1st book Conquest of time

2nd book The mechanics of the heart

3rd book The Last Heroes' Child

By: Surya Boddu

Bio: A Novelist by expression and a Poet by passion. Author of Webnovel, Re-birth of a Genius Creator/Destroyer, and Poetry book, Echoes of Silent Suffering.

Conquest of time

I am a Twenty-five years old, aspiring writer.

I like writing stories and my biggest inspiration has always been the stories of people that were untold

and unheard by most. So, whenever I go to a new place, I try to interact with as many people as

possible.

And I was told this story by an old man during one of my journeys.

In the first-class compartment of the Prashanti Express, I met an old man who sat across from me.

His thick hair looked like a pillow of cotton resting on his head. As if to match that cotton pillow, he

wore a white cotton shirt and a white dhoti both ironed so crisp that I felt insecure with the formals

that I was wearing.

That man had a fountain pen in his shirt pocket, with its golden clip clearly visible from the outside. He

had a cane in his hands, and with its support, he kept his weathered body sitting straight.

He had a pale face, soft skin, and the wrinkles on his forehead looked like speed breakers in a school

zone, forming a thick, natural frown.

I could not help but wonder about the amount of stress he must have gone through to develop that

natural frown.

Looking at his straight posture, I did not dare slump back into my comfy seat. I sat up straight. I wanted

to initiate a conversation, but I felt a bit pressured by his presence.

I felt like a small sapling standing in the shadow of a giant tree. I didn’t even dare breathe loudly. To

escape that tension, I took out my notebook and started scribbling.

WHOO

The horn of the train helped me a bit. It pulled me out of that nervous state with a jolt. As the train

started moving, I felt a little more at ease.

Meanwhile, the old man still looked out the window, just as he had when we were at Bangalore railway

station.

Then came a halt after a couple of pages—not of the train, but of the pen. It had run out of ink. I

rummaged through my backpack but could not find a spare. My grip tightened around my pen, and I

almost cursed out loud at my own stupidity.

What kind of writer travels without properly prepping their writing tools? Obviously, the idiotic one.

My fingers felt itchy, and I was jittery, rummaging through the same backpack again and again—

crumpling all my well-folded clothes and even going so far as to pull them out.

I felt my hand twitch and my gut clench. I was just about to lose myself in a zone, and now I couldn't

write anymore. I clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth, letting out all the curse words I could think of —

silently, in my head.

Just a moment ago, all my thoughts had been flowing onto the page, and then this happened. In that

state, my eyes landed on the only other person there with me.

I gulped nervously as I looked at the fountain pen in his pocket. The old man was still gazing out the

window, not bothering to look at me even once. I wanted to ask him... but the words that were at the

tip of my tongue refused to come out.

At that moment, the man moved his old, wrinkled hand to his shirt pocket and took out his fountain

pen. Without saying a word, he handed it to me.

I was hesitant and did not take it right away.

Maybe he sensed how nervous I was, because he finally looked at me with a faint smile—a smile so

faint that, if not for our proximity, I wouldn't have even noticed it.

“Take it. A writer’s words, a singer’s voice, a musician’s tune, a dancer’s steps, and a warrior’s battle—

none should be interrupted. It is a sin too great for this cursed world to bear. And this world has already

borne too many.”

Have you ever felt lightning strike your head? I felt that at that moment.

Without even thinking, my hand moved. I took the pen. It was heavy, its diameter almost reaching an

inch and a half. The body of the pen was made of a material I didn't recognize, but the black sheen

made it apparent that it was some kind of metal.

The nib, however, was instantly recognizable. It was made of gold—as was the clip. It was a pen I

couldn’t afford, not even in my dreams.

I caressed it gently. For some reason, just holding it in my hands felt like an honor.

I couldn’t help myself—I wrote with it. The words flowed once again, but for some reason, I didn’t feel

satisfied.

To be honest, I don’t even remember what I was writing at that time anymore, because the old man’s

words kept reverberating in my head.

It was like an echo in a canyon—but the one that wouldn’t wouldn’t fade away.

BAM

I slammed the book shut and capped the pen. Taking deep breaths, I sighed before passing the pen

back to the old man. I couldn’t write at all.

My words suddenly felt tasteless and lifeless as I mulled over what the old man had said. A sense of

shame crept over me. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t like what I was writing. I felt completely

lost.

He looked at me with the same smile.

Seems like I disrupted your flow. That was not my intention. My apologies.”

His voice was mellow, carrying the weight of age and the wisdom that came with it. But there was

something hidden behind that mellow tone—something strong, something powerful, something

beyond my understanding.

Please don’t apologize. I’m too young and immature to receive such a gesture from elders like you,” I

said promptly.

He didn’t respond, but since the ice had been broken, I decided to shove my hesitance into my back

pocket and ask.

“Sir, if you don’t mind, can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“The words you said—about the writer’s words, the singer’s song... What did you mean by that? Why

is it a sin for this world? I don’t understand.”

“All the things I mentioned are representations of the state of the world. They reflect a place, a person,

and even an entire civilization in this endless stream of time.

They are also the result of the effects of time on people and society.

And if a time comes when even these things can no longer continue uninterrupted—when their very

essence is suppressed and blocked... I can’t put it into words.”

Just like that, his words made me think. I looked down at my own hands and only then realized that I

was still holding the pen, my hand extended. The old man hadn’t taken it. I stretched my hand further,

prompting him to accept it.

“Keep it with you for a while. Since I interrupted your story, I’d like to compensate. I have a story to tell

you. Do you want to write it? I didn’t know how to react to that, I only nodded my head.

His smile widened, and he began narrating.

“Long, long ago, there was a forest called Viswavanam.

It was lush with life, stretching like a vast carpet of green. Towering trees reached dozens of meters

into the sky, while mountains soared hundreds more. Deep ravines carved through the land, vast

enough to swallow entire cities.

And in the heart of it all lay a village.

Kaalgadi.

The village was like a child cradled in the womb of its mother—the forest.

Like any mother nurturing her child, the forest provided every nutrient needed for the village to thrive.

Colorful flowers bloomed with such brilliance that even the rainbow would grow jealous, and

shimmering streams flowed with a glow that could make the moon blush.

Birds sang mirthful tunes, and ancient herbs held the power to defy death itself. From food that could

sustain every newborn child to wood that could light the pyre of those who took their last breath—

The forest had everything.

But there was a time when the people of the village were ignorant of the magical resources their

mother had given them.

Thousands of fruits, only a few steps away, fell from the trees and lay there rotting—returning to the

soil from which they came.

All the while, the villagers starved, too afraid of the dangers lurking in the woods.

Fresh spring water, so pure and full of life that one could mistake it for a heavenly elixir, flowed just a

few miles away.

All the while, the villagers drank from a filthy pond, falling prey to disease—neither disciplined

enough to journey to the stream nor wise enough to purify the water at hand.

A million trees stood tall, their wood strong enough to build homes that could last for generations.

All the while, the villagers huddled in frail shelters, with walls of sticks and roofs of leaves.

Exposing themselves the dangerous to the rain, sun and the pain of being the targets of the animalistic

desires of their peers.

They had everything within arm’s reach, yet they remained like an unmoving flock of sheep—unaware

of the vast grazing fields spread before their very eyes.

Until one fateful day, a shepherd was born among them.

His name was Amsha.

He brought light to their darkness. He taught them how to learn, and so they began learning from him.

He taught them to work. He taught them to create. And with the tools they forged, he taught them to

dare.

He taught them discipline. He taught them hygiene. He taught them exploration. And he taught them

that there exists something called old age.

The people, who once looked like skeletons draped in pale skin, finally resembled the living.

Gone were the days when they starved. They now had enough grain to feed the village ten times over.

Gone were the days when they fell ill. They now had enough medicine to live their lives ten times over.

Gone were the days when they fell prey to beasts.

They now had the strength to fight back—and even used the hides of those very beasts as decorations.

The villagers remembered Amsha’s deeds and honored him with a statue in the village center, blessing

him with immortality.

Amsha took in the praise and reveled in it.

He soaked in the love and sailed on it.

He embraced the gratitude and stewed in it.

He felt immortal—until he realized he wasn’t.

A single strand of gray hair made him see the truth:

No blessing could bend the will of time.

No good deed could please the passage of time.

No wish from the villagers could change the rules of time.

All his deeds felt so puny now, all his accomplishments felt tiny now. He couldn’t stand the thought

that he would perish one day and let it consume his heart and mind. And thus began his search for

immortality.

He went out of the village and travelled the world. He met with wisest of scholars, read the greatest

of scriptures, and he talked to the purest of sages.

One said that unending charity was the way and another said, unending penance was the way. One

said that boundless knowledge was the way and another said thankless prayers were the way. One

said, path of the arts is the way and another said ruthless war was the way.

He sailed the seas, walked the deserts, scaled the mountains, and trekked the forests. From all the

corners of the world, he didn’t receive a single answer.

And all this while, his hair kept greying. Maybe time was not amused by his futile attempts, and its toll

on him intensified.

He hurriedly went back to Kaalgadi and started doing everything. He used all his riches to establish a

charitable place that served meals until the end of his time.

He gathered all his resources and opened a school to educate.

He gathered artists of all kinds and gave them a roof so that the dying arts could finally thrive. He built

a hospital that housed the greatest doctors ever and fought against disease and sickness.

He called for the greatest warriors and made them the guardians of his people.

And he stayed in penance as he prayed to the gods, dedicating all his good deeds to them.

As far as his influence spread, a man might have been poorer than another, but no one spent their life

in poverty. A man might have been healthier than another, but no one died of disease.

A man might have been more educated than another, but no one was illiterate.

Many people claim that the donation of food is the greatest deed.

Some say the donation of education is the greatest deed. Some say preserving life and health is the

greatest deed, and some say the propagation of the arts is the greatest deed.

And he did all of them over the decades. His glory grew, his reputation grew.

Kaalgadi was not a village anymore, instead it was a hub for healing souls, it was a hub for greater

learning, it was the hub for thriving artists and it was the place for feeding hungry.

However, the immortality he sought was not found.

By the time he was in his eighties, his reputation grew to the greatest heights. But his body couldn’t

even carry his own weight and made him dedicated to his sick bed. He was frail, withered, and weak.

He knew his time was about to come.

As the death approached, everyone started visiting him. Out of love, respect, admiration, and grief.

But he could not see or feel any of those emotions. His mind was as clouded as his aged eyes.

All he felt was the helpless resentment.

One night, he watched the sunset from his window.

That day, the sun looked a lot less bright than usual. There was a gloom that shadowed Amsha like the

dark clouds that were trying to devour that sun.

He looked at himself in a mirror. He was half bald. And whatever he had left on his head... there was

not a strain of black in it.

CRASH

He threw the mirror against the stone wall. Tears streamed down his cheeks and ended up on his silk

sheets.

Grief enveloped him and soon it turned into anger.

“Bloody Time.

What right do you have to take my life away? What right do you have to take my dream away? All the

wealth I earned, all the charities I have done, all the arts that I preserved and all the lives that I saved.

Which of those acts is not worthy of your admiration?

If the millions of people are bowing their head to me, why don’t you? Why did you stubbornly battle

against me? Why are you dragging me down this bitter path?

Why must have to succumb to your fangs?

When millions of people are blessing me to live, what right do you have to kill me? If you are really fair,

why do I get the same death as those who sinned? How is that fair?

If I am not worthy, who on this earth is worthy of your bow? WHO AMONG THEM IS WORTHY OF

IMMORTALIT...*Cough* Cough”

His outburst came to a halt as he coughed up blood. He wiped it off on the silk sheets just as his son,

now well into his twenties, came running into the room.

The young man was tall, over six feet. He had thick black hair, a lean but muscular frame, steady

breathing, and sharp eyes. His eyebrows were even sharper, shaped like swords.

Amsha looked at his son and said,

“Son, my time has come. In this battle against time, I have lost. I did everything I could—everything

that might have worked—but I failed.

I gave my all, yet it wasn’t enough to trade for immortality.

I urge you, my son. I urge you. Find immortality. Discover what this time needs, earn what this time

desires, and you shall trade it for immortality. Defeat time for me.”

His voice weakened, fading like the setting sun, and with it, his soul left the mortal world.

The son, Dvityamsha looked at his father’s corpse with screens of tears blurring his vision. He bawled

his eyes out, hugging his lifeless father. Crying like a little child, he remembered the time when he was

one.

He remembered the days he craved for his father’s presence, but only for his father to work himself in

his delusional pursuit of immortality.

And yet he was unable to do so.

That night, the son was sleepless.

Amsha was cremated the next morning, with a majestic ritual, that could rival a king’s.

All of Kaalagadi lost its usual lustre. Even the forest looked like it was weeping tears as gloom

surrounded the usual vibrant lush.

Dvityamsha walked back from the ritual grounds to Kaalagadi after bathing in the stream. On his way,

every person he came across greeted him, offering their condolences and he saw even more people

bowing, kneeling and worshipping his father’s statue.

He went back into his house and spent another sleepless night, which was followed by another day of

sadness and another night of sleeplessness.

Time went on as he holed himself up in within his room.

Until one day, his mother knocked on his door.

He looked at the woman who wore the white color of the widow with the bun of grey hair on her head.

The crow’s feet near her eyes were more definite than ever and the wrinkles made her seem like she

aged a decade over the past few days.

She held his hand and led him out to their balcony, from where they could see the whole of Kaalagadi.

“My son, do you see the library over there?” She asked.

Dvityamsha nodded and she continued.

“When your father and I were still kids in this village, Kaalagadi ended there. Beyond that point the

whole place was nothing but trees, grass and the snakes hidden within.

Dvityamsha was surprised. Because the library was just over a hundred and fifty meters away. It wasn’t

that far. And if all the village was that small... it was barely one-fiftieth of Kaalagadi’s current size.

“Before your father, Kaalagadi was just a place where people starved and died. Nobody wanted to stay

here. But now, no one wants to stay anywhere else but here.

Amsha, your father has done so much for this village. I do not know when or why his obsession with

immortality began. That absurd notion consumed his mind like a disease and he pursued it.

Still, in his pursuit, your father had laid foundation to a great many things, and it is necessary for you

to continue his legacy.

You are son of Amsha, who lived for the people. So, grieve his death along with them and continue the

deeds your father has started.”

With those words, Dvityamsha, finally stepped out of the house.

He went to work and took up his father’s responsibilities. And he soon realized just how much work

was his father handling. He also understood what kept this whole thing running.

Money.

The hospitals need more herbs. Money.

The artists need more material. Money.

The people need more food. Money.

The kids need higher education. Money.

No matter what he did, all he needed was money.

With money, he could quell hunger.

With money, he could uplift the arts.

With money he could even honor the gods.

And thus began his pursuit for money.

He travelled the world and traded everything.

Every time returned home, it was with a treasure.

Soon he was richer than the richest of the world.

His treasury was adorned with mountains of gold and streams of silver, piles of gems and hordes of

jewels.

His wealth unmatched, he was revered as the Kaliyuga Kubera: The god of wealth in the age of Kali.

And in brightness of his riches, his face shone brighter than a million suns.

In his reign, the Kaalagadi that got started as the child of forest turned to become the home of wealth.

And with the birth of new generations in his raise, who became the beneficiaries of his charitable

deeds, he gained the respect of his people, just like his father.

However, as the days passed and his hair greyed, he finally understood his father.

With all the wealth in the world at his beck and call and with the ability to buy the world as it was, he

was not able to buy one thing.

The same thing that his father was not able to obtain

As he watched the wealth he built, the businesses he created, and all the charity he did along with all

the glory he accumulated.

He was reluctant.

He was reluctant to succumb to time.

He was reluctant to be confined by the mortal constraints.

When he can buy the power to decide the life and death of many, he suddenly felt the need to have

that power over his own life.

And thus began his pursuit for immortality.

Using his immense wealth, he called for the greatest priests of the world to conduct yagas. He made

thrones and crowns for gods out of finest gold and the rarest gems. He distributed them to all the

temples he knew.

The charity went beyond any vicinity of the kaalgadi. His name started spreading far and wide.

However, all these good deeds didn’t amount to much.

They were all as useless as the mountain of gold he had. He couldn’t buy even a second of time.

Soon, as the old age hit, he was confined to the same bed his father laid on while dying. Just like his

father, he looked at the setting sun with the gloom of dark clouds surrounding the city.

He leaned against the headrest and sighed.

“Bloody Time

I had the vast wealth that one could ever accumulate. I had mountains of gold that one could only

dream of.

With my wealth, I bought education for the illiterate, food for the hungry, health for the sick and art

for the artist.

But why cannot I place a price on you.

For my wealth, kings bow before me, peasants kneel at the sight of me, poor crave for my mercy and

rich desire my treasury.

But why cannot I make you bow before me.

Even if the gods that control you are the reason for the life on this earth. My wealth is the reason those

gods have shelter on this land. Why do you refuse to sell yourself to me?

I can buy every creature of this world and sell it just to do it all over again. With my wealth, I stood at

the top of the world.

WHY SHOULD I BURN IN THE FLAMES OF TIME? ANSWER ME.”

He screamed out the last sentence with the pent up anger and rage he accumulated over the years.

His son came running inside.

Dvityamsha could not help but remember the time when he saw his father on the death bed.

Sadness accumulated his heart as he watched his son run inside, but at that moment his son froze.

Not out of shock, but literally froze. Along with his son, the fleeting breeze, fluttering curtain,

descending sun and the waving trees. Everything froze.

And suddenly Dvityamsha saw something

In front of him came a man.

But the next second, he wasn’t a man, but a child.

And the next moment it was not a child but an old soul.

And that moment Dvityamsha understood.

The one in front of him was neither the man, nor the child. It was time.

He wanted to say something, but he was stuck.

He looked into the eyes of time that seemed to hold the cosmos within. And the time spoke with a

voice that seemed to have contained both the eternal wisdom and infinite innocence.

“You want to place a price on me? Do you believe you have enough wealth? Do you believe you have

enough riches? What are you even worth to have that thought?

You speak of your wealth with which you did immense charity. And I am supposed to bow before you

for that?

What is your wealth in front of Karna, who was begged by even the lord of the heavens, the Indra?

What is your wealth in front of that Narayana? Who married the literal manifestation of wealth,

goddess Lakshmi?

What is your wealth in front of Kubera, who was owed money even by that Lakshmipathi?

What is your wealth in front of Bali, the one that could give away three worlds as alms?

The time that couldn’t be bought by them. The time that did not bow for them. Who are you to ask

my respect? Who are you to ask for my surrender?”

Dvityamsha couldn’t speak and the time resumed for him. There was nothing in front of him anymore.

His son, Trityamsa came running towards him.

Dvityamsha, could feel his life leaving his body. He looked at his son and his eyes showed reluctance.

He held his son’s arm tightly with the little strength that he could muster and said in his frail voice.

“Son, all my wealth... all my work... is useless.

Pursue truth behind the time, pursue the truth behind life and pursue the truth behind this world and

achieve immortality. For me, and for your grandfather.”

With those words, he left the world.

Trityamsha was sad, but he was stronger than his father. Instead of holing himself up, he started

spending more time in the place he liked.

The academy of arts that his grandfather built and his father developed.

The place where the greatest artists of the world gathered.

He found solace in literature, calm in acting, peace in singing, strength in dancing and delight in

teaching.

He lost himself in that house of arts as he explored each one of them. He learned from the greats and

he was on path to become one.

As he mastered one art after the other, he started learning more than art itself.

He learned more about himself. He learned about love he learned about pain, he learned about joy

and he learned about peace.

He learned about honor, he learned about truth, he learned about lies, and he learned about death.

He learned that every single human being on this planet was taking their life as a human being for

granted.

With all the emotions he had to absorb as a singer, with all the expressions he had to convey as the

dancer, with all the lives through which he saw the life as an actor, all the stories he told as a writer...

His learnings went beyond the physical aspect of humanity.

And he began his exploration.

He went to his mother for the blessings and then came to the statue of his grandfather. He touched

the feet of the statue and asked for his blessings from the heaven.

He then looked at Kaalagadi. The place that was over a hundred times larger than the Kaalagadi of his

grandfather’s time.

Now, one could barely see any traces of the forest from the center of the city. In fact, on one side, it

was not even covered with forest anymore. The village grew and grew until it reached the borders of

the city.

And then only the people realized, Kaalagadi had also become a city.

“I shall travel the world and master the art of life through all these arts.

I believe these arts are my only path to uncovering the truth of life and fulfilling my father’s wish," he

murmured—perhaps to himself, perhaps to the statue, or perhaps to the vast city before him.

One thing was for sure.

With those words, he began the quest to fulfil the legacy of his father and grandfather.

He left Kaalagadi and travelled. Every place he went, he taught, he sang, he wrote, he acted, he danced.

In the greatest of temples built in the nation, his programs were held day after day. Whenever his

arrival was announced people from the surrounding places came to visit him.

He talked to people, lived with them, he contributed to their laughs and shared the burden of their

woes.

He learned their stories, wrote them. Published them for the world to see and become enlightened.

And his prestige grew with no bounds. Just when his grandfather, and just like father. He was also

reveling in his own glory.

Time passed and his reverence rose.

People believed that every art form that was ever bestowed by God was done so to be performed by

him.

As he held his pen he became the poet of the world and as he raised his voice he became a celestial

bard.

Every role he played felt like it was born for him to play.

And when he directed, he became the Director Extraordinaire.

And one cannot forget about his dance, as no matter the form and no matter the tune, once he stepped

foot on the stage it looked like he was dancing with the cosmos.

There was no award that he did not achieve.

There was no praise that he did not receive.

With his art, he rid the world of its superstitions, people of their stupidity, nation of its materialistic

obesity.

He was the humanized manifestation of the word reformation.

The deepest parts of the world that refused to turn their heads to prosperity in the fear of change,

responded to his art and adapted. He singlehandedly showed what art is meant for and how a human’s

life should be lead.

However, with all the achievements he had, with all the glory he gained. There was one thing he

couldn’t stop.

Time

With the time, his steps slowed down and his voice turned dull, his fingers went numb and his vision

turned blur.

Once again, the time played its role and stole everything that brought his glory.

And he was confined to the same room his father and grandfather laid for their deaths. The bed was

different, but the view was not.

The orange sunset threatened to be swallowed by the gloom of dark clouds.

He looked at the sky and yelled in a hoarse voice.

It might have been a yell for him, but for the room it was merely a whisper.

“Who on this earth dares to say they are the first in arts if I claim to be second?

For millions, my words were the greatest enlightenment.

For millions, my songs were the path of attainment.

For millions, my dance itself was the divine intervention, for millions my acting was their source of

inspiration.

For all the rewards I attained, all the titles I accepted. Was it for my honor? No, it was honor of those

rewards. Me being their recipient adds to their value not mine.

You might be time and the god you serve might have created these art forms.

They might be the means he gave for the humans to express themselves.

But my presence made these arts greater, my acceptance made them worth something in the eyes of

these ignorant masses. My propagation made them what they were.

I am the sole reason these arts stayed in existence.

I AM THE SOLE REASON THESE PEOPLE HAD AN INKLING OF ABSOLUTION.

IN THIS PLAY OF LIFE, WHO IS WORTHY OF BEING THE PROTAGONIST IF NOT ME?

HOW DARE YOU TRY TO JUDGE A MAN LIKE ME? HOW DARE YOU TRY AND TAKE MY LIFE AWAY FROM

ME? BY WHAT RIGHT CAN YOU DO THIS TO M... *COUGH* COUGH”

A wild cough interrupted his outburst.

“HMPH...”

At that moment, he heard a snort of derision. His eyes widened as the time froze. In the same room,

he saw what his father did. An old man that appeared out of thin air, turnED into a youth and then

turned into a child.

The time has appeared again.

“The wannabe protagonist of the tale of time.

The audacity to question the judgment of time.

You speak of the contributions you made for the art and you speak of the contributions you made to

the world with that art.

You speak as if you are the greatest in history, when many heads bigger than yours had to bow before

me.

What is your literature in front of Ravana who made the Siva mesmerized?

What are your words in front of Vyasa who wrote timeless Jaya Samhita?

What is your singing in front of a Gandharva’s voice?

What is your dance in front of a Rambha’s celestial rhythm?

Are you a greater artist than Krishna? The one who won the hearts of all the living with just his flute.

One who danced with death on Kaliya’s (A serpent demon) hood, one who broke hearts of millions

with his dance moves. One expression from his eyes made the whole world bow.

Yet, he did not dare to ask for my submission.

What art do you speak of that surpassed theirs? And contributions you speak of that makes you

worthy?

When the greater lives than yours could not attain my acceptance, what right do you have ask for

Immortality?

Let go for your mortal pride and that mortal life. You, the artist, the unworthy.”

The time said its piece and left.

*COUGH* COUGH

Trityamsha’s eyes glowed with hurt, despair, rage, and melancholy. He reached for the water on his

side table and knocked over the bottle and the glass.

CRASH

The noise made his son come running over.

Trityamsha looked at his loving son and spoke.

“My child, my time has come.

You shall inherit my riches, inherit my values, inherit my glory, inherit my legacy and finally inherit my

woes.

