The forest breathed around Lyra—ancient lungs expanding and contracting with each gust of wind through the canopy. Every sound felt amplified in this preternatural quiet: the whispered conversations of leaves, the distant aria of unseen birds, the sharp percussion of twigs snapping underfoot like breaking bones. The wilderness wrapped around him like a burial shroud, heavy with the weight of centuries.
His bare feet pressed into the earth, each step a reminder that sent electric shocks of reality through his consciousness. The apprentice robes—coarse, unfamiliar fabric that chafed against skin that wasn't supposed to be his—clung to a body that defied every law of physics he'd ever known. Crimson hair, long and silken, caught the breeze and danced across his vision like flames.
The contradiction clawed at his mind. Inside, he was still Kai—twenty-three years old, college dropout, gaming addict, someone who lived on energy drinks and instant ramen. But that person might as well have been a ghost. Here, in this impossible place where the very air tasted of magic and ancient secrets, there was only Lyra
The name felt like a borrowed coat that didn't quite fit, but it was all he had now.
While he was wondering around the forest trying to find safe place. He suddenly heard a noise in the bush and in that instant,
The attack erupted from the undergrowth without warning—a dire wolf, massive and scarred, its yellow eyes burning with predatory hunger. Lyra's heart hammered against his ribs as the beast's muscles coiled like loaded springs.
"Firebolt!" The word tore from his throat, raw and desperate.
Flame bloomed in his palm, hot and real and absolutely impossible. The fire struck the wolf's flank with a sizzle of burning fur and flesh, but instead of falling, the creature only grew more enraged. Its snarl echoed through the trees like a death knell.
Lyra stumbled backward, his voice cracking as he cast again. But the wolf was too fast, too real, too hungry for his blood. This wasn't a game where he could respawn if he died. This was life and death, and death felt terrifyingly permanent.
Then silver flashed through the air like lightning.
The sword sang as it cleaved through muscle and bone, and the dire wolf collapsed in a heap of fur and gore. Blood, thick and dark, pooled beneath the creature's still form.
Lyra stared at the carnage, his chest heaving. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, making his stomach lurch. He'd seen death in games a thousand times, but this—this was different. This was real.
"You alright?"
The voice belonged to a man wiping crimson from his blade with practiced efficiency. He was tall and weathered, with the kind of scars that told stories of survival. His eyes, sharp as flint, assessed Lyra with the calculating gaze of someone who'd learned to read danger in the space between heartbeats.
"I think so..." Lyra managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Thank you."
"You're lucky that thing didn't tear you apart." The man sheathed his sword and extended a callused hand. "Name's Damon."
Lyra hesitated for a moment before taking the offered hand. The grip was firm, real, warm with life. "Lyra."
Damon's eyes flickered briefly over the delicate features, the flowing hair, the feminine form wrapped in apprentice robes. For a heartbeat, Lyra's breath caught in his throat. But the man simply nodded, whatever thoughts he might have had remaining locked behind his weathered expression.
"You alone out here?"
"Yeah." The lie came easier than expected. "I just... woke up in the woods. I don't remember how I got here."
It wasn't entirely false. The truth was simply too impossible to speak aloud.
Damon's frown deepened, carving new lines in his weathered face. "That's strange. Come on, I'll take you to Farwater. Closest village east of here. You look like you've been through hell."
They walked the dirt path in companionable silence, but Lyra's mind raced with every step. The way the earth felt beneath his feet, the smell of pine and wildflowers, the way sweat beaded on his forehead—every sensation screamed of reality in a way that no simulation ever could. There were no quest markers floating above Damon's head, no inventory screen, no way to check his stats or level up.
This wasn't a game anymore. It was something else entirely.
"What did you call this region?" Lyra asked, breaking the silence.
"This? You're in the Viridwilds, southern range of old Nareth," Damon replied, his boots crunching on fallen leaves. "You really don't remember anything?"
"I remember fragments. Names. Places. It all feels... like a dream I forgot."
Damon shot him a sidelong glance, and for a moment, his expression softened. "Then maybe it's better you don't remember. Most folks around here try to forget what came before."
They crested a hill, and the world opened up before them. Farwater spread across the valley like a painting come to life—wooden fences weathered by time, tiled rooftops gleaming in the afternoon sun, and smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals. The village pulsed with life, real and vibrant and absolutely, impossibly tangible.
Not code. Not a digital illusion.
Real.
"Was it always like this?" Lyra asked, his voice barely audible.
"No," Damon said, and something in his tone made Lyra's blood run cold. "A long time ago, things were different. That was during the Age of Ancients."
The words hit Lyra like a physical blow. His heart stuttered, then began racing.
Damon continued walking, oblivious to the storm of recognition raging in Lyra's chest. "My grandfather told me the tales. Back then, the sky cracked with lightning every night, and towers made of glowing stone rose from the earth like fingers reaching for the heavens. People say gods walked the land—beings who could cast fire from their hands, teleport across the world, resurrect themselves after death."
Resurrect after death. Like a respawn.
"We called them the Ancients," Damon continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller. "They came from somewhere else—somewhere beyond the Veil. Built cities without stone, spoke words that bent reality to their will. They were like gods, but... different. Stranger."
He paused just before the gates of Farwater, his gaze distant as if seeing across centuries.
"Then, one day... they vanished. All at once. No warning, no goodbye. Just... gone."
Lyra's mouth went dry. "Gone?"
"One day the world was full of their magic, and the next, it was empty. Their towers crumbled to dust. The magic faded like morning mist. The world kept turning, but the echoes of their power still linger in the old places."
Damon turned back to Lyra, his eyes searching the younger man's face with an intensity that made Lyra's skin crawl.
"Do people know why they left?" Lyra asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"Scholars argue about it. Some say the Ancients grew tired of this world and abandoned it like a broken toy. Others think they were cursed—struck down by the gods they defied with their hubris. But the oldest stories, the ones the village elders whisper when they think no one's listening... they say the Ancients weren't meant to stay here. That they came from beyond the Veil, and the world itself rejected them."
He stopped walking entirely, studying Lyra with eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul.
"You've got that look, you know. Something ancient behind the eyes. Something that doesn't quite belong."
Lyra forced a smile, though it felt like cracking glass. "Maybe I'm just tired."
"Maybe," Damon said, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it for a moment.
They walked through the village gates in heavy silence, the sounds of normal life washing over them—blacksmiths hammering steel, children laughing as they played in the streets, merchants calling out their wares. It was a symphony of humanity, of life continuing despite the mysteries that haunted the world.
But all Lyra could think about was the terrible, impossible truth burning in his chest like swallowed fire:
The Ancients hadn't left.
At least one was still here.
And he had no idea how—or why—or what it meant for the world that had tried so hard to forget them.
The weight of that knowledge settled on his shoulders like a mantle of lead, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to carry the burden of gods.