《A Weave of Mind: A Tale of Two Brothers》 Prologue: Brothers Prologue: Brothers Tristan Clark never had it easy. He always felt like the world was out to get him. His parents died in a car accident when he was little. His adoptive parents - his uncle and aunt - were abusive. He dropped out of high school. Lived on the streets. Joined a gang. Left the gang. Stole. Ran rackets. Destroyed public property. Had beaten people to half-death. He did it all. And he was only eighteen. He had never crossed the line and killed someone, but he felt like life was leading him there anyway. At least he had his brother by his side. Kal. His twin. From the moment they were born, they were inseparable ¨C always chasing after each other. They even joined the gang together ¨C their only way of surviving the harsh reality they were thrown into. Tristan was the leader between the two ¨C the calculating genius. Kal was¡­a bit of an airhead, but in every good sense of the word. Even now, before a robbery that could change their lives for better ¨C or worse ¨C it was Tristan who was meeting with their contact ¨C Jonathan Shaw. Tristan walked the street slowly, cars passing by, his brother waiting for him in their car, parked a block away. He pulled the hood of his hoodie up, buried his hands in its pockets, and continued forward. Jonathan waited for him in an alley just ahead. ¡®He better not be late.¡¯ Tristan thought. He had dealt with Jonathan before. The guy was always late. But he had status, so no one could ever speak against it. Taking a sharp turn into a side alley ¨C a shortcut ¨C Tristan reappeared on a different street, making his way toward the meeting spot. He knew this neighborhood well. After a minute of silent walking, he reached his destination. Surprisingly, Jonathan was already there. Jonathan was his early twenties, his hair slicked back with too much gel. He wore an oversized suit, something Tristan and Kal always laughed about behind his back. The guy was trying to look like a 1980s movie mobster and failing miserably. ¡°Oh, look who finally made it.¡± Jonathan called out, sounding impatient. Tristan raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised he was on time. ¡°You¡¯re always late, so I thought ¨C ¡° ¡°You shouldn¡¯t think, dog!¡± Jonathan snapped. ¡°We¡¯re not paying you to think.¡± Tristan wanted nothing more than to beat Jonathan¡¯s face into a bloody pulp, but they needed the money. They needed the protection. He forced himself to let the insult slide ¨C more like he tried¡­and failed. ¡°If you were paying me to be on time, I might already be taking your place.¡± ¡®Why the hell did I just say that?¡¯ was the first thought that crossed Tristan¡¯s mind. He was terrible at keeping his emotions in check. Jonathan didn¡¯t like that either. His expression darkened as he pulled a butterfly knife from his suit and stepped toward Tristan. Tristan kept his hands in his hoodie pockets, trying not to escalate the situation further. ¡°Who do you think you¡¯re fucking with, trash?¡± Jonathan hissed, bringing the knife close to Tristan¡¯s face. Tristan knew he wouldn¡¯t use it. It was just a show people like Jonathan put out to save their reputation. But he was ready regardless, his hands curling into fists inside his pockets. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was wrong.¡± Tristan apologized, though he didn¡¯t mean it. ¡°Let¡¯s move on.¡± Jonathan eyed him for a minute, his eye twitching in irritation. Then, finally, he nodded and folded the knife back. ¡°You¡¯re lucky we need you for this job.¡± He shook his head, correcting himself. ¡°Well, not specifically you, but tonight you and your brother are all we have.¡± Tristan didn¡¯t like the way Jonathan referred to Kal, but he fought his inner demons to keep his calm and redirected the conversation. ¡°The job?¡± Jonathan nodded, pulling a paper bag from inside his suit and handing it to Tristan. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Tristan asked, grabbing the bag. It was light, and whatever was inside felt soft. ¡°A teddy bear.¡± Jonathan replied, grinning like an idiot. When Tristan raised an eyebrow, he continued. ¡°No, seriously. It¡¯s a teddy bear. Just leave it there after you leave so they know it was us.¡± Tristan nodded slowly before losing patience just a little. ¡°Dude, I don¡¯t even know what the job is. Pietro just told me it would get me and Kal a ticket into the family. That¡¯s it.¡± Jonathan¡¯s eyes widened before he smirked. ¡°Oh, so that¡¯s what that idiot told you?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Anyway, you¡¯re going to head to 147 West Cortland Street. There¡¯s a liquor store there called ¡®Miller¡¯s Spirits¡¯. It¡¯s one of the many shops under the Vasallo Family¡¯s protection. Arrive at 1 AM. It should already be closed, and you¡¯ll have no problem stealing everything they have in the safe.¡± ¡°Password?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a combination lock. Go 15-2-17.¡± Tristan nodded. ¡°Will it get us into the family?¡± That was the real goal here. He just wanted him and his brother to have that layer of protection going forward. Jonathan smirked. ¡°Don¡¯t fuck up and who knows?¡± Tristan knew it meant nothing, but he had no leverage here. He¡¯d just have to do the job and hope for the best, even when the best was something that never happened to him. