LEGACY OF THE FORBIDDEN ARCHMAGE

2

Pain was the first thing to greet his consciousness. It wasn't the sharp, biting pain of Zoltan’s blade, but a dull, throbbing, and sickening ache. Ignatius tried to draw a breath, but his lungs felt heavy, as if he were inhaling construction dust and exhaust fumes.

"Wake up, you piece of trash! Don't play dead with me!"

A hard kick landed square in his stomach. Ignatius—or the body he now inhabited—slumped onto the asphalt, which was slick with oily rainwater. He coughed, spitting out a bitter fluid mixed with blood.

He opened his eyes slowly. His vision was a blur. Standing over him were three men in shiny synthetic jackets. One of them had a metal left arm that made a rhythmic tit-tit sound every time he clenched his fist.

"Michael Dorian, you think fainting here makes your debt disappear?" The man with the mechanical arm grabbed Michael’s hair and yanked his head up.

Ignatius froze. Michael Dorian? What kind of name is that?

He looked at his hands. Thin, pale, and trembling. There were no sword calluses. These were the hands of a weak bookworm. He then looked around. The view before him made no sense. Glass buildings towered into the sky, glowing with blinding blue and purple neon lights. Metal vehicles without wheels drifted low over the streets, emitting a low, dizzying hum.

So this was the future? The world without magic that he had destroyed ages ago?

"Dammit, are you deaf?!" The man punched Michael in the face again.

Michael’s nose snapped. Ignatius could feel the consciousness of this body starting to slip, but deep within his soul, a drop of the Ichor Astralis he had carried through time began to react. The remnants of that energy refused to let its vessel be destroyed.

Michael Dorian slowly raised his face. Even with his features mangled, his eyes stared back coldly.

"You..." Michael’s voice was hoarse. "You just touched an Archmage with that filthy iron hand of yours."

The man paused for a second, then exploded into a coarse laugh.

"Huh? Archmage? What are you talking about?" The man spat to the side. "Stop talking trash, you idiot! You’re smart, Michael, but your brain is rotted from too much daydreaming. You know damn well this world is nothing but machines and money. There’s no magic, no stupid wizards like in some fairy tale. You’re just a failed student buried in debt!"

The man raised his mechanical arm. The piston in his elbow hissed, gathering hydraulic pressure for one final blow.

Michael didn't flinch. As Michael Dorian, memories of medical anatomy suddenly surfaced in his mind. As Ignatius, he knew exactly where the energy nodes were located. As the iron fist lunged forward, Michael simply shifted his head an inch. With two fingers, he pierced a small gap between the hydraulic cables of the mechanical arm while releasing a tiny jolt of energy.

CRACK!

Electric sparks flew. The mechanical arm short-circuited; its motor suffered a minor explosion, sending a backcurrent that shattered the thug’s shoulder nerves.

"AAAAAGGHH! MY ARM! WHAT DID YOU DO, YOU DOG?!" The man recoiled, clutching his smoking arm.

Michael stood up slowly. His body was still shaky, but his back was straight as an arrow. He wiped the blood from his lips.

"Your technology is trash," Michael whispered. "Too many gaps."

The other two thugs backed away. They looked at Michael Dorian—the man who usually begged for mercy—now standing with a hollow, lethal stare.

"Let’s go! Michael’s lost his mind! Report this to Kaelen Reign!"

The three of them scrambled into the darkness of the alley, leaving Michael alone under Oakhaven's acid rain.

Michael leaned his body against a brick wall. The memories of Michael Dorian began to flood him; the lectures at Ivory Tower, his father’s gambling debts, and the systemic oppression in this city. He looked toward the sky. On a massive hologram, the face of a man he knew all too well was displayed.

Zoltan Draken. Or at least, his descendant who was now the sovereign of technology.

Michael grinned darkly. "Zoltan... you built a machine paradise atop the ashes of my civilization."

He tried to call forth mana, but this body was too damaged. Poor nutrition and clogged nerve circuits.

"Michael! Oh my God, Michael!"

A girl with short black hair wearing an oversized jacket ran toward him. Her face was frantic. Lyra Vex. The moment their eyes met, Michael’s heart beat strangely. His soul resonated. This girl’s frequency... was identical to Seraphina’s.

"They beat you again?" Lyra reached for Michael’s face, checking his wounds. She pulled out a small syringe filled with a green fluid—cheap medicine from the black market.

Michael brushed the girl’s hand away. "I don't need that synthetic trash, Lyra."

"But you could die from an infection! You know how filthy the Iron Altar district is!"

"I won't die," Michael said, staring at the tallest tower in the city center. "These wounds are just a reminder. In a world full of machines, there is still something they cannot destroy."

Lyra was stunned. The Michael she knew would usually cry on her shoulder. But this man had a gaze that was ancient, as if he had watched the world collapse a thousand times over.

"Michael... you’re so strange tonight," Lyra whispered.

Michael didn't answer. He stared at Lyra’s hands. If she truly was Seraphina’s reincarnation, then this time, he would not let her die again.

"Let’s go home," Michael said shortly. "I need to fix this garbage body.