It was freezing, and despite the morning air, the sun still hid on the far horizon, leaving the world in a dim, muted state.
Distant rows of verdant mountains stood in formation, chained around the great Unison City like a fortress carved by nature.
Their peaks were veiled by clouds the colour of ash, faint light shimmering throughout.
The wind howled through them, sweeping into the narrow streets of the outskirts. Rows of small, tattered homes lined the loose gravel roads, large rocks filling the gaps in the concrete.
Late at night, a loud crash had awakened many. Children's sudden cries alarmed the people, and the mere rumour of an invasion stirred them into turmoil.
The townsmen's shouts shattered the stillness, each panicked word heavy with dread and fear.
"What was that sound? What had occurred at dawn?"
A woman shouted, her eyes bloodshot with panic.
"How?"
A few flickering lights pressed against the narrow streets as they marched forward.
In the outskirts, rumours spread through the people like disease. Eyebrows raised, and so did the shouts.
"What? A northerner has trespassed?"
A man scoffed, though his chest tightened.
"Here? In the outskirts? Do not speak such nonsense."
"Then how would they have crossed the Unison Mountains?"
Another elder man whispered.
At the edge of the small, restless crowd gathered in the shadowed outskirts of the city, a young man of twenty froze suddenly, his jaw slack.
He raised his voice, a hint of amusement filtering into his tone as he gazed at the people.
"Elder. An outsider has trespassed the outskirts. Did you not hear it? The thunder at dawn?"
"It sounded like our judgement."
A worried passerby interrupted.
"The Lord of the Skies demands the people's redemption, offering the blessings of spring in return. We must pass out wine, food, and coin, they must suffice as offerings at the southern lake altar, so the Light Festival isn't ruined."
A few citysmen passed through the small border wall between the outskirts and the city.
They passed the crowd of women and men, old and young, giving a few of them dirty looks for the ruckus they had caused.
A modest, wealthy man rolled his eyes at the leader of the group. Only minutes had passed, yet the tension had grown rapidly.
"Do not wander. People, run away."
The leader shouted at the indifferent civilians.
"Return to your houses. To the city."
His chest tightened, his eyes darkened as he announced.
"The Lord of the Sky is merely a myth. Our lord, however is real... the alters are for him. the heavens themselves, have forfeited our gratitude."
As the man said that, several men grabbed him and pulled him away from the slightly dazed, crazed crowd.
As they scattered down the main street, a few came across the cathedral house. It towered over a small area, its appearance deceptive.
Out of all the buildings in the outskirts, this one establishment did not belong there.
It appeared as though it had been built for the city rather than the filthy streets beyond it.
The crater in its clock drew the gaze of many.
But what had occurred was not a natural disaster, nor an outsider from the city, but a stranger from the world itself.
The cathedral house was only the bearer of Oren Xianrath's arrival into the world.
He was the cause of the ongoing uproar.
…
Envy filled Oren's glassy eyes as he heard each and every one of the pitiful shouts. How he wished to be full of life like those mortals.
The scent of iron lingered, as though the air itself tasted metallic.
His battered ears gradually muted the world. A final silence filled his grave.
Unlike a traditional grave, however, Oren lay in the austere attic of a cathedral house, noting the several uneven beams and shattered planks that leaned inward awkwardly.
Shards of chipped wood, shattered bricks, and fragments of stone surrounded his severed body.
It felt as though everything around him was dulled and stained by his own blood. That understanding stirred an unfathomable coldness within him.
His state was wretched. The countless limbs of his body had detached, his scattered ligaments and muscles strewn across the floor.
Yet somehow, despite the visceral and cruel sight, he was alive.
Only his torso and head remained attached.
"Ah. How pitiful. I am pitiful."
He understood the situation he had caused but had no power to do anything at all. His long, dishevelled black hair spilled across his face as sorrow seeped into Oren's hollow, golden eyes.
The shredded dark grey robes he was wrapped in were sunken beneath the red pool. They were the robes he had worn since youth.
Now they were torn, stained a deep red. Their pitiful state made his brows twitch uncontrollably.
But what made him worry was not their condition, but his own. He could not feel or see his body.
Oren groaned, squinting in pain as he shuffled his detached torso. He found the strength to lean against an oak beam.
As his chest tightened, his mind loosened, and the memories that accompanied death emerged before him. Some followed only moments ago, whilst others travelled years back.
