What a shame.
How pathetic I am….
Nahil, at seventeen, already wore the air of exhaustion of someone who could have easily been much older, existed in the cloudy and muted streets of Islamabad. It was a world that has progressively diminished for him ever since the accident two years ago. His parents had gone out and never came back. Their mangled wreckage was the final appearance of them to the world.
What was left to Nahil was a large house that was too much for one child to manage, and the insurance payment that was insufficient to fill two empty plates on his table.
The house was falling apart, with yellow damp stains on the walls, and the ceiling fan squealed with every turn as if it begrudged its existence. His office was under a thin layer of dust, with a messy web of fibers adhering to the corners of the room. There was the smell of wood, of sweat, of loneliness that had seeped into the walls a long time back.
He had gotten out of college early, but it was not a triumph. He was not protected from the question of what was going on tomorrow by books or grades. Now, with no choice in the matter, all his hope was tied to a scholarship, a thread that could either lift him into the future or break beneath the weight of his poverty.
"What choices do I even have?" he grumbled, fixating on the ceiling.
"Operate some pitiful road side stand.or spend the rest of eternity studying until I've bled all the goodness out of these eyes and hope someone out there cares enough about me to give me a shot.""
He scrunched up his lip in a rage and ran a calloused hand through his matted hair. The idea clouded his mind like aulture on the hunt. He was exhausted from the day's tasks: errands from one government agency after another, getting by on odd jobs here and there, waiting in lines that led nowhere.
Finally, exhaustion got the better of him. With a dull thud, he allowed himself to collapse against the thin mattress. The blanket was tangled, the sheets uncleaned, but he didn't care anymore. His lids slowly closed, and the room faded to blackness.
Silence.
When Nahil opened his eyes again, he felt as if he were floating. Not in water, nor in the air, but in a void. Blackness extended in all directions, so absolute that it seemed to suck in all sounds. He looked down at himself and saw he was pressing against nothing, as if he were standing at the edge of an infinite ocean. Every step he took sent ripples into the darkness.
A shiver ran up his spine. His heart pounded, but his body could not rouse itself. It wasn't just a dream.
And from the void, shapes began to appear. These were at first shadows, silhouettes against nothingness. And then came the broken stone pillars, jagged and angular, as if ripped from the wreckage of an abandoned world. The walls grew from crumbling stones to become arches. Debris littered the air like ash. Nahil felt himself dwarfed by the vastness of his surroundings.
And then he noticed the thrones. There were five of them. They loomed like mountains. They were carved with symbols of deities whose names he couldn't remember. One was entwined with withered vines. One was smoldering with eternal fires. One was laced with a light that seemed woven from moonbeams. They radiated power that pushed against him.
In the center, an old lady emerged. She had a crooked backbone, her hair was silvered and matted, her face etched with deep wrinkles that looked older than time itself. A pale beam of light focused on her, setting her apart from the infinite darkness. Her milky and cloudy eyes were fixed on him. She extended a quivering finger toward heaven, her nails shone like highly polished obsidian.
Her voice shook within the silence, ancient and commanding.
"Lo…he shall rise. Rise, and the heavens shall tremble. The transcendent shall awaken once more. And you…"
She turned her finger to him, and Nahil stood rooted in place as if the weight of ages rested upon him.
"…You will be his vessel. Suffer, for the whispers of the transcendent will burn your soul with blessings."
Before he could utter a word, even draw breath, her hand thrust forward. Burning bright, blinding in its intensity, a flood of light burst from her palm, flooding him. It was not flame, nor cold; it was something else, something that ripped apart his very senses in ways that words could never describe.
Nahil's eyes suddenly opened.
His body was soaking with sweat, his chest heaving for air. Something was off, however. His clothing was not his own. It was richer, thicker, heavier. A luxurious blanket enveloped his legs, pulling him back with each attempt to exit the bed. He landed heavily on the wooden floor, which felt strange against his palms.
It wasn't his room. It wasn't even his world.
He raised his head. The room he was in was extravagant, with tall windows hung with silk curtains, chandeliers twinkling softly in the corners. There was expertly carved furniture that reminded him of motion pictures.
Next came the pain.
"Memories, not his own, stabbed into his skull like knives." He grasped his head desperately, gasping for air as voices shrieked inside his mind.
"Ilis… save me
"Ilis, strike them with the pointy end!"
Faces unlike any he had ever seen, battles unlike any he had ever fought, lives unlike any he had ever lived rushed into him in a single moment. His mind seemed to be screaming apart from the overload.
When finally the storm of memories passed, he cowered on the floor, shaking with fear and covered in sweat. The truth hit him like a cut throat.
This wasn't a dream. He had transmigrated.
It was not his body, not his world. He was living another life; that of a different person; a boy named … Ilis.
Though he did not remember what the dream was, he felt something frightening; he felt fear. The world was a very complex world to him because he knew that there were empires, kingdoms, and even small countries ruling these lands based on Ilis's memory. Ilis was the son of Julius Damas, who was a parliamentarian in the Varen Empire. Ilis's father was a very kind person because he would always fight for his people, while his mother died right in front of him. She was stabbed by someone right in front of his very eyes.
Nahil took a moment to compose himself and sit back on the bed. He was trying to understand everything that was happening. He was taking a step forward towards the gorgeous dressing table when he stopped in his tracks. He was looking in the mirror but that reflection was not his.
