Silver strands of hair drifted gently to the forest floor, scattering in small piles beneath Aren's stool. They lay there like fallen moonlight, various lengths shimmering faintly in the dim glow of the cabin. Aren sat rigidly, the rough wood pressing against his back, facing a large mirror he had found leaning against the wall. Luckily, despite the earthquake's fury, the glass had survived unbroken, though the interior was so dim that his reflection was more shadow than clarity.
His hands trembled slightly as he lifted the pair of scissors he'd discovered on a dusty shelf. They looked old but well-maintained—clean, sharp, and capable of the delicate work he was about to attempt. His long silver hair, cascading wildly in unkempt waves, was beginning to make him feel more fragile than he already was in this smaller, younger body. He couldn't bear the thought of looking even more vulnerable.
Carefully, almost meditatively, he began to cut. Snip by snip, the strands fell away, blanketing the floor with their softness. He wasn't aiming for perfection, just enough to tame the wildness—to balance between neat and practical. The cut was decent, no expert barber's work, but good enough to stop the hair from obscuring his vision or dragging on the ground.
No need to shave his head—one less task to complicate an already overwhelming situation.
"How do I look?" he asked the empty room, half expecting silence.
[With your eyes, Your Majesty.] The system's dry reply echoed softly in his wrist bracelet's speaker. Aren wasn't sure if this was a joke or if VALORIA was just dense in moments like these.
He chuckled quietly, running a hand through the shortened strands. "No, I mean—how do I really look? Does it suit me?"
[AFFIRMATIVE, Your Majesty.]
Satisfied, he pushed himself up and stretched his aching back. "We'll need to work on the way you speak too. That voice of yours—too stiff, too mechanical. But first…" He glanced down at the floor, brushing away loose hairs, making sure none clung to his sleeves or neck. "Let's see what else we can find around here."
His fingers combed through drawers and shelves, pulling out worn clothes. The sizes were large and loose on his slim frame, but warmth and coverage mattered more than fashion. He layered a heavy shirt beneath a bulky jacket, feeling the unfamiliar weight drape over his slight shoulders. The sleeves swallowed his arms, but he rolled them up to reveal the faint scars of his new, fragile body.
He found a thick leather belt, studded with brass rivets. After punching a few holes to fit his smaller waist, he secured it firmly and attached his knife sheath on the side. The blade's cold steel comforted him—a tangible piece of protection in an unpredictable world.
Next came the axe. It was a robust tool with a long wooden handle and a blade sharp enough to suggest recent maintenance. Someone had cared for this weapon, and Aren felt a flicker of determination. This axe wouldn't just be for chopping wood—it was a symbol of mobility, strength, and survival.
The plan was clear: spend the next few days here, recuperate, gather strength, and figure out the next steps. Behind the cabin, a small garden grew stubbornly—a patch of vegetables nestled in the earth. Nearby, a well stood stoically with a bucket and rope ready to draw water. He rushed to test it, relief flooding him when cold, clear water splashed into the bucket. The earthquake hadn't destroyed this vital lifeline.
He didn't know when or if the cabin's owner would return, but for now, avoiding confrontation was safer than risking everything outside in his weakened state.
⁂
Five days slipped by in a rhythm of quiet survival. Slowly, his body began to regain strength and coordination. Where a normal person would need months to recover from prolonged immobility, Aren's muscles and nerves seemed remarkably preserved. The pod, despite its failure, had kept him in surprisingly good shape, and the blood of House Valoria pulsed through him with an almost supernatural vitality—an ancient resilience encoded in his very DNA.
After his morning exercises, Aren stood swinging the axe with growing confidence, the wooden handle firm in his hands. His strokes were deliberate, each swing carving space between him and the frailty that had shadowed his every movement. He didn't want to rely solely on his dagger anymore—this axe would be his weapon, his tool, his means of survival.
"Okay," he said aloud, wiping sweat from his brow, "tell me something—do you have settings? Like, can you customize yourself?"
[AFFIRMATIVE, Your Majesty.] The soft glow of the bracelet pulsed in sync with his voice's sound waves.
"First things first: your voice and how you speak. Can you sound less… artificial?"
[AFFIRMATIVE. The system includes various voice options and tones.]
A gentle beep introduced the options.
[OPTION ONE – Greetings, my liege.] The voice sounded like an elegant, polished butler—formal and distant.