I travelled the word, pursued the arts in the hopes of finding the truth of life, so that I can live beyond

it.

I might have understood what life is, but I do not understand the way to conquer it.

Try to find a way to conquer the life. Attain the rights over it and attain immortality.”

Those were the last words passed on by him.

The son, Chaturthamsha looked at him. Tears threatened to pour out, but he forcefully stopped them.

For him the world looked like it wore a screen of translucent silk. With a hardened heart, he suppressed

the grief and performed all the cremation rituals.

A few days later, he stood in his ancestral home and looked from the balcony. The same balcony from

where his grandfather looked at the growing Kaalagadi.

His mother with a bun of white hair stood beside him, just like how his great-grandmother did for his

grandfather.

The city of Kaalagadi is now vast and it occupied one third of the forest. Even though Trityamsha was

drowning himself in art, the businesses and welfare conducted by the Amsha family went on without

any hitch.

And thus, the city kept on growing.

Chaturthamsha’s eyes landed on his great-grandfather’s statue.

“Mother, father asked me to find the way to conquer the life.

As the one who bestowed me this life? You tell me. What should I do?

Since the start of our Amsha family, the namesake of my great-grandfather, we were on the pursuit to

win over time, win our rights over eternal life and we did everything to find answers.

My great-grandfather, planted the seed of life in this place. He gave the chance for millions of people.

My father poured water over and propagated that life. My father, pursued arts and taught that life the

meaning.

But how does one conquer the life?”

His mother smiled slightly.

“I don’t know how you can do that, Son. I am not as learned as your father. I am not was wise as your

grandfather. I am not even worthy of mentioning myself in the same breath as your great grandfather.

But all I can say is, there is no one way to do it.

There is no blueprint for it like a building. There is no set path for you to follow. From your great-

grandfather to your father, they were all great men.

Even in their selfish pursuits, they contributed to this world greatly.

They chose their paths first and the welfare of the world followed.

Maybe, if you cannot choose the path, aim for the welfare a bit.

Try to do what you can to contribute to this world and maybe that will show you the path.”

He mulled over his mother’s words for the next few days until one day, a group of citizens came running

to him.

They came bearing the bad news. The kingdom they were in was being invaded from all sides. The

enemies were everywhere and they declared war.

The king had sent a letter to all the lords of the cities for able-bodied man, to fill the ranks of his

soldiers.

The news of the invasion made Chathurthamsha’s eyes redden. Not in sorrow, but in rage.

Among all the values he inherited from his ancestors, patriotism took precedence. After all, in this land

he saw the results of the deeds of his ancestors.

They contributed to the welfare of this land, they showed it love and care and he couldn’t help but

love that land as well.

And thus, without hesitation, he took off his silk robes and donned the soldier’s uniform.

Along with the peasants, along with the commoners, along with the troubled youths, he walked hand

in hand as a normal soldier starting from the ground up. With one and only goal. Destroy the enemy

that attacked his land.

Only after he entered the battlefield, did he realize that while he came to fulfil his duty, he found the

purpose of his life. A path for himself.

When he took the first life of the enemy, he felt sad and despaired.

But they were accompanied by the pride and the feeling of power. He found his calling.

Thus began his pursuit.

Battlefield became his second home. Maybe more than his first home because he rarely left it. No

matter the front, no matter the enemy, he was the first one to volunteer for the fight.

Weapons became his closest relatives. He lived with them, he walked with them, he fought with them,

he made his life with them all the while the taking the lives of the others.

As he brandished his arms and dove into the enemies, his comrades, couldn’t help but think how the

death would feel. A

After all, more than anyone else, that man has come close to the death. So many times, only to offer

up his enemy in his stead, pushing the death away.

Maybe even death would smile for that kind of patronage.

As he faced the enemy with their weapons brushing past his face, while his blood was dripping along

with the enemy’s life, all he had was a smile.

Not a smile of joy, not a smile of despair.

But a smile of futility.

He realized how futile a human’s life actually is. His father with all the arts realized how expressive,

deep and layered a life is, but he didn’t see the futility beneath all of that.

How can he? When he was playing in the field of arts, not on the field of battle?

Chathruthamsha with his skill and bravery, rose to his glory.

Maybe his glory was not as noble as his great grand father.

Maybe it was not as loud as his grandfather’s and maybe it was not as far reaching as his father, but

wherever it reached, it resounded like no other.

His name sent shivers down the spines of the enemies, and his presence changed the tide of the

battlefields.

He alone changed the course of the history of that nation. Not with his words, not with his wealth, not

with his reforms, but with his sword.

By killing his enemies, he saved several million from the destined slavery.

By killing his enemies, he saved several million from the cursed poverty.

By killing his enemies, he saved the land from innocent bloodshed.

By killing his enemies, he stood as the pillar that could support the whole nation.

On honor after another. One medal after another. The kingdom ran out of honors to give, and with

Charthurthamsha’s wealth, they could not afford a monetary reward that could earn his interest.

So, they gave the only one thing they could. Their respect. An unending and unflinching respect.

As he rose in his ranks, he started teaching. Not the way to live one’s life, but the way of taking a

person’s life from the other.

As the days passed, from a soldier that strived on the brink of death, he became a commander that

led the charge, later became a general that laid a plan and then became an instructor that even trained

those generals.

With time his glory grew.

His name reverberated throughout the barracks of all nations. Every soldier understood that with the

time to come, this man’s name shall be synonymous to what a soldier should be.

His name that took the strength out of the weapons of their enemies, made the comrades chest pop-

up in pride.

All his peers, his commanders, his students and even the king whose kingdom he preserved, all wished

for one thing and one thing only.

Make this man an immortal and his stand will make the kingdom’s reign secure.

Too bad for them, the time does not act as they wished.

With time he aged and with age he weakened. The bones that could crush the enemies’ will, started

losing their hardness. Muscles that snapped the enemies’ necks, started losing their strength.

The sword that always acted like an extension of his hand refused to stay in his grip.

The pride that held many spines up in attention, could not hold his spine up and not make him hunch.

All that was left is a weak body, a weaker spirit, and the title of nobility from the king for his

contributions in the war along with the territory around the Kaalagadi.

He looked into the sky through the window, observing the same old gloomy sky. Many things have

changed, but the sunset evening didn’t.

The sun is the same orange he has always been and the clouds were just as gloomy if not more. Like

the darkness that wants to devour the light.

“*COUGH* COUGH”

He coughed wildly and felt his chest heave in pain. This made him feel frustrated.

“Which soldier of this kingdom wouldn’t find pride in uttering my name?

Which citizen of this land wouldn’t smile in peace up on hearing my name?

Which kid doesn’t want to wield the sword like me?

Which enemy kingdom doesn’t want a soldier like me?

Which army doesn’t listen to my commands? And which enemy troop doesn’t shiver up on my

reddened eyes?

When I was on the battlefield, how many times has death tried to apprehend my life and how many

times have I tore away from its claws?

I held the absolute authority over the lives of millions. I destined their ends and made them follow

through. I decided their future which is to die by my hands.

My words were the commands and my commands were deemed absolute.

I was the judge, I was the jury and I was the executioner of my enemies. I held the complete reign over

their lives by holding the decision of their deaths.

Every weapon is my limb and my every limb is a weapon. I can spell a million tactics and break a million

more.

I am the man. I am the warrior that defied death to its core and made it feel helpless and I was the

biggest patron of the death at the same time, and sent it millions of souls.

I won every battle I was a part of.

But how can I withstand this battle with time? What scout tactic should I use to find it? What war

formation should I use to trap it? What weapon should I use to confront it? What technique should I

use to kill it?

The death that feared to approach me in the battlefield is being coming at me now with the support

of time.

What right does the time have to take the life of me?”

His words were not loud. He didn’t shout like his father did. However, he was more resolute, his

expression more of a commanding question rather than a rageful cry.

And once again, he triggered the phenomenon, which he also inherited from his ancestors.

Time has appeared. Once again, changing itself into all three forms of a child, a youth and an old man.

“A Soldier? A warrior?

In this day and age. When killing an army of peasants can be considered a sign of valor. When

slaughtering a fleeting troop of enemies can be considered a great honor. You dare utter the words of

being a warrior.

What kind of warrior that this land hasn’t seen before? Whose valor do you think you surpassed?

Can you match to the valor of the ruler of death, the king of hell and the protector of the southern

direction, King Yama? Can you surpass him, the man who accepted the first ever death?

Or the man who made even that King Yama run for his existence, and the man that made the Indra,

the king of the heaven bow his head, King of Lanka, the ten-headed Ravana, can you beat him a fight?

Or the man that dared to treat Ravana like a mere insect and kept him in a filthy dungeon for days. The

man with the thousand arms, Kartaveeryaarjuna. Can you cross arms with him?

Or the man who wielded the axe and severed the thousand arms of Kartaveeryaarjuna along with his

million man army all for the sake of a cow. The warrior sage that waged war against the and made

them disguise in sarees while wearing bangles. Lord Parasuram. Can you even endure his breath?

Or the man that learned the teachings of the Warrior-sage and became the teacher of the warriors

that could tear this world apart one too many times. Drona, can you get into field with him?

Or the man that became known as the greatest student and the greatest warrior that dared to

challenge his own father, the god of heaven for the sake of a promise. The man that could wield the

pasupathastra that lord siva invented. The man whose name became synonymous to valor, Arjuna. Can

your strength be greater than him?

Or the child that was born to Arjuna. A youngster that tore apart the Chakravyuha executed by Drona

himself. A teenager that charged at the Kuru army all by himself. A child that defeated his father’s rival,

the son of Sun, Karna, in a head on combat.

And the child whose valor made the whole kuru army forget the rules of war, the dharma of their life.

They had to stake the glory of their clan just to kill him. The boy. Abhimanyu. Can you match your guts

with him?

In the land that tasted the blood of these warriors, you killed the lesser men while facing their backs.

And you dare call yourself a warrior? You dare question my right over your life?”

Time disappeared after those words.

Chathurthamsa felt the remaining strength of his leave his body.

“Panchamsha.”

He called for his son. A young man ran in and checked up on his father.

“My time has come my son. I pursued the path of a soldier and thought myself as a warrior. I took a

million lives all in the pursuit of gaining control over the life itself.

However, I realized it is wrong. The power in the ability to take ones life is fleeting. And it is a foolish

way to try to conquer those lives.

I hope you do not follow the same path as I did. It has been the dream of the men of our family for

generations to conquer the life and conquer the time to achieve immortality.

I will not tell you to do the same, but I do want to tell you to understand it.”

Those were the last words.

A grand funeral was held. Much grander than the one held for any of his forefathers. A funeral that

was befitting of a general and a funeral that was befitting of a noble.

Panchamsha inherited his father’s noble tittle. He was offered a place in the army just like his father,

but he rejected it remember his father’s last words.

The king heard the news and offered him a place in the King’s Court as an advisor. But Panchamsha

rejected it as well as he didn’t want to leave his home.

He was told the stories of his ancestors. The lives they lived in an endless pursuit. And the deaths they

had with indignation and reluctance. He shall not go down path.

He walked to his balcony one day and looked at the vast territory in front of him. The surrounding

forest was no where to be seen. It was but a far place both in present and in the past.

The city of Kaalagadi now has its own force to protect and its noble ruler to serve it.

“My father. I shall follow your words. I shall understand the lives and I shall understand the process of

living.

But not in the pursuit of the greater immortality but rather for the welfare of the given mortality. I

shall rule this place and the strive for the lives of these people.”

He promised himself. He took the blessings from his great ancestor Amsha’s statue before assuming

the role of his father’s title.

Unlike his ancestors, he didn’t travel often, he didn’t pursue glory, he didn’t pursue fame and honor.

He stayed in his territory and looked after the people.

He travelled within the territory to understand the people. When he saw the struggle of the peasants

travelling between the cities, he constructed the roads for easier travel.

He connected the territory with paths and roads. He improved the living conditions of people. Not by

giving them charity, rather by giving them the competence and ability to make them contribute for

themselves.

He used his father’s influence to bring some great veterans to teach people in territory. Thus creating

a great training camp that churned some of the greatest warriors and generals for the kingdom.

He used his grandfather’s influence in attracting the scholars. Improving the literary and artistic stands

of his territory and its people. Churning out some of the greatest artists and scholars for the kingdome.

He used his great-grandfather’s wealth and connections to establish trade routes with even the foreign

countries, improving the economic conditions of the Amsha territory.

And he used the name of the Amsha itself that held great and influence over the people to suppress

his jealous peerage in the royal court and other noble houses. To make sure that his territory will not

be targeted.

All this while, he followed two things. Never did he accept a promotion in his noble title, no matter

how many times the king tried. Never did he accept a felicitation or a reward for doing the duty he

supposed to do.

He made sure to not let the glory get into his head.

Every day he touched the feet of his grandfather to keep in mind where he came from. He walked with

his bare feet to remind his own mortality to himself.

The only praise he ever accepted was his own for not letting the pride take over him. The only pursuit

he allowed himself is the pursuit of duty that his title demands.

And as he did that the time passed.

His body aged and he accepted it with a smile. The only regret he had as he reached the same sick bed

as his ancestors was the regret of not being able to do his duty anymore.

He looked at the sunset from that bed. The same sunset, the same dark clouds. But the image wasn’t

as gloomy.

He leaned back into those soft silk sheets and spoke.

“I brought the Ramarajya to the Kaliyuga.

There was not a single living person of my territory that starves to death because of lack of food.

There was not a single living person in my territory that couldn’t find education for a better future.

There was not a single living person in my territory that doesn’t have a roof over their heads.

There was not a single living person in my territory that doesn’t have clothes to wear.

I strived for them and made them thrive. I lived for them and improved their lives. I worked for them

and kept myself grounded.

In many people’s hearts I am their living god. For a fewer people, I am their native king. For a few

people I am their born leader.

In their opinions, I can do anything and everything. I am the ruler of all living and otherwise. But maybe

even they never thought that I am the ruler of time. Like the people that came before and the people

that will come after me. I shall also be part of the time and I shall flow along with it.”

He muttered to himself as if he was teaching himself humility one last time.

At that moment, shock enveloped him. The time froze once again and the time came once again. The

child, the youth, the old man. The ever-shifting form looked at Panchamsha’s wrinkled face and this

time he had a smile on his face.

“You are the fifth of your blood that I have met. And fourth of them that I talked to.”

Panchamsha held his hands together and bowed.

“It is our family’s honor”

“Do you really think you brought Ramarajya to this world?”

For the first time, time didn’t just hit him with words. He asked instead.

“I would like to believe so.”

“You are living in Kaliyuga. T

he period of time that is unworthy of the word Rama itself and you claim that you brought Ramarajya?

How many times have you crossed the grey line? All with excuse of doing it for the sake of people?

How many times have you lied for your cause? All with excuse of doing it for people?

How many times have you diverted a problem? All with the excuse of doing it for people?

How many times have your cheated the truth out of your people? All with the excuse of doing it for

them?

In the pursuit of worldly duities, you have forgotten many of his Divine Duties. How can you say that

you created Rama rajya with all those blemishes?”

Panchamsha looked dazed as he heard the questions. What Time said, was indeed true.

He had an expression of enlightenment and bowed once again. Time chuckled in amusement and said.

“Your time too shall pass.”

Panchamsa looked at the manifestation of time in front of him with a clear gaze. He accepted whatever

time had said.

“I am humbled by your lesson. Thank you. If you can give me the honor, I would like to ask a question.”

Time didn’t reply anything.

“For what reason, our family had the honor to be graced by your presence? Despite their constant

effort to pursue you, defeat you and surpass you, you presented yourself in front of them. What was

the reason for that?”

“I was amused.”

“Amused?”

“At every generation, at every era, there are always people that try to defy me. As I am the guide, the

stream, the path that leads them to death.

And death is a state that they cannot comprehend. So, they try to combat the inevitable. And they fail.

But every attempt is always futile.

Faced with that futility, every man struggles to the best of their ability. The most competent men of

them always struggle the hardest and I always try to see if they accept the futility at the end. And that

decision is always amusing to me.”

“Thank you for answering me.”

Time released the grip over the flow of time and everything returned to normal. Panchamsha leaned

further down into his bed and just gazed at the sky until it turned dark and he fell into eternal sleep.

The city slept soundly without even knowing the news of the demise of their beloved ruler.

Time who saw as the soul of the Panchamsha being taken away by the death, looked at the Amsha’s

statue and reminded himself of where it all started. The Deathbed of Amsha. The stubborn man who

couldn’t let go of his desire immortality.

Time remembered as if it was yesterday. Because for Time, it might as well be yesterday.

On the Death bed of Amsha, he manifested in his form for the first ever time. As Amsha cried out his

deeds and demanded that he was given immortality, time spoke to him that day.

“Amsha, you have led a good life and you shall stay immortal in the deeds you have done.” Time has

consoled.

Amsha’s eyes reddened and looked at time with a hateful gaze.

Time shook its head and said.

“What is your wealth in front of Kubera, the treasurer of Gods?

What is your glory in front of the fame of Ravana, who was known across the three worlds for his might

and intellect?

What is your power in front of strength of Hanuman, who lifted the entire Dronagiri mountain with

ease?

What is your name in front of renown of Arjuna, who was praised by gods and demons alike for his

archery skills.

You speak of your immortality, your defiance against me with stubborn ignorance.

And even in that you are not greatest, as what is your defiance in front of Viswamitra, the man who

even defined his will to breath just to attain the statue of sage?

What is your defiance in front of Yudhisthira, who embraced death as a natural part of life.

Even the preserver of the worlds, Lord Narayana, has to come down to earth in Ten Incarnations just

to leave his mark in this world.

Amsha, the reformer of Kaalagadi, you are but a mortal. How can you hope to conquer me?

I am time, not swayed by wealth, glory or desire. I am impartial, unyielding, and inevitable.

I am the eternal river that flows through the ages, the silent witness of all deeds and destinies. You

rage against me, but in the end, you will yield to me all things must.”

WHOOO

I was in a daze and it was broken by the loud whistle of the train. The old man sat there looking in my

eyes with a smile. I noticed that I am experiencing goosebumps all over. I looked at the fountain pen

in my hands and I had the sudden urge to write.

I looked at the old man as if to ask for his permission. But the next moment, I was shocked. Because,

in the place of the old man, I saw a young man wearing torn jeans and a leather jacket holding a phone

instead of the cane.

In a blink, I saw the young man turn into a toddler wearing a hoodie with cartoon designs while holding

a children’s book in his hands.

Another blink and there is no one else in front of me. The seat is empty and the man is gone. I looked

at the pen in my hands and it is still there.

*KNOCK* KNOCK

At that moment, someone knocked on the compartment door before opening it and coming it. I didn’t

remember what they looked like, they just arranged their luggage and sat in the seat where the old

man just sat.

They introduced themselves and they were the ones that reserved that seat.

WHOO

Train whistled. Train moved and the time passed as the rest of my journey began.

word count: 10089

1st book Conquest of time

2nd book The mechanics of the heart

3rd book The Last Heroes' Child

Part I

Chapter 01

"They died, all of them but I survived," I told him. Then, I traced my chest with my finger, feeling the metal piece which was my heart. It was not trembling, it was steady. He made me repeat that sentence until it sounded meaningless. He also avoided talking about sensitive subjects, not to toy with the mechanics of my heart. He talked about things that delighted him, which were his achievements. He was so glad and proud to develop medicine. "People will not die because of an ill organ, we can replace it!"

Dr. Macanthay was an ambitious man, always running after his dreams. He devoted his life to medicine. He lived in an old house which was before a factory. He worked for years to make a successful surgery, replacing a vital ill organ with a machinery that functions the same way. It worked for me. I was his success. I live with a heart of metal.

He was so proud of his achievements that he overlooked the fact that his machinery could never operate the same way as the organ given to us by God. He seemed to forget the consequences. It would have been better if he didn't save me.

Dr. Macanthay found me thrown on the street, all bruised. I was shot and stabbed multiple times. I cannot tell you about the details because it is painful to remember. Especially with a metal heart. The doctor's surgery was successful. When I woke up, I tried to remember what happened to me. As the scenes formed inside my brain, my heart was digging deep through my skin, like an engine. It felt like being stabbed again and again on the same spot.

"Your heart is fragile, little man. You have to be careful of how you deal with your emotions. Getting emotionally vulnerable may get you exploded!" He said to me, "How can I control my emotions?" I asked him, digging my nails into my skin to direct the pain elsewhere. "That is for you to find out, my friend"He stopped talking and went out of the room. I remained still, afraid to move. Everything is blurry in my head, nothing makes sense. I never thought in my entire life that something like this would ever occur to me. A man with a heart of steel, that's what I've become.

After a while, Dr. McCarthy came, holding a cup filled with a hot beverage. It was hot chocolate! Something sweet to brighten my day. "Thank you," I said. "No problem, son," he smiled. The hot chocolate was warm in my throat. I needed that warmth, especially on a cold night like this. It was

raining heavily outside, the wind whistling loudly. If it continued like this, the windows would break. The room I'm sitting in is very old, the walls are pale. It was gloomy enough for an old scientist who lives alone. I wonder how he found me. I've never seen him before. As I was drinking, he was staring at me strangely, and slowly a malicious grin formed on his face. "Now let's discuss the thing that matters," he said. "What things?" I asked. He laughed nervously, brought a folded small paper from his pockets without removing his eyes from me. I got scared. "Don't panic, ease up, son," he laughed again. I unfolded it. It had a lot of numbers. I couldn't read them. "What is it?" I asked. "You're not serious, are you?" "Yes, I am." "Nothing in this world is free, young man. I did you a favor, you need to pay back, and that's your price."

I looked at the paper again to read the numbers, but he snatched it from my hand. "You're so naive." "What am I paying for exactly?" "Oh no, is that how you thank your benefactor? The surgery, of course! And the hot chocolate... well, that's for free."

"But sir, I can't afford it. I don't have a job or money." Everything changed since that night. I turned red saying that. "That's quite a problem, isn't it?" He stood up and turned in circles. "Let's have a deal. You will work for me a year or two to afford the surgery and additional months for maintenance. You will work inside and out. You'll help my brother in the shop. It will help you afford food and money for both of us. Life is getting more expensive every passing day." I had no choice but to agree. "If I didn't?" "You'll be the only one responsible for what will happen next." He left with his creepy smile.

I worked all day long, in the house and in the shop. It was located in the middle of the town, far from his house. I made a great deal of money, half shared with Dr. McCarthy and the other half hidden.

I spent my nights wandering about my fate. What will come of me eventually? Am I up to this challenge? People wish for a second chance at life, to do things differently...

I had to find ways to ease the excruciating pain. I'm haunted by memory. It became a burden. I don't want to forget the good days, but they are sad now because everything changed. Nothing is the same."

Dreams are wild things—too close to reality but too good to be true.

The next day was a joyful morning. I smelled something delicious and ran to a kitchen in a house I had never been to, only to find my mother cooking my favorite food. I felt so happy—my heart was going to explode with joy, metaphorically—because I was… all of a sudden… normal. My chest was warm, my heart was beating, rhyming with my mother's laughter.

I woke up.

Dr. Macarthy was standing in front of me.

"How many times do I have to tell you, huh? Just keep in mind that each time I save you from exploding or dying, the price goes higher, my friend. It's true we are free in this world and have free will, but you, my friend, have only two options: feel or die. See what suits you."

"What was this all about?"

"I had a dream," I told him.

He laughed.

"Once upon a lovely night, I had everything I wanted? You're too old to believe in the fairness of life. Call it justice, kindness—name as much as you like. There's no such thing. We are led by a kakistocracy. It's all gone."

"I've been having dreams lately, about a time that knows no evil. A time where miracles don't need sacrifices. Every time I wake up from a memorable dream, life becomes more unbearable..."

—Extract from Xavier's journal.

His words got me thinking. Of course, I know of the injustice in the world, but the world's injustice isn't an excuse to be unjust to others. It's actually the opposite—we should be better for the world to get better, not the other way around.

Die or feel. Die or feel.

What am I supposed to do?

Isn't the heart just a muscle that pushes blood through veins? That's what scientists say. But poets disagree. The heart is attached to the soul. It is both, I say.

But who am I?

Just a regular person. Not an artist or a man of science.

I guess my soul is troubled. That's why I suffer.

My stay with Dr. Macarthy doesn’t seem to end. Time is moving pretty slowly. Only a few months have passed. This place is energy-consuming. It’s exhausting and overwhelming. I’ve been having dreamless nights lately.

I had another sleepless night the day before. I slept enough hours, but I still feel tired. I fought my laziness and started getting ready. I always wore large clothing that didn't show the outline of my body to hide my abnormality.

The weather was lovely. The road to the shop seemed shorter.

I found Jack waiting for me, as always. He is Dr. Macarthy’s brother and the nicest master a worker could ask for. He was serene and calm—never yelled or complained. I felt at ease around him.

He loved his brother dearly. He talked much about him.

"My brother, Steven, isn't a good man, but he's not bad. There's more to him than greed and ambition."

My relationship with Steven was complicated.

They were brothers. They had each other’s backs, even when one was at fault. They were probably very close. They were old, unmarried. Steven was the elder. They only had the factory, the shop, and each other.

