Chapter 32 The Astral Realm

As he etched these teachings into his mind, he was already getting to work on creating this gateway as he snuck outside with quiet steps, bringing only a small knife with him and his wand tucked into the pocket of his gray shorts.

Around the side of the house, he stood in front of the cellar doors, which were hardly ever used as nothing of much value was kept in the cellar, as he was told.

He brought the edge of the blade next to his palm, breathing in as he remembered the text once more:

[…’To create this gateway, you will need to draw your own blood. It doesn’t matter where from, just make sure it’s fresh. You will need to create the seal as shown on this page’…]

Drawn onto the page was a picture of the circular seal needed to be painted: it was one circle holding six more inside, all surrounding the center which were archaic letters and a bloody handprint in the center.

[…’Depending on the size of the catalyst you choose as your gateway, you may need a lofty bringing of blood’…]

“Ngh…”

He winced quietly as he slid the knife across his hand, drawing blood before he began to draw the seal on the collar door.

Carefully, he made sure to copy the described seal picture-perfectly, having to cut deeper into his hand in order to create enough blood to draw it across the broad doors of the cellar. The thought did come to use a bit of water to create more blood, but the man in the grimoire was quite adamant about it being “fresh and pure.”

“…There we go.”

There was but only one step left–the most simple of all.

[…’Once the seal is done, simply walk through those doors with your eyes closed. Count to ten before opening your eyes. If you find the normal scenery beyond the door once you part your eyelids–you don’t have the makings of a spirit arts user. However, if you should find yourself in the Astral realm–remember these words: “I am alive,”–use those if you find yourself needing to leave’…]

With that, he unlocked the wooden doors, shutting his eyes tightly as he opened the cellar entrance.

The moment his eyes were closed and he was standing before the entrance that had a fifty-fifty chance of being a gateway to an unknown realm, he felt the air caress his skin with a certain eeriness that made him hesitate.

Listening to the winds of the night whisper against his skin, he finally took the leap; he cautiously guided his feet past the cellar entrance, walking down a few steps to make sure he was past the gateway fully.

He began counting with a whisper:

“One…two…three…”

It was completely silent now; the utterances of the wind were gone and around his body the air felt cold.

“Four…five…six…”

Trickling down from his palm and down his fingertips, the blood ran from his cut as he stood perfectly still.

“Seven…eight…nine…”

For some reason, his breathing began uneven one “nine” left his lips; goosebumps rose across his skin and the coldness felt more tangible than ever.

“Ten.”

As soon as he opened his eyes, he nearly fell over backward as he was certainly not in the cellar.

There were no walls that neighbored him, but only a vastness of such darkness that swirled about, inhabited by entities that loomed in the distance–giant and foreboding.

Twisted trees curved around in the air, and the footing beneath his soles was of rotten soil.

…This is it? “The Astral Realm”? He thought.

Standing there, alone and stranded in the enigmatic domain as he watched purple clouds spiral in the nebulous sky above before shifting into faces that looked down at him, he immediately began to regret jumping so recklessly into this.

The air was difficult to breathe in; it felt like each breath was filling his lungs with ice but then each following exhale would melt it with a burning sensation.

“–“

It was something like this that made him doubt the artificial nature of Arcadius; an entirely different realm; how real and dreadful it felt.

A veil of utter darkness wrapped around the scenery; it was difficult to make up the shapes in the distance–what was animate and what was inanimate. What he perceived as slumbering, black mountains in the distance marched forward the next second.

Beneath his feet, the rotten soil gave away with each step he took forward, stumbling about as he tried grabbing one one of the crooked trees for support.

As he reached for one of the twisted branches, it curved away from his fingertips, avoiding his grasp as he nearly fell forward.

He couldn’t even lean against the tree as it uprooted itself and walked away, abandoning the stray, uncoordinated young boy.

“Ngh! Woah–!”

Before he could realize it, the lifeless, clumpy soil gave out beneath his step, breaking away as he began to plummet downward into unknown depths.

What the–? What’s up with this place?! He questioned.

As he fell through the ground with soil flowing down beside him, he grabbed his wand, preparing to use a perfectly timed wind spell to safely land, but just before he landed against the ground–

He fell gently, sinking into the soft bed below–much to his surprise.

Picking himself up, he looked down, finding himself having landed perfectly on a bed of colorful flowers. The verdant blades of grass were cushiony and somehow bouncy as he pressed his palm down, feeling the softness of it.

The flowers seemed to stare at him, twirling their violet pedals as one waved with one of its stems.

“…Thanks,” he said quietly.

He couldn’t quite process the fantastical, head-swirling nature of the Astral Realm, but as he looked up, he found himself in a small cave that was laden with flowers, but it housed once thing most of all that his eye:

Looking at it, he remembered the text he read in the grimoire:

[…’If you wish to find your Soulbound Spirit, you will need to find the “Origin Altar”; do not try and seek it out. Let it find you’…]

It was standing there, half-embedded into the rocky wall, curtained by vines, but it stood there–the statue in the shape of an all-seeing eye, housing cosmic jewels around its orbular shape.

He found himself to his feet, slowly moving over to it as he gulped.

As he placed his hand against the “Eye of Origin” as Torvald had described in the book, he felt a jolt go through his body as a cold sweat broke out.

It felt as if his very soul had become tangible once in contact with the enigmatic statue. He was unable to move his hand away as the sensation of being able to comprehend his own soul had made him freeze in utter disbelief.

All of the emotions he felt, the memories that stood out, and the voices of his mind–they all flashed in unison.

What’s this? He thought.

His entire life seemed to flow across his vision, scrolling through like a tale sung by a film roll; his heart stopped during this moment; the flow of his blood through his veins stifled. During this segment of existential confrontation, words were whispered directly into his mind:

“You are not worthy–yet.”