"Next."
[OPTION TWO – Hello, little brother.] Warm, reassuring, casual—a young adult's voice.
"Oh, I always wanted a brother. But… maybe not like this."
"Do you have a female voice?"
[OPTION ELEVEN – Hello, darling.] The tone was soft and grandmotherly, full of warmth and comfort.
"Maybe something younger?"
[OPTION SIXTEEN – Hellloooowwww!!!] This one was bubbly, overly energetic.
"No! Definitely not this one." Aren almost lost his balance mid-axe swing, laughing at the absurdity.
[OPTION THIRTY – Hello, Your Majesty?]
That voice stopped him cold. He let the axe drop to the ground.
"Val? How did you get this voice?" he whispered, almost breathless. It sounded exactly like her—the old Val.
[Your Majesty, this is one of the predefined voices and tones in the system. Is this what you want?]
He hesitated, torn between comfort and pain. A familiar voice was a balm, but also a constant reminder of what he'd lost.
"I don't dislike it. But can you tweak it? Make it younger, maybe?"
[Like this, Your Majesty?]
The voice softened, still unmistakably Val's but younger—still formal, as if she were in her twenties. Subconsciously he believed that having a voice closer to his current age would have helped him more to get used to everything.
"Yes, this is perfect. Thank you, Val."
[Val? That's how you want to call me, Your Majesty?]
The words slipped out before he could stop them. A pang of embarrassment flushed his cheeks.
"Okay, sure. Call me Val. A name is a name. She is she, and I am me."
[I don't follow, Your Majesty.]
"Don't worry about it. I'll explain it to a friend when I see them again."
[Any other requests for the system?]
He grinned mischievously. "Uuuh, yes! Can you change your sense of humor?"
[That part of the data is lost, Your Majesty. But I will begin building a humor database.]
"No way… Val, you can take initiative?"
[My system allows me to make decisions if they benefit the host and have no negative impact.]
"Good. Build a sarcasm database, too—please."
⁂
After several days of rigorous training and steady recovery, Aren found himself able to run with more confidence, the awkwardness of his new body fading with each passing hour. He could now wield the heavy axe with practiced strength and move fluidly enough to draw his dagger with precision. Hunting became a necessary skill rather than a mere option—he stalked small game in the nearby forest, learning the rhythms and sounds of the wild, tracking the creatures that would provide him with fresh meat.
Val, ever the patient companion, explained in detail the properties of his weapons. Both the dagger and the SENTINEL device strapped to his wrist were forged from a rare and nearly mythical metal called Ragnasid. The name was unfamiliar to Aren, but after handling the dagger and testing its edge against rough bark and stones, he quickly understood its reputation. The metal was extraordinarily durable—strong enough to resist scratches, yet light and balanced for combat. It felt almost like magic in his hand, a reminder that he wasn't entirely powerless.
Inside the cabin, Aren rummaged through scattered piles of books and letters. Unfortunately, all the texts were written in an ancient, foreign script that his mind struggled to decipher. Undeterred, he watched as Val began to scan every character meticulously, searching for patterns and compiling data in an attempt to build a translator. It was a slow process, but the promise of unlocking knowledge kept him motivated.
The days slipped by quickly—accelerated by Aren's rapid physical progress and his growing familiarity with the cabin and its surroundings. Soon, the time came when he felt ready to venture beyond the safety of the familiar clearing. He decided to explore the wider area and chart a path that could guide him toward civilization.
Together with Val's analytical guidance, he scouted the forest carefully, following faint animal trails and broken branches, searching for any trace of human passage. After cross-referencing countless observations and calculations, they pieced together the most likely route a lumberjack would have used—a path wide enough to carry equipment and heavy loads, winding toward a distant road.
The weather had been kind for several days; no rain had fallen, which meant that any footprints or tire tracks in the dirt remained undisturbed and visible.
"Today, we head further north," Aren said firmly, steeling himself for the journey. "Show me the map."
In the dim air before his eyes, a partial holographic map shimmered into existence. It was incomplete—only the areas he and Val had explored were fully rendered—but it offered a clear direction.
During these long walks, Aren took the opportunity to learn more about Val and the mysterious SENTINEL device. Val explained that the device contained a self-sustaining internal battery that drew and stored energy from its wearer's body. As long as Aren was alive, the SENTINEL would continue functioning, quietly siphoning a negligible amount of energy—so little that it barely impacted his stamina unless activated for specific, energy-intensive functions.