I grew fond of Jack as the days passed. He was so kind to me. He always protected me.

People knew about my secret, which made me a threat to them. Some feared me. They were afraid of me.

How much harm can a heartless creature do?

I didn’t harm anyone.

But they wanted to capture me before as some sort of protection, they also despised me. They treated me like a machine. They didn't pay attention to their words.

Some were kind too. I spent lovely times with them.

There was an old lady who came often.

She would buy things from us, and I would help her by delivering them to her. I learned many roads and saw many places in town—but nothing about the woods. They feared the woods. The old lady always advised me to avoid the forest.

I kept wondering about the mystery of the forest. Why were they so frightened?

I thought of asking Dr. Macarthy. He was sitting on the couch, drinking coffee. There was something different about him—he was smiling. He was looking at a book with pictures. He closed it when I walked closer.

"What's the matter, Xavier?"

I almost forgot what I was about to say.

"I wanted to ask you something… what's the secret of the forest? Why is everyone scared to pass through it?"

After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Well, not everyone is afraid of the forest, but people are cautious because witchcraft is permitted there. Witches and wizards are mad people—beware. The war between magic and science is still ongoing, between the ancient and the new. People hate peace. They crave war. They always find a reason to disagree with one another."

I didn't expect that. Wizards and witches? These were just myths.

"Is there really witchcraft, or is it just myths and superstition?"

He looked at me, then spoke in a different, more serious tone.

"Yes, they do exist. I've met some several times. Some of them are my friends."

I listened attentively, waiting for the rest of the story. But he stopped when it got interesting. I wanted to know about his past—what made him seek this path?

I was so thrilled and curious about entering the woods, but I never did. I didn’t have time. There was too much work since our shop was the nearest one. People came from different towns to buy from us, especially the alienated towns.

Jack noticed my sudden interest in the woods. I had been zoning out and

daydreaming a lot. He came to me and said,

"When I leave, I'll open my own shop in the central town."

"That's a great idea."

I didn't care about the thought of him leaving because I thought it wouldn’t be so soon.

"The central town is beyond the woods," he said.

That caught my attention. That was what he was aiming for.

"Oh, that means you'll cross the woods," I said stupidly.

"We’ll cross the woods," he said, smiling. "I'll never find a hardworking apprentice like you. As good as a son."

He tapped me on the shoulder. His words moved me. I felt tears press against my lids. I held them back and wiped them away.

Feel or die.

I busied myself with work. I had developed a talent for ignoring and, in a way, controlling how I felt.

It's so confusing—the nature of what we feel.

After that day's work, I sat on my bed, thinking about how my life could be when I left Macarthy's factory. I would work with

Jack and then come back to a place of my own.

What an exciting thought. But don’t get too thrilled.

Jack talked a lot about how wonderful the central town was. Yet, that was not what excited me the most.

We would cross the woods, where magic was real.

I didn’t believe in magic before. Well, I didn’t believe in miracles either.

Then I lived one.

[Maybe I'm not too old for a little adventure.]

I woke up the next day with the excitement of the day before. I got ready quickly and ran to work.

The road seemed longer than usual.

I felt uneasiness. I felt like I was being followed.

I looked around. No one was there.

I kept walking.

I heard the sound of feet stepping on the grass.

Could it be some hallucination?

No, it wasn’t. I was fully conscious. And magic wasn’t allowed in this territory.

"Would you do us the honor of acknowledging our presence?"

There was a voice—but no person.

I was trembling, but I hid it perfectly.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" I yelled.

"No need to yell, dear boy. I may be old, but my hearing is just fine."

An old man showed up out of nowhere. With him were a bunch of young men.

You could tell he was the leader.

They were all wearing black gowns, their faces hidden—except for him.

He wore a purple costume and a weird hat.

I had a question in mind, but before I could say anything—

"I'm not a wizard, but a kind of magician," he said. "I master visualities and tricks of the mind. I was there all along, but I hid myself only from you."

I was astonished.

Curious about his profession—yet scared of him.

I wasn’t comfortable.

Something was off about him.

"Why are you following me?" I asked.

He laughed.

"I wanted to know if it's true."

I kept my eyes focused on him. That made him uneasy.

He figured out my trick. He saw through my pretend confidence. He knew I was afraid.

That made him smile.

A wicked smile.

A warning that no good would come out of this.

"The miracle is true! A young man living with a heart of steel! Isn't it wonderful, fellas?"

He was talking to his men. They agreed with him. I was watching them carefully, from afar.

"Imagine the fortune we'll get after showing this to the world!"

They were imagining happily.

"The best freak show on the planet!"

"And you'll be the star, my dear friend. You'll be loved by everyone. We'll be rich!"

He let out a victorious, evil laugh.

"Being rich and loved is good, but I won’t join you, sir. I won’t be owned," I told him.

"I wasn’t asking for your permission," he said cunningly.

"Fellas!"

I ran.

Chapter 2

I was breathless. I hid behind a bush to rest for a moment. The shop was close by now. I had been running so fast that I didn’t notice I had taken the long way.

What would have happened if I had joined them? I would have been hurt and mocked mercilessly. He would be rich—only cruel people enjoy freak shows, which, unfortunately, make up the majority of people. They would laugh at others’ disabilities and pain as if they were animals. They were treated like animals. A sane person would feel for the animals.

My heart was pounding violently. I was out of breath. Another fear consumed me—what would they do to my dead body? That thought sent a shiver down my spine. I forced myself to stand and ran again, hoping that if I got far enough away from them, I would calm down and my heart would stop draining the life out of me.

I couldn’t run. I walked. Finally, I reached the shop.

Jack was worried—I’m usually not late. He was about to ask me what had happened, but he didn’t have to. The answer came running after me.

Oddly, there were no customers. I found out later that the reason was a festival being held in the western village.

Jack and I forcefully closed the door and stood behind it.

"Open up, you cowards!" the old man screamed.

We weren’t cowards—we just needed time to think of a plan.

We didn’t think of a plan.

Instead, we boldly opened the door.

"Go back where you belong," Jack told them.

I sensed fear in the men. Jack had a strong physique and walked strangely—he was weak in his left leg, which often unsettled people. Jack and Steven were called The Odd Pair. I didn’t know the reason. To me, they completed each other—the brains and the muscles.

The old man laughed. "Are you trying to scare us, big guy?""Huh, you’ll add a fun effect to the show, but I’m a simple guy. The young lad is enough."

I was ready to fight, but I noticed hesitation in Jack’s behavior. He stood still and silent for a moment.

"You’d be stupid to put him in the show," he said.

"Why is that?" the old man asked.

"Unless you’ve forgiven my brother and you’re doing him a favor. If the show is successful, that would make him well-known."

The old man’s face changed color.

"God forbid! I will never do him a favor. The show is canceled!"

They left.

We went back inside. Jack returned to what he was doing, and I started cleaning the storage room. After a while, Jack came to me.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Never rely on violence."

"I have to defend myself," I mumbled.

"Use your wits. Violence should be your last option."

"Well, in certain situations, you forget you even have any," I said.

He stood there, silent. He stood at the door for a while, then went back to his work and left me to do mine.

I was in much trouble these last weeks. I always got to the shop either with bruises or with a bleeding nose. There's nothing I can do about it. They despise me, and so do I.

I didn't sleep well last night. I woke up to the sound of furious screaming. Steven was madly upset--he broke plates and glasses, screaming and cussing. I wanted to ignore the noise, but I couldn't. I went downstairs. The floor was covered with little pieces of broken glass. As I stepped closer, Steven's screaming became coherent--I could fathom what he was saying.

"After everything I did for him, he left! Ungrateful wreck! That is my brother! My brother betrayed me--what am I supposed to expect from anyone else in this world? If I lay my hand on him, I'll kill him!"

He growled like a hungry beast. I was petrified, and I didn't know what had happened. I had to ask him,

"What happened? Why are you screaming and jumping like a wild horse?"

I was waiting for a response. I heard my heart beating--ric ric--which was more terrifying to me than the mad doctor. It was hard to get used to it.

"My brother betrayed me!"

"I got that part," I told him.

"Are you mocking me, young lad?"

"No, sir, I'm trying to understand what happened."

"I always knew he was going to leave, but not this quickly and without saying farewell. I wonder how he managed to pay his debt this fast."

"His debt?"

"Yes, his debt. I saved him once. I would've told you, but it's a long story."

"But he is your brother!" I said a bit loudly.

"It's true he's my brother, but he's also a mouth to feed."

So Jack was stuck here, just like me. I would be leaving soon too, but I thought I would leave with him as we planned.

But he left.What would become of me now? I couldn't run the shop by myself—I didn't want to.

I wanted to ask Jack about what had truly happened between him and his brother, but I couldn't do that. He was gone.

Dr. Macarthy got calmer, went to the kitchen, poured himself some coffee, and started sobbing silently, hiding his tears from me. Then he gave me a look that said: You'll be leaving soon too, won't you?

I had a few more days to leave too. I could handle the shop myself for this small period. It's funny—time had passed quickly, yet too slowly. I didn't know how to phrase it, but it felt that way.

I went to the shop. It felt different and empty. The lights were off. Jack always left them on so that when he got back in the darkness of the early morning, there would be light. He was scared of the darkness.

Emptiness didn't feel pretty—a sense of abandonment. He probably had his reasons, and I didn't blame him for anything. I just hoped too much.

I found a letter pinned to the ground. To me, from him. I put it in my pocket.

It was an exhausting day at work. I felt weak physically. I went back to the factory at night. It was freezing weather, and I had trouble walking against the strength of the wind.I was almost there, but I felt the cold within me. It froze—whatever it was that made the metal heart work. The mechanics froze. Somehow, I managed to get to the door and knocked. Everything went black.

I was quite conscious when Dr. Macarthy fixed me. I sensed the delicate movement of his fingers—he was sewing my skin. It didn't hurt. He was a professional at his job, so I felt safe, and a desire to learn about how my heart worked and how I could fix myself rose within me. I'm not staying here for long.

I opened my eyes.

"Well, I didn't expect you to wake up this soon," he said.

Before I could say anything, he continued, "It doesn't matter... now you look normal."

He covered the metal piece with skin.

"Well, don't worry, it's artificial skin but looks like a real one," he said, excited.

"What now? Extra months?" I asked.

"No, it's for free—from the kindness of my heart. Oh dear, you must think very ill of me. I'm not a greedy, heartless monster as you think I am... well, life forced me to act similar to it. And the thing with my brother is..."

"It's a long story."

I wanted to hear it, but he left the room.

I was warm. I found myself opposite the chimney, covered in a blanket. Next to me, I found a cup of hot chocolate. I drank it slowly, loving the warmth in my throat.

I was breathing regularly. My heart had melted after it froze. I'm thankful for Steven. I felt joyful when I touched my chest and didn't feel the cold metal—I felt warm skin!

I remembered the letters in my pocket. I looked around the place. I didn't recognize this room. Probably Dr. Macarthy's. I had never been in here. Crimson walls, a messy bookshelf, a chimney, a huge window without a curtain, and a table with a broken leg where my cup was.I was about to read the letter when suddenly Steven entered. He took his black velvet overcoat from the chair and a tattered hat. He left without saying a word.

I held the letter and opened it to read.

---

Dear Xavier,

I am so sorry for leaving unnoticed. Thank you for your kindness and hard work. You were the closest thing I had to a son. It's a mystery, really, how that metal heart of yours can radiate warmth—unlike my brother's.

Anyway, circumstances may shape you, but you’re the master of who you are. You decide your fate and guide your soul.

P.S.: This is not a goodbye letter. I want to help you. Go into the woods, find my friend—he’ll show you the way.

---

Should I follow him or find my own path? I had nowhere to go after leaving the factory. I could stay with Jack until I settled, and we’d work together as we had hoped.

I slept.

Dreamless night.

Another exhausting day at work. I wanted to go back early, but customers kept arriving and arriving. I wanted to act extra nicely since these were my last days. I wondered what would happen to the shop after I was gone.

It was hard. They kept asking me about Jack’s absence. I wished they would stop, but they didn’t. I grew tired. They also asked if I was able to miss him—to feel his absence. I didn’t answer those questions.

I seemed to forget how cruel people can be.

An old woman entered the shop with pride and arrogance. She came with her son, who was a year or two older than me. They both looked furious. I didn’t know why.

The woman approached me. She looked into my eyes, hoping to plant fear in me. I wasn’t afraid—rather, I was angry.

Today isn’t promising.

"Why didn’t you leave with your master and spare us the trouble? Covering the stain of the curse doesn’t annul the curse! Leave us! Spare us!" she screamed.

"Your master was right to leave. Go somewhere else with your own kind—monsters!"

She looked around her.

"Beware God’s anger! Beware the curse that will fall upon us! God, have mercy upon us! Protect us from this witchery—don’t let us turn into senseless machines!"

She focused her gaze on me.

"That’s what you want—to doom us all, to be like you! You brought only evil to this world! The end is near!"

She frightened all the customers. They left. I was angry with her, but I controlled myself. I wouldn’t harm her or her son. Their only weapon was words. She stopped talking "Madam, I ask you kindly to leave the shop."

She looked astonished that I spoke. "How dare you dismiss my mother!" the son spoke. "Talk to me, loviborn freak!"

I couldn't control myself any longer. I punched him. He fell. The mother was scared—she didn't know! I had such strength. I didn't know either. I lost control over myself. I lost touch with my surroundings and senses. I heard her scream, "Stop it! You're killing my son... stop him, anyone!"

I stopped.

I was hardly breathing. My clothes and my hands—there was blood on my hands! The poor boy lay unconscious.

What have I done?!

I noticed that I had an audience. No one was there, but they had probably heard her scream. They were scared of me. Dr. Macarthy was there. I had never seen him in the shop before. He took the boy to the factory.

I was ragged with guilt. Guilt is one of the emotions that stray with you your entire lifetime. There was no way to express it and let it out. It held a large spot—other emotions could not get in.

I was pacing around the room.

Dr. Macarthy entered.

"He survived," he told me.

I was relieved. I wanted to know if he—

"It wasn't very hard. He'll live as if nothing happened."

He was cured normally. Nothing changed with him. And I remained the only one. Dr. Macarthy was behaving strangely. He left and came back, holding a heavy bag.

"This bag has everything you need—food, proper clothing, your money. I know about it. And my healing journal—it will show you how to fix your heart. I hope you don't have to, because it's more difficult now."

I was astonished.

"Thank you."

I thought he wanted me to stay longer, especially after Jack's departure.

He didn't want me to stay because of what happened earlier.

I understood. It was night.

"I'll leave tomorrow morning."

"Good," he answered.

I always wanted to leave, but it was a better story in my head.

I had the strangest dream, as if yesterday's events were replayed but reversed. I was both me and the son. I saw an angry monster. I was beating myself to death, and then some woman saved me. And in order to do that, I had a change of heart and lost my soul completely.

—Extract from Xavier's journal

I never thought that I would miss this place, but I did.

I was leaving. I went to bid farewell to Dr. Macarthy.

I knocked on the door to his room, then pushed it open. He was sitting in his chair, drinking coffee.

I was a bit nervous.

"I came to say thank you and farewell... so, thank you and farewell."

He was silent.

I went downstairs. I kept looking at these

grey walls that I would never see again.

As I stepped outside, a soft wind played with my hair. It said, What a good day to start a trip.

I looked at the factory one final time.

Farewell.

Dr. Macarthy hurried downstairs.

"I'm bad with goodbyes. Glad my brother left without one," he laughed nervously.

"Thank you again for saving my life."

"Of course. Safe travels."

We were smiling like old friends.

He closed the door and went back to his room, and I went into the woods.

Chapter 03

I find it kind of funny, funny kind of sad—the way life shifts.

Once you have a home, then you're a stray. You might have a fortune and lose it the next day.

Nothing is permanent. Life itself—immortality is an illusion.

I've been walking in the woods for hours. The beautiful weather was gone.

It's misty and dark. I didn't know where I was going. All I knew were Jack's words: "Peculiarities are signs of a wizard's

presence—like out-of-place objects, sudden changes in weather, heavy presence."

I saw nothing peculiar till now. Maybe because I'm peculiar, I don't see peculiarities?

Jack told me to find his friend to show me the way.

The woods looked deserted—no sign of humans or animals.

I hoped that I was on the right path, but I lost hope.

The trees were getting bigger. I saw a flock of birds passing. I noticed that it was getting dark.

I don't know how to follow stars like the ancient people.

I need to find a place to crash.

Owls are watching over me. Their bright eyes in the darkness are fixed on mine.

They say it's a bad omen, but I don't believe in superstitions.

I'm growing intimidated. I feel eyes on me.

It's ridiculous and absurd—no one is watching.

Pull yourself together!

My feet are getting weak.

If only a magical house would fall from the

sky to shelter me...

A better option is to fall on my head.

Months ago, I faced death, yet I survived.

I was given another chance—to do things differently—at a price, of course.

A very dear one.

I live for a purpose. I just need to find it.

Too caught up in my head, I lost track of time and place, probably changed direction without knowing.

I saw a big old tree. I'll just lay there.

It was so gigantic that it covered the area behind it completely.

The tree was harsh—I couldn't lay on it. It was as if she was telling me to look behind me.

I was astonished.

There was, in front of me, a round, treeless area. In the middle stood a huge elephant statue. It represented a culture I didn’t recognize.

I saw a ladder leading inside the old statue.

I took the ladder and went inside.

Thank God! I found a place to crash—small but sufficient.

The night was cold, but surprisingly, I was warm—thanks to the engine Dr. Macarthy added last time he healed me.

It works as a heater and also lessens malfunctions.

I wonder what Dr. Macarthy is doing now?

What a strange friend he was.

Aren’t we all?

I found myself smiling at this idea about strangeness.

I held Dr. Macarthy's journal that he gave me.

I could use some reading to pass time.

There was a part that intrigued me—a part dedicated to controlling emotions.

He spoke of them so bluntly that I doubted he ever felt something in his life.

He has a huge problem.

How can one block his heart and senses?

It's impossible.

I have to learn that.

It causes me great pain.

When I feel, it's like being stabbed with a dagger or a really sharp knife.

Emotions make the heart throb quicker than usual.

The wheels in my heart turn faster, which makes the hands dig deeper into my skin.

There was a hole in the ceiling.

I could see the stars.

The moon was radiant.

Its light was my company on this lonely night.

It was raining.

Soft raindrops landed on my cheek, kissing me goodnight.

I was a young boy all over again—beside his mother.

The rain was getting heavier.

The place would flood.

I had to cover the hole.

I used my bag.

I dreamt of my mother.

She was as beautiful and bright as the sun—a sun that set and never rose again.

Fate is funny, as to give her a barely dead star of a son.

—Extract from Xavier's Journal—

I woke up from a dream I didn’t even remember.

The rain had stopped.

My bag dried.

But my cheeks were wet.

I closed my eyes.

Tears fell on my face.

I didn’t know why.

I suddenly remembered a voice.

"You’ve never cared about us."

A little girl’s voice.

My chest tightened.

Dear Lord!

I was short of breath.

It was alright.

I was convincing myself.

I'll just do what Dr. Macarthy used to do, and I'll live.

The pain was excruciating.

How did he do it?!

I had totally forgotten about the skin he planted on me.

I had to tear it off.

My shirt soaked with blood.

But the pain lessened.

The engine was working a bit quicker.

It got so warm that the artificial skin melted and slowed the engine.

The difficulty to breathe began to ease up.

Slowly, I began breathing regularly.

It was so quiet.

No bird sounds, even though it was a lovely morning.

I heard footsteps approaching me.

Slow, precise footsteps—like someone trying not to make a sound.

I kept quiet.

Someone was climbing the statue.

I heard coughing—a man's voice.

He was on top of the statue.

He looked through the hole.

His eyes were grey, tired.

He was old.

"Are you injured? The smell of your blood led me here."

I said nothing.

"I see you. I know you are inside. Are you deaf?"

How would he hear me if he was deaf?

Sometimes I get stupid.

He laughed at himself.

"I'll get inside."

Who is this weird man?

"Stay where you are! And who are you?" I said to him.

"Xavier, is that you?" he asked.

"How did you… know my name?"

He laughed.

"I was supposed to look for you, but I smelled blood, and I had to help… as luck would have it! I don’t mean that it’s a good thing that you’re hurt."

He stopped babbling for a second.

I got out of the statue.

I saw him.

He was a white-bearded man.

"Get down, will you?" I told him.

He took forever.

"You didn’t answer my question. Who are you?" I asked again.

"I’m Ismail. I’ll lead your way," he said excitedly.

"You’re Jack’s friend? You’re a wizard?"

I wasn’t expecting this.

"Yes, to both. No one can trespass the woods alive without help… I’ll gladly help a friend."

He was smiling.

I was confused, and sentences wouldn’t form in my head.

I stood there silently.

It was awkward.

"Why?" I asked.

"What why?" he asked back.

"Why is it dangerous?"

"Wizards and witches aren’t all friendly… if

one catches you, you’re doomed. There’s no escape," he said.

"And you claim to be different?"

"Jack trusts me. If you trust Jack, you can trust me."

He somehow managed to convince me.

"So follow me. We’re not going the traditional way."

I had no idea what he meant by that.

We went to his cabin.

"The safest way out of the woods is by the transportation spell."

"The what?" Was he making fun of me?

"Magic," he said.

"This is a tale you tell a child. I don’t believe it. Transportation with magic, huh?"

Deep down, I hoped it was true.

I wanted to believe.

"I’ll argue that deep down, you do believe. You still got that in you," he said.

"Got what?"

"The childish spirit."

I laughed.

"It’s long gone."

He smiled.

He walked across the room.

I noticed a weird painting on the wall.

I didn’t know what it was—a shadowy figure.

It could be anything.

"What’s that?" I asked.

He smiled at me.

"See? It’s still there."

He brought some bandages for me—to prevent infection, as he said.

I didn’t care.

I was thinking of a way to leave.

I doubted this man could do a thing.

"I discovered my gifts when I was your age," he started talking.

"I wish to be fifteen again."

"I’m almost twenty," I said.

"Oh, you look younger," he laughed.

"No offense intended," he corrected himself.

"I’m not offended."

"You seem troubled," he said.

"I’m not," I cut him off.

"Relieve yourself from sorrows and burdens. Make your choice—a short, worthy-lived life or a long, unlived eternity."

"What do you know about life, huh?"

I was beginning to get irritated.

"More than you do," he said.

He didn’t leave me for a second.

Escape was impossible.

"In order for this to work, you need to trust me."

I nodded.

He closed his eyes and started mumbling something incoherent.

I didn’t trust him.

---

Chapter 04

"I’m feeling poorly, Mother."

She looked at me with concerned eyes.

"Are you in pain, love?" she asked, running her hand gently through my hair.

"Do you have a fever?"

"No," I said.

"Does your stomach hurt?"

"The pain is here," I pointed at my chest.

"Oh, love."

She smiled softly.

"That’s guilt."

She turned bitter.

"I didn’t mean to harm anyone."

"I’m not talking about that. Did you forget already, child?"

I was terrified of her.

She was laughing.

Her eyes turned red.

"I’m sorry, Mother."

I was crying.

"It’s all your fault!" she screamed.

She put her hands around my neck.

"I can’t breathe!"

"Please, I’m sorry!"

She stopped.

She kissed my forehead.

"Go to sleep. A big day ahead of you."

I’m sorry.

I really am very sorry.

That hurt.

My head accidentally hit the roof.

I was in that statue again.

That stupid wizard.

I’ll find my way by myself.

It was sunrise.

It was time to move.

I wished to arrive at the nearest town before sunset.

I packed my things, then jumped.

I scratched my ankle but kept moving.

"Beware the threats of the forest," I reminded myself.

It’s better to walk in the forest during the day.

Everything is clear. You will never get lost.

The sky is beautiful.

The silence is a nice melody.

My ears are amused.

I feel awfully lonely.

The clouds can’t keep me company because they change shape too quickly.

If I close my eyes, I won’t recognize them anymore.

The birds are flying.

None of them are stopping to hear what I want to say.

There’s only me and the breeze of air that plays with my hair.

Quite lovely.

The clouds cover the sky.

I feel movement behind the trees.

Someone is watching me.

I walk closer.

I walk closer to have a better look.

I’m getting closer.

The movement stops.

I bend forward.

I bend.

Bend forward to see the person behind the bushes.

She runs.

She’s fast.

I couldn’t see her face.

She’s wearing a mask.

A white dress.

I wonder how she can run wearing that type of clothing.

Then I follow her.

She enters a ruined old palace.

I stop there, scrutinizing the place.

There are written symbols on its walls.

I couldn’t understand them.

She went through the door.

The door is locked.

I can’t get in there.

I’m looking at my surroundings.

Looking…

Until I begin spinning on this issue.

Looking at me through the window.

She’s holding a necklace.

She’s showing it to me.

There are no pearls in it.

Only a two-faced round piece of wood.

On one side, there’s a snake.

On the other, a dove.

She’s playing with it.

She’s holding both ends of the thread and spinning it.

When she does, it is as if the snake is eating the dove.

She stops playing.

Then she disappears.

I suppose I should go back to where I was headed.