He leaned forward a bit and chewed his lip lightly as he scanned every inch of the boy before him. His face had changed. He could feel a sudden surge of strength envelop him. Although there was no flow of magical energy inside him, he could feel a surge of strength spreading inside his chest and perhaps a certain degree of confidence too.
He spent some time analyzing his features, then he observed his beard.
A beard? I have never grown a beard in my life as Nahil. well, never mind, I've always wanted a beard.
He faintly smiled at himself.
Then he came closer to the window. A chilly wind from outside shook his very flesh. He noticed the garden, full of life and order, outside his window. The mansion was two stories high, bigger than anything he could ever think of.
He opened the door to his room and saw that the bathroom was nearby. After washing his face, he proceeded through the hall where Afrel is seen talking to one of the servants.
Afrel was a faithful servant to the members of the Damas family. Afrel was already close to seventy years old; his weathered hands were clasped behind his back; his eyes hardly opened. His gaze
Nahil, no, Ilis felt the pounding of his heartbeat; he willed the expression on his face to remain calm. Of course, Afrel noticed the discomfort on his face but did not comment.
Afrel came and stood before him. The man was an inch or two taller than Ilis, his stance steady, almost reassuring. Ilis has always admired and respected him.
"Awake, are we?" asked Afrel in a kind, low tone that was full of warmth.
"Y-Yes… is Father awake?" asked Ilis as a drop of sweat trickled down his cheek.
"Yes, he's already at the table, must be waiting for you. Go on," Afrel replied.
Ilis nodded in silence. Afrel moved aside, making a path for him.
Ilis went to the long bronze table where his father was dining. Julius Damas was a middle-aged man. he was still youthful-looking and could easily be estimated to be in his forties or forty-fives. His appearance was dominant yet consolatory, and his smile brightened the whole room.
However, as a member of high-born society, Ilis knew that he had to behave as such. He stood up straight and took a seat. He filled his plate quietly with bread and eggs and fruit.
"How did you sleep?" asked Julius.
"It was a good sleep, Father," Ilis answered, managing a tiny smile.
"You know that the gathering is at hand. What do you think?" Julius asked, casting Ilis a faint glance.
From the memories of Ilis, he remembered Emperor Reynold of the Varen Empire invited all military generals and nobles into his court. As Julius himself is a high noble with Emperor Reynold as a childhood friend, they naturally have to come.
Varen Empire, found on the Vaelora Continent. Containing three continents altogether, these are Elyndra, Vaelora, and Karthane.
We, the Varen, find ourselves on the Vaelora Continent together with the Republic of Aurel and other smaller nations.
Elyndra is found on the other side of the small ocean separating our lands, belonging to the Kingdom of Maric, the State of Sarn, and the Darth Empire, fabled to hold cultist groups and dark deity worship within their territory.
Lasting north will be Karthane, whose icy regions hold the territories of Lysa and Vale.
Then come the Ashen Isles, enshrouded in mystery.
Ilis nodded with a calm smile. "Yes, I am aware, and of course, I will be at the meeting."
"Excellent. So, have you decided on which current you want to channel?"
What current do I want to tap into? His brow furrowed slightly. I don't know much about those words. I have yet to extract all the memories from Ilis.
"Not really. I am still thinking about it," Ilis answered.
"Think fast then. You're almost seventeen, no time to waste," said Julius.
Ilis tightened his fist slightly under the table.
After breakfast, Ilis did not tarry and went directly to the library before the rest of the hall. Ilis carefully pushed the door ajar and entered it. The library was not a big room, but it was full to the brim with tomes, emitting a scent of dust and age.
He started searching, running his eyes over every title until one caught his notice "The Channeler."
"Yes…that's it," he whispered, curling his lips slightly in relief.
He picked up the book and took it to the study table. The cover of the book was broken and torn with patches of leather peeling off. Slowly, he unfolded the pages and started reading.
"The history of this world is long and complex, full of mysticism. It's astounding to think that we exist in the presence of powers that are known as Currents. Some people are blessed by these Currents. some people are consumed. I will tell you the history of these Currents and the Channelers."
He turned the page.
"During the First Extinction, the Gods descended. The mere presence of the Gods was enough to make the world tremble, and everyone knelt before them. They were respected, admired, and they were the ones who granted humanity the ability to tap the Currents… pieces of their divine essence. Even Gods had no escape from the whispers of corruption."
A gap developed amongst the Gods. The Gods fought each other. And man suffered because of their conflict.
"Each God once ruled a Domain, not simply over elements, but over more profound ideas: war, knowledge, dreams, beasts, and death. When the divine realm fell, the might of the Currents burst into the world of mortality."
"These Currents are rivers of godly power, to be harnessed, yes, but never fully controlled. A Channeler is someone who establishes a sort of 'vein' to a Current inside himself through rituals, potions. or outright madness. There is no one way to do it."
Ilis frowned minutely, his eyelids narrowing.
"Then, the Currents are what's left of the Gods who died out in the First Extinction," he muttered. "And there were three extinctions in total… but mankind has managed to survive them all."
He leaned back in thought for a moment. "Humans are a stubborn species," he said.
Flipping another page, his eyes met a sentence inked in bold, faded letters, "The Seven Gods."