Visionless

I hate violence. It's unnecessary, over-the-top, and ultimately a solution that only creates more problems. That's the logical reason I despise it. But there's another, deeper reason—because I used to call myself a pacifist.

Used to.

Until I killed.

The thought loops endlessly in my mind, my legs bouncing nervously, my hands trembling with the memory. Not just once. Not just one life. I killed without hesitation, without remorse. A monster. That's what I am now.

My gaze drops to my hands, and I can almost see it—the blood. Thick, red, staining my skin. No matter how much I try to wash it away, it clings to me like a second layer, a silent reminder of the lives I took. My breaths come uneven, shallow, as I wrestle with the truth.

"But what choice do I have?" I whisper to myself, the words heavy in the air.

This world… it's different. It thrives on violence, feeds on cruelty. Murder isn't a crime here—it's a solution. The rules are warped, twisted into something unrecognizable from the world I once knew. Here, a blade in the dark can solve disputes faster than words ever could.

The very thought of it is suffocating. It presses down on me like a weight I can't escape, whispering that this is the way things are. That this is the way I must be if I want to survive.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

Why? Why was I controlled? Why was I forced to kill? Why didn't I resist?

Could I have resisted?

That's the question that haunts me. The one that truly matters. If I could have resisted, then how? If I couldn't, what does that say about me? I can't change the past—I can't wash away the blood. It's there, soaked into my very being, staining me in ways no amount of atonement could erase. But I can make sure it doesn't grow worse. At least… not much worse.

I hate this body. Not because it's weak or small, but because it's not mine. It's a stranger's body with a stranger's brain, and the brain is everything. The brain is you. This body, this brain—it doesn't function like my original one. Its structure is different, foreign, and it's causing problems I'm only beginning to notice.

One of the worst is my mental age. Up until now, I've been acting like a child trying desperately to seem mature. I thought I was in control, but that was an illusion—just a shadow of the truth. My brain hasn't developed the way it should. My growth has been stunted, warped, and that's without factoring in the memories that were locked away.

But now, now that I have some of those memories back, I can see just how broken I've become. I'm more emotional than I used to be. I can't think as clearly or as deeply as before. My mind feels sluggish, like trying to run through quicksand. Worse, I feel this deterioration isn't over. It's going to get worse before it gets better—if it ever gets better.

I have to find a way to fix this. To force my brain to grow, to mature. But is that even possible? Could it be possible? I'll have to figure that out later. For now, it's just another problem to stack on top of the others.

Memories are a burden, but their absence is worse. Much worse. It's maddening, knowing something is missing but not being able to grasp what it was. There's a chasm in my mind—a black void where something used to be. I know something happened. I know there's something I'm supposed to remember. But past a certain point, there's… nothing. Just emptiness.

And the worst part? That emptiness feels deliberate.

"My answer to all of this is simple," I say aloud, my voice firm despite the emptiness around me. "Magic."

The word hangs in the air like a declaration, bold and uncompromising. "Magic!" I exclaim again, this time with a tone that brooks no doubt, no hesitation.

With magic, I can do so much—more than most magic users in this world could ever dream of. Not because I'm inherently special, but because I understand things they don't. I know the world on a level they likely never even consider—a fundamental, scientific level.

"If magic works the way I think it does," I continue, my eyes narrowing in determination, "then I can change everything—my body, my mind... even my memories."

A flicker of resolve burns in my chest as I think about the possibilities. Magic could make me whole again. It could ensure that I'm never controlled, never manipulated, never helpless again. With magic, I could protect myself—rebuild myself into something unbreakable. Something untouchable.

But then, doubt creeps in, twisting the edges of my thoughts. "That's only if magic works the way I think it does," I mutter, pacing now, my confidence faltering.

If it doesn't...

"Shit," I hiss under my breath, fists clenching at my sides.

Because if magic isn't the answer, I don't know what is.

"What's all this? You good there, kid? Something wrong?"

I look up, startled, to see Ren standing in the doorway. There's a slight crease of concern on his face as he leans against the frame.

