Fire.
That was Cain's first sensation.
Not the kind that warmed or danced gently in hearths. No, this was fire inside him—every vein lit with agony, every nerve burning as though someone had poured molten metal through his bones.
He wanted to scream.
But he had no mouth. No voice. No breath.
He wanted to thrash.
But he had no strength. No control. No body.
His awareness floated in a cage of raw, flayed sensation, pain anchoring him to this new existence. Yet even through that, his mind stirred—shattered but alive.
His consciousness refused to fade.
Then came the sound.
Muted. Distant. Like voices heard underwater. Yet unmistakably human.
"Cain… Cain, please. Drink this. Gods above, just… stay with me."
Warm hands touched him. A calloused palm brushed hair back from his damp forehead. He couldn't move, but he felt it. The trembling fingertips. The tremor in the man's voice.
The man who called him Cain.
Then something bitter—earthy and sharp—was pressed to his lips. A broth or tincture, its acridness cutting through the fog of pain. Some part of his throat responded on instinct, swallowing reflexively. It burned all the way down.
Poison?
His mind reeled, fury sparking from somewhere primal.
'What was this man doing to him? Why couldn't he move? Why...?'
And then—
He saw the man's face.
Through crusted eyelids stained with dried blood and bleary vision, the world sharpened just enough for Cain to see the man tending to him. Middle-aged, with sun-worn skin and tired eyes that shimmered with wetness. A crude bandage hung loosely around one of his wrists, and he reeked of herbal smoke and sweat.
But what froze Cain was the look in the man's eyes.
Worry.
Desperation.
Love.
Not the performative affection of a priest or the calculating fondness of an ally.
Real love. The kind that could not be faked. The kind Cain had believed was never meant for him—not in his past world, not in any life.
The rage rising inside him cracked. And in the silence that followed, something else stirred.
A memory.
But not his.
Like a floodgate had been forced open, visions began pouring into Cain's mind—not of his crusade, his betrayal, his war. These were softer, sadder images.
A small cottage under a lavender twilight sky.
Laughter echoing in a garden as a younger man—this man—carried a giggling boy on his back.
A cracked wooden sword being waved around with childish pride.
A bedtime story whispered in candlelight.
A promise whispered with trembling lips: "You'll grow strong, Cain. Stronger than me. You'll make the world see you."
The boy's name was Cain, too.
Cain Vox.
And the man—his father—was Angus Vox.
Cain—the one from the other world—felt the name strike deep. It wasn't just a name; it came with emotion. With memory. With a life.
It hit him then. The body he had claimed… it wasn't just some vessel of flesh left behind.
It had once lived.
Loved.
And died.
More images crashed through him.
A field turned battlefield. Two Gem Masters clashing, their God Gems roaring with light and madness. The air split. Mountains shattered. Fire and wind clashed in titanic waves.
And caught between them—a single boy.
Cain Vox.
A casualty. No, collateral.
A child no one cared about in a war for power. The moment before impact—he hadn't even screamed. Just stood frozen. And then, blackness.
That should've been the end.
But Cain Vox survived.
He didn't know how. Not then. Not now.
But Cain—the one who had died cursing gods—had entered the body of a boy whose soul refused to leave.
And the strange, impossible truth settled into him like a blade pressed to his heart.
They were both Cain.
He was not alone in this body. Not entirely. The pain… it wasn't just from the fusion of soul and flesh. It was the residue of a second soul, burned and battered, lingering still.
Cain could feel it—a memory echo curled deep in the marrow. A lingering sense of belonging.
The father's love wasn't his.
And yet, somehow… it was.
Tears formed in Cain's eyes—not the cold tears of rage, but something foreign, unfamiliar. Grief. Guilt. Hope.
He wasn't supposed to feel these things anymore.
He had cast them away in the fire of betrayal.
And yet, as Angus Vox sat by his side, pressing a damp cloth to his fevered brow and whispering, "You're safe now, my boy," Cain felt the fury inside him unravel.
His breath trembled.
He wanted to speak.
To say: I'm not your son.
To cry out: Your real Cain is gone.
But the words never came.
Because deep down, a part of him didn't want to deny it.
The pain remained, but it no longer ruled him.
Cain let the warmth of the moment settle over him like a blanket after a blizzard. His consciousness wavered, pulled between this life and the one that had ended in ashes.
Before the darkness claimed him again, one final thought echoed through his mind:
Cain Vox was a victim.
But Cain… was a weapon.
And now, the two were one.