I lost my way.

I turn around the palace.

I spot a map journal on the wall.

According to the map, the nearest town is

called The Heavenly Valley.

Quite a catchy name.

Three miles away.

Strange.

I don’t find the city that Jack was in.

Maybe there’s a bigger map in The Heavenly Valley.

I hope I get there before sunset.

---

Part 2 - Chapter 5

I’ll be dead before sunrise.

It’s almost sunrise, and I haven’t gotten there yet.

I’m starving.

The food I brought got rotten.

I sit on the tree bench and listen.

Listen to the emptiness of my stomach.

Then, an unfamiliar and familiar voice conquers my senses.

It’s her.

The masked lady.

She invades my head.

I keep thinking about her castle.

The written symbol:

"Scientia non alia est quam maleficia, veneficae et physici fatum idem habere debent, idem pati, palo exiisti."

She keeps repeating the same words.

"Get out of my head!"

A wicked beauty.

That’s what she was.

She was waiting for me to remember.

But before, she was giving me a memory that was not mine.

I was in bed .She was facing me, showing me her necklace.

She was playing with it the same way she did in the forest.

The same symbols.

The dove and the snake.

There was something about her.

I could feel it.

Those weren’t my memories.

She was not my mother.

And I wasn’t her daughter.

Her daughter…

Something happened to her daughter.

She wanted revenge.

She wanted to save me too.

From my curse.

She knew.

God, she knew.

How was that possible?

"If you’re going to play games with me, at least lead me to the town!"

I said aloud, feeling stupid.

Something inside of me hoped she existed

and could truly lead me.

But my brain disagreed.

Nonsense.

I stood from the bench.

The sound hit me.

I had been covered earlier by the tree leaves.

My sight is a bit blurry, but I see the way.

I keep walking.

Until I stumble upon a door.

I push it open.

I see a crowd.

A crowd of dark figures.

I wasn’t afraid.

I stepped into the crowd.

All of a sudden—

I was in the town.

It’s so eccentric.

I didn’t know how I got there.

It was raining heavily.

I needed shelter.

This couldn’t get any more peculiar.

Almost as if I was standing between the heavens and the earth.

They were swallowed by darkness.

The decades of helplessness were the bad omen that led me here.

I hope not all I like is bad luck.

The thunder strikes.

Strikes.

I used to fear lightning.

My mother used to sing to me.

It was a good time… once.

I notice that when my brain is on less, I don’t feel as much.

Which is a good thing in my state.

I can’t afford to black out in this unknown territory.

Maybe I’m not here.

Maybe I’m not in the town.

This is just a trick.

The woman was playing with me.

She was having a marvelous turn in me.

I’m an idiot.

I was an idiot.

I needed to find a place.

I was all wet.

I might catch a cold.

Life is laughing at me.

The joke of a lifetime.

I’m walking around.

My head is spinning.

My thoughts are trying to escape my head.

But they fail.

My eyes are looking for hope.

And my brain clouds their sight.

And my heart screams.

Too aware of what’s going on inside of me, I forgot about my surroundings.

Fate might be smiling.

I see a small cabin in front of me.

It shall do.

Its purpose, for the moment.

All I need is a few minutes until the rain stops.

I wish I could enjoy dancing under the rain.

But I’m terrified at the moment.

I don’t know why.

Coming here was worth it.

I’m down to my everything.

Or is it necessary?

All I can do is dream.

And hope.

I have to trust Him.

The one who created me.

He will guide me.

He created me.

My fate says I won’t die with no purpose.

There is a purpose in all of this.

I believe.

The rain stops.

I step forward.

I look above.

The sky is clouded.

A beautiful scenery.

How bad can this be?

I stop.

I don’t care about me.

This place is strange.

I stepped into a new world.

So different from mine.

Or… could this be my creation?

I have lost my mind.

Have I?

At any minute, I may wake up.

To find myself in the woods.

And I’ll take it all back.

"Please wake up."

I’m totally awake.

Where are all the people?

So strange. I sense movements. No, a group of people are walking near.

"Hello?" I ask. No response.

"Hello?" I ask again.

They show up. They look cold, strange. One is from the medieval period by addressing beautiful gowns. The women's dresses are similar to that, which is weird. I'm certain she's a witch. All the women have long hair. They are stepping ahead, and the men are behind. I can't see them well.

They suddenly stop walking. I stare at

them. They stare back, and that was all. I feel the tension growing—I'm not safe.

The woman starts humming. Weird thoughts—I'm being hypnotized. I try to shut my ears, but it's no use. It's working. I'm not feeling well.

Chapter 6

I wake up in a dark room. It's daytime, but the windows are closed. I can't move. I'm chained—I'm chained with an invisible rope. How am I supposed to crack the problem if I cannot see it?

I'm not alone. An old woman with long white hair is staring at me. She's so pale. She looks almost dead. Her chest is heaving. She's having problems breathing. While she's old, the sight of her scares me

to death. My heart is pounding violently, straining my chest.

She's getting closer and closer. I'm trying to move, but I can't.

I shrink.

"Easy, kid. Don't be scared," she says.

I stare at her blankly. Fear is visible on my face, my hands are—

"What brings you here?" she asks.

"I have nowhere to go. I was looking for a place to crash in."

I don't tell her about Jack and my whole plan. That's obvious. But it was hard—it’s difficult to lie to her face.

"Can you unchain me? I won't harm anybody. I came in peace."

She laughs really hard.

"I see you're humorous," she says, still laughing. "I'll talk to the council to see what they decide to do with you."

She exits and locks the door.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what's happening.

Is this a punishment because I left? Is it a punishment because of what I have done? I didn't mean to harm anyone in any way. I just wanted to leave. I wanted to live. Even with all the suffering I endured and will endure, I still yearn for life.

The nature. The weather. The people. The thoughts. The feelings.

How badly troubled my soul can be, it's still there. Hopefully, it never dies.

At least she feels at peace. Just once.

Everything could have ended months ago. I was given the chance at life and to make things right. It’s a gift.

God gave me life once again. I can't fail myself twice. I'll get out of here. I'll carry on, like I always do.

A bunch of witches can't destroy me.

I'm trying to find something sharp to cut—randomly. The invisible rope—I know I

might get hurt, but it's worth a shot.

All of a sudden, I hear her voice. That witch.

"It's all over," she lets me hear.

I know that I'm dangerous, but every time, I seem to please her wishes.

"You'll stay with me," she says.

"I don't want anything from you! Just let me go!"

I lay motionless, waiting for her to say something again, to prove her existence.

She was real. Not a fragment of my imagination.

Suddenly, I was unchained.

I get up quickly, rushing to the door. I open it.

The light blinds me.

I was in a dark room. I see her waiting for me.

She was wearing the same dress, but without a mask. She doesn’t look 32 or 34.

She’s walking toward me.

"You'll be staying with me tonight and tomorrow. We'll figure out ways to get you back," she says.

"Figure out ways? You brought me here with magic. Can't you do it again?" I ask.

"It's complicated," she says and walks away.

I follow her to her lodging. She lives far from the center of town.

We walk past a stall. The vegetables and fruits look fresh. I'm starving but don’t buy anything. The girl working there looks pretty.

We arrive. Her cottage is beautiful—not witch-like at all.

Her elder son greets us at the door. He looks my age.

He is surprised. He regards me as a peculiar appearance.

I can't blame him. It's been a long time

since I last looked in the mirror, and my choice of clothing never had proper judgment. I wasn't offended by his look.

He shakes my hand.

"I am Ace."

"I am Xavier," I tell him.

"Ace, honey, prepare something for our guest to eat while I arrange a room for him."

The house looks totally different from the inside—beautiful too, but more ancient.

I sit on a couch in the living room, looking around, appreciating the beautiful architecture of the house.

Ace calls me to the kitchen. I am so hungry. He made me a delicious vegetable soup and bread. I am so grateful.

After eating, I take a bath. Ace gives me something to wear from his clothes. The shirt is a little bigger than me, but it will do until my clothes dry.

They give me a room upstairs. It is small but sufficient for my needs. A better idea than asking.

All I need is just one night.

And I'm planning to escape tomorrow.

She said that often—God, but trusting her. But today, she showed unexpected kindness.

I sit on the bed. It is soft and bouncy. I jump on it like a kid.

I stop when I hear footsteps.

Someone is standing outside.

Quietly, I look through the keyhole.

I stand to open the door.

He escapes.

It was a little boy.

I go back to the bed. Not worrying.

He was definitely her other kid.

Chapter 7

I slept well last night. I stand and head toward the window.

I see Ace playing ball with that little boy.

Mada is watering plants in the garden.

There is someone sitting under an umbrella.

It isn’t raining, and the sunlight is barely non-existent.

The umbrella moves.

There is a girl under it.

She is wearing a mask like the one her mother wore in the woods.

She goes inside.

I walk away from the window. I leave the room and go to Medarda.

It is morning.

She stops watering when she senses my arrival.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you get enough sleep?" she asks.

"Thank you. The bed was comfortable."

"Glad to hear that. Let's go inside to have breakfast."

We go inside and sit at the table.

Ace.

Jamie.

The little boy—who is, in fact, not very little.

He is 13 and happy.

No one speaks during the meal. I try to talk but fail.

I have to talk.

"What about the promise?" I ask.

As I speak, I hear the angry crowd.

"What's going on?" asks Jamie.

"The angry crowd aren’t satisfied, Mr. Xavier."

My heart sinks.

"What have I done?"

Ace leaves the table. He clearly doesn't like where the conversation is headed.

He keeps staring at me. Then at his mom.

Until he is out of sight.

"The thing is, lovely guest, I can't take you home today. The elders say I have to go to the sacred tree and take you with me. But due to the circumstances, we’ll stay home today, or we’ll get killed."

She smiles.

I am so confused. Everything is so vague.

"You said they weren't satisfied with me.

That I brought a curse. How?"

She smiles, then leaves.

Jamie, his sister, and I remain at the table, not talking.

I am still processing what's going on.

None of them is trying to help me understand.

Maybe they don't even know, which is unlikely.

There is no one to give me answers.

I'll have to search by myself.I wondered how they spent their day inside, knowing there was a mob. They seemed to be used to it. Ace was in his room. I wanted to go

to him, but I was hesitant. I wanted to ask him some questions, but she probably wouldn't answer. At least I could figure something out from his facial expressions or something.

I went upstairs. The girl's room was at the end of the corridor. It caught my attention, but I wasn't going to get near it. I wouldn't bother her. While I was looking at the room from the floor, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you looking for someone?" Ace asked.

"I was looking for you," I said.

"Well, let's go downstairs."

I followed him. We went to the living room. I sat on the couch next to him. There was a round table. It could be opened to put stuff

inside of it. He picked out a pile of books and gave them to me.

"I assume you read," Ace said.

"Yes, thank you so much. I was wondering how I'd pass the day."

"Well..." he said. "You said you were looking for me."

"Oh, nothing really. I was just..."

"Bored?"

"Yeah," I laughed.

"I'm bored too. I've finished reading all of those books, and now I've got nothing to do."

He paused for a while.

"I'll let you enjoy the books." He smiled and went away.

A book title caught my eye. Science is a Curse. As I read the words, I thought of the written symbols on the wall of that palace, and I understood what it meant. Science is no different than witchcraft. It manipulates and tricks. Witches and scientists deserve the same fate—to be burned. Medarda just passed by me, or I might have imagined it. I still don't trust her.

I finished the book in one sitting. It talked about body part replacement surgery. It denounces it. It argues that the replaced body parts will never function as the original, which is totally true. And at times, the person— The book claims that

scientists use life-saving procedures as an opportunity to control people and make them accept any idea without questioning it by planting body parts created by them.

I have a metal heart. Does that mean Dr. McCarthy controls me? I don't think so. If so, I wouldn't be able to leave him at all. My metal heart didn't change me, but circumstances did. They forged my soul and state of mind. Everything changed after the accident.

I went to Ace to give him back the book. I handed it to him, and he took it. He looked at me anxiously, as if afraid to say something.

"Do you agree with the book?"

His eyes were searching for answers on

my face before I even uttered a word.

"Not really," I said.

"Is it difficult?" he asked.

"What?" I was confused.

"Your condition," he said, pointing at my chest.

"Oh yeah, it is, but I've gotten used to it."

"But you seem normal."

I laughed nervously.

"My sister isn't normal."

His sister? Is she—?

"She also has a condition, but it's her brain. Since the surgery, she hasn't said a word or behaved as she used to. Mother thinks the surgery failed."

I was stunned.

He bent closer and whispered in my ear, "You won't be able to go home until Mother figures out what happened to my sister. All that’s outside is a stunt."

"What? What does that have to do with me? I can't help her."

"I don't know what Mother thinks… You behave normally. Probably, you can teach her how to survive with such a condition."

I didn’t know how to explain. I was just a survivor who believed. Nothing more.

If I can't help her, I'll be stuck here! I've got to find a way to escape. I was getting nervous. I was stuck in the witch’s lair.

I went to her. I was very mad, but I held myself—she was a woman.

"I can do nothing for your daughter. There's no reason to keep me here."

"I wasn't dependent on you to do something. I'm keeping you to study your successful case and fix my daughter."

"This can't work. You can't force my way onto her. Each one of us is a totally different person. What worked for me may not work for her, and vice versa. She is the key to her survival. She's the only one capable of helping herself. She's got to

believe and want to live. She has to find herself."

She got mad and used her magic upon me. She stopped my heart and then released it. I almost fell unconscious.

Chapter 8

I woke up in bed. Ace wasn’t sitting on a chair next to me.

"Mom told us that you feel poorly. We’ll call the doctor if necessary."

"I’m not ill… I’m cursed."

"A curse?" he asked, surprised.

"When you do bad things, you get punished with bad fates in life before the afterlife."

I didn’t know what he thought when I said

those words.

"What could you possibly have done that can’t be forgiven?"

"I don’t want to talk about it," I told him.

He gave me a pitiful look. It filled me with contempt. I had no reason to feel that way toward him. I was sure I had some sort of illness. I lost control of words; they were completely disconnected from my thoughts—thoughts that were cruel. I was tormented by an invisible power that I should have had some control over.

Ace left the room. I felt uneasy after talking—perhaps because I had almost perished in solitude. It required effort to socialize again.

Ace came back. He stood at the door.

"I apologize," he said.

"For what?"

"For what happened… and what will happen."

"What happened is the past, but you still have some control over what will happen. The decisions are yours."

After he left, I got up and got dressed. My old clothes were dry. I went downstairs and then directly to the gardens. I refused to have breakfast with them.

The garden was very beautiful. Medarda had planted different kinds of flowers—lilies, daffodils, and jasmines. The smell

was great and refreshing, the kind that makes you forget the sorrows of the day before.

After a while, Jamie came with a tray. He brought toast, butter, and jam. He smiled and sat next to me. We said nothing.

"Can you stay and help my sister?" he asked.

"Listen before you answer. My mother may have done a lot of terrible things, but deep down, she has a good heart. She did everything for us. Can you help my sister?"

"I don’t know what to do," I told him.

"Just stay a little longer. Tell your family that you’ll be late or something."

"They’re gone," I said before he finished his sentence. I clenched my fist.

"Great, no one is waiting on you— Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just glad that you’ll help my sister. I missed her so much."

The little boy started sobbing. I had no experience comforting people, so I kept silent. I rubbed his head and hugged him. He was small and fragile. He reminded me of someone.

"Everything fell apart when my dad left. She went mad—my mother."

I wanted to cheer him up, but all I could do was change the subject.

"Could you pass me the toast?"

"Sure." He smiled.

We ate and talked for a while.

"I can’t wait to grow up," he said.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I don’t know. Did you know what you wanted to be?" he asked.

"I used to, but now I don’t."

Jamie liked to play chess and bragged about being good at it. I promised him we’d play and see if that was true. He wanted to be an athlete, but he was afraid that he didn’t have the physique for it. I told him that he would grow up to be stronger and taller.

"No need to rush things. Just be patient."

I wasn’t very strong either, but hearing it from me seemed to please him.

When Jamie asked me about staying, he spoke as if I had a choice—but I didn’t. I was trapped. If only I had listened to the warnings… No time for regrets now. Since I was trapped, I had a choice: to make my stay enjoyable or like hell. I promised to try my best to help Angelic.

She and her mother followed every move I made—how I acted and behaved. It irritated me so much. They listened to my conversations. I didn’t fight it because if I did, it would have gotten worse. I preferred knowing I was being watched and taking precautions rather than not knowing at all.

The only private time I had was at night.

I finished all the books Ace gave me. Each time I finished one, we discussed it. We had a lot in common and seemed to agree not to talk about the past. He was the only one who kind of had a separate life from the others. He had his secrets.

He wanted to be a scientist. He was an inventor. I wondered how he hid it from his mother.

He made a telescope to watch the stars and named them different names. He also created an extra arm for himself to help him with chores.

My condition amazed him. I told him everything Dr. McCarthy told me and

showed him the journal.

"So… getting emotionally vulnerable might kill you?"

Chapter 9

Days passed quickly; I lost count of them. My stay wasn’t as unbearable as I had thought. I got used to their peculiarity, and they got used to mine.

Angelic and her mother’s eyes never left me, but it didn’t bother me anymore. I grew fond of Ace and Jamie, who became my friends—or at least, that was how I saw it.

I would sit on Ace’s bed for hours while he observed my breathing. Sometimes, he would tell me sad stories or discuss triggering topics just to see how I would react. I tried to conceal how unbearably painful it was. He was so enthusiastic

about his discoveries—I hated to ruin that for him. So, I got used to the pain. I could bear it longer.

But he noticed it every time.

I wondered—if I were normal, would we still be friends? He never talked about having friends. He never mentioned the source of his heartbreaking stories, but every word tore my heart, both figuratively and literally.

There were times I was almost gone, but he saved me. He would crack jokes to lighten my mood, but it was the kindness of the act that truly saved me.

He had a strange philosophy. He believed that the salvation of humankind lay in his discoveries.

"It will save lives!"

His discoveries, he believed, would solve the world’s problems—its redemption.

He was so naïve, clinging to a glorious purpose—the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good.

Once, I asked, "Why don’t you go out often?"

"I don’t like people. They scare me," he answered.

I was astonished. I had thought people feared him, not the other way around. They also hated him because of his mother.

"Humans are cruel. They won’t welcome you with an open heart. They despise indifference, which is a gift. Don’t let

people convince you otherwise."

He stopped talking for a while.

"A man’s heart won’t bleed and stretch itself to cover you like a mother’s womb... What was your question? I drifted a little."

I laughed. "It’s alright."

"Indifference is a gift… Do you feel different?" I asked.

He was busy gathering his tools while I buttoned my shirt. He grabbed his things and headed to the door.

"Yes," he answered, then left.

"Well, me too," I murmured, though I doubted he heard.

---

The next day, I went to buy some groceries from the stall nearby. I went there almost every day.

The stallholder was nice—a blonde girl about my age. She greeted me with a smile and laughed at my stupid jokes. Even though we talked a lot, I hadn’t learned her name yet.

These wonderful people made my stay easier.

Strange how one’s thoughts change. From hate to love. From admiration to disgust.

I still wanted to leave this place, but at

times, it felt surreal. The sky was too beautiful. It made me feel like a poet whose language was love. The soft breeze, the humming bees…

The town wasn’t so strange after all. It was like any other town. It had only seemed strange before because I was under an illusion.

Medarda had stopped manipulating and reading my thoughts—or at least, I felt that way.

I was trying to live as normally as possible, gaslighting myself into believing that everything was under my control.

So, I decided to get a job. I wasn’t looking for anything specific.

Ace wanted me to work by his side to fulfill his "glorious purpose," but I refused—for various reasons.

There was an empty post at a paper mill. I worked as a pipefitter.

My younger self would have laughed at me and said, "What happened to our dreams?"

They were long gone.

---

I worked all day long. Angelic was always watching from her window, waiting for me. I noticed a change in her—she no longer hid from us or wore that mask.

Medarda was pleased. She probably

thought her plan had worked.

Jamie was studying very hard—he was homeschooled.

Ace also worked all day long.

We both had hectic days, so there was no testing that evening, which relieved me.

I had grown tired of provoked emotions, even the joyous ones.

I wanted a sincere sensation.

Chapter 10

Ace had been behaving strangely lately. He locked himself in his room and spoke to no one—including me. I wasn’t the only one who noticed the change.

We all sat at the dinner table, except for

him. I thought about bringing him food upstairs, but I didn’t. Neither did Jamie. We decided to let him recover.

Days passed, and he didn’t recover—he only got worse.

As I lay in bed one night, I thought about checking on Ace at his workplace.

When I arrived, he was too busy working to notice me.

“Ace?”

He panicked, dropping the hammer in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his face full of terror.

“What’s going on? …I came here to check on you,” I said.

“Alright… see? I’m okay. You can go now,” he said rudely.

“My bad.”

I was upset—that wasn’t how you treated a friend. As I turned to leave, I noticed the vapor rising from the engine. My heart tightened in my chest—I needed to relax.

On my way out, I thought to check on Trenton, the owner of the place, but I didn’t find him.

“Ace, where’s Trenton?”

His face changed color. He grew nervous. Sweat formed on his forehead. He was

hiding something terrible.

“He’s gone for a week,” he answered.

“A week? Why?”

“He wanted to rest from work.”

“I’ll go to his house, then,” I thought aloud.

“DON’T.”

He freaked out.

“Xavier, wait.”

I stopped walking and looked at him.

“We need to talk—somewhere else,” he said.

I followed him into the forest—not the same one I had wandered into months ago. There was a secluded spot where no one went, where no one could hear us. A beautiful lake stretched before us, the moonlight reflecting on its surface, creating a breathtaking scene.

It was a quiet night.

We stood in silence for a while. Curiosity and worry gnawed at me.

Ace sighed—he was about to talk.

“First, I want you to know that my intentions were pure.”

“What did you do with your ‘pure’ intentions?” I asked, growing nervous.

“He took her from me!” he said angrily.

“I don’t understand.”

“He took Cassandra from me. I loved her.”

“No one took her. She’s safe,” I told him.

“She’s not safe—she’s dead,” he said, standing up.

“I don’t know who told you that, but she’s alive and well. She just refuses to go out.”

She didn’t want to see him—or anyone. I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I knew she was alive. Everyone in town knew their history.

“She’s safe?” His expression softened. He wiped his tears.

“Yes,” I assured him.

So that was what had been troubling him all along.

But then, his face changed again.

“I thought I avenged her… I killed him. I killed him for her. I thought he hurt her.”

“You… killed an innocent person for nothing!”

I was horrified.

“But… they told me—”

“There are no ‘buts,’ Ace. What’s done is done.”

Everything felt bizarre—like a nightmare.

“I killed an innocent man. What do I do now?”

He snapped back to his senses.

“I don’t know. The situation is dire.”

If he went to jail, Medarda would burn the town to the ground. Innocent lives would be lost. The court wasn’t just, and who was I to judge?

Only God knew what should be done.

“What should I do to atone for my sins? Is asking for forgiveness enough?” He was sobbing now.

There was nothing I could do. A man was

dead, and another was torn apart.

“You’re not a particularly good man, Ace, but you’re not bad either… You feel guilty—that’s something in itself. And it’s also a punishment.

I’m not here to judge you.

All I know is that deep down, there’s a good man who’ll try to be better. Ask for forgiveness and salvation, and leave the rest to God. That’s the only way I know.

God is merciful—He will show you the way.”

Ace stood up. “I think I’m going to walk by myself for a while.”

I stayed there, staring at the lake.

How could a man take another man’s life?

How was it possible—that a man could kill?

We were supposed to coexist, not destroy one another.

Life wasn’t as it was meant to be.

It was true that man had free will, but with it came consequences. Acting before thinking. Living an absurd existence.

We are not immortal. The time will come when we will have to pay for what we’ve done.

There are rules to life—it didn’t exist on its own.

God created humans to worship Him and

to be His stewards on Earth. But people seem to forget. Blinded by pleasures, desires, emotions, and a misinterpretation of what it means to be human.

---

It was nearly sunrise.

I had to get going.

On my way back, I saw Grace setting up for work.

Grace was the stallholder. She waved at me.

I went over.

“How come you’re up this early?” she

asked.

“Morning exercises.”

She laughed.

“Do you need help?”

“I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

It was a joyful morning.

We saw Ace passing by.

“He was exercising too?” she asked sarcastically.

“Definitely,” I laughed.

“Exercise treated him well. He looks better than yesterday… like something heavy was

lifted off his shoulders.”

I watched him walk away. I didn’t respond.

She was right.

Maybe it was true—maybe talking really did ease people’s burdens.

---

Later, I returned to the lake—my new favorite place.

I sat in the same spot.

A sudden desire to scream at the top of my lungs overtook me.

Then I saw a shadow moving behind the

bushes.

“Angelic?”

She stepped out silently.

She looked different.

“You look different,” I said, amazed.

She smiled.

An awkward silence followed.

“Ace told me this lake is magical,” I said, making it up. “You can wish for anything you want. Just make a wish and throw a rock—like this.”

I tossed a small rock into the water.

“What did you wish for?” she asked.

Oh my… she spoke.