"...," I say nothing at first, just staring at him. My mind races with a thousand thoughts, each one louder than the last.

Ren tilts his head, his ears twitching slightly. "I was heading down to eat and noticed you weren't there, so I came back to check on you. Why are you looking at me like that?"

His words pull me out of my spiral, and I realize I've been giving him a strange look—one a scientist might give a lab rat. I blink and force myself to stop.

"It's nothing," I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck. "Just haven't slept well."

Ren eyes me for a moment longer, then shrugs. "If you say so. Food's getting cold, though, so hurry up."

As he turns to leave, I watch him go, and my shoulders relax slightly. Ren is a friend—someone I can trust, someone I need. Whatever thoughts had just been running through my head, I bury them deep. I can't afford to lose him. And more than that, I don't want to hurt him.

------------

"How long are you going to play with your food? It's about to get cold. Eat up. Today we're searching for someone—you already know who," Ren says, his tone casual as he leans back in his chair.

I absently push a piece of meat around my plate, the only thought running through my mind being one word: magic. His voice, though, pulls me out of my haze. I look up at him and see his face—his real face beneath the magic mask.

A tiger.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't give it much thought, but this is a different world—an entirely different universe. And that makes his existence... peculiar. He looks exactly like a tiger, at least the ones I've seen back home in zoos. The resemblance is uncanny. The stripes, the fur, even the way his ears twitch as he waits for a response.

But how is that possible?

The thought gnaws at me until I come up with a tentative theory: convergent evolution.

In biology, convergent evolution occurs when different species in separate environments develop similar traits because they face comparable challenges. It's why dolphins and sharks, despite being mammal and fish, respectively, have streamlined bodies. It's why birds and bats both have wings. In Ren's world, perhaps the evolutionary pressures that shaped Earth's tigers created something similar here. The same predatory efficiency, the same physical advantages—but in an entirely alien setting.

Of course, this is just a guess. For all I know, there could be something magical at play. Or maybe some distant connection between Earth and this world exists that I can't begin to comprehend. Either way, Ren's face raises more questions than it answers.

He notices my pause and raises an eyebrow, his tail flicking behind him. "What?"

I shake my head, realizing I've been staring too long. "Nothing. Just... thinking about something."

He snorts. "Well, don't think too hard, kid. We've got a lot to do today, and you'll need all the brainpower you've got left."

I nod absently, my thoughts still spinning.

Magic… magic, magic, magic. HOW DOES IT WORK? HOW CAN I USE IT?

The questions scream silently in my mind, looping endlessly. I've got theories, sure, but no idea how to test them, no concrete proof to validate any of them. I sigh, forcing myself to slow down and collect my thoughts before they spiral out of control.

Let's break this down.

Theory One: Trial and Error

The simplest approach—try everything until something happens. Wave my hands around, chant some words, focus really hard on an object, maybe something will click. But no. That would take forever, and I don't have forever. My mind already feels like it's hanging by a thread, unraveling a little more each day. This one's out.

Theory Two: The Power Within

Maybe only certain people can use magic, and it's tied to something inherent—biological or otherwise. A special gene, a unique energy signature, or even something intangible, like a soul. If that's true, there's a real chance I just don't have it. That thought is terrifying, but I can't let it stop me. Even if this theory is true, I refuse to give up. Not yet.

Theory Three: Magic as Energy

This is the most promising idea. Magic might be a form of energy capable of manipulating the physical world—or perhaps even more than that. If that's the case, energy can be channeled, manipulated, or directed in various ways.

Take Ms. Eldez, for example. Her magic is unlike anything I can rationalize. It doesn't align with any physical laws I know, and it's frustratingly abstract. Then there's the dagger—the artifact I've seen in action. Its magic feels different, more tangible. Maybe tools like that are the key. If I can't access magic directly, perhaps I can use it through intermediaries like enchanted objects.

That last one feels the most actionable. If I can't figure out how to cast spells, I can focus on finding or creating something that does the work for me. A shortcut. A solution that doesn't rely on me being special.

I clench my fists. This isn't just about survival or power—it's about control. I need to figure this out. I will figure this out.

