TBATE: Corvis Eralith

Corvis Eralith

"Corvis Eralith. The Thwart. I have been waiting to speak with you."

The name—my name—slammed into me like a physical blow. But the title… The Thwart. It coiled around my heart, cold and alien. Disbelief warred with a terrifying, dawning certainty. This… this shimmering, golden infinity… the sheer, overwhelming sense of scale, of power beyond comprehension… Fate.

This could only be Fate. The nigh-omniscient architect, the highest power in the tapestry of existence I knew in TBATE. Why? Why was this entity, reserved for Arthur Leywin, speaking to me? Corvis Eralith. The failure prince. The coreless disappointment, it was a cosmic joke, surely.

"You have many questions." The statement wasn't spoken; it simply was, filling the golden void, resonating in my bones.

"Of course I have…" The words scraped out of my throat, thin and ragged in the face of this enormity. Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in my chest. This wasn't just breaking the fourth wall; it was shattering the entire universe. Characters didn't just meet Fate! Especially not… me.

"You are treating this conversation like an interaction within a book, Thwart." The observation was chillingly precise, devoid of judgment, yet scalding in its accuracy.

An interaction within a book? The thought detonated. So Fate knows. Knows I'm a reincarnate. Knows I read the story. Knows I see this world through the lens of a narrative.

"Why…" I swallowed, the effort painful. "Why are you calling me the Thwart?"

"Because that is your role. Thwarting the world from going astray." The answer was maddeningly simple, yet it deepened the chasm of my incomprehension.

Thwarting what? How?

"I don't understand. You know about my reincarnation?" The question felt foolish, redundant after its observation, but I needed the confirmation spoken.

"You already know the answer." The response was infuriatingly serene, echoing in the golden stillness.

Was Fate teasing me? Was this entire existence just an elaborate cosmic jest at the expense of the broken prince? A wave of bitter resentment surged, hot and acrid, momentarily eclipsing the awe. But then, cold logic reasserted itself. Of course Fate knew. It knew everything. The realization was a bucket of ice water.

The core question burned brighter. "Why am I here? Why have you… summoned… me?" Summoned felt inadequate, but it was the only word that fit.

"I am here to explain your role, Corvis Eralith." The tone shifted subtly, becoming… instructive? Authoritative? Eerie, definitely eerie. It sent shivers down my non-corporeal spine.

"My role?" The word tasted foreign. What role could I possibly have in Fate's grand design? Then, the missing piece slammed into place.

"Did you… did you have anything to do with my reincarnation?" The question tumbled out, frantic. My death, so sudden, so pointless… the transition into this world… it had never made sense. Agrona had no motive. But Fate… manipulating the threads of existence… that fit.

"Yes." The confirmation was a thunderclap. "As I said, you are the Thwart, always been the Thwart. What prevents the world from going astray. You have always been the one meant to correct Arthur-Grey's path whenever it deviates."

"Arthur-Grey? That means Arthur is here!?" Hope, fierce and blinding, erupted within me, momentarily scattering the confusion and fear. Arthur! The protagonist! The key! If he was truly here, walking Dicathen, then… then everything changed! Salvation wasn't just a dream!

"You already know the answer." The repetition was a cold splash of water, dousing the flare of excitement. Annoyance prickled, sharp and sudden, but the joy of Arthur's confirmed presence was too immense to be fully extinguished.

"I have always been the Thwart? What do you mean?" The word felt heavy, ancient, laden with a history I couldn't fathom.

"Whenever Arthur-Grey takes a different path from the one he is supposed to take—the one you know from your memories—the Thwart, you, must correct that divergence." Fate's explanation unfolded like a cosmic scroll.

"What you know as The Beginning After The End is only one instance of Arthur-Grey's journey. The correct and perfect instance. But there exist other instances. Worlds where Arthur-Grey, or the tapestry around him, is… different. To correct those differences, to shepherd the straying timelines back to the true path… there is you."

Astonishment locked my breath. I wasn't just a reincarnated reader in one story. I was… a function. A constant. A correction mechanism woven into the very fabric of multiple realities. Meant to be Arthur's… guide? Fate said correction. A helper? An enforcer? The distinction blurred, but the core aligned with my deepest desire—to aid Arthur.

