Title: The Codex of FateChapter 1: The Corpse in the Snow
The north wind bit like a serrated blade, gnawing at the very marrow of his bones.
Kaelen pulled his threadbare grey tunic tighter around his shivering frame. He blew into his cupped hands, watching the white mist dissipate instantly in the freezing air, and glanced up at the leaden sky.
"By the look of the shadows, it's nearly Vespers," he muttered, his voice raspy. "The firewood is chopped. I might steal a moment of rest."
He massaged his aching lower back and shuffled into the woodshed. Finding an old stump, he sat down, staring blankly at the snowflakes drifting past the window. His mind, as it often did, began to wander.
He did not belong to this world.
Before, he had a different name, lived on a distant blue planet, and was a Senior Logic Architect for a massive tech conglomerate. He remembered the "Nirvana Protocol"—a hyper-realistic simulation promised to change humanity. He remembered the excitement of securing a pod, the hum of the machine... and then, the searing pain of a catastrophic surge.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer a coder. He was Kaelen, a starving servant in the Kingdom of Aethelgard.
Initially, he thought it was a glitch in the simulation. But the bruising on his skin, the stench of manure, and the gnawing hunger were too real. The "game" date should have been the First Era of Peace; instead, the calendar here marked the 23rd Year of the Red King. There was no logout button. This was his reality now.
The original owner of this body, also named Kaelen, came from peasant stock. Orphaned and destitute, he had refused to live off his aunt's charity in the city, choosing instead to sell his labor to Blackwood Keep, a stronghold ruled by the ruthless Baron Blackwood.
It was a hard life. And six months ago, the original Kaelen had frozen to death in a drunken stupor, allowing the soul from the stars to take the wheel.
Kaelen coughed, pulling himself from his reverie. Survival came first.
He headed to the kitchens. At least the Baron fed his servants, which was more than most could say in these harsh times.
The cook, a greasy man with a scarred lip, looked at Kaelen with undisguised disgust.
"Stay back, plague-rat!" the cook barked, then hesitated. "Wait. Don't touch anything. I'll serve you. Don't want your sickness tainting the stew."
The cook tossed two stale heels of bread and a bowl of watery gruel onto the counter. Kaelen had been battling a severe lung infection—a death sentence in a world without antibiotics. He had survived, barely, but his savings were drained on herbal remedies.
He forced the dry bread down his throat. It tasted like sawdust, a far cry from the synthetic steaks of his past life. But he swallowed every crumb. In this world, calories meant life.
"You there! Boy!"
Kaelen had barely sat down when a Steward pointed a gloved finger at him.
"Come here. Take this... refuse... and bury it."
Kaelen approached the object on the floor. It was a long shape wrapped in coarse black burlap. His eyes twitched.
A body.
Servants here were property. If the Baron wanted a servant dead, they died. No trial, no magistrate. It happened often enough at Blackwood Keep.
The Steward motioned to another servant, a timid kitchen hand named Tom, to assist. Tom was shaking so hard his knees knocked together.
"M-Master Steward," Tom stammered, "Could we perhaps..."
One glare from the Steward silenced him.
Kaelen fetched a rusted cart. Together, they heaved the heavy bundle onto it and wheeled it out of the castle gates, heading for the desolate woods beyond the walls.
"Kaelen," Tom whispered as they reached a clearing, his teeth chattering. "Let's just leave it here. The wolves will take it."
Kaelen looked at him coldly. "Abandoning a corpse is a hanging offense. The Plague Laws are strict. Do you want your head on a pike?"
Since the Great Pestilence, the Kingdom had strictly enforced burial laws. Unburied bodies bred sickness.
Tom shuddered and grabbed a shovel. The ground was frozen hard, making the digging brutal work. After an hour, they had managed a shallow grave, barely two feet deep.
"Good enough," Kaelen grunted.
They hoisted the body from the cart and dumped it into the hole.
Kaelen turned to grab his shovel to begin filling the grave. Suddenly, the black burlap tore open.
A hand—pale, bloodless, and calloused—shot out from the grave and clamped onto Kaelen's ankle with the grip of an iron vice.
From within the shroud came a raspy, gurgling hiss.
"Help... me...!"
Kaelen's heart hammered against his ribs. He tried to kick free, but the grip was supernatural, fueled by desperate adrenaline or something darker.
"It's alive!" Tom shrieked, wetting his breeches before collapsing into the snow in terror.
Kaelen froze for a heartbeat. His mind raced. Not a zombie. He's not dead yet.
He looked down. The burlap shifted, revealing a glimpse of the face.
Kaelen's eyes widened, then narrowed into a slit of cold determination.
If this man lived, if he returned to the Keep... whatever secret reason led to his execution would be exposed. And the witnesses—Kaelen and Tom—would be silenced. Permanently.
Him or me.
Kaelen didn't hesitate. He swung the spade with all his strength.
THWACK.
The sharpened metal edge slammed into the figure's neck through the cloth. Blood—hot and crimson—sprayed across Kaelen's face.
The grip on his ankle tightened, then spasmed. Kaelen struck again. And again. He didn't stop until the head was severed from the body.
Breathing heavily, steam rising from his blood-spattered tunic, Kaelen leaned on the shovel. His hands trembled, not from cold, but from the adrenaline dump.
It was the first time he had killed. He felt sick, but he felt alive.
"Adapt or die," he whispered to himself. In a world of war, plague, and monsters, mercy was a luxury he could not afford.
He turned to Tom. "Go back. I'll finish this."
Tom scrambled up, eyes wide with horror, mumbling thanks before sprinting back toward the castle walls.
Once alone, Kaelen knelt to inspect the severed head. He pulled back the bloody cloth.
Master-at-Arms Horgus.
It was the Baron's own weapon instructor. A man of immense strength and status. Why was he executed in secret?
Rumors flashed through Kaelen's mind. The Baron's fourth wife. An affair. The Baron must have discovered it and ordered a quiet execution. But the executioner had botched the job.
Kaelen realized the danger. He quickly stripped his blood-soaked outer tunic and threw it into the grave. He rubbed mud over the blood splatters on his trousers.
Then, he hesitated. Horgus was a high-ranking retainer. He might have something of value.
Kaelen reached into the dead man's gory tunic. He found a small pouch containing six silver stags—more money than a peasant saw in two years.
He dug deeper and his fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. A pendant.
He pulled it out. It was a piece of black obsidian, carved with a strange, twisting sigil.
The moment his skin touched the stone, a jolt of icy energy surged up his arm, piercing directly into his brain.
His vision blurred. The world turned grey.
Suddenly, lines of glowing, arcane script burned themselves into his retina, floating in the air before him.
Plaintext
[ Codex Activated ]
Subject: Kaelen
Lineage: Human (Common)
Status: Malnourished / Tainted Contact
Attributes:
> Strength: 0.7 (Deficient)
> Agility: 0.9 (Average)
> Spirit: 1.2 (Awakened)
Masteries:
> None
Fate Points: 8