[Congratulations, Walker Vikram. You have initiated your First Walk.]
[Complete your Walk by escaping the Blood Desert.]
The notification echoed in Vikram's mind, threading through the chaos of his thoughts like a venomous whisper. His first instinct was to curse whoever had orchestrated this.
When had he initiated anything?
This damn thing had done everything on its own!
But Vikram knew that venting frustration was a fool's game. Complaining without power was like offering your neck to the guillotine all the while thanking the executioner. He had learned that hard truth long ago. The world order that Earth had followed for centuries was unraveling before his eyes. The notion of rights, of personal freedom—it was all about to be buried beneath the weight of this new reality.
And Vikram was already at its mercy.
He sat within an opulent carriage, its interior steeped in the rich elegance of ancient Egypt. Hieroglyphs danced across the walls, golden etchings of pharaohs and gods shimmering under soft lamplight. The seats were plush, embroidered with motifs of sacred scarabs and desert lilies. Through the gaps between the white cloth curtains, Vikram glimpsed a sun-baked desert stretching into infinity, broken only by the swaying silhouettes of date palms.
Beyond the cloth veils, a procession of figures moved alongside the carriage. Men and women, their shoulders slumped under invisible burdens, walked with the resigned weariness of prisoners marching toward their doom. Their hollow eyes and lifeless gaits screamed of exhaustion.
Vikram's brow furrowed. Egypt? How the hell had he ended up here?
He had been in Kerala just moments ago, feeling the phantom throb of broken glass embedded in his chest. Now he was being dragged through a desert on the other side of the world. The disconnect was staggering, but he didn't have the luxury to dwell on it.
He needed to move. Deserts were not places where strangers thrived.
As Vikram shifted to rise from his cushioned seat, a fresh cascade of notifications flared into existence before his eyes.
[You have fully integrated into your surroundings. You can now access your status by thought.]
[The Mother watches your First Walk, Walker.]
Vikram's breath hitched at the last line.
"That's not creepy at all."
His thoughts flicked back to the colossal statue that had descended from the sky, its blank, featureless face and welcoming arms radiating an unnatural warmth. That thing—no, that presence—was watching him. Was this "Mother" the same entity that had orchestrated his teleportation?
He sank back into the seat, muscles tensing as his mind raced through the implications. He needed answers.
Following an instinctive nudge, Vikram focused on the word "status"—and the world around him dimmed as a crimson screen materialized before his eyes.
[Name: Vikram Rathore (Rameses II)]
[Titles: Nil]
[Existence Rank: Pre-Existence]
[Cultivation: Nil]
[Soul Memoirs: Revoked]
[Soul Manifestations: Revoked]
[Trait Cord: {Broken Fate} {Tyrant's Fate} {Slumbering Sloth}]
Vikram's gaze sharpened as he dissected the information with surgical precision.
Rameses II.
The name of the body's original owner. Vikram didn't know where the previous occupant had gone, nor did he particularly care. Survival demanded ruthless focus, not sentimentality.
Titles were self-explanatory, but empty. Existence Rank and Cultivation were mysteries—likely tied to this twisted new world. He made a note to figure them out later.
It was the "revoked" status of Soul Memoirs and Soul Manifestations that troubled him most. His instinct screamed that he had lost something crucial, even if he didn't yet know what it was.
But the real gold lay within the Trait Cord. His gaze hovered over the first trait.
{Broken Fate: You have been cursed by The Foolish One to have a Broken Fate. Broken Fate has the trait of never allowing its host to break through. In return, they are plagued by all sorts of encounters.}
"What the hell?"
Vikram's thoughts shot back to the malevolent voice, the sensation of a jagged mirror piercing his glabella. The Broken Mirror had embedded itself into him, and now this "Broken Fate" was the result?
And in exchange for eternal stagnation, it promised… encounters?
What kind of absurd trade was that?
Vikram dismissed the bitterness roiling in his chest and moved on. Next.
{Tyrant's Fate: Your fate has been inexplicably tied with the fate of a Tyrant.}
He understood the meaning perfectly.
Rameses II. A tyrant. A figure of arrogance and dominance, someone whose rise was inevitably accompanied by downfall.
And wasn't that fitting?
In his own life, Vikram had never been a king. But he had been a tyrant in his own right. His arrogance had not stemmed from superiority—it had been a weapon, sharpened by the awareness of his impending death. Backed into a corner by terminal illness, Vikram had wielded indifference like a sword. He had treated others with calculated distance, understanding that his time was too precious to waste on meaningless bonds.
But a tyrant's fate was a cruel one. If betrayal or rebellion didn't destroy them, disease would.
{Slumbering Sloth: You dream realistically too.}
Vikram's lips curled into a half-snarl.
"You've got to be kidding me."
For a moment, he had hoped—hoped that this trait might be useful. The name mirrored the very game that had triggered his spiral into the paranormal. Maybe it would grant him insight, or control over dreams. But the description was so vague it was practically useless.
Vikram exhaled slowly, organizing the information into mental packets. He was accustomed to parsing complex data under pressure. His mind settled into cold efficiency.
Three Traits
One that chained him.
One that marked him.
And one that eluded him.
'My luck is really through the roof...'
Vikram's gaze lifted toward the swaying curtains of the carriage. Beyond them, the endless expanse of desert shimmered under a merciless sun. His lips curled into a grim smile.
Survival was priority one.
An arrogance that had been deep in his bone began to slowly awaken.
If the rules of this world could be bent, Vikram would break them.
He was going to win.
This was not negotiable.
Vikram leaned back in his seat, the glow of the status screen fading into the void. His hand curled into a loose fist as his gaze sharpened toward the horizon.
Escape the Blood Desert, huh?
"Fine." His voice was low, steady.
"Let's play."