The Merchant of Shadows

Suddenly, a strange sensation filled John's senses, the air around him thick with an unknown energy. His mind swirled as the void's pull intensified, urging him forward. The fear that once gripped him began to fade, replaced with an overwhelming curiosity. He knew he had died—his body no longer existed in the realm of the living. But something was different here, something beyond the void.

The pull softened and John's awareness sharpened. He could feel that he had entered a place that had air, a gentle breeze that whispered across him. Though his eyes remained closed, he could sense the faint presence of life—a warmth in the air, a pulse that beat like a heart. His chest rose and fell, as if breathing in sync with the world around him, though it made no sense. He couldn't move, but he didn't need to.

In the distance, muffled voices echoed through the space, speaking in what felt like an alien tongue. It was as though their words were coated in static, shifting and cracking like a broken transmission.

"Vrak'thor bazzilom pendarvash," the voice said, distant and distorted. "Frelmox quindrith gol'vurnah..."

John's mind strained to understand, but it was no use. The gibberish felt alien, yet oddly familiar—like a memory just beyond reach. His thoughts twisted as he struggled to comprehend the words but they faded, lost in the ether.

Still, he felt something stir within him—an instinct, perhaps, a deep-rooted sense that this place was not entirely foreign. There was power here, a force that seemed to hum just beneath the surface of everything. The energy of this strange realm seeped into his very being.

"Zhorna plimzok treshkaron..." the voice continued, fading as if moving further away.

John's mind raced, his body unresponsive. What were they saying? Who were they? Was he being summoned or was he part of something greater? The void had taken him to this place—was it a realm of the dead? Or perhaps somewhere beyond death, where reality itself bent and twisted?

He couldn't see, couldn't speak but the feeling of life, the sensation of air and the endless swirling voices surrounded him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something other than dread.

And then, as if the universe itself had decided, a moment of clarity broke through the fog in his mind. A strange word, whispered like a key to an ancient door, echoed in his thoughts:

"Gravolok..."

The word lingered in his consciousness, resonating with power and the world around him trembled.

John's consciousness snapped back into focus with a jolt, a surge of memories flooding him as if he had been thrown into someone else's life. His surroundings felt strange, foreign, but still intimately familiar. Slowly, he became aware of the body he now inhabited—Melch Vasti, a boy whose life had already been tainted by the shadow of death. He could feel the frailty, the sickness that had once been his own but there was something more now, something alien that wasn't supposed to be part of this body.

The memories began to fall into place, like a puzzle that was not his but was somehow his now. He remembered the small town of Noncrest, the grand ancestral home of the Vasti family, hidden among the wilderness near the kingdom of Forziac. A place of history, yes, but also a place of secrets of ancient bloodlines and hidden magics. He remembered Melch, this boy whose body had been ravaged by the cruel disease Valkora—a disease where the body deteriorated slowly, causing bones to fracture and organs to fail.Core symptoms include being weak, frail and prone to bleeding from eyes, ears and nose. That would eventually claim him, leaving him weak, frail and destined for an early grave.

But now John, trapped within Melch's failing body, began to understand how far Melch had gone to cheat death.

He saw the faces of the family—the strong, capable mother, Liliana always in control, always managing the family's military affairs while her husband, the noble lord Oba Vasti was away at war. The ever-watchful butler Galen, who ran the household with quiet authority and Leif, a boy Melch's age who had been his partner in crime, his friend in the depths of his loneliness. But more than anyone, John now understood the burden that had weighed on Melch's small fragile heart: his own death, always looming, always closer.

He could feel Melch's desperation, that fear of the inevitable that had driven him to the forbidden corners of his family's estate—the ancestor's room, where old relics and forgotten books lay in dust. He could see, with Melch's eyes, the moment when his friend Leif had rushed to his side as blood poured from his body. It was there, in the quiet corners of the house, where Melch had found The Codex of False Healing—a book that promised a way to cheat death, to extend life through forbidden magic.

The dark spell, the ritual that came with a terrible price—John felt it all, his body shuddering as he recalled the words that Melch had read in secret: the blood, the hair, the nails, the essence of venomous creatures and the mysterious "Blood of the Ancestor" that could only be acquired by burning the pages of the very spell that would save him. The more John thought about it, the clearer it became: this was the moment, the decision that had led to the ritual—the moment that had sealed Melch's fate.

And now, John was trapped within it.

In the haze of memories, he could hear the incantation, the strange gibberish Melch had spoken in desperation, his voice trembling with fear and hope. Vrak'thor bazzilom pendarvash... Frelmox quindrith gol'vurnah... Zhorna plimzok treshkaron... Balthrin quozzith tra'mok! The words echoed in his mind and he could feel the power behind them—power that should not have existed, power that had awakened something in Melch's body that had never been meant to stir.

The ritual had worked, but at what cost? John tried to focus, to make sense of the situation but the memories were fragmented, chaotic. The body he now inhabited was not fully his own. It was still Melch's, yet it was marked by something darker, something ancient. The power of the ritual surged within him but it was not just the magic of the Vasti family—it was something older, something tied to the bloodline to the very ancestors whose names were etched into stone in the Ancestral Hall.

John tried to fight it, to pull himself out but it was futile. He wasn't in control anymore. He was Melch, but not. The boy's life had already ended and now John was the vessel for something else—something far more ancient and far more powerful than the frail, dying body could ever have contained.

In the void, where his soul had been lost, John had been pulled into this place, this body, this fate. His own death had been intertwined with Melch's desperate attempt to escape his. And now, trapped in the aftermath of Melch's dark bargain, John could do nothing but watch as the remnants of the boy's soul fought to retain control.

But what had happened to Melch? Was he still there, locked in a corner of his own mind or had he already faded into oblivion? John could feel his presence—weak, like a flickering candle in the dark but it was there.

He had possessed Melch but in doing so, he had become entangled in the boy's tragic story. The dark ritual had gone beyond what either of them had anticipated. The boundary between life and death was no longer clear and John's own fate was now tied to that of Melch Vasti, a boy who had tried to escape death by embracing darkness.

And as John's mind swirled in the haze of confusion, the memories continued to flood him—Melch's life, his pain, his desire to survive at any cost. And in the back of his mind, John began to wonder: Was this really the end? Or was something far darker awaiting them both in this twisted fate that had brought them together?

One thing was certain: John's journey had just begun.