His consciousness, gradually anchoring back into his physical form, stirred him to life. With great effort, he weakly opened his eyes, only to be greeted by complete darkness. Lying on the ground, he felt the cold, hard surface beneath him - stone and marble. His head throbbed with a dull ache. Disoriented, he moved his hands, slowly realizing he was confined within the narrow space of a tombstone. Panic gripped him as he struggled for air, the stifling closeness pressing in on all sides.
Slowly, his hands began to explore, and he realized with a jolt of alarm that he was confined within a tombstone. Panic fluttered in his chest as he struggled for breath, his movements restricted and desperate. With a feeble push, he managed to shift the heavy stone lid of the tombstone, gasping for air as he did so. Like a figure reanimated, he raised his chest and head, emerging from the tombstone with a desperate gasp for air.
As he sat up, taking in ragged breaths, he was struck by an astonishing realization — his body showed no signs of aging, despite the passage of 118 years. He examined himself in wonder, searching for any signs of decay or deterioration, but found none. Time seemed to have stood still for him.
Looking around, he found himself in an underground crypt, its atmosphere heavy with a sense of solemnity and mystery. The air was still, the quiet almost reverent. This crypt, regal in its design, seemed fit for royalty. Above him, a large hole in the ceiling allowed fresh air to flow in. Judging by the light streaming through, it seemed to be noon. Vines crept in through the openings, their presence indicating the passage of time, yet the crypt was not as overgrown as one might expect after so many years.
As he processed the overwhelming reality, a realization dawned on him. When his mind had shattered, someone or something had placed his body in this tombstone. But this wasn't a preservation chamber; it wasn't meant to halt decay. Yet, here he was, perfectly preserved, untouched by time's relentless march. It felt surreal, almost dreamlike. Was this all an illusion? The Dream Eater, the mindscape, the heartscape — had it all been a figment of his imagination?
Then, he heard Chirithy's voice inside his mind, clear and comforting.
Chirithy: You've done it. You've returned to the real world. This is no dream, what you see around you is very much real.
As if to confirm the truth of its words, Chirithy appeared beside him in a small puff of smoke, its presence in the real world defying explanation.
Him: Chirithy, you're here...?
Chirithy: Our bond is strong, rooted in your heart. We knew each other long before these 118 years. You may have lost your memories, but i'haven't forgotten anything. I was the one who repaired your shattered mind.
The young man sat there, still processing the overwhelming reality around him. According to Chirithy, he was a Keyblade Wielder, but in this moment, he felt nothing more than human, his mind still reeling. To him, distinguishing between dream and reality seemed an impossible task, especially after being in a dormant state for so long.
Chirithy: It's a lot to take in, I know. But take your time. The reality of this world can be overwhelming, especially for someone who has been away for so long.
After allowing himself time to absorb the surreal reality of his situation, the young man slowly stood up in the grandeur of the royal crypt. Chirithy, the Dream Eater, approached him, its ears twitching with curiosity and concern. The creature seemed acutely aware that the young man was still grappling with incomplete memories, searching for a key piece of his identity.
Chirithy: You have traveled a great distance to reach this point. Now, can you recall your name?
The young man furrowed his brows, concentrating intensely. He turned towards Chirithy, hoping for a hint or a spark of memory, but found nothing.
In a corner of the crypt, he spotted an old, dusty mirror. He picked it up and gently wiped away the layers of dust accumulated over the years. As he gazed into the clear mirror, his eyes widened in astonishment at the reflection staring back at him.
He saw a 15-year-old boy with dark blue hair styled in a unique, slightly unkempt manner. The spiky disarray of his hair, with some spikes jutting rebelliously at the back, was striking. The deep blue of his hair shifted shades under the crypt's lighting.
His features were sharp and angular, yet possessed a youthful vibrancy. His piercing pink eyes glimmered like frozen crystals, and despite his pale complexion from long confinement in the crypt, there was a healthy flush on his cheeks.
He observed his physique: average height, lean and athletic, a body seemingly conditioned for agility and combat. This realization struck him as odd for someone his age.
His attire was a black zip-up hoodie adorned with a white snowflake pattern on the back, under which he wore a simple white t-shirt. His black cargo pants, practical with multiple pockets, and sturdy black boots completed his practical yet stylish ensemble.
As he absorbed his appearance in the mirror, a flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes.
Blizzard: So this is me... (he mused, his voice tinged with disbelief) Blizzard...