"Oi, kid, calm the hell down!" Ren hissed, leaning closer to me as we wove through the bustling streets of the capital. His voice dropped to a low whisper, sharp and firm. "Are you sure you're feeling okay? 'Cause if you can't focus, it's gonna be a problem. Remember, I need you to help me here."

His words broke through the chaotic whirl of thoughts in my head. The towering buildings around us seemed to loom even higher, their strange architecture an unrelenting reminder of how alien this place was. Domed rooftops, jagged spires, and bridges that curved impossibly over the streets—it was all overwhelming, a maze of stone and glass that made it hard to think straight.

I glanced at Ren. His golden eyes, even behind the faint shimmer of his magical mask, bore into me with something between concern and exasperation. He wasn't wrong. If I couldn't pull myself together, I'd only be dead weight, and that was the last thing I wanted to be.

"I'm fine," I muttered, trying to steady my breathing.

"You sure? 'Cause you're looking at those buildings like they've personally insulted you," Ren quipped, but there was an edge to his usual sarcasm, a subtle check-in.

I nodded, swallowing the frustration clawing at my throat. "Yeah. Just... processing. That's all."

Ren raised a skeptical eyebrow but let it slide. "Good. Keep up, then. I don't wanna have to come back for you when you get lost gawking at a weird statue or something."

With that, he straightened and picked up the pace, weaving effortlessly through the crowded street. I followed close behind, my mind still churning but my focus locked onto the swish of his tail disappearing into the throng.

(I'm not fine. This... it's too much. Too soon. I can't handle all this alone.)

The thought clawed its way through my mind, sharp and unrelenting. My chest tightened, my steps faltering for just a moment as the overwhelming weight of everything pressed down on me. The sights, the sounds, the sheer enormity of this world—it all crashed over me like a tidal wave I couldn't escape.

(But... what if I'm not alone? What if there were more of me?)

The memory came unbidden, vivid and raw. A time when I was so overwhelmed, so crushed by the sheer magnitude of life, that I couldn't even move. My mind had done something... unexpected. It split—or rather, my consciousness separated. Not truly fractured, but divided into parts, each taking on a specific role, a specific burden. Four versions of myself, each assigned a task to keep me moving, to keep me alive... to forget.

Maybe... maybe I could do that here, in this new brain.

(We can do this.)

The thought rang louder, clearer, as if voiced by something both entirely me and not me at the same time. I nodded to myself, gripping the idea tightly.

Each fragment wasn't separate, not really. They were still just me. But if I acted as if there were more, if I convinced myself that my mind could handle things this way, maybe it would feel more bearable. One task at a time. One problem assigned to a "me" that existed only in my imagination, yet felt as real as the ground beneath my feet.

It wasn't perfect—it never was. This method was exhausting, requiring a razor-sharp focus and a willpower that could shatter under the wrong kind of pressure. It demanded I navigate the fine line between control and chaos without tipping into madness. And all the while, I had to ensure I didn't let anyone else see what I was doing. If they noticed the subtle shifts in my demeanor, the sudden hyper-focus on a single issue, the fleeting moments where I whispered to myself under my breath... well, let's just say I wasn't keen on looking like I'd escaped from a mental asylum.

But it worked.

(Focus. Divide. Conquer.)

The mantra repeated in my head as I let my mental partitions take shape. One part of me would handle our immediate surroundings, keeping an eye on Ren and the labyrinthine streets of this colossal city. Another would track our longer-term goals, making mental notes of everything I needed to learn about magic, survival, and this world itself. A third would carry the emotional weight—the fear, the doubt, the guilt—allowing the rest of me to function without being dragged down.

And the fourth? The fourth would hold onto the memories. The cracks in my mind, the missing pieces, the questions I didn't yet have answers for. It would safeguard them until I was ready to face them.

(We can do this.)

I straightened my posture, feeling a strange kind of calm settle over me. It wasn't perfect—it never would be—but it was enough. For now.

_______________________

"Have you prepared, my dear Edward?" Hugo's voice rang out, theatrical and mournful. "Oh, how it pains me to see you leave this humble carnival! Fly, my Edward, fly from this nest into greener pastures, into—blegh!"

