The Iron In His Blood Is The Metal Of...
It was dark when he woke up slumped against a cold, hard surface.
His head swiveled in confusion, finding his surroundings covered in dust and debris. He seemed to be under the ruins of something, but it was too dark to tell what the structure was.
Finally, he turned to the figure sitting on the corner of this place.
It was the shadow of a person. Like someone had a light shined upon them, and their darkness had been given form, creating something without color or surface details but an undeniable depth.
Whoever this shadow belonged to, it had the form of a humanoid male adult.
... Humanoid. Why did he think of that word? Why not simply human?
The shadow stood from its chair and walked up to him, and he felt compelled to rise and do the same.
"Why did you do it?"
It had no mouth, yet the question rang out all the same, making his eyebrows furrow.
Did what? He racked his brain for an answer... and found nothing.
Yesterday was gone from his memory, just like the day before that, and one week ago, and—
Everything was gone. His history, his family and friends, his... name. He didn't even know his name.
"I..."
He breathed harshly, trying to control his quickening heart. The shadow was indifferent to his predicament. It only wanted an answer.
"I don't know," he finally said. "... I don't know," he repeated to himself, quieter.
"You don't know why you did it?"
"I don't know what I did."
It took several seconds to respond again.
"... Your memories are gone."
"Yes." was his immediate reply. He stepped closer to the shadow. "Did you do this to me? What even are you?"
It took a step back, turning so its profile was facing him. "No, I didn't do this."
It did not answer his second question.
"Your mind is fracturing due to everything that transpired. Maybe even someone like you can feel remorse. Or maybe s̷̭͈̫͇̜͚̑͌̓̀̆͗̆͑̎ḥ̸͍̜͇̇͐͋͑̏̿͆ĕ̵͖͕̏͒̾̊͝—"
He shuddered as one of the shadow's words echoed painfully inside his head. He couldn't make any sense of it. The world itself was struggling to carry that sound.
It was something that shouldn't be said.
"—is the one responsible."
But it was something he needed to hear.
"... who are you talking about? Why should I feel remorse?"
It laughed, a miserable, forced sound. "It doesn't matter. Maybe your memories will return with time. But as you are, there's no point in speaking to you. The only thing I can do..."
The shadow pointed something at him.
It was a knife.
"The only thing we can do..."
More silhouettes rose from the cracks on the floor. Men and women of all ages stalked towards him with different weapons in hand.
"... is make you pay."
"Wait—"
"Die, you traitor!"
He darted away, but there was no exit, no ceiling, no crack big enough for him.
Nowhere to run or hide.
One of the shadows swung. Heat burst from his throat, and his screams quickly regressed to choking on his own blood as he was stabbed repeatedly. Mercilessly.
"Die, die, die!"
The first source of light in these ruins flashed from the corner of his vision, but the shadow before him held his throat, not allowing any movement.
"Die, Cyrus!"
As it pulled back for the final blow, his head finally lolled aside weakly.
Twin rubies.
No. They were stars, swirling with the warmth of life, and a certain emotion he couldn't decipher—
No. They were eyes, staring into his soul. He could see his wounded frame reflected in those orbs, but that wasn't what he wanted.
The gaze belonged to another silhouette, standing in the same corner where he woke up. She was the only one not participating in the carnage.
He searched for meaning inside those perfect gemstones. Why was she not hurting him? Why were they hurting him? Why—
SHINK
"...!"
He woke up again with a start.
It was only a dream, he realized, blinking rapidly.
He wasn't in those ruins anymore, but this new place was just as dark. It was a forest with thick, tall trees that stretched dozens of meters above him. Their foliage stopped most of the full moon's light from reaching him.
In the dark, tired and confused, he focused on the only thing he had.
A name screamed before he awakened. Instinctively, he knew that it was his.
"... I'm Cyrus."
It effortlessly rolled off his tongue, followed by a harsh bout of coughing.
Warm blood pooled under his prone body, flowing as far as he could see. But it wasn't coming from any wound in his body. It wasn't even that suffocating, metallic scent that made him cough.
He was hurting. The pain of having his throat stabbed and gouged apart had somehow carried over to reality.
Grrrr...
Cyrus looked left at the origin of that guttural noise.
Grrrrr...
Then right, towards a similar growl.
Coming from the treelines on opposite sides, two creatures circled around him.
They stood on all fours a few inches below his full height. Most of their bodies were covered in dark fur, but some limbs had the coat and skin stripped away, revealing raw, corded muscle. Their heads were long and covered in scales, almost like masks, but it didn't look right. The scales bulged and cracked in odd places, and when one of the creatures shifted slightly, he could see why.
