broke the silence.
A boy, no older than ten, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Brother, brother, could you buy something from that stall?" he asked, a half-melted candy sticking to his small fingers.
Sylas stared at him, his expression unreadable, eyes flickering with something distant.
Then, with a faint smile and a low chuckle that barely touched his eyes, he ruffled the boy's hair, before turning and strolling toward the stall like it had been his intention all along.
Inside the stall were scrolls, dusty trinkets, and a worn-out book.
The shopkeeper is a lean, wiry man with a crooked smile and eyes like polished coal looking up with interest as Sylas entered.
"Ah, good eye, sir. That one's special... Rank 1 cultivation manual," he said with an easy grin, voice smooth as silk.
"You won't find anything like it around here. Fifty gold coins, a real bargain."
Sylas crouched in front of the manual, brushing off a film of dust with deliberate slowness. His touch was almost affectionate. The cover was worn, the ink faded, but the title remained.
Silent Pulse Vein-Threading Scripture
He repeated the name under his breath, voice laced with the faintest awe. "A core manual…"
Then he looked up, and whatever warmth had been in his tone was gone. His gaze pierced through the shopkeeper.