Chapter 15: Magnus Ashborn

Arthur felt heavy. It felt like air itself became viscous, pressing against him.

He opened his eyes.

He wasn’t in his room. The peeling wallpaper, the drafty window, the smell of old wood-it was all gone.

He was standing in a Hall so vast the ceiling was lost in the shadows. The floor was polished obsidian, reflecting a sky that didn’t exist. Massive pillars, carved from white marble and veined with gold, stretched upward, disappearing into the void.

The sheer scale of the building was impossible, Stone Arches spanned distances that should have collapsed under their own weight.

“Where Am I?” Arthur muttered, his voice echoing in the absolute silence. “This looks like some ancient Temple…. Is this a dream?”

He looked down at his hands. They weren’t pale but transparent, akin to a hologram projection.

“You sure are loud for an intruder.” The Voice boomed from the far end of the hall. It wasn’t a shout, But a thunderstorm.

Arthur spun around.

Sitting on a throne of rough black iron at the end of the hall was a man. He wore Armor that looked like it had been forged from Dragon scales, and a heavy fur cloak was draped over his broad shoulders. His face was scarred, and his eyes….

His eyes burned with a red fire far more intense than anything Arthur had ever seen.

“Magnus Ashborn,” Arthur muttered, the name surfacing from his memory, he had seen a drawing of him in the Viscount’s study and his name appeared on the records too.

Magnus leaned forward, resting his chin on a fist clad in a gauntlet.

“You are one of my descendants,” Magnus rumbled, his gaze piercing through Arthur’s spirit.” You Soul feels…. foreign. I suppose you came from a world without mana.”

Arthur straightened his back. He knew that if he lied now, this might be his last dream.

“I am Arthur Vance,” he said, while maintaining a steady voice as much as he can “And I am currently inhabiting the body of your descendant, Oliver.”

Magnus laughed. “Inhabiting? Is that what you call it?”

He stood up and walked down the steps of the throne, the sound of his boots ringing like hammer strikes.

“I sense the book,” Magnus said, stopping a few feet away. The codex Sanguinis. You touched it and it resonated with you. That book only responds to the Ashborn bloodline. Which means…”

Magnus reached out. His hand, glowing with red energy, passed straight through Arthur’s chest.

Arthur gasped, but there was no pain. Just a sensation of cold water running through his veins.

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Magnus pulled his hand back, holding a ball of swirling light. But the light wasn’t one color. It was two, a bright chaotic blue (Arthur), and a faint sleeping silver (Oliver).

“Two souls,” Magnus murmured, looking at the light with fascination. “Entwined like vines. The boy… Oliver is not dead, he is merely sleeping. Hibernating to survive the trauma.”

Arthur froze , his face paling. ”He is …alive?”

“Barely,” Magnus said, crushing the light back into Arthur’s chest. “His soul is very weak currently. He retreated into the deepest recesses of his mind to escape from the poison effects. And you… have filled the void.”

Arthur took a step back. “I didn’t choose this, I died and I woke up here. I am just trying to survive.”

Magnus circled Arthur like a predator. “I feel your rejection, Arthur Vance. You look in the mirror, and you see a stranger. You call him “Oliver” as if he is a tool. You reject the blood and the identity you currently hold.”

He stopped in front of him, grabbing Arthur by the collar of his shirt-or the spiritual projection of it.