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Dissonance of Power

Witness the transformation of a jaded individual, a cynical man who has been beaten and abused by the world, as he finds himself suddenly inhabiting the body of a young, notoriously vile scion within a rapidly declining noble household. Awakening in this tumultuous world full of strife, marred by ceaseless conflict—where war surges like the tides, and alliances shift and waver as the wind, unpredictable and without a moment’s notice—the emergent man, once known as Virgil and now as Vhal, the young master of House Ashfell, finds himself thrust into a life befitting his past skepticism and pessimism, in some strange and twisted sense of irony. With his motives shrouded in shades of gray, he must navigate this treacherous new life. Unlike his past life, the ultimate form of currency here isn't any form of weaponry or economic strength, which in this case comes in the form of swords and coin—although they hold equal significance—but rather, it comes in the manipulation of forces he would have once deemed imaginary: Magic. A tangible power that is crafted and molded to suit the user, replenished boundlessly by the world, binding everything in existence. But with this power comes greater conflicts and greater threats, though conversely, this power comes with unprecedented opportunities as well. Balancing on the fine line between death, survival, and his descent into darkness, how will Vhal carve out his path? In blood, with magic, and as reluctant as his nature deems it, with support. Watch as Vhal progresses through a world beyond the scope of his beliefs, driven by ambition and passion. Watch as Vhal carves out his own piece of power, or rather, watch as Vhal disrupts the hierarchy of power to such an extent that historians will one day mark this age, like all others, with a name befitting it… THE DISSONANCE OF POWER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - 100 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter (3k words +) 1 Golden Ticket = 1 Bonus Chapter (3k words +) - - - - - - - Author's Note: I felt compelled to embark on a fresh project. My aim is to captivate and satisfy my audience with this new endeavor. I hope you enjoy. Happy Reading! - Spatial Devil, The Author. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - - - - - - - Cover art is not owned by me. If the owner wishes for its removal, please do not hesitate to contact me.

SpatialDevil · Fantasy
Not enough ratings
8 Chs

Prologue - Caged Despair

The silence hung heavy in his ears, a haunting echo of his decade of torment. When they had first taken him, a bewildered teenager of no more than fifteen, he recalled how days had melted into nights and months had blurred into what felt like lifetimes. But now, he had lost all sense of time, it had become an abstract concept, a single unending nightmare.

Glimpses of his former self, a bright-eyed teenager with dreams of becoming a doctor like his adopted parents, were fragile remnants of a distant past. He could still recall his initial encounter with the captors, the scientists who had promised salvation but delivered only cruelty. The scientists who had imprisoned him, the ones he had once begged for mercy.

He could still feel the dread that gripped his heart, as the paralyzing serum coursed through his veins, and he felt the cold metal restraints, and saw the blinding light above him as he lay strapped to an operating table—subjecting him to excruciating experiments.

He also remembered once, he had been whole, a boy of exceptional intelligence who excelled in school and enjoyed the warmth of friendship; his body had been free of the grotesque scars that now covered him, and he had possessed two working eyes. Now, all that remained of his once-promising life were scars and deformities.

His left leg was gone, and his left arm was a festering, pus-ridden mess, marred by inky black veins that throbbed with pain. The arbitrary notion of hope had long been crushed by the relentless cruelty of his captors and the inescapable grasp of mortality. His cries had blended over the years into a wailing symphony of despair.

Virgil, a name that once defined him, had been replaced by a label—test subject 2b-56, an abomination created for their experiments. As he gazed upon his ravaged body, he couldn't help but painfully acknowledge the unspeakable horrors they had wrought upon him.

After what felt like eternities, though in his best estimate had been fifteen plus years since he became captive, he had long given up on freedom and sought solace in the embrace of death. Yet, death remained an elusive friend; even when he had attempted to achieve it many times himself.

The scientists couldn't afford to let him go, and so, he languished in his steel prison, shackled and forgotten. Like now in his current state, starving and dehydrated, as he presumed, they had finally abandoned him to his inevitable demise.

And he, too, had grown weary of his existence, possessing nothing of value except distant memories of the books he had once cherished of magical adventures, and the knowledge he had accumulated during his teenage years.

In the suffocating darkness, he leaned his emaciated body against the unforgiving metal bars, thoughts warped by years of isolation, beyond the limits of human endurance. His mind drifted, barely registering the distant rumble from above.

With his solitary working eye squinting open, he discerned a group of soldiers in uniforms, armed to the teeth, advancing towards him in, distant, panicked shouts. Their faces contorted with disgust, pity, and shock as they took in his wretched form.

He knew he was a grotesque sight—skin and bones, hollowed cheeks, bubbles of vile puss, and unhealed wounds. The scientists had often forced him to confront his own monstrous reflection for hours on end, a relentless psychological torment.

He knew what they saw: a  monster.

"My god," one of the soldiers whispered, breaking the lock of his cage. Their gazes bore into him, filled with apprehension, no doubt wondering what had transpired in this forsaken place and if he was still among the living… but he knew he wouldn't be for long.

Thus, Virgil—subject 2b-56—feeble and with death looming, did something he hadn't done in decades; he laughed. It started as a soft chuckle and morphed into a maddening wheeze. He looked at them through tear-filled eyes, his parched, and long unused, throat rasping out two words that would forever haunt those present.

"Too late…"

His vision blurred, and in his final moments, a flood of childhood memories washed over him. With a faint smile, he drifted into death, hoping that he would finally find peace, which he had long yearned for.

He was tired, weary beyond measure, and wished for nothing more than to think no more.

In those fleeting moments, it seemed his wish had been granted.

Or so he thought…

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His consciousness slipped away, and he felt a strange prickling sensation. It was as though he was being torn from the clutches of oblivion. In that brief second of panic, he watched as a sudden tunnel of light emerged in the clouded darkness that he had spent who knows how long in. An ominous voice followed, resonating within the void—chilling and genderless, and filled with power, and yet not unkind, at least not to him, he felt.

"MY PRECIOUS AVATAR.... FINALLY...."

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THE START OF VOL.1 

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation! Creation is hard, cheer me up! I'm power-stone hungry, feed me! NOM NOM NOM

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