CHAPTER TWO.

[NAME]'s MEMORIES still haunt you.

The nightmares start a year ago. [Name] was an adventurer previously, and that fact is confirmed by the nightmares that plague your mind from time to time—ones that show people falling one by one, dying—ones that show [Name] expelling oxygen from his lungs in rattled motions, blood bursting from his lips. It's a scene nothing short of grotesque.

It's not a pleasant experience or feeling. They come to you in blips and drifts— and in shadowy moments, they strangle and torment you. They seem to take great pride in appearing at your most vulnerable moments: twisting, before they turning into something undefined in the air. They lunge at you with barely concealed fury, like they're mad—like they're screaming at you to get rid of the body that you inhabit.

This isn't you. Get out. Get out! The voices that ring in your head become incessant and unnecessarily loud.

The first time had been a panic fueled moment for you. You remember grasping at the sheets with your fingers fisting the blankets, your eyes opening in horror. Then you remember breathing in and breathing out, and before long, all you could see was the blurriness of inanimate objects appearing before you.

Pillow, vase, picture. Pillow, vase, picture. You repeat the images you see when you first wake up from those nightmares. They become almost like a mantra that helps to remove you from that terrifying memory.

[Name]'s memories make you feel melded into him, somehow, and you feel sure that you don't like it. Your identity seems to have been integrated to become part of his. And you want to tear your flesh apart, burrow out of it. You want to. You want to be your own [Name], and not the [Name] with a secretive past and no parents.

You want to be yourself. That's the trippy part of having been placed in a body that isn't yours for six years—the amount of times you tend to dissociate becomes concerningly high. You'll see the mirror on some days—you'll look at it and go all casual like: hey, that isn't me. But then you blink your eyes and the figure in the mirror does too. You raise your right hand and the figure in the mirror raises their left hand. There's a sense of detachment you feel between your limbs and your joints—the motion no longer feels fluid but seems pressed down, like dead weight, and then your thoughts crumble when you realize that this body is in fact hosting your soul.

There's a tinkling sound of the bell. Someone has entered, but you can't be bothered to look up.

"Off day?" A voice interrupts your thoughts. Your eye bags are more prominent than usual—you had a rough sleep. You can still hear the voices of people you don't know scrambling after you, screaming your name. "Or just no customers?"

You know this person. Myra, four years younger than you, is witty, teasing, and ties her hair into two pigtails as she claims it'll attract more male customers. She's studying to be a full fledged adventurer, and hopes to awaken an attribute soon. She's feisty and has the attitude, but you don't know if she has the talent. She certainly has the grit.

You scowl. The sign on the door clearly says closed, but it seems Myra has invited herself in anyways. She's a staff member too, but she rarely comes on leisure days.

"Piss off."

"I've heard reports complaining about bad customer service. Your potty mouth is one of the reasons, I suppose. But the guild master is too biased to you," Myra complains, yet her expression is good natured. "Unlike me. I got to work my ass off for this shit."

"Then stop bothering me." You reply curtly. You are in no mood for conversation. You need to banish [Name]'s memories from your fucking head.

You like to sit at the bar even on off-days. It gives you a sense of comfort, a sense of routine—it tells you explicitly that this is the current life you're leading. [Name] the bartender, and not [Name] the adventurer. It's silly, almost childish to repeat those few syllables again and again in your head—but it anchors you. It holds you. It makes sure your mind doesn't give in to the madness and ensures your sanity stays intact.

You feel like you're missing something. Sometimes you stare at Sora's army of shadow soldiers—and then you aren't sure if you see yourself there, warped, inky, and dead. And then you blink and it's gone. Like it's a hallucination. A dream. But then you pinch yourself harshly: and you feel the pain ripple through your veins and you see a blotch form on your skin. So I'm awake, you always think, somehow a little disappointed. This isn't a dream.

