Prometheus

A disagreeable stench invaded Marek's senses, causing his nose to twitch involuntarily. Opening his eyes felt like an arduous task, each movement requiring immense effort. His fingers felt sluggish and unresponsive as he attempted to move them.

With squinted eyes, Marek was met with the harsh brightness of a vivid blue sky, blinding him momentarily. Shielding his eyes with a slow, deliberate movement of his arm, he attempted to rise from the ground, only to slip on the muddy surface with a resounding thud.

"What the hell...?" His voice trailed off as he struggled to orient himself, propping himself up on his elbows to survey his surroundings.

A sudden sound startled him—the thundering hooves of two horses bearing down on him. Reacting swiftly, Marek rolled aside just in time to avoid being trampled.

As the carriage passed by, Marek's confusion only deepened. It was unlike any modern vehicle he had ever seen, resembling something straight out of a museum or historical reenactment.

"Damn brat," muttered the elderly coachman, dressed in attire that seemed antiquated compared to Marek's familiarity with modern fashion. With a stern glare, the coachman urged the horses onward, leaving Marek bewildered.

"Is this village stuck in the seventeenth century?" Marek wondered aloud, his ears still ringing from the commotion.

Gradually, the cacophony of noise around him began to settle into a coherent symphony. Taking stock of his surroundings, Marek observed muddy roads traversed by carriages and horse-drawn carts. The residents, too, seemed to be dressed in attire reminiscent of a bygone era—men in simple coat dresses or shirts, and women in modest tunics.

Marek narrowed his eyes, scanning his surroundings with a mix of wariness and disbelief.

'Is this some sort of European village?' he mused inwardly. While he acknowledged the existence of rural communities across all countries, Marek found it difficult to believe that such a seemingly underdeveloped village could exist in a European country.

Observing the features of the residents, Marek ruled out the possibility of being in Asia or Africa; the facial characteristics and attire of the villagers appeared close yet different to European.

Perhaps, Marek considered, this village was a unique tourist attraction designed to replicate a historical setting. However, this theory was quickly dismissed as he noted that every resident donned the same attire. There were no discernible tourists among them.

Another thing…

Marek clenched his hand, noticing the disparity in size between his current hand and body compared to his own true body. It became evident that not only was he in an unfamiliar place, but he also seemed to inhabit a different physical form altogether.

A lucid dream?

"No... this feels too real..."

Marek's thoughts raced as he began piecing things together. "Not a kidnapping, not a lucid dream. I'm inhabiting a foreign body, in what appears to be a village straight out of medieval times..."

Despite its absurdity, one conclusion relentlessly asserted itself in Marek's mind.

"Have I reincarnated into another world? No, I haven't died on Earth, so 'transmigration' might be the apt term here."

Furthermore, these foreign memories were no longer just fleeting.

While they could be dismissed as hallucinations or creations of his mind, Marek couldn't believe the idea that he had deluded himself into fabricating memories of an abandoned boy in the slums even though he had quite the imagination. 

These new memories, now his own, were profoundly disagreeable.

"Truly disagreeable..." Marek's expression turned chillingly impassive.

"Hey, Arthur!"

As he contemplated, Marek was jolted by a sharp knock on his head, prompting a small groan. The impact was surprisingly forceful and painful for a child's body.

But rather than succumbing to the pain, Marek's emotions swiftly morphed into anger and a fierce urge to retaliate.

"What's with that look, you little brat?!" The man raised his hand threateningly.

Marek could instantly recognize the man from Arthur's memories. He was the one who had forcibly recruited Arthur, who had been desperate for food. Now, he worked as a child thief for these bandits, stealing from others to survive.

It had been three years since Marek had been under their control, and now he was a ten-year-old and still working for them.

"What's the commotion, Garen?" Another man approached, bald and even more imposing.

He was the leader of the group that exploited Arthur and others for their own gain.

"This little brat is slacking off instead of working, Boss," Garen replied.

The bald man turned his steely gaze towards Marek, his presence intimidating.

Marek noticed passersby—men, women, and children—deliberately avoiding the situation with nervous expressions.

