The night was still young. The moon shone bright overhead and cast its light across the city, and in one quiet bedroom on the second floor of a condo two figures lay on a bed with only the soft rustle of cloth between them.
Orson and Lenora rested with a small pile of pillows separating them. Lenora stared at the ceiling, silver hair spilled across the sheets, her nightgown pale against the dark. She looked beautiful, yet Orson was not looking at her.
His body remained still, eyes cold and open as he used his senses to feel the energy around him. It was strange and wrong, and he continued searching through the flow, trying to understand it.
In his world, back when he had been Xander the Immortal God, people cultivated the path of ascension. He and his brother had been prodigies. It had taken them countless years, but they had become immortal. Xander had learned the way of the sword while his brother pursued knowledge, and even with all of that they had both still died.
Yet here he was—alive, in a new body.
That part was not strange to him. Souls moved, and death was not always the end. What was strange was this world itself.
Take the moon, for example. It hung in the sky and shone down on the city, yet the moon was releasing killing intent without any conscious will. It radiated an aura that could kill. How was that possible? Moons were things created by the gods, not even living beings—just tools the gods used. But this one was different and dangerous.
And no one seemed to care. Or perhaps they simply did not know.
Orson was not sure.
Then there was his wife. He could feel a different aura clinging to her body, one that was actively trying to kill her. Not that he cared. But why had this body been forced to marry a dying woman?
There were too many questions and no answers.
And now he had to sleep in a world that looked simple on the surface yet would kill him the moment he let his guard down. Orson was not taking any chances. Sleeping was out of the question. To keep his wife from asking questions, his best move was to pretend to be asleep in the hope that she would sleep too.
But to Orson’s frustration she did not. She lifted the first pillow she herself had used to separate them, held it against her chest, and looked at him with a distant expression, lost in her own thoughts.
Orson’s eyes remained closed, yet he could feel her gaze on him. She was wondering how he could sleep without a care, though Orson was anything but without a care. Still, he had to play his part as the owner of this body. In his world there were ways to tell if a soul did not belong. What if the same existed here? And he was not the only one who had died. What if his brother was here as well?
The questions kept growing while his wife continued looking at him, her expression cold and distant.
That was how Orson spent the night. His body failed him before morning, and he fell asleep without meaning to.
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the main bedroom and fell across the bed where the two figures still lay.
Lenora woke gasping for breath, her whole body drenched in sweat and her eyes wide, as if she had seen a ghost.
Orson was already awake. He had bathed and dressed in long trousers and a black coat jacket that reached his knees. The body had moved through the motions easily, as if it had done this many times before, and wearing the clothes had been simple.
He looked at Lenora, still gasping, and walked toward her to help. Before he could reach her, the same sound from yesterday came from the ground floor. Someone was at the door.
He stopped. "I will check who that is."
Before she could respond he was already out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He reached the front glass door, looked through, and saw the same people from yesterday—the young man and the older woman.
He opened the door.
The young man smiled. "Orson, wow, you’re already dressed. Good. I guess I won’t have to wake you up."
Orson just looked at him.
The young man frowned. "Don’t look at me like I’m speaking French. Remember, today is mining day. Old man Vance promised a bigger cut for you and me. You need the money more than I do." He paused. "Well, and me too."
Orson said nothing. The young man looked back at him and realized the person he was talking to was simply staring.
He let out an exaggerated sigh. "First, can we come in?"
Orson stepped aside and let them enter. The young man walked straight to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water while the older woman headed toward the stairs.
Orson pointed. "Where is she going?"
The young man looked at him. "What’s wrong? Did you hit your head or something? She’s your wife’s maid. Remember?"
Orson looked up at the woman, then back at the young man.
The young man in front of him felt wrong. His gut told him not to trust this person, and the same went for the older woman. Orson’s instincts were never wrong. Yet when he was with his wife the feeling was different—not like this. So what was happening?
The young man walked toward him with the water in hand. "So let’s go."
Orson looked at him. "Where to?"
The young man looked shocked. "The mines. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"
Orson simply nodded.
As they were about to leave, the older woman came back down the stairs holding something in her hand.
"Young master, the miss told me to give this to you. She said it will help."
Orson took it. He was not sure what it was. It looked like a ring, and he thought it might work like a dimensional pocket from his world. He tried to open it with his senses, but nothing happened.
The maid and the young man watched him as he stared at the ring, his expression blank.
The young man tilted his head. "Hey, you sure you’re alright?"
He reached over and tapped the ring on Orson’s hand. "You do it like this."
The ring opened into a small portal. Orson moved his hand into it, and when he pulled it out he was holding a sword.
The blade was a katana, its edge thin and made of pure energy that glowed softly, like starlight shaped into steel.
The young man’s eyes went wide. Even Orson was surprised. He could feel the energy coming from the blade, yet it was not what he was used to.
"The Storm Blade," the young man breathed.
Orson looked at him. "What is that?"
The young man sighed. "I told you to follow the news, but you never listen. That’s the Storm Blade. A Saintess Tier 3 blade. It belonged to the Storm Saint."
Orson looked at the sword. "Used?"
"Yeah. She’s dead. The blade has no master now. How do you have that?"
Orson did not answer. He thought about his wife. She had given him this blade through the maid, yet he could not feel any cultivation from her. That made everything stranger.
He put the sword back into the ring, slipped the ring onto his finger, and looked at the young man.
"So where to now?"
The young man smiled. "First, I’m hungry. Let’s grab a bite before heading out."
He walked out the door, and Orson followed him into the strange new world.