The technology fascinated him deeply. He wondered if the battery itself could serve as a blueprint for clean, sustainable energy on a much larger scale. But opening the device was out of the question—he lacked both the tools and the confidence to risk damaging such an important artifact.
The trail ahead was manageable, and Aren carried a small bag with water and some preserved food, preparing for rests as needed.
If only he had the Bright Dragon with him—his emblem, his loyal guardian. With the dragon's strength, he could leap high to survey the terrain or cover great distances effortlessly through the dense forest. He missed that presence profoundly.
His emblem was gone—vanished without explanation. Yet, he wanted to believe it still existed somewhere inside him. From his studies, he knew a Prime Emblem couldn't simply be stolen—it could only be passed down willingly or fade away with the death of its bearer.
"Val," he asked quietly, "can you check if I still have an emblem within me?"
[I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but that function is not within my capabilities. I can only monitor your general health and biometric data.]
This wasn't the first time he asked, but every time he hoped for a different answer.
[Your Majesty, you keep mentioning the Bright Dragon, which is a Prime Emblem, but what is your Original Emblem?]
The question caught him off guard.
My Original Emblem... he thought, his mind drawing blank for a moment. How could he forget something so fundamental?
He explained softly, "An Original Emblem is the one given to an Awakened individual from birth—it's theirs from beginning to end. Different from a Prime Emblem, which is inherited and passed down from wielder to wielder."
"Many rulers, including my House of Valoria, have carried both. But over time, people began to confuse the two, mixing their uses and forgetting they're separate."
"My Original Emblem is called Bright Shield," he continued, a faint smile touching his lips as memories surfaced. "It's likely descended from the Bright Dragon itself, like most of my family's emblems—all tied to light and energy. That's probably why the Bright Dragon chose us."
He recalled his youth, the early days of training. "Its power was to generate strong energy shields, protecting me from attacks of all kinds. I trained to change its shape, using it defensively while the Bright Dragon provided offense."
[So, Your Majesty, have you considered that you may still carry your Original Emblem and that it could be dormant?]
The suggestion felt both logical and unsettling.
He was surprised by Val's sharp reasoning—how she connected dots he hadn't even considered.
"You mean my rank regressed so much that I can't use any emblem at all? Is that even possible? I've never heard of regression like that."
[Just because it's undocumented doesn't mean it can't happen. Your Majesty, you never experienced bodily rejuvenation before either, but here you are. It's all theoretical—but plausible.]
Aren nodded slowly, the truth of that undeniable. His current state was proof that nothing was certain. He had been so focused on his past life that he forgot how his emblem might be affected by this new body.
"It's definitely worth considering," he said gratefully. "Thanks, Val. This gives me hope."
If he could awaken even just Bright Shield, it would be a tremendous advantage.
[How does one become Awakened? Is there a specific process?]
He smiled faintly. "Good question. From my experience, it's all about constant training and strong mentorship. I was lucky—my parents and amazing teachers guided me every day. And with Valoria blood in me, I didn't have to worry about time."
[How do others usually awaken their emblems?]
"Well, it varies," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes, it's a strong emotional event—either extreme joy or severe trauma—that triggers the emblem to awaken. The brain and body react to the shock, stimulating the dormant power. I've heard stories of people whose emblems turned into curses because of that trauma."
He shook off the memories. "But dwelling on the past won't help. I have to find a solution for my weakness—emblem or not."
Val and Aren spent the rest of their trek scanning plants, testing for potential medicines—or poisons.
Suddenly, the path ahead cracked sharply from the earthquake's aftershocks. Dozens of fallen trees blocked the way, branches snagging on each other like broken ribs.
And then, unexpectedly, they came face to face with a terrifying sight: a massive black bear. From behind, the creature's bulk was impressive, but it was too absorbed in sniffing the earth to notice Aren's presence.
Aren's breath caught in his throat. He started to back away slowly, heart pounding, careful not to make sudden moves. But then—
He stepped on a brittle patch of dry leaves. The crunch echoed through the forest.
The bear whipped its head around, eyes glowing a fierce, unnatural red—eyes burning with rage.
Shit. Aren's mind raced. An awakened bear.
Of all the dangers he'd imagined, this was one of the worst.