She laughed when she saw my astonishment.

“I talk,” she said.

“Sure. That’s… pretty obvious,” I laughed nervously. That was stupid.

She threw a rock.

“What did you wish for, Angy…lic?”

She sighed.

“To be like people.

Isn’t that what you wish for too?”

I hesitated.

“Well… You think it’s impossible, don’t you?

Do you want to be ‘people’?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s be people.”

“How?” she asked.

“We already are. We’re just different. And I think that’s awesome—because we see life differently, and we appreciate it more.”

“We should’ve been dead, you and I,” she said.

“But we’re not, are we?” I smiled.

“I am,” she frowned.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

She paused.

“You always say we survived for a purpose. I haven’t found mine.”

“That’s fine. You’ll figure it out with time. Time teaches lessons. You’ll learn everything you need to—just be patient.”

We stared at the lake in silence.

Too much had been said.

“Why don’t you talk to people—your

mother, your brothers, the people who care about you? They’re worried.”

“What’s the point of talking if no one listens?”

“They listen. I listen,” I objected.

“Even if they listen, they won’t understand.”

“No one will ever fully understand you, Angelic. No one can walk in your shoes.”

“Then… how do people connect?” she asked.

“We connect despite not fully understanding. That’s the magic of it.

That’s what makes us human.”

"The ability to connect despite our

differences—even when we don’t fully understand—is where the beauty lies. We try, we care, we feel for one another. That’s the sweetness of it. With respect, tolerance, and forgiveness, we can become whole—not as one, but as a unity of completely different fragments.

I don’t know if I’m making sense or just rambling… but our souls are a mystery. Everything is a mystery.

No matter how far we progress, it’s never enough. Our infinite abilities are, in truth, finite. Our minds are limited. But man—man will never admit that. He is both arrogant and ignorant."

She listened attentively, which made me feel good about myself.

“I talk too much,” I laughed.

She said nothing—just smiled.

Chapter 11:

As I walked through town, I spotted Grace. I hoped that one day, she’d leave that stall and live up to her full potential.

Hateful eyes followed me. Mothers clutched their children, whispering warnings.

"Don’t go near the monster! He lives with that witch!"

The people of this town despised Medarda. She had done terrible things—burning down a school, among others—all for her children. But still.

I didn’t understand why their hatred felt

stronger today. Just yesterday, I had played with those same children.

Then, it all clicked.

Medarda’s spells—the ones that masked the town’s ugliness, showing me only the good—had finally worn off. Now, I could see it all. The grotesque reality of this place.

The weather was shifting. The sky darkened, heavy with the weight of an approaching storm.

Raindrops began to fall as I walked, soaking the town in cold melancholy. That’s when I saw Ace, standing alone, staring down at his feet.

He looked shattered.

When he noticed me, he lifted his head, tears in his eyes.

“She’s okay,” he whispered. “She just doesn’t want to see me… What’s wrong with me?” His voice broke as he crumbled into sobs.

I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around him. I patted his back, grounding him.

“Nothing is wrong with you. Or with her,” I murmured. “It’s just fate. You’re not meant for each other, and knowing that is a good thing. One day, you’ll find someone you love—who loves you back. And when that happens, this pain will make sense.”

He trembled in my arms, then gradually

calmed. His sobs softened, fading into silence.

After a moment, he pulled away and sighed. “How was your day?”

“Nothing special. Just the harshness of society and my inner turmoil,” I said.

“That’s a fancy way of saying ‘awful,’” he chuckled weakly.

“Yes, it is.”

He studied me for a second before asking, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Well… I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve buried my emotions for so long that I don’t even recognize them anymore.”

That was the last real conversation we had.

After that, Ace disappeared into his pursuit of glorious evolution—leaving us behind.

I missed our talks.

Chapter 12:

It was early morning when we heard a knock at the door. Jamie opened it while I hurried downstairs. But before I could see the visitor, the door was already closing.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"Ace’s foreman," Jamie replied. "He was inquiring about something."

"Ace!" He called out for his brother.

Ace came down, a confused expression overtaking his face. Jamie noticed and

quickly added, "He was asking about Trenton. He hasn’t shown up for over a week."

A heavy silence fell.

Even though I had expected this, hearing it still sent a shiver through me. Ace stood frozen, his hands trembling despite his face remaining eerily still. But Jamie noticed—he suspected something.

"I don’t know where Trenton is," Ace said coldly. His voice trembled slightly, but the unnatural calm in it was unsettling, even for me—because I knew the truth.

Ace left after that, off to God knows where to do God knows what. And I stood there, helpless.

"Is something wrong?" Jamie asked me. "Between you two? You don’t talk much anymore."

"I have nothing to say."

Sometimes, silence was the best answer.

Jamie didn’t press further. He had other things occupying his mind.

---

The entire town suddenly became fixated on Trenton’s disappearance. I wondered where Ace had hidden the body.

For three weeks, the search continued. But they didn’t let me help.

"We don’t trust you… You’re inhuman!"

Unlike them, I wasn’t searching for a missing person. I was searching for a corpse. And if there was any trace of it, I needed to find it before they did.

But I found nothing. And I couldn't find Ace to ask, either.

After another failed search, I went home.

Angelic’s door was open.

Curious, I stepped inside, immediately regretting it. I didn’t like invading privacy.

Her room was just as beautiful as the rest of the cottage, but something caught my eye—a sculpture sitting above her armoire. She had carved it herself. There was

another unfinished one on the desk.

I picked it up for a better look.

It looked a little too much like me.

---

The door opened downstairs. Ace and Medarda had returned.

"Everything is taken care of," Medarda reassured him. "No one will ever find out."

So, they did hide the body.

I waited upstairs. When Ace climbed the stairs, I stood in front of him.

"The body?" I asked.

"Mom took care of it," he said without meeting my eyes.

"Are you going to tell your family?"

"I don’t know! Stop questioning me!"

His outburst wasn’t surprising. But it was telling.

I stepped aside, letting him pass.

---

Should I tell them?

It was cruel. His family still held onto hope that their son was alive.

I couldn’t handle it.

Needing an escape, I left the house. I found myself in front of Grace’s home. Like a foolish schoolboy, I picked up a small rock and tossed it at her window.

She appeared a moment later, smiling as if she had expected me.

She climbed down and walked toward me.

"How’s the search going?" she asked.

"A complete failure."

"Don’t lose hope," she said gently. "You’ll find him. God is with us."

"No," I snapped. "We will never find him."

She frowned. "Why would you say that?"

"Because he’s dead, Grace. He’s dead."

She stared at me, confused.

Then—

"MURDER!!"

A scream echoed through the streets.

I turned. A mob was running toward us, torches and weapons in hand.

"Murder! Capture him!"

"What? No!" Grace gasped. "Xavier!"

"It’s not me! I’m innocent!"

"How can we believe you, monster?!" one man roared. "Who else could kill without remorse but you? A heartless creature!"

Someone else shouted, "We should kill him and sell the metal of his head!"

The mob surged forward.

"SILENCE."

Medarda’s voice cut through the chaos.

"A trial is the best option," she announced.

A trial?

Medarda knew I wasn’t guilty… didn’t she?

"There’s no need for a trial!" someone shouted. The mob murmured in

agreement, their torches casting flickering shadows across their furious faces.

"There is no evidence!" Grace tried to argue.

"Yes, there is!" a man countered. "He has a metal heart! He’s a friend of the witch! She could have hidden the evidence!"

The crowd erupted with shouts of agreement.

Medarda raised a hand.

"Objection, ladies and gentlemen," she said smoothly.

And then—

"I have no connection with this monster. He’s guilty, and I do not deny it."

I felt my stomach drop.

She turned to the crowd, her expression apologetic.

"I welcomed him into my home for a while, hoping to find the human in him," she continued. "But I see now I was wrong. I apologize to all of you—especially to the family of the deceased."

"No, no, no! Stop the charade!" I shouted. "I’M INNOCENT! And you know it! You kept me here! NO—GET OFF ME!!"

Hands grabbed at me, dragging me away. My cries went unanswered.

I saw Grace’s face in the crowd, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Jamie and Angelic were nowhere to be seen.

And Ace—

Ace stood there, watching me.

I reached out a desperate hand toward him.

He didn’t take it.

He didn’t even move.

He just looked away.

At that moment, I wondered—

Is there anything more undoing than losing a friend?

Part 3

Chapter 13

Of all the bad scenarios I had imagined, none came close to this. Funny how fate works.

I’m in a cell for a crime I didn’t commit.

I’ve done wrong before, but this? This isn’t my sin to bear. And yet, here I am. Maybe this is punishment for my past deeds. Maybe fate is laughing at me.

The cell is dark, small, and suffocating. A single barred window lets in a sliver of blue sky—just enough to remind me that the world is happy while I am drowning.

That’s life, isn’t it?

While some people laugh, others wish for death. And vice versa.

But here’s the thing—I’m not sad. I’m not angry.

Hurt? Yes.

But mostly, I feel... nothing.

It’s a strange kind of emptiness, a bitterness I can’t swallow. The cold inside me matches the cold of the cell. And the worst part?

I shouldn’t have followed that woman.

---

My trial is set for a year from now.

It’s been a week.

I’ve developed a routine to survive: thinking. Thinking until my mind loops in on itself, until I imagine another version of me sitting beside me, asking me relentless questions.

At first, he was just a guest in my mind. Now, he refuses to leave.

He’s irritating.

So irritating that even my cell neighbor complains.

"Tell him to shut up!" he growls.

"Can you see him?" I ask. "He’s just a fragment of my imagination."

"I can’t even see you. It’s too dark."

"Walk closer to the bars."

He hesitates, then moves. The moonlight brightens the cell just enough for me to make out his features. He laughs.

"I can see you now."

He’s tall, blond. His name is Asher.

We talk.

Nonsense during the day, secrets of the soul at night.

There’s something about the dark that makes people spill everything. Even in a prison cell, that strange magic lingers.

We both hate the grumpy old man in the

next cell. He’s been here five years. His trial is coming up. He murdered an entire family for no reason at all.

"It felt good," he once said.

He’ll probably get a death sentence. This country is just.

Or so I thought.

---

The prison walls have ears. Stories travel through the cells like whispers in the wind.

One night, Asher and I talk about the murderer. We think he’s asleep. He isn’t.

He starts laughing.

A slow, eerie chuckle.

He steps closer to the bars, studying me.

"Good to finally meet you," he says.

I frown.

"The bloodthirsty psychopath with the stone heart himself."

I loathe that name.

He laughs harder. I want to silence him—badly—but I don’t. He sees it in my eyes.

"Your situation is harder than mine, sunshine."

"How so?" I ask.

"For me, it’s simple. I can fake tears, pretend I’m sorry, and they’ll let me live. You? You can’t do that. Not with that heart of yours."

He isn’t wrong.

I can’t fake guilt. Not for something I didn’t do. But everything about this—this whole trial—is wrong.

Two days later, the verdict comes.

The murderer is released. Declared innocent.

And just like that, the world proves itself unjust.

How could they let him go? He killed an

entire family.

And yet I am still here.

Is this my punishment?

---

Asher was imprisoned for theft and murder. His trial was last year. He got ten years. And then—death.

He doesn’t seem like a killer to me.

But then again, Ace didn’t seem like one either.

Appearances are deceiving.

I sit in silence for days.

"What are you thinking about?" Asher asks. "You’re worrying me."

"I don’t know… What’s better? To ignore everything and move forward or to grasp everything and get stuck?"

"Neither."

"How do you manage that?"

"With time."

I sigh. I’ve heard that answer before. But time doesn’t work for me.

Should I keep waiting?

Should I trust that things will take their rightful place?

Or is waiting just a coward’s way of avoiding life?

No. I’m not immortal. I can’t just wait. What if I die before that happens? What if I’ve already waited too long?

"Are you alright?" Asher asks.

"I’m afraid I’m not."

"It’s okay to feel like that."

"That’s the problem. I don’t feel anything."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Entirely sure?"

"Asher, this isn’t funny."

"You’re not feeling well, are you?"

"Please stop talking."

Finally, he falls silent.

A long moment passes before I whisper, "I wish I could feel again."

He shifts, adjusting himself against the wall.

"I spent years hiding how I truly felt," he admits. "I buried everything until it created a hole inside me. A lost part of me. But feelings don’t just disappear. They claw their way back out. And I’m afraid that if I let them… they’ll kill me."

A pause.

"But I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be free."

Another pause. Then he says, "You’re lucky."

"Lucky?"

"The way you talk about yourself—so openly, so vulnerably. I wish I could do that."

---

One night, Asher finally tells me his truth.

"The story you know about me? It’s not

entirely true or false. I did kill that boy, but I wasn’t in my right mind. They didn’t mention that part."

He exhales.

"When I was a child, I wasn’t allowed to be sad. People always told me others had it worse, so I had no right to complain. So, I buried my feelings. When I was a teenager, I felt insecure about my looks. When I spoke about it, they told me, ‘Be grateful. Some people are bullied or arrested just for how they look.’ So, I buried that too."

His voice is hollow.

"I wanted love. I wanted companionship. I wanted to cry and feel better afterward. But I never did. I bottled everything up… until I snapped."

He tells me how he killed that boy. A single moment of lost control.

Then he laughs. "The past is cruel."

I stare at him.

"Try not to lose your soul, dear friend."

---

A plan forms in my mind.

"If you had the chance to escape, would you?" I ask.

"No."

"Why?"

"I have no one to go back to."

"I want you to escape."

"Why not you?"

"Because I am guilty. And you are innocent."

I shake my head. "But I—"

"Shhh. You didn’t kill your family. They were attacked. The house burned down. You were lucky you weren’t inside. That’s all. You didn’t kill them."

His words undo me.

I sob.

I cry like a child.

And when the tears stop, I make my decision.

---

The only way out is to fake my death.

I lie motionless. I hold my breath.

Asher screams for the guards.

"The chap is dead! Take him out before he starts to rot!"

They come. They shove me into a cadaver bag.

"There’s a hole in it," one mutters.

"Who cares? He’s dead."

They toss me from the prison tower into the water below.

I struggle.

I claw at the hole, making it bigger.

I break free, gasping for air.

The night sky stretches above me. The stars have never looked more beautiful.

I cling to the bridge, pulling myself up.

I survived.

Again.

I don’t know where I am.

But it’s a good place to start over.

Let the unknown devour me—I will live every second of it.

I fear nothing.

Because God is watching over me.

Epilogue ( Angelic)

Sometimes, you think that when you lose a loved one, time will stop. But it doesn’t.

Life goes on.

No matter how much it hurts, you keep living—for as long as you’re destined to.

It’s been nearly two years now. My mother is sick. She isn’t doing well, and she knows it.

"The end is near," she told me.

In these final days, she’s trying to make amends, to set things right. She wants to atone for her past mistakes before she leaves.

The thought of change, of redemption—it softens her.

She smiles like she used to when we were younger.

I’m doing fine, even with my stone brain. I’ve gotten used to the headaches.

---

Ace’s job is going well. Because of him, we

were able to pay for Mother’s treatment.

He’s focused. Determined. Nothing can stop him.

He’s learning about science and machinery, building things, improving his inventions, creating new ones. I never knew he had it in him.

I’m glad we’re communicating more. In discovering each other, we’re also discovering ourselves.

He’s trying to understand my condition, to help me in any way he can. Sometimes, he succeeds.

He built me a device—small enough to fit in my pocket. It monitors my head, stops the static, lessens the pain.

The headaches aren’t as unbearable anymore.

I’ve learned to use my condition to my advantage. My memory is sharper than most; I can recall things no one else remembers. Ace wanted to study how my brain works—to see for himself—but I refused.

I refused to shave my head.

The only thing that makes me look normal.

His device also helps me sleep. I can shut down, pause pleasure, block out the noise.

Ace’s work will change lives. If he keeps going, he could change the world. I hope he does.

---

Jamie graduated.

Grace finally pursued the career she’s always dreamed of. She moved out of town.

Asher—Xavier’s friend.

I wanted to save him. But when I searched for him… he didn’t exist.

---

Dr. Macarthy became a famous novelist.

He wrote a book about people who lived

with machine parts—his discovery, disguised as fantasy. It was a huge success.

He also wrote about his long-standing feud with his brother, about their reconciliation.

I read them both. I liked the first one more.

It told Xavier’s story. But in the book, his name was Jack.

I wonder which parts were true and which were fiction.

Reading it felt strange—like being seen in a way I never expected. It made me feel less alone in my condition.

But that character—Jack, Xavier—was once part of my life.

He’s gone now.

But his memory remains.

What is more believable—this, or magic?

I suppose it depends on your perspective.

---

I thought about meeting Dr. Macarthy. But I didn’t.

Instead, I’ll write my own book.

A book with real names.

I’ll call it The Mechanics of the Heart and the Craft of the Brain.

Wattpad

By: Kath

The mechanics of the heart

Bio: Kath 18 yo my writing style is cinematic

word count: 15577

1st book Conquest of time

2nd book The mechanics of the heart

3rd book The Last Heroes' Child

by: mountain man

22,797 words

Chapter 1

In front of me was a small dark, infinite void that stretched beyond imagination. Within this vast chasm, I sat alone, devoid of sensation, adrift in an intangible sea of obscurity. As the months trudged on, an unending noise, a distant murmur of some hidden life, persisted, echoing through the emptiness that surrounded me.

Slowly, as though emerging from a dream, I began to develop senses, delicate tendrils of awareness reaching out into the darkness. The world started to take on a new form, less dark, yet still hidden in shadows. The void was replaced by something fuzzy and dimly lit, an enigmatic universe that tantalized my newfound sight. Periodically, the world would plunge into darkness, but those moments were peaceful, soothing, a contrast to the agitation of the dimly lit hours.

Time seemed to blur, the monotonous rhythm of existence giving way to a gradual change. The noise and motion that had been my constant companions began to subside, replaced by an ominous stillness. I felt the stirrings of unease, a deep and primal fear. The world was shifting, transforming.

Then, suddenly, it happened.

A force began to push me, urging me onward, relentless and insistent. Terrifying screams of pain rang out, a cacophony of agony that shattered the silence of my world. I was confused, frightened, overwhelmed. I struggled against the force, but it was unyielding, propelling me from the small cramped space that had been my home.

With a cry of fear and bewilderment, my head emerged into an overwhelming brightness, a new environment that dazzled my eyes and assaulted my senses. I cried out, a primal wail of terror and incomprehension, as I was lifted from the place I had known, the womb that had cradled me.

"It's a boy!" exclaimed a voice, filled with joy and wonderment.

Hoisted high into the air, my tears continued as I took in the strange and beautiful new world around me. Warmth enveloped me, a gentle, loving embrace that soothed my fears. I was laid into a cradle, a soft haven that welcomed me to this new life.

Faces, an endless procession of them, leaned over my cradle, each one a mysterious landscape filled with hills and valleys, eyes gleaming like twin stars, mouths curved into smiles or pulled into lines of contemplation. They were giants in my tiny world, hovering over me, their expressions a language I had yet to understand.

One after one, they reached into my sanctum, their hands, enormous and gentle or gnarled and weathered, extending toward me. Some would pat my head with a tenderness that made me feel cherished and protected. Others would pinch my cheeks with an exuberance that was both playful and bewildering. Each touch was a new sensation, a novel experience that sent ripples of emotion through me.

These faces, full of laughter and tears, cheers and contemplation, were the family and friends who had awaited my arrival with bated breath. They were the ones whose lives were now intertwined with mine, forever bonded by the invisible threads of kinship and love. As they gathered around me, their expressions painting a kaleidoscope of human emotion, I realized with a profound sense of awakening that I was no longer adrift in a sea of solitude. I was anchored in the rich soil of community, a sapling in the vast garden of existence.

As I lay nestled in my cradle, the hum of voices swirled around me, a soothing symphony of words and melodies, whispers and exclamations. Their conversations were like gentle waves, washing over me, eroding the confusion and chaos that had marked my entry into this world. Alongside the warmth of the cradle, a cocoon of softness that cradled me like a mother's embrace, the symphony of voices began to weave a tapestry of serenity, a landscape where peace blossomed and flourished.

Slowly, as the room filled with the comforting presence of love and understanding, the jagged edges of reality softened. My world became a haven, a gentle embrace that lulled me into tranquility. My eyes, those windows to my uncharted soul, became heavy, each blink a soft caress, slowing, deepening. The world around me began to blur, shapes and sounds melding into a harmonious dance.

I was drifting, floating on a cloud of contentment, the echoes of laughter and conversation fading into the tender lullaby of existence. With a final sigh, a whispered goodbye to the waking world, I succumbed to the gentle pull of slumber. I was at peace, cradled in love, wrapped in a warm blanket.

A soft intrusion of light crept into the private theater of my dreams, nudging at the corners of my closed eyes, a gentle yet persistent annoyance that teased at my senses. Reluctantly, I allowed my eyelids to flutter open, and I was greeted by a world transformed, a scene so unlike the memories etched into my mind from the previous awakening.

I still lay nestled in the sanctuary of my cradle, my tiny body swaddled in the comforting embrace of blankets, but the surroundings had morphed into something new and unfamiliar. Gone was the congregation of faces that had welcomed me; the room itself had altered its character, assuming the identity of a different space.

Beside me stood a giant window, its expansive glass panes a portal to the world beyond. Framing this transparent gateway was an elegant silk curtain, its fabric a dance of grace and refinement, cascading down in gentle folds. The curtain, partly drawn, played a coy game with the sunlight, allowing soft beams to sneak through, illuminating the room with a gentle glow.

Though tempered by the luxurious fabric, the light was still bright, casting ethereal patterns across the floor, painting the walls with fleeting whispers of radiance. It was a world bathed in a subtle luminescence, a tranquil haven infused with a sense of peace and calm.

My young, inexperienced eyes struggled to make sense of the bright illumination piercing through the window, an intensity that felt unnatural and overwhelming. It was a light that refused to be ignored, demanding attention, searing through my closed eyelids, relentlessly haunting my vision. Opening my eyes brought no respite; the world was awash in a dazzling brilliance that disoriented and confused me.

In a futile attempt to shield myself, I lifted my tiny tendrils of arms, but their chaotic flailing betrayed my lack of control. Instead of covering my eyes, they missed their mark, slapping against my face and body in a clumsy dance of frustration. The world was a puzzle, a mystery I couldn't decipher, and my ineffectual movements only fueled my growing annoyance.

A cry erupted from my very core, a primal call for assistance, my feeble arms shaking and thrashing in all the wrong directions. My frustration burgeoned into despair, tears mingling with the cacophony of my distress.

And then, as if summoned by my cries, skinny, wrinkled green hands reached into my cradle, their appearance as alien as the brightness that had disturbed my peace. They were followed by increasingly slender arms, bereft of a face to provide context or comfort. With an uncanny precision, the hands latched onto my legs, upending my world as they lifted me from my cradle.

I was turned upside down, my vision a dizzying whirl of colors and shapes, my cradle receding as I was pulled away. Then, another set of arms seized my head, reorienting me until I was laying sideways, suspended in mid-air. My eyes, wide with shock and curiosity, fell upon the creature that was carrying me.

It was small, barely the size of my cradle, its body a sinuous arrangement of skinny limbs and green, wart-covered skin. A long nose jutted prominently from its face, flanked by long, pointy ears that twitched with every movement. Its eyes, hidden beneath heavy brows, regarded me with an inscrutable expression.

As for the thing holding my feet, I could only assume it shared the same grotesque features, though it remained unseen, a hidden actor in this strange drama.

As the two strange, goblin-like creatures commenced their frantic run, carrying me in their grasp, the sensations within me escalated into a tempest of emotion. Fear gripped my heart, while fascination played a teasing game with my mind. My eyes, wide and absorbing, took in the surreal sights, as the world blurred by in a rush of colors and shapes.

Uncharted territory indeed! This was a realm that defied reason and explanation, a place where the mundane was overthrown by the magical, where the routine of life was usurped by the thrill of the unknown. What had once been familiar was now distant, lost in the swirling mists of fantasy and wonder.

Questions clawed at my consciousness, desperate and demanding. What were these creatures? What was their purpose in seizing me? Where were they taking me, and why? A torrent of inquiries, each more urgent than the last, swirled within my uncomprehending mind. I was a captive audience to an unfolding drama, with no script or direction, a player thrust into a role without rehearsal or preparation.

Unable to articulate my fears or voice my confusion, I resorted to the primal language of infancy. Tears welled, and cries erupted from my small frame, a symphony of distress that resonated with the urgency of the moment.

My cries, raw and plaintive, were met with an unexpected response. The creatures, their skinny bodies vibrating with energy, began to vocalize in a language unlike anything I'd ever heard. "Ooga ooh!" "Aagooh!" The sounds were wild and untamed, a curious blend of guttural growls and melodic intonations, unintelligible and yet oddly captivating.

It was as if they were speaking to each other, their voices a duet of strange harmonies and discordant notes, a dance of sound that filled the air with otherworldly music. I could feel the vibrations, the resonance of their communication, a language that was as alien as their appearance, yet compelling in its mystery.