The thing they don't tell you about transmigration is that besides the lovely aspect of being in a new world, having a new start, a new body—it's that you don't know anything. For now you contented yourself with having questions, towards both yourself and others ("Sora, what is that scar on your hand?") but inevitably you will want to know.

But will knowing cause more questions? More grief?

"Jesus," Myra whistles. She studies the menu in front of her. "Hey, while you're here, why don't you fix me a drink?"

"No." You grit your teeth. You turn against her. "Go away."

"After I came all the way here for you?" Myra teases, before she slumps. "Kidding. I had an ulterior motive. I need an internship to get into some prestigious school—and I know you're tight with the Necromancer. Tell him to give me a job."

You stare at her. "Myra, he did give you a job."

"As a waitress!" She wails. "I need to get into NMOX—the top class adventurer school—I don't know what the abbreviation stands for, and I don't care. But I haven't awakened my attributes yet."

You tap the table, thinking. "So you think a job—an internship at Sora's Guild will be better?"

"Yes, duh," Myra enunciates the last word, giving you a hard stare. "You do know your friend—your boyfriend—is Infinitum's top adventurer, right? Any pass from him is going to get me anywhere."

You pause. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Okay, and crows aren't black," Myra ignores your little interruption. "But you get my point, right?"

"I suppose I can always get him to write a letter of recommendation."

Her eyes start to sparkle and her lips tug up into a smile. "Really? God, I'll love you forever! A letter of recommendation is way better than a measly internship." She throws her hand around you and you grimace, pushing her away slightly. "Sorry. I forgot you don't like touch and all that. I see you all chummy with your boy friend, though."

She purposefully leaves a pause between the words 'boy' and 'friend'. No doubt on purpose. But for now you allow the little details to roll off your back

"It's a matter of getting used to someone," you say bluntly. "I'll get him to give you an internship, and then you go to NMOX. 'Kay?"

Myra giggles. "You act like you don't care, but you're a softie. Sometimes I forget you're only twenty four."

"And sometimes I forget you're twenty, and you're still trying to go to adventurer school. It's a difficult market."

It's true. Adventurer schools became increasingly prevalent and popular with the rise of big businesses and guilds holding more power than the supposed governments—and now people were clamoring about desperately to try and awaken an attribute and attend. At the very start, Infinitum—the name of the world you lived in—was pretty normal, with no one really bothering much about attributes—but after powerful people started to start guilds, open trading business, basically take control—that's when it exploded into popularity. Coupled with demonic beings and monsters invading territory, being an adventurer was considered heroic, respectable work.

But the thing is—a weak adventurer merely courts death. That's the case most times. The odds of an impossibly strong adventurer coming about is one in a hundred thousand. And Sora is one of them.

"Well, yes, but..." Myra bites her lip. You don't say anything to her. You know enough about her situation to know her motivations aren't shallow—

"—I bet my adventure costume would look tots cute."

Nevermind.

"Shop, shoo," you give a long sigh, "I'll help you, but now you'll have to study for the upcoming exams to make sure you even get the interview for NMOX. Go now, okay?"

"Yes sir!" Myra salutes you. She walks out of the door with a bounce in her step, her cheeks aglow.

You can't think of a time where you've felt so carefree like her. Or where you had aspirations. You don't know what you want to do in this world. Survival isn't even a thing you're worried about—again, you need answers—you want them, but you aren't sure where you can find them. The first two years here you focused so much on playing some role of being harmless and unassuming that a part of you, the real you, died.

You don't know who you really are.

At all.

You close your eyes, lean against the wall, and give another repressed sigh.

The air seems to suffocate you.

—

When you wake up, the oxygen feels stingy somehow—it refuses to give you sufficient energy, and you find yourself drenched in sweat when you wake up. Or perhaps it's the weather. It seems sticky and warm these days. Infinitum is becoming like a furnace.

