The Shackled Void

Consciousness returned not like dawn, but like shards of glass stabbed into the eyes.

One moment, Heze was dissolving in the perfect silence of the Null Memory. The next, sensation crashed back with brutal force. The deep, bone-seeping cold of stone. The stale odor of stagnant air. And a pressure—a heavy, oppressive foreign energy smothering everything like a wet shroud. This was the antithesis of the void he'd just embraced; this was existence rendered unbearably dense.

With a rasping groan, Heze's consciousness forced the unfamiliar body to move. His eyelids scraped open, revealing a dim chamber. An isolation cell crafted from black obsidian, etched with chains of glowing silver runes. This wasn't Aethelburg. This wasn't Vega Terra.

He tried to rise, joints protesting with audible cracks. This body felt terrifyingly weak, brittle as if it might crumble at any moment. He looked at his hands—pale as marble, with long, slender fingers. Not his hands.

Gasping, he crawled towards the only reflective surface in the gloom: a ceremonial silver dagger lying on the floor, likely dropped. He stared into its dull sheen.

The tragic face of an aristocratic young man stared back. Skin nearly translucent. Hair, long and bone-white, spilled like liquid darkness onto the black floor. And his eyes... eyes of a deep, haunting crimson.

Heze's heart—or the heart belonging to this body—pounded with horror and dissociation. This was a nightmare. A post-death hallucination.

Just as his rational mind screamed denial, a familiar-yet-alien interface of cobalt blue flared into his consciousness, clear and undeniable:

[Soul Anchor Activated]

A subtle vibration resonated in the core of his being, as if an invisible hook had sunk deep and anchored fast.

[Binding Modern Soul: 'Heze' to Ancient Vessel: 'Nihil Aethernis Nocturne']

Nihil Aethernis Nocturne. The name echoed with a grief and despair that weren't his own.

[Primary Quest Issued: Reconcile Two Lives]

[Objective: Understand the vessel's past, accept its fate, or forge a new one.]

[Reward for Completion: True Integration.]

[Penalty for Failure: Soul Annihilation.]

Heze stared back at the crimson eyes in the reflection. Analysis, logic, data—that was his world. And now, this system in his mind was the only data he had. His mission was clear, and the penalty absolute. He was no longer Heze, the cognitive economist. Nor was he yet Nihil, the cursed noble. He was both, and neither. An anomaly trapped between two lives.

Elsewhere in the sprawling mansion of House Nocturne, within a study paneled in dark wood and draped in opulent tapestries, Alban Nocturne sipped his red wine. A fire crackled comfortably in the marble hearth, its light dancing across his handsome, arrogant features.

Finally, it was over.

His youngest brother, Nihil—the family's "shame"—had finally succumbed to the curse binding him. The priests had confirmed his death an hour ago. No more whispers in the corridors. No more pitying glances from other noble houses. No more burden staining the great name of Nocturne.

Now, he, Alban, was the sole remaining male heir of his generation. His path to the leadership seat of House Nocturne lay smooth before him. He was already planning his next moves: strengthening the alliance with House Virell, perhaps through a betrothal to one of their daughters now that his family's "blemish" had been... cleansed.

A frantic knock shattered his pleasant reverie.

"Enter," Alban commanded, irritation sharpening his tone.

A captain of the guard rushed in, face deathly pale, breath ragged. "Young Master Alban… it's… it's dire!"

Alban set his glass down slowly, cold eyes narrowing. "Compose yourself, Captain. What could be graver than wine served too cold?"

"The Isolation Vault… where… where Young Master Nihil's body lies," the captain stammered, voice trembling. "The silver runes binding it… they've all cracked! There's… there's a strange energy leaking out. Not Blessing, not dark magic… something else. Something hollow!"

The warmth from the fire and wine vanished from Alban's body instantly, replaced by an icy stab. His satisfaction froze into something colder, harder.

The problem he thought buried had merely been dormant. And it seemed... it had just awoken.

"Assemble the Elite Squad," Alban ordered, his voice as sharp as shards of ice. "Seal every corridor leading to the lower wing. No one is to know of this."

He rose, his luxurious robes whispering behind him. "I will deal with this myself."