The dramatic monologue was abruptly cut off as Edward hurled a rock that bounced off Hugo's mask with a satisfying thunk.

"Enough already!" Edward growled, glaring at the masked man. Somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, he had been stuck with Hugo for the last three unbearable hours. In that time, he had been trying to prepare his weapons, supplies, and nerves for the journey ahead. Unfortunately, Hugo's relentless chatter made even sharpening a blade feel like torture.

"Please, Hugo," Edward said, his voice heavy with exasperation. "Just shut up for one hour. I can feel my brain melting, my ears ringing. Don't you have work to do? Aren't you the carnival headmaster or something? Shouldn't you be busy running this place?"

Hugo clutched his chest dramatically, stumbling back as if Edward had stabbed him. For a moment, a glimmer of genuine sadness crossed his features before his ever-present grin returned. "Ah, but my dear comrade! I am merely expressing the profound sorrow I feel at your imminent departure! Oh, the years we've spent together, the laughter we've shared, the—"

"Enough!" Edward snapped, his patience at its absolute limit. "We met yesterday for the first time! What the hell are you even talking about?"

Hugo gasped, his mask tilting slightly as if his unseen face mirrored the betrayal in his voice. "Ah, I see it now... You're meeting another, aren't you? Could it be..." He paused for dramatic effect, clutching the edge of a nearby prop table. "The clown?!"

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a groan that could have toppled mountains. "The only clown I know here is you, Hugo! For the love of everything sane, just let me finish in peace!"

Hugo staggered back as if mortally wounded, his hands flying to his chest. "Ah, the cruelty! The venom! How shall I ever recover from this heartbreak?"

"By walking away. Far, far away," Edward growled, waving him off like an annoying insect.

Hugo hesitated, then gave an exaggerated bow, flourishing his hands with dramatic flair. "Very well, my wayward friend. I shall leave you to your preparations. But mark my words! The carnival will be far less dazzling without my dearest Edward..."

As Hugo finally sauntered off, humming a jaunty tune, Edward let out a sigh of relief and muttered under his breath, "Why couldn't I be stuck with someone normal?"

Edward sighed, turning away from the fading spectacle of Hugo's antics and heading toward the caravan. The wagons were lined up neatly in preparation for their journey to Erak. It would be a three-day trip, relatively short, but it felt like a lifetime given the weight of his thoughts. He had no intention of wasting this opportunity—this time, he would ensure everything went according to plan.

"This time, I won't fail," he muttered under his breath, his fingers brushing the reinforced leather of his quick bag. The sturdy pouch hung at his hip, designed for easy access to his tools during combat or emergencies.

He thought back to the string of humiliations he had endured recently. "That kid..." His jaw tightened, a flicker of anger flashing through his eyes. He replayed the events in his mind: the unexpected chaos, his ill-preparedness, the sheer audacity of it all. "I didn't get to use anything I wanted during that fight—or when I got captured. None of it was within my expectations. But this time..."

His voice dropped to a low growl, and a wicked grin crept onto his face. "This time, it won't matter who stands in my way. Even someone high silver or low gold won't stop me. Let alone a kid."

He opened the quick bag, checking its contents with meticulous care. Each item was accounted for, arranged just as he liked. His new crossbow bolts gleamed faintly, the tips specially treated to ensure maximum lethality. Beside them, nestled securely in compartments, were his favorites: bombs.

So many bombs.

Each was uniquely crafted, tailored for different situations. Smoke bombs for concealment, fragmentation bombs for devastation, incendiary bombs to turn the battlefield into an inferno. He patted the bag almost affectionately. "With these," he murmured, "I can take control of any situation."

The distant sound of the caravan leaders barking orders drew him out of his thoughts. He stood straighter, slinging the quick bag into place and adjusting his cloak. Erak wasn't far, but it was far enough for him to prepare, to plan, and to remind himself of one absolute truth: this time, he was ready.

"No more surprises," he muttered, his voice firm with conviction. "This time, they'll regret underestimating me."