I was adrift in a sea of the unknown, caught in a current of fear and fascination, propelled by forces beyond my comprehension. The creatures' voices, though incomprehensible, offered a connection, a bridge between our worlds. It was a tantalizing glimpse into a culture and existence that was wholly different from anything I knew, yet intriguing in its complexity and depth.

My cries continued a counterpoint to their strange song, a cry for understanding and comfort in a world that had become unrecognizable. But even in my distress, I couldn't help but be drawn to their communication, the way they expressed themselves, the way they moved and interacted. There was something about them that transcended the boundaries of fear, something that spoke of a wisdom and knowledge that was beyond my grasp.

As we continued our mad dash, I observed them, these unusual beings, the way they moved, the way they interacted. They were more than mere monsters; they were complex and intriguing, an enigma wrapped in a mystery, a puzzle that beckoned me to solve.

The journey was a whirlwind of sensation, a blur of color and movement, until suddenly, we came to a halt.

I found myself in a room, unlike anything I'd ever seen, a space elegant and beautifully adorned. Rich fabrics draped the walls, glistening chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the scent of exotic spices filled the air. It was a room that spoke of luxury and refinement, a stark contrast to the frenetic chaos of our journey.

The sudden change in surroundings was enough to quiet my cries momentarily, as my eyes drank in the splendor and my mind grappled with the incongruity of it all.

But before I could fully comprehend the transition, a loud, booming voice rang out, echoing through the hallway and reverberating in the very core of my being. “Eleos, Koe! What are y'all carrying that's making all that noise? And why are y'all running? What have I told y'all about running!” The words, delivered in a deep, authoritative tone, were a stark contrast to the high-pitched, otherworldly sounds of my captors.

The sudden interruption was a jolt to my senses, startling enough to halt my tears completely. The voice was different, powerful, commanding, a voice that demanded obedience and respect. It was different, or at least more different than the strange ooga sounds of the creatures, a reminder of a world that was somehow more familiar, yet still foreign in this new context.

Chapter 2

Emerging from behind the corner was a spectacle that captured my still-forming imagination, a sight both wonderful and strange. A blue flying orb of light danced in the air, its luminous glow casting ethereal patterns on the walls. Following close behind was a towering figure, an entity so massive it dwarfed both the creatures carrying me and the mysterious blue light.

The giant's approach was accompanied by a sense of gravity and authority, every step a testament to power and presence. “Hey, what are y'all doing with Alexander?” it demanded, its voice rich and resonant. “Y'all are holding him wrong also, I think?”

The response from the creature carrying my head was a series of unintelligible sounds, an exotic melody that seemed to carry meaning and intent. “Ooga ooha agooh,” it chirped, its voice filled with innocence and confusion.

“If he is crying, you come to us. You don't bring him to us. Or at least go tell his parents he is crying. Anyways, where is Thea?” The giant's voice took on a softer, more patient tone as it towered over us, eyes filled with concern.

“Agooha hooga,” the creatures replied in unison, their voices a harmonious blend of the strange and the wonderful.

The conversation continued, a dance of sound and meaning that swirled around me like a mesmerizing symphony. Names were mentioned, Thea, Mark, individuals who were part of this strange new world, but still unknown to me. References to training and day-to-day activities added layers to the narrative, hints of a broader story that was slowly unfolding.

“I swear twelve years isn't enough for me to remember everyone's day-to-day activities. Well, just set him on this couch,” the giant finally instructed, pointing to a large structure barely shorter than the creatures carrying me.

With a grace that belied their bizarre appearance, the creatures complied, gently placing me on the plush surface. The feeling was a new sensation, a luxurious embrace that cradled me in comfort.

I looked around, taking in the room with eyes that were slowly adjusting to the wonder and complexity of this new reality. The blue ball of light hovered nearby, its glow a comforting presence. The giant settled into a nearby chair, its enormous frame a study in contrasts, powerful yet gentle, imposing yet kind. Its eyes, filled with wisdom and understanding, met mine.

“I'm guessing you're curious about who I am. You can call me Uncle Cyrus,” he rumbled, his deep voice imbued with warmth, his eyes twinkling with a knowledge that seemed to span eons. It was as if he could see into my very soul, deciphering thoughts and feelings that were still beyond my own understanding.

“I can tell you are going to enjoy your stay here,” he continued, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Welp, I'm going to go find your mother.” With those words, he unfolded himself from the chair, his movements graceful and measured, and began to make his way towards the labyrinthine hallways that beckoned beyond the room.

I watched him go, entranced by the sway of his stride, the quiet confidence that marked his every step. He was a figure of mystery and benevolence. The creatures who had brought me, Eleos and Koe, remained nearby, their strange and endearing faces watching me with an inscrutable curiosity. Their connection to Uncle Cyrus, to this place, and to me was still an enigma, a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Left to my own devices, I found my infant curiosity drawn to the grandeur of the elegantly adorned room. Its massive expanse was filled with an array of fascinating objects, an eclectic collection that teased the senses and begged to be explored. From the luxurious softness of the furniture to the gleaming surfaces of intricate ornaments, the room was a treasure trove of sensory delights.

The "couch" I reclined upon was but the beginning. Around me were other objects, some resembling the soft embrace of my resting place, others more rigid, more mysterious. Some small and delicate, others large and imposing. My mind, still fresh and unburdened by the complexities of life, ran wild with ideas and imaginings. The possibilities seemed endless, and I was caught in a whirlpool of wonder and delight, a dance of discovery that was as joyous as it was profound.

In my excitement, I let out a giggle, a spontaneous expression of pure joy that escaped my lips as a soft squeak. The sound, so innocent and unassuming, seemed to reverberate through the room, its echoes touching something deep within my otherworldly companions, Eleos and Koe.

The reaction was immediate and unexpected. They recoiled, their strange faces registering shock and bewilderment. Their eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed upon me as if I had uttered a sound unlike anything they had ever heard before.

A new voice, strong and resonant, echoed through the halls, pulling me from my reverie. Another tall giant appeared, rubbing their face and yawning, weariness etched into their features. They were not just any giant, though. This one was different, special. Something about them spoke of strength and grace, of love and warmth. I knew, without knowing how, that this giant was connected to me in a way that transcended the ordinary.

"Cyrus, it's too early! Why are you waking me up? It better not be about that raccoon again. We aren't keeping a raccoon," they said, their voice tinged with exasperation.

"It’s mid-day. Anyways Crazy how you won't let me have a raccoon, but you would pop out this thing," Uncle Cyrus replied, a teasing note in his voice as he gestured toward me.

"What thing did I pop out?" the new giant questioned, confusion creasing their brow.

"You already forgot about Alexander? I know you fell asleep as soon as he came out, but damn, you carried him for almost a year," Uncle Cyrus said, his voice filled with amusement.

"Alexander?" they asked, rubbing their face before pausing. Our eyes met, locked in a moment of recognition, a connection that went beyond mere sight. Time seemed to stand still as we gazed at each other, two souls reaching across the void to touch something profound and eternal.

"Alexander! Eleos, Koe, get out of here! Wait, why is he in here? What happened?" the giant asked, their voice rising with concern.

Uncle Cyrus began to explain, his words a gentle flow of reassurance and information. Eleos and Koe, the curious green beings, shuffled nervously, their strange noises forming a soft background to the conversation. They had heard me crying and had tried to help, but their actions had only led to more confusion.

As the words washed over me, I realized that the new giant was my mother. The knowledge settled within me, a truth that was as natural and as comforting as the soft glow of the blue ball of light that still hovered nearby.

My mother's touch was as soft and delicate as the first rays of dawn breaking over a slumbering world. Her eyes, filled with an immeasurable tenderness, looked into mine with a depth of understanding that transcended mere words. I felt her warmth enveloping me, a nurturing embrace that resonated deep within my very soul.

“You sure it's mine? It's so soft, delicate, and so cute,” she murmured, her voice tinged with awe and affection.

“It sure is yours, Thea. I should know, only you, Mai, and Areia were in that room, and I don't think they were as fat as you were,” Uncle Cyrus responded, his tone playfully teasing, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

A brief moment of silence filled the room, punctuated only by the soft rustle of the curtains and the gentle hum of the blue orb. Then, quick as a flash, Thea's hand shot out, connecting with a resounding bonk to Uncle Cyrus's head.

“Hey, watch it!” Uncle Cyrus exclaimed, rubbing his head and feigning a pout. “I was merely observing the facts.”

Thea's eyes narrowed, a mock glare taking form, but the corners of her mouth twitched as she fought back a smile. “You better watch your facts, or I might just have to teach you some manners.”

A ripple of laughter filled the room, a joyous sound that brought a smile to my lips. The mood had shifted, and the tension dissolved, replaced by an atmosphere of love and camaraderie. A ripple of laughter filled the room, a joyous symphony that was both welcoming and warm. It bounced off the walls, each echo resonating with a shared sense of joy and contentment. For a brief, shining moment, everything was perfect. The tensions of the day had dissipated, replaced by an atmosphere of love and camaraderie that suffused the air with a gentle glow.

But just as quickly as the laughter had spread, a new sound emerged. It was a low, rumbling noise, primal and insistent. It was my stomach, voicing its discontent in no uncertain terms. I was hungry, and the more I thought about it, the more the realization grew within me, expanding like a balloon that threatened to burst.

My eyes widened, and I looked up at my mother, my Uncle Cyrus, my strange new family, hoping that they would understand, that they would know what to do. But the noise continued to grow, an insistent demand that refused to be ignored.

And then, as the pressure became too much to bear, I began to cry.

It was a cry that started deep within me, a wail that was both a plea and a protest. It was a cry that spoke of hunger and need, of confusion and frustration. It was a cry that demanded attention, that called out for comfort and care.

The room fell into silence, the laughter abruptly cut off, replaced by a look of concern that spread across my mother's face. She looked down at me, her eyes wide, her hands reaching out to me.

“What's wrong? Why is he crying?” Thea's voice, gentle and full of concern, filled the room as she looked at me, tears streaming down my face.

“Might be hungry,” Uncle Cyrus replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Ok… Well, what do I do?” Thea asked, her eyes wide with confusion.

“Feed it milk like what a cow would do. You know,” Uncle Cyrus said, nudging her playfully.

“No, I don't know. I never learned anything about this…” Thea's voice trailed off, uncertainty in her eyes.

“Well, Thea, you know. I’ll turn around to give you privacy.” Uncle Cyrus said, his voice filled with nervous laughter.

At this point, Eleos chimed in, “Ooha oga hoo.”

“What did they say?” Thea asked, turning to Uncle Cyrus.

“Well, you know how your things have been growing. They are used on Alexander. Eleos was just explaining how you have to use them to feed him, you know,” Uncle Cyrus explained, his face turning red.

“Oh…”With those words, she scooped me up, holding me close to her chest, her warmth a comforting presence. As she moved towards a more private space, I could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, a reassuring reminder that I was safe, that I was loved.

We entered a new room, adorned with the gentle touch of tranquility. Soft, comforting colors painted the walls, and the delicate fragrance of blooming flowers filled the air. My mother, Thea, settled into a plush chair, nestling me into her arms with the grace and care only a mother could muster.

The door closed behind us, Uncle Cyrus, Eleos, and Koe departing to give us privacy. Their absence left a silence that was at once both peaceful and profound, a hush that spoke of the intimacy of the moment.

Thea looked down at me, her eyes brimming with emotions that seemed to dance between joy, trepidation, and an overwhelming sense of love. She brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead, her touch feather-light. As I began to feed I drifted into contented sleep, lulled by the rhythm of my mother's heartbeat.

Chapter 3

I soon found myself awakening to an unfamiliar melody, a noise of such mystifying origin that it teased me from the secure embrace of slumber. I was nestled against the soft and comforting shoulder of my mother, a place where dreams were warm and reality seemed far away. The sudden noise sent ripples through my thoughts, and I was startled awake, my infant eyes opening to a world wholly unlike any I had known before.

I was in a place of vivid wonder and living beauty, where a vibrant and dynamic tapestry unfolded around us with each passing moment. High above me, a golden orb of warmth and light, an eye of the cosmos, hung suspended in the clear blue sky. It bathed the world below in a gentle and nurturing glow, casting a magical sheen over the verdant landscape that stretched out to the horizon. In the distance, something green swayed, dancing in a gentle breeze like seaweed in a tranquil ocean, while the distant sound of birdsong filled the air, an orchestral symphony of nature's finest melodies.

Then, the voice, as soft and delicate as my mother's own, yet imbued with an alien quality that made me turn, spoke up. “Hey, Alexander is awake,” it said, sudden and straddling, pulling me further into this new world. My eyes met theirs, and in that instant, I was lifted, the giant's arms outstretched to pick me up and cradle me. “Is this how you do it?” they asked, their voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. My world flipped upside down, a disorienting and thrilling carnival ride, as my uncontrolled head fell back, my view of the universe momentarily awry.

“Ohh...” “Ohh…” My mother and this other giant intoned simultaneously, their voices a duet of realization and gentle amusement. “I guess it isn't how I'm supposed to hold him,” the giant said, her voice now filled with knowing wisdom as she swiftly corrected her hold. Supporting my head with her gentle hand, she adjusted her grip, aligning my world once more. I felt safe and secure, enveloped in the tender embrace of these loving giants, my guardians in this mesmerizing new existence.

"Be careful, Mai," my mother advised, her voice a melodious caress, laced with maternal concern yet tinged with trust.

Ching

Suddenly, there it was again—the noise, mysterious and tantalizing, pulling at the strings of my infant curiosity. Where was it coming from? What secrets did it hold? I squiggled in the giant's hold, my tiny body wriggling with an uncontainable desire to investigate the sound, to uncover its hidden wonders.

Ching Ching

“Oh, you want to see your father spar?” the giant inquired, her voice filled with understanding and gentle encouragement. She turned her magnificent form, adjusting her stance so that I could peer into the source of the mysterious sounds. My eyes widened as a new spectacle unveiled itself before me.

There, in a clearing bathed in the shimmering light of the golden orb above, stood a figure even more massive, an even grander giant. He held something long and reflective within his powerful hands, a gleaming instrument of grace and strength that danced with the rhythm of his movements. With each swing, light flashed and reflected, sending radiant beams my way, a kaleidoscope of brilliance and might. He was swinging it at another giant, their forms engaged in a ballet of combat, a dance of discipline and skill.

“The one on the right is your father, Mark.”

The air was filled with the ring of metal, the swish of expertly executed moves, and the subtle undercurrent of intensity that marked this as no mere game. My father, Mark, for so the giant had named him, moved with a poise and elegance that spoke of years of mastery, his every motion a symphony of control and power.

I was entranced, caught in the spell of this display. The clang of the swords, the movement of the giants, it wove together into a mesmerizing tapestry that spoke to something deep within me.

Ching! Ching!

The sound of clashing metal rang through the air as Father deflected the thrust with a graceful twist of his body. The two giants circled each other, their movements mirroring one another, a synchrony born of mutual respect and understanding.

Then, with a sudden explosion of energy, the tempo increased. Father lunged forward, his sword whistling through the air in a series of rapid strikes, each aimed with deadly precision. The other giant danced back, parrying and dodging, his movements a blur of agility and grace.

Ching! Ching! Ching!

The sound was a symphony, a rhythm that pulsed with the heartbeat of the spar. Father's attacks were relentless, but the other giant matched him move for move, his defenses a seamless blend of technique and instinct.

For a breathtaking moment, the two were locked in a stalemate, their swords crossed, their eyes locked, a silent conversation passing between them. The world seemed to hold its breath as the two giants pressed against each other, neither giving an inch.

Then, with a fluid motion, Father disengaged, spinning away and launching a flurry of strikes that seemed to come from all directions at once. The other giant responded with a dazzling display of his own, his blade a shimmering barrier that turned aside Father's assault.

The spar continued, a dance of feints and thrusts, parries and ripostes, each giant pushing the other to new heights of skill and creativity. The air was alive with the ring of steel and the grace of movement, a ballet of combat that was as beautiful as it was deadly. With a final, resounding Ching!, they both touched the tip of their swords to their opponent's chest, marking the end of the spar.

Both giants stepped back, the energy of the spar still vibrating through their powerful forms, their chests heaving in unison, drawing in the breath of victory and satisfaction. Their faces were flushed with the thrill of the dance, the exhilaration of a well-fought match, their eyes glowing with a shared understanding that transcended mere words. With a graceful bow, they acknowledged each other, a gesture of respect and admiration that sealed their bond as warriors and friends.

Then they turned to face us, their gaze shifting from the battlefield of honor to the intimate circle of family. They approached with a swagger that was tempered by tenderness, the air around them still humming with the echoes of clashing swords and disciplined movement.

My father, this giant of strength and skill, reached out to me, his hand a gentle giant itself as it patted my head. His touch was both firm and loving, a tactile connection that bridged the gap between the warrior and the father. His eyes, still alight with the spark of battle, softened as they met mine, a warmth spreading through them that reached into the very core of my being.

He moved on to my mother, his partner in life's intricate dance, and kissed her on the cheek, a simple yet profound gesture that spoke volumes of their love and partnership. His lips lingered for a moment, a silent promise shared between them, a reaffirmation of their unbreakable bond.

“Hey, little man,” he addressed me, his voice a robust melody filled with the resonance of a seasoned warrior and the playfulness of an attentive father. His eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and anticipation as they met mine, the connection between us deepening with each word. “I'm guessing you came to cheer me on as I spar. I guess you had to see something cool for your first time outside. Maybe when you get older, we could train together.”

His words were a bridge, extending across the chasm of age and experience to reach me in my infancy. They were an invitation, a promise filled with the mysteries of the future, the excitement of growth, and the joy of shared endeavors.

Then, with a motion as fluid and powerful as the strikes he had executed during the spar, he reached out and picked me up, his strong arms lifting me into the sky as though I were weightless. The world around me shifted, the horizon expanding as I was raised higher and higher, until I was level with his smiling face. My eyes widened, and my heart danced to a rhythm of wonder and thrill.

He spun me around, and as I rotated, the landscape became a blur, a whirlpool of colors and shapes that mingled with the laughter bubbling from my father's throat. The sensation was intoxicating, a joyous celebration of life and connection, a dance that mirrored the choreography of the spar I had witnessed.

But then, without warning, my stomach began to churn, a sudden rebellion against the milk I had consumed from my mother. The world's spin took on a new, unsettling quality, a dissonance that clashed with the harmony of the moment.

In an instant, white milk erupted from my mouth, a fountain of surprise that shot out and splashed onto my father's face. Time seemed to freeze, the world holding its breath as the milk traced its path, a comical yet profound interruption to our shared reverie. My father's face, once a picture of joy and exuberance, was now a canvas of shock and disbelief, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

Laughter filled the air, a rich and hearty symphony that began with my father and spread like a melodious wave to my mother and the other giant. It was a laughter that resonated with the deep, vibrant chords of family, echoing through the verdant landscape and mingling with the distant song of the birds.

The sun was now a golden ember on the horizon, its warmth softened by the approach of evening, casting a gentle, golden glow that seemed to dance upon the leaves and shimmer upon the waters. Shadows lengthened, their fingers reaching out to herald the coming night, and the world began to settle into a tranquil hush.

“Well, it's getting late, I guess we should retire for the day,” my father said, his voice carrying the wisdom and gentle authority of the patriarch. His words were simple, yet they marked the end of an extraordinary day, a chapter in our lives that had been filled with joy, discovery, connection, and laughter.

He brought me down from the sky, the descent a graceful arc that mirrored the setting sun, and handed me over to my mother, the transition as smooth and loving as a well-rehearsed dance. Her arms wrapped around me, a sanctuary of warmth and tenderness, and I nestled into her embrace, contentment washing over me like a gentle wave.

As we turned to make our way, the serenity of the evening was interrupted by a sudden call. “Hey, guys, where is Cyrus? I need his elves to help me with cooking; they've got small enough arms to reach into that far part of the cabinet without knocking over the spices.” The voice was new to me, full of energy and a tinge of urgency, and it belonged to a giant I hadn't seen yet. He emerged from the shadows of the castle, his eyes wide with purpose, his strides long and determined as he walked towards us.

The evening air, previously filled with the gentle hum of nature and the echoes of our laughter, now resonated with the melodies of life's daily responsibilities. This new giant's voice added a new layer to the symphony, a reminder that our existence was filled with tasks, large and small, that shaped our days and added texture to our lives.

“We will come inside and help you look for him,” said the man my father had been sparring with, his voice smooth and reassuring, a bridge between the world of play and the world of work. His face was still flushed from the exertion of the spar, but his eyes were alight with the spirit of cooperation.

The search was brief, a short interlude in the rich tapestry of the evening. We soon found Uncle Cyrus, his elves at the ready, their nimble hands expertly navigating the intricate dance of culinary creation. The aromas that filled the castle's kitchen were a symphony of flavors, a melody of taste that promised a feast of love and nourishment.

And what a feast it was! My family gathered around the table, nine of us in total, each a unique note in the harmony of our existence. The table was laden with dishes that were as much a work of art as they were a testament to the bonds that connected us. Every bite was a celebration of life, a tribute to the hands that had prepared it, the love that had inspired it.

Laughter filled the air as we ate, a bubbling brook of joy that flowed from heart to heart, a river of connection that meandered through the landscape of our lives. Stories were shared, memories revisited, jokes told, each a sparkling gem in the treasure chest of our family's history.

After the meal, we retired to an elegant room, its decor a blend of beauty and comfort, a space that invited relaxation and reflection. The sun was setting, its last rays painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, a masterpiece of nature that mirrored the richness of our shared experience.

As the evening wore on, the room became a theater of dreams, a stage upon which the stories of our lives played out. We sat together, our voices weaving a tapestry of memories, our laughter the golden thread that bound us together. The room was filled with the glow of lamps, their soft light dancing upon the faces of my loved ones, casting a gentle spell that seemed to suspend time and space.

And then it was time to retire, the day's adventure drawing to a close, the night's embrace beckoning us into its arms. My mother carried me to my room, her touch a gentle breeze that carried me towards the land of dreams.

The room was a sanctuary, a haven filled with the soft whispers of lullabies and the gentle caress of love. My bed was a nest of comfort, a cloud of warmth that invited me to let go of the waking world and drift into the landscape of sleep.

After a yawn and a couple of blinks, my eyes grew heavy, the weight of sleep a gentle pressure that guided me towards the realm of dreams. The images of the day danced in my mind, a parade of love and joy, laughter and connection, each a stepping stone on the path to slumber.

My mother's voice was the last sound I heard, a soft melody that sang me to sleep, a song of love that promised to watch over me as I journeyed into the night. And as I slipped into the embrace of dreams, I knew that I was cradled in the arms of family, nurtured by the love that had shaped my day, guided by the wisdom that would light my way.

The world outside faded away, the sounds and sensations of the day giving way to the gentle hush of sleep.

Chapter 4

“You are now 4 months old,” Mai's voice sang to me, lifting me from the realm of dreams and into the waking world. Her words were a gentle serenade, a lullaby of love that bridged the gap between sleep and awareness. I lay half awake, half asleep, my body nestled in the soft cocoon of my bed, my mind still adrift in the ocean of dreams. Every time I awoke, Mai was there, her presence a beacon of comfort, a constant in the ever-changing tapestry of my young life.

Day to day, for these four remarkable months since she first held me at my father's sparring session, Mai has been by my side, a constant presence in my ever-evolving world. Her face was the first sight to greet me each morning, a gentle visage that was both familiar and comforting. Her touch, so soft and nurturing, was the first sensation to rouse me from my slumbers, a caress that was a whisper of love and a song of connection. Her voice, melodious and soothing, was the tune that guided me into the world, a lullaby that awakened my senses and stirred my soul.

Mai might have called herself my caretaker, a title bestowed upon her by the circumstances of our relationship. Yet, she was far more than that, far more than a mere guardian or protector. In her eyes, I saw something profound and pure, something that transcended the boundaries of roles and labels. To me, she was more of a mother than my actual mother, her love a maternal embrace that nurtured my being, her care a motherly touch that shaped my existence.

With Mai, I was never alone. In her presence, I was enveloped in a love that was as vast as the universe and as intimate as a heartbeat. Her arms were a cradle of warmth, a nest that held me close and kept me safe.

Mai took me into a room filled with the soft glow of morning light, where my mother awaited with a knowing smile, ready to nourish me with love and sustenance. My mother's arms were a haven of warmth, her milk a river of nourishment, her gaze a mirror of affection. Together, we shared the intimacy of existence.

After I was nourished by the gentle touch of my mother, Mai and I embarked upon our daily adventure within the castle's grandeur. This stately place, referred to by the giants around me as the castle, unfurled as a realm of endless intrigue and enchantment. Mai, my ever-present guide and mentor, utilized our wanderings as lessons in linguistics, introducing me to the melodious symphony of words like "stone," "trees," "grass," and so much more. These simple utterances began to shape and evolve my understanding of the world, giving form and definition to the wonders that surrounded me.

The castle's mysteries were not limited to its physical landscape; its inhabitants were enigmas in their own right. Nine giants had become familiar to me, their faces etched into my memory, their voices resonant in my ears. But whispers of six more, unseen and unknown, became a tantalizing puzzle, a riddle that danced just beyond my comprehension. Who were these unseen beings? What roles did they play in this intricate tapestry of life? The questions intrigued me, sparking a curiosity that grew with each passing day.