Feras, the sturdy bald man, furrowed his brow as Marek defiantly averted his gaze, unlike Arthur who would always comply without question.

As Marek felt a rising sense of revulsion, experiencing a disturbing déjà vu of being ignored in dire situations by Humans, he turned to face Feras, meeting his gaze head-on.

An urge bordering on obsession welled up within him, a desire to kill for what had been done to Arthur, even though Marek wasn't supposed to be him.

They were Marek's personal feelings now that he shared that body.

'Is this because of his memories?'

[Yes, Milord.]

Marek's eyes widened briefly before he quickly concealed his surprise as he heard a voice resonating in his head.

'Who?'

[Prometheus, Milord.]

"..."

Marek fell into a contemplative silence.

The name echoed with unsettling familiarity.

"Move it, Arthur!" Garen's interruption shattered Marek's thoughts as he reached for Marek's shirt, but Marek grabbed his arm before he could.

When Marek stared back at Garen with icy eyes, Garen felt a shiver run down his spine, a sensation of fear he had never experienced before, especially not from a child. He barely suppressed a yelp as sweat dripped down his forehead.

Regaining his composure, Marek released Garen's arm and nodded to Feras before moving forward.

For now, Marek decided to maintain a calm demeanor and observe his surroundings.

Prometheus.

It was a name familiar to Marek. It belonged to one of his original characters—an artificial intelligence Marek Adeus Astra had created to assist him in various tasks. But Prometheus existed only in Marek's fictional world, a creation of his imagination. Yet, the Prometheus who responded to him now seemed eerily real, embodying Marek's conception of the character down to the smallest detail, as if plucked from his dreams.

The accuracy was unsettling, and Marek couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity and connection with this version of Prometheus.

Suddenly, everything about Marek's world and imagination felt vivid and real.

'You responded to my thoughts earlier, as if you could read them, Prometheus.'

[Yes, Milord. Your brain had shown some alteration and I have been worri-]

'Don't ever invade my thoughts again.' Marek interrupted sharply, masking his irritation behind a calm facade.

He detested the sensation of being spied on and having his innermost thoughts laid bare. He was the master of his own mind and actions.

[I apologize, Milord. I will refrain from doing so as you wish.] 

Prometheus replied, hurriedly and apologetically. 

For an Artificial Intelligence, Prometheus showed a great deal of fear and reverence while addressing him.

He is exactly how I imagined him to be.

'Now, tell me,' Marek commanded.

[Yes, Milord. I have detected the presence of parasites in your brain, primarily in your hippocampus. Would you like me to remove them?]

'You can erase my memories?' Marek asked, growing even more irritated.

[M-My Emperor, I can only do so with your explicit permission and personal will.]

Prometheus hurriedly responded.

Right, I remember now. Marek Adeus Astra held complete control over Prometheus and could even make him vanish with a mere thought if he so desired. After all, Prometheus was his creation—no, Prometheus is MY creation.

It should have been obvious but the sudden surge of memories of both the boy Arthur and Marek Adeus Astra had to be arranged.

'Are we in Ajekreia?'

Marek asked the most important question.

If he had been transmigrated to another world, the first world that came to his mind was Ajekreia, the world of his imagination.

[No, Milord. I am also foreign to that world. I may need to recover all my capacities before initiating an analysis. My apologies.] 

'I suppose you don't know why I am here either then.'

[Yes, Milord, as you said.]

'I see.'

Somehow, Marek could sense that Prometheus could no longer read his mind, and he could now block him completely with a simple command.

Once he was certain Prometheus couldn't hear him, he began to contemplate.

Because he was in a quite dangerous situation. He wasn't in Ajekreia, which could have been comforting since he knew that world very well. 

But then, where was he?

Another concern was that Prometheus seemed to perceive him as Marek Adeus Astra, which wasn't entirely inaccurate, but not entirely correct either. He possessed all the knowledge of Marek Adeus Astra, having created him, and knew every detail of his life. However, Prometheus' loyalty was to Marek Adeus Astra, his Creator, not to him.

"Do you know how the Divine War ended?"