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He turned and left. He didn¡¯t want to spend more time than necessary in Jonathan¡¯s company. ¡°Terry will be joining you.¡± Jonathan called after him. Tristan quickly stopped and turned around. ¡°Not that guy.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Anyone but him, Jonathan.¡± Terry was crazy. Literally. With him, things were bound to go south. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a suggestion.¡± Jonathan said. ¡°I trust him, and I don¡¯t trust you. Pick him up from ¡®The Clover¡¯. You know where that is. Then, after all is done, meet me with the money beneath Blackwell Bridge. I¡¯ll be waiting there.¡± Then, Jonathan turned and left. *** Kalvin Clark was sitting in the driver¡¯s seat of their 1995 Cadillac Seville, blasting some ¡®80s rock on the cassette player. He adjusted his seat backward, practically lying down, his eyes closed, completely immersed in the music. It was his favorite song, and he couldn¡¯t stop moving his fingers, playing an air guitar. ¡°Oh, this part¡­¡± he whispered to himself a second before the guitar solo hit, causing him to move his fingers even faster, mimicking the motions as if he were playing it. Well, he could play it. He had spent most of his childhood with a guitar in his hands ¨C until he and Tristan ran away from their aunt and uncle¡¯s house. Since then, he had only managed to play in stolen moments, sneaking into music shops and pretending to be a potential buyer, just to strum a few notes before the store workers caught on and kicked him out. The passenger door opened, and his brother slid into the seat beside him. Tristan eyed him, narrowing his gaze. ¡°¡¯Winds of Ruin¡¯ again?¡± Kal raised an eyebrow. ¡°What do you mean ¡®again¡¯? You know I need to listen to it at least thirty times a day or I go berserk.¡± ¡°Which time is it today?¡± ¡°Twenty-seventh.¡± Tristan nodded. ¡°My bad. Carry on.¡± Kal continued playing the solo on his air guitar. Then, out of nowhere Tristan playfully punched him in the ribs. He jumped in place, and the seat adjustment mechanism snapped his seat fully upward. If Kal hadn¡¯t raised his hands to stop his ascension, his chest would¡¯ve hit the driving wheel. Kal burst out laughing and Tristan joined him. ¡°God, I hate this piece of junk.¡± Tristan said, hitting the dashboard lightly. ¡°Hey, don¡¯t talk about Mary like that.¡± Kal responded, noticing the paper bag his brother was holding in his hands for the first time. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± He feared the worst. He never wanted them to become full-fledged criminals. Petty thieves? Fine. Hired muscle? Okay. It was better than getting constantly beaten by their uncle and aunt. But he felt like his brother was leading them toward a line he didn¡¯t want them to cross. And the worst part? Tristan was pushing him away. Taking the burden of danger solely on himself. He knew everything Tristan did was with their best interests in my mind. He was the protective type of big brother, despite only being a few seconds older. He had even put his body on the line for him in the past. One time, when they were kids and Uncle Rob wanted to punish Kal for ¡°misbehaving¡±, Tristan jumped in front of the belt aimed at Kal and took the hit of the belt buckle across his back. He ended up needing seven stitches and carrying a nasty scar. But from that point on, Kal couldn¡¯t help but admire his brother ¨C and he wanted to protect him as well. So, he let Tristan lead them, following behind and supporting him at everything. ¡°A teddy bear.¡± Tristan replied, pulling Kal out of his thoughts and tossing the bag to him. ¡°Huh?¡± Kal raised an eyebrow, his face twisting in confusion. He opened the bag. Inside was an actual teddy bear. A pink one. ¡°What the fuck?¡± Kal muttered. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Tristan shook his head. ¡°We need to pick up Terry in about an hour.¡± ¡°Scary Terry?¡± ¡°No. The other one.¡± ¡°Hothead Terry?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡± Tristan confirmed. ¡°You want to grab something to eat first?¡± Kal¡¯s stomach rumbled. ¡°God, I want a cheeseburger so badly.¡± Then, he sighed, recalling their financial situation for the month. ¡°On second thought, forget about it. We don¡¯t have the money.¡± ¡°Take us there.¡± ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Your favorite burger joint. The one you told me about.¡± Kal¡¯s eyes widened. For him, Tristan was the best brother anyone could ever wish for. He smiled, cranked up the volume on Winds of Ruin, and started the car. ¡°Oh, turn it off, please!¡± Tristan pleaded, but Kal wasn¡¯t having any of it. Together, they drove to get a cheeseburger, singing Kal¡¯s favorite song along the way. Eventually, and reluctantly, Tristan even joined in. *** The Vassallos were waiting for them. Tristan had ditched Hothead Terry the second he realized what was up. The crazy guy immediately reached for his gun and started shooting. Tristan, on the other hand, jumped out of the second-floor window of Miller¡¯s Spirits. He rolled to mitigate the damage, but it wasn¡¯t enough ¨C the landing was hard, and it hurt like hell. A sharp pain shot up his leg, and he screamed. His ankle burned. Broken. Still, it was better than getting shot to death. ''At least Kal was safe.'' He thought, glad he had him wait in the car. Tristan tried to scramble to his feet, but he couldn¡¯t. Above, Vasallo¡¯s men rushed to the shattered window, guns in hand. The moment they spotted him on the ground, they started shooting. Tristan threw himself behind a car, barely dodging the bullets raining down on him. Out of nowhere, Kal appeared, crouching behind another vehicle. ¡°I¡¯m coming, Tristan. Hold on!