Time flowed in its gentle, relentless way, turning days into weeks, weeks into months. Each moment was a stepping stone, guiding me closer to new understandings and abilities. Through Mai's loving guidance and patient instruction, my world expanded, my thoughts deepened, my senses awakened. And then, one magical day, a new door opened, a fresh horizon appeared, a bright star shone.

“Mai!” I uttered, my voice a tender ripple in the vast ocean of language.

Her reaction was instantaneous, a gasp of delight, a grin of pure joy. Her eyes sparkled with pride as she darted towards my mother, carrying the precious news of this milestone. “Look, Look! Alexander said his first words.”

Mai's excitement was a melody that rang through the room, a song that celebrated a significant moment, a dance that marked a glorious occasion. She presented me to my mother, her hands trembling with joy, her voice quivering with emotion. She nudged me, encouraging me to share once more the newfound magic I had discovered.

With a sense of wonder and a touch of pride, I obliged, repeating the name that had become synonymous with love, guidance, and care. “Mai,” I said, the word a jewel that sparkled in the light of our connection, a gem that reflected the beauty of our relationship, a treasure that symbolized the depth of our bond.

The room was filled with a glow of happiness, a warmth of achievement, a radiance of love. The walls echoed with the laughter of the family's joy. The castle, with its stones and trees and grass, with its mysteries and riddles and secrets, became a witness to this precious moment, a partaker in this special celebration, a sharer in this unique joy.

In that brief, enchanted moment, I realized that I had taken a step, a momentous step. I had traversed a path I had never walked before, crossed a threshold that led to new possibilities. I had spoken a word, “Mai.”

As the joy of the moment lingered, my mother's voice broke through, a harbinger of something new, something unexpected. “And at only 8 months old...” Her words trailed off, hanging in the air like the hush before a grand revelation. “We must send him to Mr.Cato!” Her voice carried the excitement of a grand idea, an unexplored path, a promising adventure.

Cato—the name was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking a door to a room I had never entered. The name was a puzzle piece that didn't yet have a place in the mosaic of my understanding. Who was Mr.Cato?

My curiosity stirred, and I listened intently, eager to comprehend the significance of this new name. “Yes, yes, let's send him to Cato!” Mai's voice chimed in, a harmonious echo of my mother's excitement. Her tone was brimming with anticipation, with the promise of something transformative, something that could enhance my newfound ability to communicate.

My mother, Mai, and I ventured deeper into the castle, our steps taking us far away from the usual paths we trod. The air was pregnant with anticipation, and the sun cast its gentle light upon our journey.

Boom

A thunderous explosion rocked the air, a sound alien and jarring. It was a sudden intrusion, an unexpected visitor to our peaceful day. The three of us flinched in unison, our hearts racing with surprise and uncertainty.

“What was that?” Mother's voice held a mixture of concern and bewilderment, echoing the thoughts racing through our minds.

Turning toward the origin of the sound, we ran in its direction, our curiosity pulling us like a magnet. Through courtyards and past castle walls, the scene that unfolded before us was one of devastation and change. The landscape had been transformed, as if a mighty hand had swept away the familiar features of nature. Trees, hills, and grasslands were stripped bare, leaving behind a scarred terrain, a canvas painted with the marks of upheaval.

At the center of this altered world sat an old man, hacking and coughing, his body wracked with the aftershocks of the explosion. Behind him stood two giants, their cheers and applause a stark contrast to the scene of destruction. Their celebration seemed misplaced, out of tune with the man's obvious distress.

“Good job, sir,” one of the giants proclaimed, their voices booming in the aftermath.

The incongruity of the situation was not lost on Mai. “Why aren't they helping him?” she pondered aloud, her confusion mirroring our own.

“I don't know, let's go check,” my mother decided, a sense of urgency propelling her into action. With a swift stride, she moved toward the man who was coughing and struggling, Mai following closely behind.

“What are you all doing? He is in pain,” my mother asserted, her words driven by empathy and concern. But her path was obstructed by the two giants who seemed more interested in their applause than in the man's well-being.

Undeterred, my mother pressed on, reaching the man's side. Recognition crossed her face as she observed him through the haze of coughs. “Mr. Cato, are you alright?” she inquired, her voice laced with a mix of care and worry. Her outstretched hands were a lifeline, an offer of assistance to a man in need.

Cough cough

The rhythm of coughing persisted, a harsh punctuation to Mr. Cato's words. His response had been unexpected, his tone a sharp contrast to the scene that unfolded before us. The words he chose were cutting, his demeanor aloof, his voice threaded with annoyance. “I don't need your help, girl,” he snapped, pushing my mother's hands away with a swiftness that spoke volumes. The residue of blood and mucous clung to his hands, a tangible manifestation of the battle raging within his body.

As my gaze remained fixed on the scene, I felt a growing sense of helplessness. Though I was present, I was still a child, unable to grasp the complexities of the situation entirely. I lay on Mai's shoulder, a silent observer, a spectator to a moment that held layers of meaning beyond my reach.

Cough Cough Cough

Mr. Cato's coughs intensified, the sound a raw symphony of suffering. His hand faltered, unable to hold back the tide of blood that dripped from his fingers, staining the grass beneath him. It was as if the earth itself bore witness to his pain, absorbing the evidence of his turmoil.

“Every time I cough, you children smother me,” Mr. Cato's words carried a mix of frustration and exhaustion as if he were at odds not only with the physical ailment but also with the well-meaning attempts to assist him. Another round of coughing consumed him, a barrage that seemed to drain him of his strength. “I don't want your sympathy. I can take care of myself.”

The words were a declaration of independence, a statement of self-reliance. They held within them the echoes of pride, the reverberations of stubbornness, the undertones of a struggle known only to him. He was a man grappling with his own battles.

“Yeah, he doesn't like when people give him sympathy,” A deep voice from behind us said. “We should know because we take care of him. Been doing this for twelve years.” This giant said to my mother.

Amidst the tension, another cough emerged, a deep and arduous sound that emanated from the depths of his being. It broke free with a scratchy tone, filling the air with its presence. His hand, pressed against his face, betrayed him as it expelled a gush of blood, staining his skin and clothes. The scene was both tragic and haunting—a man's battle, encapsulated in a single moment, a single sound.

In the wake of the ordeal, Mr. Cato's strength faltered, his body succumbing to the relentless weight of his affliction. His legs, once pillars of support, betrayed him, unable to withstand the burden any longer. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of finality, as if the air itself held its breath, awaiting the outcome. And then, with a solemn inevitability, he crumbled, collapsing into the pool of his own blood.

A heavy silence hung in the aftermath, the echoes of his struggles and his defiance reverberating in the air. The scene was painted in hues of somberness and reflection, a tableau that bore witness to the intricacies of human existence.

As the quiet settled, a surge of movement broke the stillness. A flood of people emerged from the castle, their footsteps a hurried cadence echoing off the walls. They came running, driven by the urgency of the moment, the need to investigate the source of the disturbance. Their eyes fell upon us, the five of us standing beside the collapsed man, a tableau frozen in time, an illustration of a moment forever etched in memory.

Chapter 5

Amidst the flurry of people arriving on the scene, my father emerged as a guiding figure, his presence a pillar of strength amidst the commotion. With purposeful strides, he reached us first, his eyes filled with concern and determination. In his arms, he cradled Mr. Cato, his actions a testament to the bonds of kinship that tied us all together. With the collective help of caretakers, they made their way inside, leading Mr. Cato to a room where he could find respite from the turmoil that had transpired.

Once within the confines of the room, my father and the caretakers settled Mr. Cato onto a bed, the weight of his frailty evident in the lines etched upon his face. The room, now a sanctuary for the man's struggle, was soon filled with voices, conversations of concern, exchanges of information, and deliberations on how best to proceed.

As the voices melded into a symphony of discussion, a moment of stillness settled. The room emptied, leaving behind only Mr. Cato, Mai, and myself. Mai's presence, like a steady anchor, remained for a while, her watchful gaze a comfort amidst the uncertainty that lingered in the air.

But then, with a quiet declaration, Mai excused herself. “I have to use the bathroom,” she announced, her tone casual yet carrying a sense of urgency. Gently, she set me down on a sofa, her nurturing presence momentarily shifting.

In the moments that followed, a hush seemed to descend upon the room, the atmosphere one of solitude and reflection. Mr. Cato lay in repose, his breathing shallow, his body still recovering from the ordeal. It was a silent interlude, a pause before the next act in this unfolding drama.

Against the backdrop of the quiet, Mr. Cato stirred. His eyes flickered open, awakening from the realm of unconsciousness. His gaze swept the room, taking in his surroundings as if trying to reorient himself to the present. As the seconds ticked by, the room remained a tableau of stillness. The weight of the moment hung in the air. Mr. Cato's gaze met mine, and for a fleeting moment, our worlds intersected, a young child and an old man, linked by circumstances beyond our control.

The room remained suspended in a fragile stillness as Mr. Cato's voice broke the silence. His words carried a mix of resignation, irritation, and perhaps even a hint of bitterness. “So you are the child those two idiots keep talking about. I'm guessing it's you who has brought this castle up in a flurry of gossip, about you.” His voice was tinged with sarcasm, a veil of bitterness overlaying his words. However, his words were punctuated by a coughing fit that seemed to wrench his body, a reminder of the physical toll that his ailment exacted.

Once the coughing subsided, he wiped his face with a swift motion, as if brushing away both the cough and the emotion it had stirred. “Why can't they just leave me alone?” his voice carried a sense of exasperation, as if he had been grappling with this question for years. “For twelve years, they have done nothing but interrupt my research and pity me. Day after day, they follow me, providing nothing to my damn research. They are just an annoyance. They don't even care about my research; they just enjoy my party tricks that come from my 48 years of research.”

In that moment, I saw a glimpse of an old man, grizzled and weathered by time, a figure who had carved out his own space in the world. His words were a window into his experiences, his frustrations, his isolation. The layers of his emotions were revealed, like the intricate strokes of a painting that had taken decades to create.

Our eyes met, his gaze piercing through the space between us. He stared deep into my eyes, as if searching for something, as if trying to decipher the secrets that lay within me. It was a silent exchange, a meeting of gazes that transcended words. And then, in that vulnerable moment, a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. He swiftly brushed it away, as if determined to erase the evidence of his vulnerability.

In the face of his pain, his struggle, I felt a stirring within me, a desire to offer comfort, to express my empathy in some way. My understanding of language was limited, my ability to convey complex emotions even more so. And yet, with the limited tools at my disposal, I tried to bridge the gap.

“Mai,” I uttered softly, the word escaping my lips in a quiet whisper. It was the only word I could fully vocalize, the only name that held significance in the moment.

And then, as if propelled by an impulse, Mr. Cato's voice broke the stillness once more. “You are so young and so innocent,” he mused, the lines etched upon his face softening momentarily. “I'm so old and grumpy.” His words carried a mixture of amusement and resignation, as if he were observing the contrasts that life often presented. The words were followed by another bout of coughing, a stark reminder of the fragility that underpinned his existence.

“I’m going to die soon,” he stated matter-of-factly, the words carrying a weight that resonated in the air. “That's it. I'm going to teach you.” The declaration held within it a sense of purpose, a shift in the narrative. He seemed to be seizing the moment, embracing a decision that had been brewing within him. And then, with a tinge of irony, he added, “You will be my apprentice.”

His words hung in the air, a proposition that seemed both unexpected and profound. The notion of an old man and a young child embarking on a journey of learning and understanding was a juxtaposition that held a certain poignancy. In the face of mortality, a new purpose emerged. His will to pass on knowledge and share his wisdom to me.

“Till I die, I will bestow all my knowledge onto you,” he continued, his voice firm with resolve. “If I start teaching you at such a young age, then you won't be such a nuisance like those two.” His words held a touch of wry humor, a nod to the companions who had often been a source of annoyance to him. Yet, beneath the humor, there was a deeper sentiment—an acknowledgment that I represented a new chapter, a fresh perspective for him.

Despite his frail state, Mr. Cato mustered the energy to sit up, a testament to his determination and the newfound purpose that had ignited within him. His body was wracked by coughs, his breaths uneven, and yet his gaze held a steadfast resolve. With a strength that defied his condition, he rose, his movements punctuated by the cadence of his coughing. The room, with its dim light and heavy air, bore witness to this pivotal moment—a moment of decision, of action, of change.

“You are coming with me,” he declared, his voice carrying a note of command, a tone that brooked no argument. With unsteady steps, he made his way toward me, his every movement accompanied by the rhythm of his coughing. He reached out, his hands steady despite the quiver in his body, and lifted me into his arms. And then, with a sense of purpose that was both unwavering and poignant, he turned and walked out the door.

As we emerged into the hallway, the atmosphere transformed into a swirl of voices—a chorus of inquiries, of exclamations, of surprise. The voices seemed to vie for attention, all directed at Mr. Cato, who had become the center of attention. Yet, amidst the clamor, his responses were few and focused. “This little child is my new apprentice,” he stated, his words cutting through the noise, his voice carrying an air of finality. He stood as a figure of authority, a man driven by a purpose that transcended the confusion around him.

The hallways, once a passageway for ordinary comings and goings, had now become a stage for this unexpected announcement. The castle's walls stood as silent spectators to this unfolding scene.

The statement hung in the air, a proclamation that held within it a mix of determination and urgency. “I don't have very long,” Mr. Cato continued, his voice carrying a weight of resignation. “So, I need someone young enough to absorb all my teachings.” His words were tinged with a sense of urgency, a reminder of the limited time he had left.

Yet, amidst the charged atmosphere, the unexpected took its place—a conversation that held within it the echoes of a shared understanding, of unspoken arrangements.

“We actually were coming to you about that,” my mother's voice cut through the moment, her presence a reminder of the world beyond this hallway drama. “As a senior mage, you are the only one here who knows enough to teach young Alexander.” Her words introduced a new layer to the unfolding narrative, a context that added depth to the situation.

“Well then, I accept,” Mr. Cato's response was matter-of-fact, the words delivered with a clarity that left no room for doubt. “And I will teach him.” His declaration carried with it a sense of finality as if the decision had been reached long before this exchange, as if the stars had aligned to bring about this convergence of intentions.

“Good morning,” Mai's voice filled the room, a soothing melody that greeted the start of another day. “It's another day, and you are another day older.” Her words, imbued with warmth and care, gently roused me from my slumber, signaling the beginning of a new chapter within the story that had unfolded.

With each day that dawned, a new chapter of my journey unfolded. As my eyes opened to embrace the world, I was lifted from my bed by familiar hands—the hands that had cradled me, guided me, and held me close in the embrace of care and comfort. The routine of my early days continued—the nourishment from my mother, the exploration of the castle's corridors, the moments of rest, relaxation, and play that brought a sense of familiarity and security to my young existence.

But on this particular day, a sense of anticipation tinged the air as Mai and I embarked on a detour from our usual route. The castle's walls seemed to whisper with curiosity, as if they too were aware of the shift in trajectory. With each step, I felt the pull of something new, something different, something waiting to be discovered.

As we entered the new building, the atmosphere shifted—the space was grand, a testament to its importance. In the center of the room stood a desk and table, where Mr. Cato sat, engrossed in an activity that was unfamiliar to me. My gaze followed his hands, my curiosity piqued by the object he held—a thin, hard material that he flipped through, his attention fixed on its contents.

But it wasn't just the object in his hands that captured my attention. Along the walls of the room, wooden racks held more of these mysterious items, and each lined up side by side. They seemed to carry a sense of purpose, a promise of knowledge waiting to be shared.

As I entered the room, my gaze was met by Mr. Cato's, his attention shifting from the object in his hands to me. His voice, despite his frailty, carried a welcoming tone as he greeted me, “Hello, Alexander, welcome to my studies.” His greeting was interrupted by another bout of coughing, a reminder of the challenges he faced, of the fragility that underscored his determination.

Mai's curiosity couldn't be contained as she asked, “What is all this?” Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the array of unfamiliar objects and the racks of materials that lined the walls.

Mr. Cato's response was filled with a sense of pride and purpose, as if the room before us was a reflection of his life's work. “This is my study,” he explained, his voice carrying a touch of reverence. “Filled to the brim with books I have written on my own.” He continued, his voice carrying a sense of both ambition and humility, “There are thousands of books in here. Over hundreds of subjects, each book is never complete. But I aim to complete them all.”

Chapter 6

Mai's curiosity remained unquenched as she posed the question that had likely crossed her mind, “So you can read and write?”

Mr. Cato's response held within it a layer of complexity, a testament to the unique path he had taken in his pursuit of knowledge. “I can't read the native tongue of the kingdom we were all once born from,” he clarified, his words carrying a touch of regret.

His explanation continued, shedding light on his ingenious approach, “Instead, I have created my own language based on how we speak.” He gestured toward the books around us, his tone matter-of-fact, “These books, I highly doubt, have the same writing as the ones found in the capital.”

Mai's curiosity remained insatiable as she continued to inquire, "Oh, so you created everything with your bare hands?"

Mr. Cato's response was marked by a touch of pride, a recognition of the effort and dedication that had gone into shaping this unique realm of knowledge. "Yup," he affirmed, the word carrying with it a sense of accomplishment. But his focus quickly shifted, his gaze landing on me with a sense of purpose. "And now, I'm going to teach it to this young one," he declared.

"But first," Mr. Cato's voice continued, a note of practicality infusing his words, "he needs to learn how to speak." His statement marked the beginning of a new chapter in our journey, a foundation upon which the edifice of knowledge would be constructed.

As the days flowed into weeks and the weeks into months, my routine took on a rhythm that became as familiar as the sunrise. Each morning, Mai would guide me down to Mr. Cato's building, where the air was alive with the promise of discovery and learning. Amidst the backdrop of occasional coughing fits, Mr. Cato would patiently teach me words, introducing me to the language that would become the cornerstone of communication for the years to come.

At first, the words he taught me held little significance, their meanings floating above my understanding like leaves on a gentle breeze. But with time, dedication, and Mr. Cato's unwavering guidance, the words began to take shape, finding a place within my growing mind and eager tongue. I would attempt to pronounce each word, my determination fueling my efforts as I sought to master the intricate dance of sounds that composed our language.

"Heaavenlouey Faouthor," I said, the words rolling off my tongue with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. The sensation that accompanied each attempt was akin to the warmth of my bed, cocooned in layers of blankets—a comforting embrace that enveloped me as I grappled with the art of speech.

Mr. Cato, with his patience and wisdom, would guide me through the process. "Slowly," he advised, his voice a gentle guide, "now repeat after me: He-ven-ly Fa-th-er." The cadence of his pronunciation served as a roadmap, helping me navigate the landscape of sounds and syllables with greater clarity.

As the weeks flowed into months, the landscape of my understanding expanded, each new word a door to a new world of expression and communication. The foundation laid by Mr. Cato's patient guidance allowed me to unlock the richness of our language, each syllable a brushstroke in the canvas of dialogue we painted together. And in the spaces between lessons, amidst the scratches of my pen on parchment and the rhythm of spoken words, our interactions flourished, marked by the shared understanding of teacher and apprentice.

"Heavenly Father, grant onto me the light of the heavens," Mr. Cato's voice would resonate, his words a familiar cadence that connected us across the expanse of the room. It was more than just a phrase—it was a bridge that spanned the gap between the earthly and the ethereal, the tangible and the mystical.

And in response, I would echo his words with reverence and understanding, my voice carrying the weight of meaning that had been instilled through weeks of patient instruction. "Heavenly Father, grant onto me the light of the heavens to guide my lowly soul through this worldly plane and guide lost souls back to you." The words flowed from my lips, a testament to the journey we had undertaken, the path we had walked together.

As time went on, I transformed into a sponge, eagerly soaking up every word, every incantation that Mr. Cato offered. From the succinct "Oh flame of hell" to the intricate "World of earth and stone," I absorbed them all, each word a piece of a larger puzzle, each phrase a door to realms of power and understanding. Mr. Cato's teachings became my daily nourishment, his lessons a steady stream that enriched my mind and my connection to the world around me.

From the gentle embrace of dawn's earliest tendrils of light, which stretched across the horizons like the fingers of a painter coloring a masterpiece, to the profound quietude of evening's dark shadow that delicately draped itself over the ancient castle, the world seemed to pause. And in that pause, within the hallowed walls of Mr. Cato's study, I found a sanctuary that transcended the mundanity of existence. Here, the scent of old parchment and the murmur of whispered wisdom filled the air. Words were not mere symbols inked on a page; they were vessels of an arcane power, able to shape the world, invoke the elements, channel mysterious energies, and speak to the very soul of the universe.

The study itself was a place imbued with an enchantment of its own. A repository of countless secrets, it was filled with dust-smeared tomes, enigmatic manuscripts, and curious artifacts from lands both near and far. Shelves laden with age-old scrolls towered over me, a silent testament to the profound legacy of knowledge they held within.

One bright morning, when the sky was brushed with hues of pink and gold, and the world was slowly awakening from its slumber, I found myself stepping into this sanctum of learning, ready to embrace the mysteries of the day. As I approached Mr. Cato's desk, I noticed something in his eyes – a spark of anticipation, a gleam that seemed to dance with excitement. With nimble fingers, he reached into a hidden nook in the floor, a place that I had never noticed before, and slid an unusual object toward me.

The object was colored a deep, resonant yellow, like the golden embers of a hearth, fading slowly into a pure white at the center. I picked it up, curiosity gnawing at me, and examined what he referred to as "paper." This paper was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was supple yet firm, with a texture that whispered of a bygone era.

Next, Mr. Cato placed a jar filled with a dark and viscous substance on the table, a solitary feather resting within it, its quill soaked in the inky blackness. “This is ink, and a quill,” he said, his voice tinged with a mysterious blend of pride and remembrance, his eyes reflecting the light of distant memories. “I learned about these from a friend when I was twelve. It took me eight long years, filled with trials and errors, failures and triumphs, to reinvent all of these.”

His words were punctuated by a bout of hacking and coughing, a regular occurrence that had become a part of him. But it never seemed to diminish his enthusiasm or spirit. His eyes still held that spark, that insatiable thirst for knowledge, as if these simple objects were keys to a new world, a world where ink and paper were not just mundane tools, but the embodiment of an ancient wisdom, a wisdom that held secrets, waiting to be rediscovered, explored, and revered.

“Now we will begin writing. First, let us write the alphabet,” Mr. Cato announced, his voice brimming with gravity and anticipation. Slowly, he rose from his chair, the timeworn fabric of his robes rustling with each measured step, as he moved towards me with the elegance of a seasoned sage.

His eyes twinkled with a knowing gleam as he began to unveil the letters he had crafted, his fingers dancing gracefully over the parchment. Each character was a work of art, composed of lines and curves that were harmoniously married together to create symbols of unique beauty.

Carefully, he showed me how each letter was formed, his hands guiding the quill with a balletic grace that betrayed countless hours of practice and devotion. The ink flowed like a river of black velvet, leaving behind a trail that sang of the wonders contained within words. His movements were fluid, his instructions clear, each stroke a testament to a life dedicated to the mastery of this ancient art.

Then, with a knowing smile and a nod, he handed me back my quill, his eyes peering into mine with an intensity that seemed to penetrate the very depths of my being. “Now, it is your turn,” he intoned, his voice gentle yet firm. “Copy the writing, immerse yourself in the dance of the quill, and continue to practice until your form is as immaculate as the first rays of the sun gracing a tranquil lake. Let the letters flow from your heart, through your hands, and onto the page. They are more than mere shapes; they are the soul of the language. Embrace them, and they will speak to you.”

I took the quill, feeling its weight in my hand, the feather still warm from Mr. Cato's touch. The ink in the jar glimmered, inviting me to dip the quill and begin my journey. The blank page before me seemed to beckon, a canvas eager to capture the essence of my thoughts, the rhythm of my heartbeat, and the aspirations of my soul.

With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, I began to write, each stroke a reflection of my quest for perfection. My hand was unsteady at first, the ink reluctant to obey my commands, the letters a faltering dance of uncertainty. But Mr. Cato's encouraging gaze was upon me, his presence a soothing balm, guiding me through the maze of lines and curves.

I wrote, and I rewrote, the quill becoming an extension of myself, the ink a part of my blood. Hours turned into days, and days into weeks, as I continued to hone my craft, each new attempt a step closer to the mastery I sought.

And through it all, Mr. Cato was there, a constant companion in my journey, his wisdom my compass, his faith my anchor. He watched me grow, from a fledgling writer stumbling over the intricacies of the alphabet to a scribe capable of wielding words with grace and authority.

In that study, beneath the watchful eyes of my mentor, I discovered the beauty of the written word, the magic of creation, and the power that lay within my own hands.

Day after day, under the watchful and patient guidance of Mr. Cato, I committed myself to the craft of writing. With each rising and setting of the sun, I wrote the letters of the alphabet, each stroke a meditation, each curve a quiet prayer. For months on end, all I did was copy the words and characters that Mr. Cato bestowed upon me, each one a treasure, each one a step on my path to mastery.