A wave of familiarity washed over him, a sense of rediscovery, as if he were piecing together fragments of himself long lost. Yet, he couldn't help but ponder the irony of his name.
Blizzard: Who names their kid Blizzard...?
Chirithy, watching him with approval, nodded, its eyes shining with a mixture of pride and relief.
Chirithy: It's more than just a name; it's a part of who you are. But you know, Blizzard is actually your nickname. The others used to call you Blitz. It suits you better, especially with your hair color. It's like the hue of a winter storm at night.
Blizzard: I can't help but be puzzled about my hair color and my eyes. (he spoke, his voice tinged with uncertainty) I may not remember much, but I'm quite certain my parents didn't have hair or eye colors like these. Is there something unusual about me?
Chirithy, perceiving the depth of his confusion, responded with a reassuring tone.
Chirithy: Variations in genetic traits are not unheard of, Blizzard. Hair and eye colors can differ significantly, even within families. Your blue hair and pink eyes might be rare, but they don't imply anything is wrong. In fact, they contribute to your unique identity as a Keyblade Wielder. It's possible that wielding that Keyblade of yours influenced these traits, a sort of mutation triggered by your connection to the Keyblade.
Blizzard chuckled softly, a trace of irony in his laughter. For the first time since his reawakening, he felt a wave of comfort wash over him, easing some of his anxiety.
Blizzard: I guess being a Keyblade Wielder does come with its own set of peculiarities, including unconventional hair and eye colors.
As he looked around the crypt, Blizzard noticed the musty, stale air, the faint scent of decay lingering amidst the shadows. It wasn't the decay of flesh but something else, something that only a Keyblade Wielder like himself could sense – the presence of darkness.
Blizzard: But why here, of all places?
Chirithy approached him, its expression solemn.
Chirithy: This is a burial chamber. I'm not certain of the details since I was within your mindscape. Your body was likely brought here by the remnants of humanity, a civilization surviving in this Locked World after your mind shattered.
Blizzard nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of Chirithy's words. Over a century had passed while he lay dormant, and his body had been preserved in this sacred place.
Blizzard: Can you help me get out of here? (he asked, his voice a mixture of hope and trepidation)
Chirithy: I'll guide you as best as I can. But we must proceed with caution. We're unaware of our exact location, and the heartless could appear at any moment. Given your current state, it's remarkable that you can even stand.
With a nod of agreement, Blizzard weakly followed Chirithy, setting off into the unknown. The crypt's silence weighed heavily on him as they navigated the labyrinthine paths of the burial chamber. Each step was tentative, his senses heightened to the eerie stillness that surrounded them. The absence of life and the palpable presence of darkness only intensified Blizzard's sense of apprehension as they ventured deeper into the crypt's secrets.
They moved cautiously through the crypt's halls, their footsteps echoing off the ancient walls. The air grew noticeably colder as they ascended, leaving the confines of the underground. When they finally emerged into the open, Blizzard was met with a sight that took his breath away.
The city before him, once bustling with life, lay in eerie silence. Buildings, their structures crumbling, stood as silent witnesses to the chaos that had unfolded. Windows were shattered, and the remnants of battles lay strewn across the streets. The desolation was palpable.
Chirithy: This is the fate of worlds left unprotected by Keyblade Wielders. The Heartless devour and destroy in their relentless search for hearts. Judging by the state of these buildings, this catastrophe has been unfolding for at least three years. We are three years too late... The darkness breached these worlds at least that long ago.
As they ventured through the desolate city, Blizzard's heart grew heavy with each step. The abandoned buildings and empty streets painted a picture of a sudden, mass exodus. A chilling silence hung in the air, broken only by their own footsteps.
Approaching a building that looked like it had been hastily abandoned, Blizzard peered inside. Overturned furniture, scattered papers, and personal belongings left behind spoke volumes of the panic and fear that must have gripped the city's inhabitants.
Suddenly, a rustling sound from behind made Blizzard whirl around, his heart pounding. But it was only a stray cat, scavenging through an overturned trash can. He let out a relieved chuckle at his own jumpy reaction.
Blizzard: It's just a cat... I guess I'm more on edge than I thought.
He continued walking through the streets, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any clue as to where the inhabitants might have gone. The reality of his situation weighed heavily on him. Despite Chirithy's explanations, the true nature of Keyblades and Heartless was still shrouded in mystery to him. This supposed real world felt more like a nightmarish landscape, and he couldn't shake off the feeling of dread that clung to him.
Blizzard: This... it's all so overwhelming. How could something like this happen?