Alec woke up, the world dim and distant, a heavy buzzing still thrumming in his head. Whatever had happened the night before felt like a half-remembered dream — scattered, slipping through his fingers before he could grasp it.
He stirred, the buzz in his head now a dull ache. The scent of steeped herbs and warm wood filled the air — unfamiliar, but comforting. His fingers ran over the blanket — soft, thick wool — and the cot beneath creaked as he shifted his weight. No sharp hospital scents. No machines. Just warmth, and the whisper of firewood crackling somewhere nearby.
He blinked under the cloth tied across his eyes — not that it changed anything. The darkness was the same. But the gesture felt grounding. Chosen.
"Ah. He's waking," a soft voice said nearby — gentle, melodic, lined with age.
Footsteps approached — steady and deliberate — followed by the scrape of a stool pulled closer. A hand, broad and calloused, rested lightly on Alec's shoulder.
"You're lucky to be alive," came a deep, gravelled voice — warm, but with the edge of someone used to doing hard work. "We found you by the shore, half-frozen and unconscious. You've been out nearly a full day."
Alec sat up slowly, careful not to move too fast. His head pulsed, but the sharp edge was fading. He turned his head slightly toward the voices, placing them by sound — something long-practiced. Years of navigating a world without sight had made him listen harder than most.
"I…" He hesitated, his voice raw. "My name is Alec."
The woman let out a breath — not quite relief, but close. "That's something, at least," she said. "I'm Linya. This is my husband, Rhoen. We run the Ember Leaf — just a humble teahouse."
"A good one," Rhoen added, with the quiet pride of a craftsman. Even without seeing him, Alec could sense the man's presence — tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of strength that came from chopping wood and lifting crates rather than swinging swords. His voice held weight — not just in tone, but in how it carried across the room.
Linya chuckled. "He always says that."
She placed something in Alec's hands — a warm cup. The porcelain was smooth, the tea fragrant with hints of cinnamon and citrus.
He brought the cup to his nose first, instinctively. Let the scent fill him. His fingers traced the rim as he gauged the liquid's level by feel and warmth alone.
"How's your head feeling now?" Linya asked, her voice soft but curious. "You were murmuring in your sleep… something about a fan?"
Alec paused, gripping the cup a little tighter.
"I said that?" he asked, feigning a puzzled smile. "Must've been a dream." But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
Linya tilted her head slightly — he could feel the shift in her breath, the pause. She wasn't pushing, but she wasn't convinced either. "You said it like it mattered. Like it hurt."
He turned his head away slightly, toward the sound of the window where breeze fluttered faintly through paper screens.
After a moment, he reached toward the coat draped on a nearby chair — guided not by sight, but memory of placement, distance, and angle. His fingers moved with practiced care until they found the inner pocket. The fan. Smooth wood. Cool silk. Still intact. Still warm.
He turned it slowly in his hand.
"I don't know why," he said carefully, "but I feel like this… was important to me. Before."
Rhoen, who had been listening silently from across the room, finally spoke. "Looks like quality work. Not something you'd forget easily. Might be a family heirloom, or a gift."
"I think so... But I don't remember it clearly," Alec said, lowering the fan into his lap again.
"We were hoping you might remember more," Linya said gently. "Anything about where you're from? How you ended up there?"
Alec's fingers brushed against the fan again — not sight, but shape and texture painting a picture in his mind. Still, nothing clear came. Just emotions. Echoes.
"I… I don't remember. Just my name."
Silence. A long one. Neither of them pressed further.
Rhoen finally spoke. "Well, you're safe now. That's what matters. Memory or no, you're welcome to rest here as long as you need."
Alec nodded once — a habit more for their comfort than his.
"Thank you."
Linya touched his arm gently. "Drink your tea, dear. It'll help."
He raised the cup again. It was bitter, floral, just sweet enough — and real.
And that was what struck him most: the realness of it. The weight of the porcelain. The warmth. The aching throb in his muscles. The softness of the blanket on his legs. The quiet clink of ceramic against his teeth. None of it felt like a dream. Not anymore.
This wasn't a hallucination. Not limbo. This was something else.
This was his new reality.
He stared blankly into the bottom of the cup, eyes unfocused beneath the blindfold, mind drifting. He'd listened to enough webnovels in his old life — lazy afternoons spent with earbuds in, lying in bed while rain tapped at the window. Tragedy. Rebirth. Systems. Second chances. All those stories of heroes cast into strange worlds with magic, monsters, and mysterious powers guiding them.
Maybe… this was his turn.
He chuckled under his breath, barely audible.
Still, it was worth trying.
He waited until Linya moved back into the kitchen. The clink of teacups and rustle of dried leaves faded behind the beaded curtain.
Then he whispered, almost embarrassed by it:
"System"
Nothing.
He waited.
Still nothing.
"…Open system panel?"
Only the wind brushing against the eaves. Only the faint knock of Rhoen outside, stacking firewood. The silence was almost mocking.
He sighed, sinking back against the wall. "Figures."
But just as he started to lower the cup—
Ding.
A soft chime echoed faintly inside his head — not heard, but felt, like a ripple through bone.
Then a voice — cool, neutral, but distinctly artificial — whispered into his thoughts:
[System Initialization Complete.][Welcome, Alec. Parameters aligned. Primary traits: Balance, Resonance, Dual Affinity.]
Alec froze.
His heart didn't race — it paused.
The fan pulsed faintly in his lap, warm and steady.