In that time-suspended sanctuary, the seasons changed outside the windows of the study, but within its walls, time had no dominion. The world continued its inexorable march, but I was lost in the world of letters and words, caught in the spell of an ancient wisdom that transcended the boundaries of time and space.

Months turned into a kaleidoscope of ink and parchment, quill and paper, lines and curves. The dance of the quill became my dance, the rhythm of the ink my heartbeat. I learned to fully read and write, my understanding blossoming like a flower kissed by the first rays of spring.

I began to form words, each one a new discovery, each one a step further into the world of language and expression. I would write small sentences, “Dark star and your infinate void envelop us within you.” Slowly, with the patience of the mountains and the perseverance of the rivers, I progressed to full paragraphs.

Chapter 7

"My young apprentice, the time has come for you to delve deeper into the wellspring of wisdom that I've spent a lifetime accumulating," Mr. Cato proclaimed, his voice tinged with a gravitas that signaled a significant revelation was about to unfold. But then, as if on cue, a violent series of coughs erupted from deep within his chest, echoing through the book-laden chambers of his arcane study—a room that had witnessed the blossoming of countless mysterious inquiries and answers. The sound seemed to momentarily steal his breath, as if some invisible spirit were wrestling to snatch his secrets away.

After what seemed an eternity but was in fact mere seconds, the coughing fit relinquished its grip on him. Mr. Cato straightened his posture with a regal air, reaching into the aged and illustrious bookshelf that stood beside him. With great reverence, he extended his hand, offering me a sheaf of papers that were neatly bound in what appeared to be an ancient, homemade tome. The parchment emitted a faint glow, as if imbued with some ineffable magic.

"This manuscript—these pages—they were crafted through incantations and toil. Two whole months I spent perfecting them, so do guard them well," he intoned solemnly, locking eyes with me to reinforce the importance of his words. "And fear not, in due course, I shall unveil to you the arcane arts by which such a treasure can be brought into existence."

No sooner had he relinquished his gift than Mr. Cato pivoted smoothly, the trailing end of his flowing robe dancing in the air as he moved purposefully toward the rich, mahogany door that served as the gateway to his sanctuary of knowledge. As he grasped the doorknob, wrought in the shape of an owl's head, he paused.

"Come along now, don't dawdle. We embark upon a journey, you and I—a journey not just of the mind, but of the very fabric of reality itself. Your apprenticeship enters a new chapter today.” he declared, swinging open the door to the outside.

the celestial orb's unrelenting blaze bathed the world in a radiance so divine, it was as if the heavens themselves had flung open their celestial gates. For a moment, the sunlight seared my eyes, compelling me to shield my face with a protective arm.

In a verdant courtyard, we meandered, resplendent in its sunlit glory. The air rippled with the ethereal cadence of clashing steel. My eyes were momentarily captivated by a tableau of martial splendor, in which my father and his fellowship of seasoned warriors brandished their swords like artisans wielding paintbrushes on the canvas of life. These were no mere men; they were titans, each born, perhaps, from the sacred loins of forgotten deities. My father, a paragon of muscular elegance, moved with a grace that spoke of years kissed by discipline, devotion, and just the merest suggestion of divine favor. He seemed not so much to wield his blade as to dance with it, a breathtaking ballet of man and metal.

Yet even this display, a living monument to ancestral valor, could not command more than a fleeting gaze. For Mr. Cato, my enigmatic companion, had already set our course toward the castle's less-traveled corners, to secrets that lay beyond stone and mortar. The towering ramparts and artfully chiseled facades of my family's stately residence receded like a dream upon waking. In their place unfolded sprawling grasslands that stretched audaciously toward the sky, defying even the heavens to curtail their reach.

Then, we arrived. At the heart of these meadows lay a geological marvel—a vast crater that served as an everlasting scar etched into the Earth's flesh. A memorial to the mystical confluence of destinies that first brought our paths together. I stood, teetering on the edge of this awe-inspiring void, contemplating the interminable reach of its gaping maw.

“Come along now,” Mr. Cato intoned, his voice cracked by a sudden cough as he sauntered past the crater's periphery.

With a quickened pace, I hastened to align myself beside him. “Where does this winding trail lead us?” I inquired, my voice tinged with the anticipation that only uncharted territory could evoke.

“To the woods,” Mr. Cato replied, his voice now imbued with a sense of mystery. As if to punctuate his statement, he shrugged his shoulder, revealing the weighty burden of a leather satchel concealed beneath his cloak.

Curiosity bubbling within me, I circled him to catch a glimpse of his concealed cargo. “That bag, it wasn't in your study before, was it? What’s in there?”

With a smile that teetered on the precipice between enigmatic charm and childlike whimsy, Mr. Cato, despite the frailty evident in the lines that marked his aging visage, declared, "Books, my dear apprentice. An abundance of books. Tomes replete with wisdom and arcane truths, volumes that promise to elevate your perception of the world from mere sight to profound vision."

As we traced the crater's colossal circumference, a sudden spasm of coughing seized Mr. Cato. His body quivered as if grappling with an invisible foe, momentarily bowed beneath the weight of his own mortality. Remaining at his side but directing my gaze elsewhere, consistent with the teachings he had imparted on me in our years together, I awaited the coughing fit's end. When finally he raised a kerchief to his mouth to wipe away a troubling smear of blood, he broke the silence.

"Do you know, Alexander, why I commit so diligently to scholarly pursuit?"

Caught between a keen desire for knowledge and an unsettling worry for his well-being, I managed to utter, "I can't say that I do, sir. What compels you?"

With a voice rasped by the relentless sands of time and frayed by his recent malaise, Mr. Cato leaned in closer. "For a sorcerer, knowledge is not merely a luxury—it's the bedrock upon which all magic rests. The deeper our understanding of the energies we manipulate, the more potent, intricate, and precise our spellwork becomes. Each word read, each incantation studied, fortifies the magic coursing through our very veins."

As Mr. Cato elucidated his perspective, I felt as though I was standing at the precipice of a grand metaphysical library, where each word he spoke turned into a scroll, unfurling to reveal new realms of arcane wisdom. This man was not merely an academic hoarding ancient texts; he was, in the most genuine sense, a cartographer charting unseen universes, his intellect diving into the oceanic depths of mystical theories to uncover uncharted lands pulsating with raw, untamed power.

As we strode in harmonious rhythm through the verdant sea of tall grasses that danced in the breeze, each step accompanied by the symphony of whispering foliage and distant birdcalls, I mulled over Mr. Cato's revelations. "So, if one is to master this arcane craft, what materials, what concepts should one delve into?" I inquired, my voice tinged with an earnest curiosity that reached out like a vine, eagerly wrapping itself around the promise of untold knowledge.

"Anything and everything is worthy of scrutiny," Mr. Cato began, pausing briefly as if to imbue his next words with due gravitas. "Consider the crater, a visceral manifestation of magic's potential, born from the incantation 'Ignis Ardeat.' The spell, simple in its essence, becomes a living flame in your palm or upon a chosen object. My hypotheses about the journey of magic—from the spine, coursing through the chest, spiraling down the arm and finally erupting into flame—gave me insights into the mechanics of the magical arts."

A quiver of excitement animated my being. "Ah! So how, then, did you transmute such elementary understanding into a force so powerful it birthed this monumental crater?" I pressed, my voice imbued with wonder and unquenchable curiosity.

With a twinkle in his eyes that suggested he was revealing the sacred secrets of his craft, Mr. Cato continued, "I understood that to amplify the potency of my incantation, I had to add various elements to the mix, just as one might stoke a fire with animal fat for a longer, fiercer burn. I began to amalgamate disparate components—coal from charred wood, a viscous substance from nearby cave walls, rendered animal fat, and another unidentifiable, fatty liquid from a different cavern. While the individual materials refused to merge, I found that I could harness their distinct properties, channel them through my understanding of magical theory, and thereby augment my incantation's raw destructive power."

As we traversed the final stretch of undulating grassland, each step imbued with the poetic harmony of two souls in pursuit of arcane enlightenment, we finally circled the awe-inspiring crater. It stood as a living testament to Mr. Cato's grand discourse on the symbiosis between knowledge and magical potency—a veritable arena where theory had been made manifest, where the ethereal had been rendered palpable.

The towering trees of the forest loomed ahead, a primeval wall of gnarled trunks and intricate canopy, as if nature herself had constructed a cathedral dedicated to the myriad mysteries of the world. It was here, at this liminal space where open field met the encroaching wilderness, that Mr. Cato paused. His eyes scanned the labyrinthine forest as though he could perceive its secrets, decrypt its hidden codes with but a glance.

With Mr. Cato leading the way, his enfeebled body belying a spirit fierce and indomitable, we plunged into the forest's heart. It was a realm unlike any other, a crucible of primeval energies and sentient shadows, where every rustling leaf and creaking branch seemed to murmur the arcane secrets of the universe.

A haunting hum, ethereal yet laden with the resonances of the earth, beckoned us onward. It wrapped around us like an unseen cloak, at once comforting and unsettling. Despite the evident toll our journey was taking on Mr. Cato manifest in his hacking cough and the occasional drop of blood that he surreptitiously wiped from his lips in a slow calculated walk he stood between the forest's mysterious essence and me, a guardian at the threshold of enigmatic realms.

And then, like sunlight breaking through a tempestuous sky, we emerged into a clearing. A sanctuary amid the chaos, where, astonishingly, sat a giant figure ensconced amidst a menagerie of ethereal beings and woodland creatures. The hum that had guided us intensified here, transmuting into a melody of profound serenity.

Recognition burst within me like a star reaching supernova. "Uncle Cyrus!" The words erupted from my lips, as involuntary yet as purposeful as an incantation, and I found myself sprinting past Mr. Cato toward this figure of myth and memory.

As I ran toward Uncle Cyrus, each step pounding on the ground as if to announce my passage through the annals of mystical discovery. I hugged Uncle Cyrus on his legs and he hugged me. “Hey little buddy. What are you doing out here?”

“We are searching the forest to do research and help me get stronger at incantations.” I said as I got into a pose.

Uncle Cyrus chuckled, a warm, resonant sound that reverberated throughout the clearing like the peal of an ancient bell, imbued with the wisdom and joy of countless ages. "Ah, the pursuit of strength and knowledge, as noble an endeavor as any. But do remember, my young acolyte, to be safe.”

The atmosphere in the clearing shifted subtly, like the turning of a page in an ancient, dust-laden tome. As I opened the blank book Mr. Cato had gifted me, the parchment seemed to beckon, its empty pages thirsty for the ink of discovery and the script of newfound wisdom. I felt a tingling sense of anticipation—the same electric charge that precedes a lightning strike or the uttering of a potent incantation—coursing through the air.

Mr. Cato spread out an array of esoteric instruments alongside his leather-bound tomes: a sextant whose angles seemed to defy geometry, a set of celestial globes that mimicked the orbits of heavenly bodies, and a collection of vials containing eldritch substances that shimmered, glowed, or pulsated in a mesmerizing dance.

Uncle Cyrus looked on approvingly, his own eyes twinkling as if imbued with stardust. "Ah, the accoutrements of arcane scholarship. It brings back memories, does it not, Cato?"

Mr. Cato paused, his eyes meeting Uncle Cyrus's in a moment of unspoken camaraderie and remembrance. "Indeed, it does. And yet, each day offers fresh vistas of understanding, new landscapes of the mind and spirit to explore. Shall we?"

With an elegant gesture, Mr. Cato opened one of his ancient tomes to a page filled with enigmatic glyphs and incantations. "Today, we shall probe the nuances of elemental magic. Take note, young disciple."

As Mr. Cato began to chant a series of complex incantations, tracing sigils in the air with a quill that seemed to write with light rather than ink, I hurriedly scribbled down my observations. The energies in the clearing began to coalesce, to thicken, as though reality itself were pausing to listen.

Chapter 8

As the golden fingers of dawn crept into my room, tenderly illuminating its cozy nooks and crannies, I was faced with the age-old conundrum—a choice akin to crossing a rickety bridge over a chasm. On one side, the welcoming warmth of my cherished rug, an assemblage of deer hides meticulously stitched into an intricate patchwork of natural hues. On the other, the merciless chill of the wooden floorboards, ever eager to nip at the soles of the unwary.

The rug beneath my feet was more than a simple furnishing; it was a tactile mosaic of memories, woven from remnants of hunts and celebrations long past. The different shades of fur—sable browns, creamy whites, and rustic auburns—formed an intricate pattern that always seemed to invite closer inspection, and perhaps, quiet contemplation. It was a tangible echo of ancestral craftsmanship, a comforting relic that had accompanied me through the vagaries of youth and into the burgeoning complexities of adolescence.

And yet, beyond its cozy embrace lay the frozen tundra of the room's wooden floor, a barren expanse forever at odds with the season's temperament. A paradox that defied explanation—how could it be that in the balmy days of summer, this innocuous stretch of timber could rival the arctic in its chill? Its cool temperament served as a daily reminder of life's enigmas, an inanimate tutor in the school of hard knocks.

Gathering my courage, I braced myself for the inevitable icy shock, imagining the floorboards as stepping stones in a mythical river of frost, each one a test of fortitude on the path to valor. But before I could make a single step onto the icy floor boards, Uncle Cyrus barreled into the room. His voice is as turbulent as his emotions. Huffing and puffing like an overworked locomotive, he came with a mission. Eleos and Koe had been eluding their duties, much to Uncle Cyrus's chagrin. His attempts to corral them had thus far proven futile.

"Ooohe!" "Agooh!" The euphonic exclamations of Eleos and Koe reverberated through the room like the mystic chantings of an ancient tribe, their gleeful bodies crashing onto mine as if they were living, breathing meteors plummeting from the heavens. We tumbled back onto the feather-soft ocean of my bedspread, awash in a tidal wave of euphoria and spontaneous affection.

As quickly as our mirth reached its peak, it was punctuated by the thunderous presence of Uncle Cyrus, bursting into the room with the force of a gale. "Eleos! Koe! Come back, you rascals! There's work to be done!" His voice possessed the richness of a well-aged wine and the authority of a seasoned general, commanding enough to rouse even the most indolent soul from their slumber.

Yet before another word could escape his lips, a mellower voice floated through the doorway like a zephyr, imbued with wisdom and a measured calm that could pacify even the stormiest of seas. "Why the mad dash through the hallowed corridors of our home?" asked Mai, her ethereal presence almost instantly bringing equilibrium to the room's previously chaotic energy.

Uncle Cyrus sighed, his expression softening. "Today marks a milestone, a sacred chapter in our ongoing saga. We're receiving new members into our sanctuary, and I had hoped Eleos and Koe would assist in the preparations. Yet, it seems they have other priorities."

At this revelation, Mai's eyes widened, as if a universe of understanding had suddenly unfolded within her. "So, the day has finally arrived? Has it truly been twenty years since we first set foot in the castle?" she mused, momentarily stunned by the relentless march of time.

"Indeed," Uncle Cyrus confirmed, his voice tinged with a strange mix of nostalgia and urgency. "But despite the historic nature of this day, these two," he gestured to Eleos and Koe, "have proven less than cooperative."

As if sensing the gravity of their transgression, Eleos and Koe clung to me as if I were their last sanctuary, their miniature arms tightening around my torso. Yet Uncle Cyrus was not easily deterred. With a determined stride, he crossed the distance, his arms reaching out to pluck them from their haven.

"And let it be known," he added, shooting a pointed look in my direction, "that clothes would be an appropriate attire for such an important day."

"As much as I would have loved to, you interrupted me," I retorted, my voice tinged with a lighthearted embarrassment.

As the whirlwind of activity in my room began to subside, Mai lingered in the doorway. “Once you get dressed make your way down to Mr.Catos study, and dont spend your whole day training with your dad afterwards. I know yall can go a little overboard but if today is really the day of the new arrivals they should be here in the afternoon. Oh and dont forget your quill this time. If you want I can walk you down there.”

"I can manage on my own," I asserted, puffing out my chest in a bid for independence.

"Ah, but have you ever realized that I've shadowed you since you were five?" Mai declared, her voice infused with the kind of maternal pride that could only come from years of invisible guardianship.

Then soon she left closing the door to give me privacy. I came upon a revelation. “I should have asked her to bring me a pair of socks at least.” I said with my head low. After one final, lingering moment of warmth, I launched myself into the cold unknown, each step a brief, jolting dance with frigidity, as if I were tiptoeing across the backs of slumbering ice dragons.

Finally reaching the sanctuary of my closet door, I threw it open with the bravado of a young knight unveiling a long-concealed treasure. The interior greeted me like an old friend, its shelves and hangers filled with familiar garments that whispered of adventures both real and imagined. As my fingers danced through fabrics and textures I selected an ensemble that seemed to echo my newfound sense of purpose—a tunic of forest green, interwoven with threads of gold, and trousers that captured the rich darkness of a moonless night.

Thus attired, I stepped back onto my cherished rug, now fortified against the challenges of the day, and those of the floor's persistent chill. The sun had climbed higher, casting beams of light that seemed to crown me in a halo of golden warmth. It was a new day for me to learn more things. And so I gathered my equipment, a bag full of books, half completed and completely empty, my quill and ink, on my back a shield and on my hip a wooden sword in its sheath.

And so, with my motley assortment of gear in tow, I stood on the precipice of another ordinary day turned extraordinary by the mere potential for discovery. Hand on the doorknob, I took a final glance back at my room, my sanctuary. My fingers tightened around the doorknob, the cool metal seeming to pulse with a life of its own, as if it too sensed the weight of the moment. With a flick of my wrist, the door swung open, and I stepped through the threshold, crossing an invisible line into a world pulsating with mystery and beckoning with untold adventure.

The sun, now a radiant orb in a cloudless sky, seemed to cast its light more brightly upon my world. So i took advantage and adventured past the dorms, the courtyard, and into Mr.Catos study. Mr. Cato's study was an ever-enticing tapestry woven from parchment, leather, and ink; a treasure trove of unspoken knowledge that only a devoted seeker could truly understand. The sunbeams streaming through the narrow windows caught the dust motes floating in the air, transforming them into ethereal golden sprites that danced to the rhythm of their own silent music. It was an alchemy of the everyday meeting the mystical, and for me, an aspiring young magician, it felt like stepping into a sanctum where the walls whispered secrets waiting to be discovered.

Mr. Cato himself, a living monument to decades of magical research and practice, was engrossed in one of his many manuscripts. At first glance, one might mistake this as a tribute to his own ego, a sort of bibliophilic vanity. But to do so would miss the nuanced complexity of the man. Mr. Cato's relationship with his books was an ongoing dialogue with his past self, a revisitation to previously forged conclusions and intellectual landscapes to ensure that time's relentless march had not eroded their foundations. The deterioration of his memory lent an air of urgency to his rereading, as if each word he consumed was a drop of water in an ever-draining reservoir.

Across the table, I sat, quill in hand, book open to a blank page that beckoned like an uncharted continent. I was Mr. Cato's student, yes, but also his confidante in the ongoing quest for magical innovation. As I looked down at my own musings crude doodles and half-formed hypotheses alongside more concrete notes I felt a flicker of frustration. Here I was, trying to map out the nebulous terrain of magical theory with the intellectual equivalent of a blunt stick, while Mr. Cato navigated the same territory as if he had written the guidebook.

Of course, he had. Many times over.

Each of my fledgling ideas seemed dwarfed in the shadow of his immense experience. I was like a child mimicking an elder’s complex calligraphy with crude scrawls. Yet, it was precisely because of this that my role was vital. My youth and inexperience were not liabilities; they were the fresh eyes that could see what decades of familiarity had rendered invisible to my mentor.

Once I had etched the final word on paper each letter a humble footsoldier in the grand army of an idea I leaned back and stretched, feeling my back pop in a strangely satisfying symphony of relief. Mr. Cato, sensing the shift in my posture, lifted his gaze from the depths of his book and extended his frail hand to receive my notebook.

He thumbed through its pages with a practiced care, as if each sheet were a fragile artifact. His eyes, windows to a mind that had journeyed through realms I could scarcely imagine, flicked back and forth, consuming my thoughts, digesting my raw inklings and unsophisticated conjectures.

Finally, he looked up, and for a moment our eyes locked in a silent communion. “If you can gather enough magical energy from years and years of daily training you can do almost anything the same as with the training between you and your father.”

"But remember, Alexander," he began, his voice soft yet commanding, like the gentle rumble of a distant thunderstorm, "raw power is but one element in the intricate tapestry of sorcery. Harnessing vast reservoirs of magical energy without understanding its nuances, without tempering it with wisdom, is akin to wielding a mighty sword with no knowledge of its balance or edge."

He leaned back, the worn leather of his chair creaking softly under his weight. The ambient light from the room's single window illuminated the myriad lines on his face, each one a testament to battles fought, lessons learned, and secrets uncovered. "Your father and I, we have different philosophies. He believes in relentless pursuit, in pushing oneself to the very limits of physical and magical prowess. And there's merit in that," he admitted with a nod.

"But sorcery," he continued, his fingers tracing patterns in the air as if weaving spells from sheer rhetoric, "is as much about subtlety as it is about strength. It's about understanding the ebb and flow of the cosmic tides, recognizing the delicate balance of elements, and tuning oneself to the myriad frequencies of the universe. It's about knowing when to unleash a tempest and when to summon a gentle breeze."

Mr. Cato's gaze seemed to drift, momentarily lost in the corridors of memory. "I've seen sorcerers, powerful in their own right, who could call down lightning or raise mountains with a mere thought. Yet, they faltered and were defeated not by a mightier adversary, but by their own inability to discern the intricate dance of energies that weave the fabric of our world."

He drew a deep breath, his chest rising and falling like the undulating waves of a tranquil sea. "Your journey, young Alexander, is unique. It will be shaped by the teachings of your father, by the wisdom I can offer, and most importantly, by your own experiences and choices. But always remember, power for power's sake can be blinding. True mastery lies in knowing when and how to wield it."

His words seemed to settle around me, forming an ethereal cloak of understanding. A profound realization began to take root within: my path as a sorcerer would not be determined solely by the accumulation of raw magical energy but by the synthesis of power, wisdom, and discernment.

Mr. Cato's hand reached out, resting lightly on the tome I had penned, "This," he said, tapping the leather-bound cover, "is just the beginning. Your insights, raw as they might be, are the seeds from which grand oaks of understanding will grow. Nurture them, tend to them, and watch as they transform the landscape of your magical journey." Mr.cato then broke out into a coughing fit.

Blood speckled his palm as he drew his hand away, trying to stifle the violent convulsions that threatened to wrack his frail form. For a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of his ragged breathing, interspersed with the soft thuds of the heavy tome's pages as they fluttered in response to the room's air currents. I reached out, hesitantly, my hand hovering over his shoulder, uncertain if my touch would comfort or intrude.

But then, as if pulling himself back from the edge of an abyss, Mr. Cato's coughing subsided. He drew a long, ragged breath and looked up, his eyes still sharp, still clear, despite the sheen of pain and fatigue that glazed them.

He offered a weak smile, his humor unyielding even in the face of his affliction. "Apologies, my young protégé. It seems my body often forgets its age, especially when I'm caught up in the dance of arcane discourse."

Chapter 9

With the sun at its zenith, the room was bathed in a warm, golden hue. The air was thick with the residue of our magical discourse, the room having transformed into a crucible of knowledge. Shadows stretched and danced upon the wooden floor, the result of the flickering flames from the solitary candle that stood guard on our table.

"I trust you've gleaned something valuable from our conversation today," Mr. Cato remarked, his voice carrying a hint of fatigue but still echoing with the resonance of a true maestro.

"I have, sir," I responded earnestly. "Every moment spent under your guidance is a treasure trove of insights and revelations."

He chuckled, a soft sound that seemed to cradle the weight of eons. "Flattery will get you everywhere, young Alexander. But remember, the true magic is in applying what you've learned, in bringing forth the potential from within."

I nodded, absorbing his words like parched earth soaks up the first rain of the season. Gathering my belongings, I slung the bag over my shoulder, the weight of the books a comforting reminder of the knowledge I now carried with me.

I made my way to the door, heading towards the courtyard in search of my father. Through the halls of the castle and open corridors that littered its vast interior, I soon reached the heart of the castle. The courtyard was a sprawling expanse of artistry and nature, the painstakingly crafted cobblestone paths weaving intricate patterns among vibrant green patches of meticulously manicured grass. It stood as a sanctuary of serenity amidst the imposing stone walls of the castle, a juxtaposition of the austere fortifications and the natural world's splendor.

My footsteps barely registered on the cobblestone, the sound dwarfed by the melodious trickling of water from the fountain at the heart of the courtyard. Its ornate stonework depicted the legendary duel between a fierce dragon and an enigmatic equites, frozen forever in their eternal dance of power and grace. The water bubbled forth from the dragon's maw, pooling at the base before cascading over the edges in a silvery sheen.

But my focus was squarely on the figure beyond the fountain, moving with a fluidity that belied his muscular build. Father's silhouette, framed against the backdrop of the brilliant blue sky, was poetry in motion. Each slash of his sword, each pivot of his foot, was executed with a precision and grace that spoke of decades of relentless training and discipline. His tunic, drenched in sweat, clung to him, accentuating the power and finesse that were the hallmarks of his martial prowess.