It grew over their fur like tumors. As if they were mammals in the process of becoming reptiles.
Even if he had all his memories intact, he would not be able to recognize their original species from these mangled bodies.
The two beasts bared their yellowed fangs at each other, fighting over what they perceived to be a fresh carcass to feast on.
If he stood still, would they leap at each other and give him a chance to leave? Or would they tear at his flesh together like a pair of starved dogs thrown a bone?
Cyrus didn't overthink it. If something wanted to eat him, he wouldn't lay prone waiting for it. He palmed the bloodied earth, pushing himself into a crouch. The beasts immediately took a step back, becoming even warier.
Awooooo!
Awooooo!
Their howls echoed into the night, fading seconds later.
For a moment, there was utter silence.
Then, Cyrus spotted a glint within the treeline... no, two glints.
Then, another pair.
Before the third set of eyes appeared, he moved and almost stumbled on his first step. No matter where he went, the slick blood under his feet never seemed to disappear, turning running into an arduous task. His only saving grace was that his pursuers were two rival packs. They bit and snapped at each other as much as they growled at him.
Cyrus swiped an arm to clear the branches on his way, ignoring the leaves sticking to his face. He briefly wondered if he could climb one of the trees for safety but quickly discarded the idea. He didn't know if he was good at climbing and they were too close for comfort.
... Grrr...!
Another growl sounded from behind him, he had to focus to hear it, somehow. His attention split away from the steps ahead to gauge the distance between him and the beasts.
He wasn't being surrounded. He'd been moving ahead of the packs the entire time.
Splat! Splat! Splat!
... Thump!
And once his boots hit dry earth, it was over. Cyrus wiped off the leaves and twigs from his face as he slowed down, finally losing them.
His eyes caught a few rays of light coming north, and he sighed, stepping through a bush and reaching...
A clearing.
"... ah."
It led into a wall of cold, unfeeling stone, standing taller than any of the trees behind him.
He'd run straight into the foot of a mountain, cornering himself.
He winced as a cold wind blew his hair into his face. It was only a matter of time until they caught—
Awooooo!
... up.
He had to look up to face the new beast. It had the same butchered features as the previous one. However, this one towered over the others on two legs.
The pack stalked behind its leader, surrounding him on all fronts.
No matter the direction he chose, he'd have to go through them.
"... So be it." He needed to escape. He needed... to know more. About why he was here. About who he was.
If he had to fight for it, then so be it.
Cyrus darted right.
The pack leader barked a command. Something blurred behind him, and reflexively, he swung his right arm.
With a dry thud, his attackers landed a few dozen meters away. A jawbone still filled with teeth fell by Cyrus' feet, along with bits and pieces of skull. The hurt beasts were already getting up, moaning in pain.
"..."
For a moment, he had almost panicked. When something with teeth that big leapt at him, the last thing he should have done was offer a limb.
However, it seemed his instincts knew better.
A low, rumbling sound brought his attention back to the greatest threat to his life. Turning to the pack leader, Cyrus gripped his...
Nothing.
There was nothing in his hand, and yet, without realizing it, he'd set himself in a stance meant for wielding a one-handed weapon.
Once again, his body knew better than him.
His speed... his strength... his stance... he was definitely some sort of fighter in the past.
A mercenary? A knight? Words and meanings flew inside his fractured mind, but trying to figure himself out only left him more confused.
He knew what a mercenary was, but when did he learn it?
How maddening.
A flash of light brought his attention back to the pack leader. Dark blue flames gathered inside its open mouth, spinning and growing into a sphere—
Cyrus leapt away as the fireball burst into the clearing, but he reacted too late. Heat and light washed over his form, hitting him like...
A warm breeze.
He stepped away from the light bothering his eyes, patting himself down. Even his clothing was left unscathed.
Had it been just an illusion? Did those flames have another purpose beyond hurting him?
Judging by how the pack leader stared at him, no. They didn't.
Cyrus stomped forward. It lowered its head, avoiding his gaze and gnashing its teeth.
Grrrr...
One by one, they retreated, leaving only him... and the charred corpse of one beast he struck earlier.
It was a smart choice, he supposed. Even if they could win by coming at him all at once, his body wasn't enough to feed the leader, let alone the entire pack. It would be a wasted effort.
With a heavy sigh leaving his body, Cyrus leaned his back against the mountain. Now that he wasn't in mortal danger for once, he could carefully climb one of the trees, get higher ground, and make a route for himself.
