Cursing, my toes curl inward and pierce through my shoes as if they no longer belong to me. My hands move on their own, clawing at my clothes, tearing them apart in a violent frenzy until the fabric hangs in shreds and falls away.

My body stands exposed, trembling, the air biting cold against my skin. Only the shoes and socks remain for a breath longer before Eriksson kicks them off my shell. They land nearby.

My upper and lower garments lie a meter away, as if discarded by another man.

What—

The thought barely forms before it happens. My feet twist, my socks tear free, and then comes the horror.

I know what's coming, yet I don't.

It's instinct—something more profound than memory. A knowing that lives in the marrow. My right eye burns, and suddenly my world splits in half.

The vision fades, eyeball slips loose, dangles, and falls, a long Green strand tearing from my face as it drops to the ground.

Blood splashes across the rock. Green, then Orange. The smell is thick, raw.

I want to scream, but my lips barely part as a broken groan escapes through Eriksson's lips.

Arms pulse, veins swelling under the strain. Heat floods them until the blood feels like molten metal in my skin. My toes twist and break. The bones in my feet grind against stone, bending the rocky ground beneath me.

Every breath pangs. Every heartbeat feels like an explosion. My fingers claw at Eriksson's—my face—flesh tears. Skin falls in thick clumps, faintly Blue on the outside—diluted, painted over—but inside, it glows Green and Orange, the hues fighting each other like oil and fire.

Then my left eye follows. It bursts, loosens, and drops. My world turns into pure nothing—no color, no dark, not even blackness. Just the void; a silence so deep it swallows everything.

This isn't blindness. This is an absence. The kind that strips you bare and leaves you nowhere.

Still, the body moves. Every motion is agony, as though blades scrape my bones clean. My flesh peels away, muscle reshaping, fibers breaking, something new forcing itself beneath the skin.

Through Eriksson, I feel every shred of tissue twist and rebuild. It's unbearable. My mind pulses with pain so sharp it blurs into an unknown color. Still, I see nothing.

My head pounds, my eyeballs—what's left of them—feel as if knives drive through them, scraping the edges of my brain. This body's nails are being ripped out.

I shiver, but heat consumes me. Blood boils—Eriksson's blood, not mine. Still, my entire body trembles under its own weight, trapped.

Scratching, I rip away what's left. I strip my legs, my back, my face, everything except my left arm.

Blood and skin rain to the ground, and with every heartbeat, I grunt, fighting to breathe through clenched teeth. The air tastes like metal and dirt.

"We can start now," Vis says, the sound dull under the inner screaming I can't hear but feel vibrating through Eriksson.

It hurts. It fucking hurts.

I curse inwardly, inhaling fire, exhaling ash.

Then, slowly, light returns—not as mercy, but as punishment. My sight flickers back in fragments. Before me lies a pool of blood in two colors, thick and wrong, surrounded by skin that looks flayed and butchered.

This body's skin—if it can still be called mine or his—is alabaster pale, smooth like porcelain.

Only my left arm remains different, darker, though even that begins to twist. A deep pang runs through my shoulder as something Golden floods it from within.

The arm bends and reshapes. Veins throb, skin stretching unnaturally. The pain is sharp, electric.

Something artificial moves beneath the flesh, merging with what remains of me. I feel it—an intrusion, cold and mechanical—but can't fight it. It belongs to a false God. I got it when my family was murdered. Slaughtered.

My family? Memories overflood me—his, not mine.

My knees buckle. I fall forward, panting. My hair—what's left of it—hangs over my face in dark, sticky strands, the rest lying scattered on the ground among shreds of skin and color.

Every breath feels stolen. More memories burst open, as if they have always been a part of me.

Why do I know what's happening? Why do I feel as if it's mine?

I want to scream, to claw myself out of this body, to wake up. But my hands move differently—they move with calm, almost purpose.

They lift my head, turn it toward the mountain, toward the girl. Elena. My daughter. His daughter. No daughter at all.

What? Memories mix uncontrollably.

Her petite figure sits still, eyes closed—just as I told her to before.

A trembling smile crawls over these lips. The body shivers—not from cold, but from something worse.

Then, his voice—Harmon's voice—rises, making my heart lose a beat once.

"I am Harmon. Son of Gerald von Schwert, husband to Selina von Avelor, but most of you know me as the commander of the Great Fall of Empire Delora—the righteous man who once slaughtered a being called divine."

His voice vibrates with coldness, a quality only possible when warmth has been slain.

-----A/N-----

—Bloody Potato out

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