"What do you mean The Beginning After The End is the correct instance?" I pressed, needing to grasp the foundation.

"Time is not absolute." The pronouncement resonated with finality.

If you want to teach me about the theory of relativity… my flippant internal thought was instantly crushed.

"Time is not absolute, nor is it unique." Fate continued, its presence seeming to expand, encompassing the infinite threads. "There exist multitudes of what you might call 'timelines.' And in these divergent streams, anomalies occur. Individuals who were not meant to be born in the true instance. You. The Thwart."

Fate paused, the golden strings pulsing with intensified light.

"May it be Corvis Eralith, Gwin of Highblood Denoir, Fina Greysunders, Agnaras Indrath, Voryin Wykes, Lola Bladeheart… and countless others across the branching infinities. You are the constant variable. You are meant to be Arthur-Grey's greatest ally, his bitterest enemy, his closest friend, his sworn brother, his protective sister, his trusted mentor, his treacherous betrayer, or…" the slightest pause, laden with unspoken complexity, "...his fated lover. In every role, in every divergent world, your purpose remains: to realign the world upon its ordained path. You are the anchor against the chaos of deviation."

The weight of it crashed down—a crushing, cosmic burden. Across realities, I was a tool. A fundamental force. A puppet dancing on golden strings to ensure one specific story played out perfectly. The realization wasn't just information; it was an identity theft on a multiversal scale.

The question that had haunted me since childhood—since I opened my eyes in TBATE's world—buried beneath royal expectations and the shame of inadequacy, surged to the surface with desperate, burning urgency. It wasn't about Fate, or Arthur, or timelines anymore. It was about me.

"Then…" My voice was a raw whisper, trembling in the vast, golden silence. "Who am I?"

"Corvis Eralith." The answer was immediate, factual.

"No!" The denial ripped out, fueled by years of silent internal crisis I refused to consider given the dangers of the future. "No. I mean… who was I?" The plea hung in the air. Before this. Before the prince. Before the failure. Before the Thwart. The boy on Earth.

Who was he? What was his name? His life? His dreams?

"This is an answer I cannot give you." Fate's response was final, like a door slamming shut on the only thing I truly craved.

"What?! Why?!" The shout tore from me, raw and ragged, echoing the frustration of a lifetime spent feeling like an imposter in my own skin. The identity crisis I had endured, the constant, gnawing question of who I really was… and now, at the source of all knowledge, I was denied? It was a cosmic cruelty.

"Will it change anything?" Fate's question sliced through my fury, cold and precise. "Will knowing the name, the face, the fleeting existence of the consciousness that resided on the planet you knew as Earth… will it alter your function? Will it change the role of the Thwart? Will it mend the timelines? Will it bring you peace, Corvis Eralith, or only deepen the chasm within you?"

Silence. Profound, absolute silence descended, heavier than the golden light. My arguments, my pleas, died unborn. The truth in Fate's words was a cold knife twisting in my soul. What would it change? Would knowing a forgotten name ease the burden of being a cosmic correction tool? Would it make the phantom memories of another life any less haunting?

Or would it just be another ghost to mourn, another layer of loss in an existence defined by borrowed identities and predetermined purposes? The desperate fire of my demand guttered out, leaving only ashes of resignation and a chilling, hollow emptiness where the answer should have been.

The frustration boiled over, scalding and raw, shattering the eerie calm of the golden void. "I see," I spat, the words tasting like ashes. "But then why? Why Corvis Eralith? Why this useless, weak body? One that can't channel mana, can't fight, can barely stand without feeling the world's pity pressing down? How am I supposed to help Arthur, to be this 'Thwart,' when I can't even help myself? No matter what I try, I hit a wall!"

The image of my precious Tessia becoming the Legacy's vessel, Arthur battling gods, even my grandfather commanding armies—all felt galaxies away from my trapped, impotent existence. If I was a cosmic constant, why was I forged from failure? Fate remained unmoved, the golden threads pulsing serenely.