The summer prevails like an obstinate guest—you thank God for it. You need it right now; the hot air that presses onto your flesh, all clammy and sweaty, the T-Shirt that sticks to your skin and the translucency that reveals muscles. Your feelings feel raw and ambivalent, seized with impotent anger. Helplessness.

Sora's long hair tickles your cheek as he leans over you, his shadow crossing your features. You know his presence before you see him.

"Tired?"

"What do you fucking think?"

You don't mean to say it so harshly. It slips past your lips like a whiny, petulant ghost. But still, you don't flinch. Sora is endlessly patient with you. He's always patient. He doesn't extend a arm to pull you up—instead, he plops down next to you, his head resting on your shoulder.

"Myra wants a letter of recommendation. I told her you'll do it, unless you're busy."

"A letter of recommendation—" Sora pauses. "Wait, who's Myra?"

You knew he wouldn't know who she was. "Some waitress. She wants to get into NMOX."

"I don't have fond memories of that place," Sora says ruefully.

"Weren't you the strongest?"

"Yes, strongest," Sora says flippantly, spitting out the fact like it's nothing. Maybe being the best is truly nothing to him. "But you earn enemies and envy. Besides, the teachers were too weak."

"The teachers are Rank A adventurers," you raise an eyebrow, "highly respected."

"You're Rank S, [Name]."

Right. You forget sometimes. Besides, no one really reminds you that the previous [Name] was so...strong.

"I quit, you know? I quit being an adventurer," you say vaguely.

"I'm glad you did." Sora's tone grows softer. "You used to..." he stops, but you feel surprised, almost a little confused. Sora knew the original [Name] before you? But you thought you had met him the year you transmigrated—

That makes you feel a little weird. Does this mean he had a preconceived notion of you? Of your personality? Of who you were?

"Well," Sora says, "those were rumors. We only truly became close at eighteen, right?"

"Right." You feel a little relieved. "Right. That exactly."

"You can always come to my place, you know?" Sora says airily, "not...here."

"I like it here."

"I know," Sora's words are quiet, "you like bartending?"

"It's peaceful."

"Hmm." Sora stretches his fingers, studying them. "Opposite of what I do, I guess."

"Why do you continue being an adventurer, then?"

Sora doesn't sound fond of it. Is it the prestige that weighs him here? Is it loyalty? Is it power?

"I don't love it," Sora shrugs. "But...my position," Sora tells you. "It allows me to keep the person I love safe."

His eyes flicker to you. The person he loves.

The moment is gone way too fast—Sora continues, and his eyes tear away from yours. "And the money. It's great, of course." It feels like an excuse. Like mending an answer.

Your heart feels funny—it's beating wildly, almost disappointed with the promise of a missed prospect. Meanwhile, Sora studies you. He sees the way your frame pauses, the way your lips press together for the tiniest of seconds—and he knows. He knows you care, even if it's minuscule. You're often too cold, too brusque, too harsh. You scare other people with your build, you attract others with your masculinity and handsome face. And Sora likes you for all the above, but above all—he adores you because you're you.

Sora hates NMOX. He hates that school, he hates people, he hates being an adventurer. He hates his power—it warps him into some demon, it warps him into some power hungry maniac who can only take lives, who can only ply between the line of death and life in an attempt to resurrect. He taunts the dead by turning them into shadow soldiers: even in death, they cannot rest. They seek to worship him—they seek to worship him, because he's God.

His power has controlled him completely. He's drunk on how utterly strong he is—how he's the strongest ever to exist—how so many people revere him because of the divinity that pulses through his veins—but Sora knows.

He knows that you know. That you understand. That what emerges from the ashes when he uses his powers is not a phoenix, but rather, something that is reborn, deformed, completely twisted and incapable of flight.

A peacock with clipped feathers.

That's what Sora Selasta is.

A/N; thank you for 200 votes! this fic will dive a lot into characterisation haha :) there's some cool details I'll insert from time to time that's pretty important

hope everyone liked it! remember to add to library!