The first thing I noticed about the "Real" world was the absolute, terrifying
weight of my own skin.
For years—it felt like lifetimes—my body had been a vessel for things that were
not human. I had been a sieve for the Hallowed Light, a conductor for the
Earth-Pillar's tectonic resonance, and a container for the Void's cold, hungry
starlight. I had moved with the lightness of a dream and the momentum of an
avalanche. But as I lay in the dirt of the Obsidian Courtyard, the air no longer
felt like a medium for my power. It felt like a heavy, invisible blanket
pressing me into the dust, demanding that I acknowledge the frailty of bone and
the slow, rhythmic labor of human lungs.
I tried to draw a breath, and my chest ached. It was a sharp, localized pain—not
the cosmic agony of a soul being shredded, but the simple, honest protest of
bruised ribs. I tasted copper in my mouth, the metallic tang of real blood,
saltier and warmer than the ichor of the gods.