"Every instance of the Thwart possesses unique potential tailored to its divergence. The former retainer Gwin of Highblood Denoir wielded rebellion like a blade, shattering the Alacryan chains freeing his people from the Vritra. The young dragon Agnaras Indrath mastered the edict of spatium like no one before him, forging an aether core alongside his brother-in-arms, Arthur-Grey. Lola Bladeheart didn't shine in magic, but she became the most capable sword across all the instances. D—"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE OTHERS!" The roar tore from my throat, raw and desperate, echoing in the non-space.

"I only care what my hopeless self, this Corvis Eralith, can do to save his family! Right now! In this doomed world! I'm tired! Tired of hitting the wall! Tired of seeing the path to salvation but having my legs chained! I want to keep them safe! Why am I so useless? Why am I the failure?" The plea hung heavy, thick with the tears I refused to shed here, the culmination of years of silent, crushing inadequacy.

Fate's response was calm, almost gentle, yet carrying the weight of absolute truth. "Corvis Eralith possesses his meta-knowledge. Among the infinite iterations of the Thwart, you are unique. You alone retain the complete, unaltered memories of the instance you know as The Beginning After The End." The golden light seemed to intensify, focusing on me. "Knowledge, Thwart, is the most profound power."

"Knowledge is useless!" I shot back, the bitterness sharp. "Useless if I don't have the slightest shred of real power to wield it! I could recite every Alacryan maneuver, every Asuran thought to Grampa until I'm blue in the face, but without the strength to act, to change the board, it's just… noise! I'm a librarian shouting warnings while a hurricane storms outside!"

"Are you certain of that?" Fate's question cut through my despair, not as a challenge, but as a key turning in a long-locked door.

"You already sense it is untrue. Your meta-knowledge transcends mere words on a page. You assimilated the very essence of that world, its underlying principles, its hidden mechanics. Did you truly believe," the voice resonated, stripping away my self-deception, "you could teach your sister the technique you call 'Mana Rotation' simply by recalling a description you read?"

The question struck like lightning. Memories flooded in, vivid and undeniable. Tessia, sweating under the sun, eyes wide as I guided her through breath control, energy pathways, concepts never explicitly detailed in the novel. I hadn't just remembered words; I had understood the physics, the biology of mana flow in this world, as instinctively as I had understood gravity on Earth.

The intricate political web of Sapin, the subtle nuances of elven magic theory taught only in Xyrus's advanced classes, the fundamental laws governing aether—knowledge that existed beyond the narrative, woven into the fabric of the reality I now inhabited.

Knowledge I possessed not because the author wrote it, but because I had lived it, absorbed its truth on a cellular level when I crossed the void. It wasn't fiction to me anymore; it was science. My science.

"And that knowledge not only strengthens you but also ensures that Agrona of the Vritra cannot secure the Legacy's reincarnation with just two anchors. That is why you were born without potential, without a mana core could develop—to prevent assassins being sent to kill you when you were still a child, Thwart."

The golden threads flared, bathing my consciousness in pure, clarifying light. The crushing weight of my physical weakness didn't vanish, but it shifted. It was no longer the whole story. I wasn't just the coreless prince. I was the archive. The strategist. The one who knew the world's deepest secrets, its hidden levers, its points of fracture, not from study, but from fundamental knowing.

My survival is necessary and to thwart Agrona's plan and for that I wasn't conceded a mana core? It sounds preposterous, but... I could see the sense behind it, or at least I thought so.

"It seems," Fate's voice echoed, already sounding distant, "you have grasped your purpose. It has been… illuminating… conversing with this instance of yourself, Thwart."

The ethereal pressure vanished, replaced by the solid, worried presence of two figures leaning over me. I blinked, my vision swimming, resolving into the deeply lined face of Grampa Virion, etched with concern, and the blindfolded, impassive countenance of Elder Camus, his head tilted as if listening to the fading echoes of another realm.

The cold marble of the Djinn ruin pressed against me, real and grounding, yet the universe now felt infinitely larger, and my place within it… terrifyingly, exhilaratingly defined. I was Corvis Eralith. The Thwart. And knowledge was my sword.