[L]
After getting a bigger picture of his surroundings, he learned that he'd been heading west when he was supposed to go south to leave the forest.
However, it was easy to make up for the distance. Cyrus' first—
—as far as he remembered—
—brush with death had been eye-opening. From his first night to his first day, he ran with the confidence that he could fight anything in his way.
From his first day to his second night, he was forced to slow down, for there were enemies he couldn't stop with brute strength.
Hunger and exhaustion.
He didn't trust any of the berries he found in the bloodied forest, much less the beasts' meat.
He also couldn't sleep much because the shadows were always there, stalking his dreams. They would swarm him, and though he fought them off, new ones would replace the fallen, wearing him down with numbers, torturing and insulting him until...
Until he stared into That Woman's eyes, ending the dream. However, the pain he experienced remained with him even after hours of waking up.
Cyrus was afraid. Afraid that if he perished in the dream before seeing That Woman, he wouldn't wake up again. So his maddened dash slowed to a march, with a few breaks to catch his breath. Through the hungry beasts, the rotten air, and the bizarre flesh growths on the soil and vegetation, he eventually left that unpleasant site behind. And now, he traveled through snowy hills, trailing behind the first bit of civilization he'd seen after losing his memories.
They were a squad made up of a dozen soldiers in heavy armor. Eleven were on foot, while the last one rode a headless horse. A fire burned on the animal's neck stump, and its rider would move to the front at night, lighting the path for those behind him.
The soldiers smelled like corpses and didn't seem to tire, no matter how long they marched. Undead, his mind supplied him. Cyrus spotted them battling the beasts at the forest's border and decided to help from their blind spot. He didn't move any further towards them because an enemy of the beasts might not necessarily be his ally.
For all he knew, he could be a trespasser in their territory or even a member of an enemy force.
Or maybe he was part of their ranks. But a traitor, like the shadows called him.
So, Cyrus didn't communicate with the undead. He only kept up with their relentless march, hoping to find signs of life. A town, a camp, a tent... anything besides snow and trees.
Today's snowstorm was particularly fierce, so he struggled to follow the soldiers. However, it was only due to the difficulty of seeing beyond the white veil. The cold didn't bother him for the same reason that the beast's attack didn't.
His body temperature was ridiculously high, evaporating any snow that touched his skin. Whatever he had inside him burned hotter than any flame, so it would take an equally ridiculous temperature to bother him. However, by controlling his breathing, he could somewhat regulate that heat, lowering it just enough that swallowing snow would provide him with water instead of steam.
Cyrus continued searching for the headless horse's light, and as he walked, he noticed it was growing on the horizon.
A few steps later, he realized why. The army had stopped for the first time in three days.
The horseman pointed south, then signaled the bannerman and two scouts to move southwest. They nodded, splitting from the squad.
Cyrus thought about trailing those three... but as he tried to step forward, his body collapsed against a tree, sensing a chance to rest.
When he rose his head, he wasn't in the bloodied forest, snowy hills, or even the dusty ruins. He was in the front row of a college classroom.
Ahead of him, there hung a blackboard and a message scrawled with red chalk.
Two letters of an alphabet that was unrecognizable yet eerily familiar.
Runes.
"Cyrus."
Only one other person was in this class, and their voice shocked Cyrus to his very core.
He knew that voice. It belonged to the first shadow he'd met.
But when he looked left, he saw...
Ashen hair. A jovial smile. A face marred by battle with a large scar running from cheek to cheek.
Everything else was still covered in darkness, leaving only that person's most striking features.
Ulysses shook Cyrus by the shoulder slightly to make sure he was paying attention. "Why'd you choose the Ironblood Arts?"
Cyrus tapped his fingers on the desk, humming. "Convenience, I suppose."
What?
That was definitely his voice, but not what he wanted to say.
"They're uniquely suited for my blood, so I don't mind using them... even though they require some brand of self-mutilation."
"Can't you still make weapons from the enemy's blood?"
Cyrus shrugged.
"I can, but as I said, my blood suits them better."
All of his words and actions were coming without his input. This wasn't like the dreams of before. This...
This was a memory.
"What about you, Ulysses? Why did you suddenly decide to learn the Ironblood Arts?"
"I—"
The classroom's door creaked open, letting in a ruby light.
"Wait!" Cyrus screamed while looking away from the door, gaining control of his voice again. That presence was usually a good sign, but just this once, he needed this to play out until the end.
