#Kane
He shouldn't have taken this body but he had to keep living, hopefully to die.
He would find an Awakened that Tharozh had blessed ridiculously with enough power to kill him. Probably an Unknown of some sorts.
Even now, as blood soaked into the rotted cloth beneath him, Kane knew it. The warnings were clear: Don't leap into a vessel unless you're certain it fits. Unless the frame is primed—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Unless the echoes don't shout you down.
But he had no choice. The last vessel had burned out on him. Two days ago? Three? Hard to count time when your spirit floats between meat.
This one was young. Too young. And still clinging.
That made it worse.
---
The stink hit first.
Old piss. Rancid oil. Slaughterhouse runoff. Kane's first full breath in the body almost choked him. His ribs flared with pain, broken in too many places to name. Nine, he guessed. Maybe more. The flesh was soft. Untrained. Not built for violence.
He blinked. One eye barely opened—crusted over. A fly clung to the lid like it owned the place. It didn't bother flying off. Why would it? It had feasted.
The boy had been here a while.
The metal bin groaned beneath him. He shifted, slow. The bones of rats clinked under his elbow. Skin sloughed from his forearm, blood sticking like old syrup. His nails were blackened, one missing. Tattoo lines crawled up his arms—not the body's but kane's, etched in a rite he could never forget from when he was in Aueriallla. It was a place many people in Aueriallla didn't even know existed, the orbit. He looked at the body again.
So young, he thought, watching the skin tremble as the Duration kicked in. Why would a boy this young volunter as an adventuer?
Then again, maybe he hadn't volunteered.
Kane pushed up. Not a full sit—just enough to look. The boy's clothes were soaked through, stiff with dried blood. A few holes in the fabric, but no clean shots. No blaster holes. No monsters mark.
He let out a breath that wasn't entirely his.
This is the kind of place you dump bodies.
---
The rat came next.
Fat. Scarred. One ear gone. It moved to the edge of the bin and stared at him.
Not afraid. Not yet.
Kane stared back. Their eyes locked—his, glowing faint red; the rat's, milk-clouded. It was a stupid animal. No language, no logic.
But it knew.
He reached toward it.
No force. No aggression. He simply allowed the connection.
The change came like a quiet inhale of breath before the scream.
The rat arched. Its spine ballooned. Purple veins burst beneath fur like poisoned ivy crawling under skin. It convulsed once. Then twice.
Then—wet.
Not loud. Just final. The sound of meat surrendering to pressure.
Guts sprayed across the bin's inner wall.
Kane didn't blink.
He reached inward again, this time with something that wasn't quite thought. Something older. Deeper. A coil of will that lived in the marrow. A mana side.
His fingers twitched. The Duration flickered in his mind and flesh that attempted to merge in short burst now persited longer
Then—extinguished.
Heat bloomed across his chest. Real heat. That was a good sign. Pain followed, chewing through the nerves like ants swarming fresh meat. Also good. Pain meant the graft had survived. It meant the interface was syncing again.
The tattoos lit. Not brightly. Just a dull pulse along his collarbone.
He clenched his jaw.
His chest began to knit together—slowly, stubbornly. Bones cracked back into place with groaning protest. The skin followed, dragging behind like a drunk remembering how to walk.
The body's listening, he thought. That's something.
---
He reached into the coat—no, jacket, too soft for real coat work—and found a name tag. Clipped. Bent. Written in one of the most popular language of the Dominion. Obviously Narethn, Igbo.
His brow creased.
He used the tag to wipe his mouth, but his eyes stayed on it longer than necessary.
He didn't know the boy's name. But someone did.
Someone who might be waiting. Still hoping.
That made it worse.
A second rat crawled across his fingers.
He didn't even look at it.
It burst.
---
Kane rolled to the edge of the bin and dropped. He landed hard, ankle twisting, but the bones held. Another good sign. This body was resilient, even if it didn't look it. He would have been passable at a normal adventuring quest then.
He stood slowly
He muttered something low—words made of smoke and consonants. Not to cast.
Just to hear the voice.
It was too soft. But it would settle.
The mouth had a very rich blood supply.
---
He took a step. Then another.
Still walking. Still not fully himself.
Still not entirely alone in here either.
The spirit hadn't fled. Not fully. He felt it in the left hand—hesitating on every movement, as if the boy still thought it was his. Kane didn't speak. Spirits didn't like being told they were dead.
A flicker.
The image came fast and uninvited: an old man in a wide sun hat of God of three branded in, sitting on a porch made of corrugated metal, humming something low and tribal. His face had the softness of someone who had raised, not commanded. His hands—steady, dark, and creased—held out a tin bowl filled with ogi and puff-puff.
Kane blinked. It wasn't his memory.
The taste of fermented maize lingered on his tongue. A feeling of warmth, of safety. The kind that didn't belong in a place like this.
The boy's memory.
That was worse than a scream.
He shook his head, as if motion alone could dislodge the past. It didn't.
If he'd had any other choice, he wouldn't have taken this one. Too soft. Too good. The kind of spirit you only meet in stories—when the two moons cross, and mothers whisper hope into their children's ears.
He paused for a while closed his eyes tightly and opened it.
He hadn't blinked since he started walking.
Maybe the boy still could.