His anchor. He had used it, had he not? The anchor forged at birth, burned intricately into his soul.
He recalled initiating the ethereal anchor in the depths of his being, using it to survive another catastrophic situation.
Then the sudden darkness that came upon the anchor's use, the shift, and the moments upon entering the vast and extraordinary world he was now in.
Oren chuckled bitterly as he failed to peer down at his chest. His anchor had betrayed him, somewhat.
That was why I am here, is it not? The inexplicable shift he had felt upon utilising the anchor was a warning he had not noticed.
But where was he? He questioned why he was in this peculiar world.
Is this what the stories say? The ones of divine spawns, of the realms. If only I remembered.
After a brief moment of oppressive silence in the destroyed attic, Oren slowly remembered the name of what this place was.
If he recalled correctly, from the revered stories, this realm, this world even, was a revos verum.
Its most known name was a ruined realm. The latter, revos verum, was used in fairy tales and older stories.
But it directly meant ruined realm. This was the term people came to use when reminiscing about childhood stories.
To think a place like this was real. Like mortal myths, this was a divine one, meant to not truly exist.
A flicker of joy crossed his pained expression.
This was a major discovery. But Oren preferred the gentle name of ruined realm to the peculiar revos verum.
As fast as the joy came, it faded, just like his life.
In one of the several gifted books he had read alone as a mere child, it was said that once you entered, you never returned.
A place that was unidentified, unknown, unseen, a world where the traveller could never escape.
The authors had always written in narration, no space for personal thoughts and actions, only events.
Never going in depth, as if they only imagined what had happened. Even in fiction, he would have called it false.
For the one who entered had been said to never have returned. The stories were created by close family and clan members, ones who did not intervene.
Therefore, even if he somehow survived, even if he escaped this mess, there would be no return. As if there was anything to return to anyway.
It was ironic. No one would be there to write his story.
Oren's eyes darkened.
But from what he had seen while falling from the outer atmosphere was a world larger than any other.
Mountains surrounded cities, great borders protected lands, a grand sea connecting civilisations.
Oren understood this situation clearly, and yet after a few moments of pondering, he became clueless.
It felt similar to being deceived, now by himself. He glanced at a piece of torn cloth and chuckled in irony. It was an unsettling giggle, at the very least.
Knowing the name of something so vague would not help at all. It was only useful if the stories were true.
They were not written by the experiencer after all. But when falling from the outer atmosphere of the realm, Oren had caught a glimpse of this place.
A vibrant world, a vibrant place. What was shown to him upon entering was not ruined at all.
Unless the ruin was merely one's philosophy rather than fact.
Oren groaned again as blood and several unknown organs erupted from his mouth.
Where am I really? So many questions he could not answer. He would die without them being answered.
Death. His death.
Orens golden eyes turned abyss black, then froze, becoming glassy, inflated even.
But as hours passed, Orens thoughts remained, and so did his feelings.
He had once read a story that said regret could keep one alive, but in what way he did not know, neither did he want to find out.
Somehow, someway, his pitiful thoughts lingered. How could he not feel regret? How could he not feel at all? He was unsure.
Am I meant to smile, or cry, laugh bitterly or close my eyes. A heavy breath escaped his torn lips.
A heavy regret coiling in his soul.
In the end, true peace… eternal rest, even, remained beyond his reach. Whether both were the same achievement, he did not know.
Oren had squandered his life, forcing himself down a solitary path that would never soothe his soul.
An ignorance that persisted even in his final moments as he questioned the inevitable.
This is my end, i wanted peace because i could not afford death... his eyes gleaming coldly.
So this is what I wanted, was it not? Oren thought, his eyes gleaming coldly.
He looked up through tangled beams and chipped wood.
"So why do I feel this way?"
He watched as the sun rose. Hours, days maybe. Oren could not account for the time that had passed.
The distant mountains brimmed with life and verdure, blooming flowers and trees filling the fields.
They stretched toward the far horizon, jagged edges piercing the sky. Oren remained deep in thought, his consciousness slipping from his mind.
His body became dull, a coldness that came with death creeping across him, the pulse of life fading.
Despite his failures, as death clutched Oren, he laughed.
The few sights he saw were mesmerising.
Twitch. Twitch.
He sensed a figure standing beyond the shattered beams of the attic.
Too distant to see, just like the sunrise.
But in the end, Oren never saw the sun reach its peak.