He poured all his attention on Ulysses, even raising a hand to block his peripheral vision. "Ulysses! Can you tell me who I am?!"
"I thought they would make me stronger," the man began.
Ulysses' semblance had made an utter reversal. His smile was gone. His fists were clenched over the table as if held himself back from...
"Because you used them. You, who outstripped me in rank despite joining after me."
His features were slowly being covered by the darkness again.
"But the results were disappointing. I guess it wouldn't be the last time I followed you and ended up disappointed, huh?"
"... guess so."
With a small sigh, Cyrus turned away from him, facing That Woman again.
"Die—!"
She tapped the blackboard.
Cyrus woke up... disappointed. He'd been at the cusp of something, but the shadows interrupted it.
He wondered why. Wouldn't it be better if he knew? How could punishing him for something he didn't know about sate their sense of justice?
The sounds of stomping feet and clashing metal made him focus outward. A battle was already underway.
At some point, the primary squad had left, and the scouts were engaged in battle with...
Actual, living people. Their clothes clashed too much to be a set of uniforms, and their way of fighting was too individualistic to be from an army.
Travelers. A man swinging a battle axe, another firing a pistol, and a woman—
Who got ran through by a sword before he could even register her features.
Cyrus rose to his feet in alarm, feeling a slight sting on his shoulder. A stray bullet was halfway buried into his unclothed arm. The blood flowing from the wound boiled the snow below him, creating a haze around him.
... iron... blood... metal... of...
Cyrus couldn't afford any time to figure out who was right or wrong in this conflict. Not when there was already one casualty.
He would side with the ones still living.
Cyrus moved to flank the shortest of the undead, the one giving the axe-fighter trouble with its swift movements.
Something burst into flames in his peripheral, but he was too focused on the undead with rodent ears to care.
He positioned himself behind his opponent without its notice. But as he was about to attack, it hopped back several times to avoid the center of the fight.
Landing right behind him. Showing his back to him.
UlyssesClassroomIronbloodArts—
The iron in his blood was the metal of—
"...!"
The undead spat its rotten lifeblood on the snow, feet dangling uselessly in the air.
It was held up by the same crimson spear that had pierced its chest. The weapon formed from a bullet wound was stabbed deep in the snow, leaving the creature skewered.
Cyrus looked up, hesitantly facing the three travelers.
Wait... three?
"Hello?"
Wasn't one of them supposed to be dead?
[V]
Fharamun. That was the name of the place he found himself in.
More specifically, he was in Fharamun's Sanctuary Groves, a failed settlement haunted by its founders.
The undead army he met were members of a knight order. Long ago, they came to Fharamun from the West but couldn't survive its dangers and make a place for themselves.
Their remains rose from their graves for unknown reasons, and nowadays, they...
"They're just going through the motions of their old lives," Astrid told him. "Patrolling, sparring, killing trespassers... they're actually quite capable of conversation if you catch them during downtime."
"You... talked to them?"
"I interviewed them, yeah. It's part of my project."
Astrid Mercury. A self-proclaimed freelance journalist. She was a woman with long white hair covered in ribbons, wearing thick clothes suited for the snowy weather surrounding them. Though she wasn't a Fharamun native, she took up the duty of answering most of his questions.
The first thing Cyrus asked her wasn't anything about himself or this place. It was if she needed any medical attention after being stabbed in the heart. She laughed it off, claiming it was alright because she was a Phoenix.
"What about you, Cyrus? Do you have any concrete goals after losing all your memories?"
"I'm looking for a woman," he told them.
"Bahaha!" One of the mercenaries accompanying the phoenix burst into laughter.
"Well, can't blame a guy for having his priorities," said the other. Glowstick, if he recalled correctly.
Astrid only raised an eyebrow.
"Is she a family member? A close friend? A very close friend? What does she look like?"
"She has red eyes." To call them simply red was a disservice to what he'd seen, but he was already giving them the wrong impression, so it would suffice.
"And...?"
"That's it. And she's the person I remember the most, so I feel like I should find her."
Well, there was also Ulysses, whom he recently found out about. But he'd rather find the shadow who silently watched him than the one who tried to kill him at every turn.
"She's my destiny," he decided, looking at the bonfire and finding its brilliance lacking compared to those crimson eyes.
Astrid hummed. "... I don't really believe in destiny, but all things considered, our meeting was fortuitous. You can travel with us to Munkarshan—"
"If ya can pull yer own weight—"
Astrid rolled her eyes at the mercenary. "And look for clues there. What do you say?"
She offered her hand.
He shook it without hesitation.