¡± ¡°No!¡± Tristan called out. ¡°Don¡¯t come here. It¡¯s too dangerous!¡± But Kal wasn¡¯t listening. He waited for their attackers to reload, then sprinted forward, making his way from one car to another until he reached his brother¡¯s side. In one fluid motion, he grabbed Tristan, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and dragged him to the backseat of their car before diving into the driver¡¯s seat and flooring it. But of course, Vasallo¡¯s men weren¡¯t about to let them go. Riding in their Lincoln Town Car, they gave chase. Kal gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel as their pursuers closed in. He wasn¡¯t a getaway driver, but he was damn good under pressure. Tristan fought through his pain and to Kal¡¯s surprise pulled out a pistol. He leaned out the window and fired at their pursuers. A bullet shattered the windshield of the Lincoln. The driver swerved, but they kept coming. Kal yanked the wheel hard, skidding onto a side street. Tires screeched. The Lincoln followed, the passengers shooting back at them. Tristan peeked through the opposite window this time and fired again. This time, he hit a tire. The Lincoln swerved wildly. Kal saw it in the rearview mirror ¨C but before he could react, their Cadillac hit a pothole. The wheel jerked in his hands. The car spun. Then, everything flipped. Glass shattered. Metal crunched. The car slammed into a storefront window. When Tristan came to, everything hurt. His body felt broken everywhere. He groaned, shifting slightly, feeling broken glass digging into his skin. The car was tilted on its side, its frame twisted and broken from the crash. The store¡¯s security system was ringing. ¡°Kal¡­¡± His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. He coughed, wincing as pain flared through his entire body. ¡°Kal!¡± No response. His pulse spiked as he twisted his head forward, his heart racing in fear of the worse. Then he saw him. Kal wasn¡¯t in the car anymore. His brother lay outside, face down, sprawled across the shattered glass and shop shelves. He had been thrown through the windshield when they crashed. ¡°No¡­no, no, no.¡± Ignoring the pain, Tristan forced himself to move. He clawed his way toward the car¡¯s broken windshield, barely hauling himself out, biting back screams. He dragged his body across the wreckage, collapsing next to Kal, hands shaking as he reached out to him. ¡°Kal¡­please, wake up.¡± Kal didn¡¯t move. Tristan¡¯s breath hitched. He placed a trembling hand against his brother¡¯s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. A sob wracked through him. His fingers dug into Kal¡¯s jacket, his whole body trembling. ¡°No. No, you can¡¯t die! This is my fault! My fault! It shouldn¡¯t be you!¡± Tears streamed from his eyes. He blamed himself. For dragging Kal into this life. For half-assing things and never having a solid plan for them. For running away from their abusive stepparents too soon. ¡®So what if they beat us ¨C it was better than this!¡¯ Then, footsteps echoed behind him. The gunshots rang before he could even face them. Pain erupted in his chest. He gasped, falling forward, his blood pooling underneath him. As his vision darkened, all he saw was Kal¡¯s lifeless face. He wished he had done things differently. If only he had another chance¡­ ¡®And what price are you willing to pay for another chance?¡¯ A mysterious voice rang in the back of his dying mind, and then everything turned black. 1. Tristan: A Deal with the Devil 1. Tristan: A Deal with the Devil When Tristan woke up, he realized he wasn¡¯t dead. But he wasn¡¯t alive either. That much was obvious. He floated in a vast, endless cosmos, surrounded by darkness so deep it swallowed everything. He expected to feel cold, to shiver from the void pressing against him, but there was nothing. Not temperature, no weight, no sensation at all. He felt nothing. Then he looked down. Or at least, he thought he did. The instinct was there, but the response wasn¡¯t. And there thing that wasn¡¯t there was his body. His arms, his legs, his torso ¨C all gone. There was nothing but consciousness, drifting through the emptiness. He felt like a pair of floating eyes. And then, before fear could take hold, something else appeared. A pair of actual eyes. They were massive, floating in front of him. Yellow in color and elongated in their shape like those of a cat ¨C slitted, sharp, and unnervingly intelligent. Despite being just a pair of eyes, they seem to encompass an entire expression ¨C a curious one. The gaze fixed on him. ¡°So?¡± The voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Tristan stiffened ¨C if he had a body, it would have tensed. That voice. He had heard it before. Just before he died. ¡°I thought I imagined it¡­¡± He whispered, uncertain if everything around him was even real, or just a bad dream. ¡°It is real.¡± The yellow eyes gleamed. ¡°And it can stop being real if I decide you are unworthy of my time and send you to your death.¡± Tristan¡¯s non-existent heart clenched. Death loomed over him. He didn¡¯t know what lay beyond, and he didn¡¯t want to find out. The thought of what came after scared him. ¡°Wait, wait, wait!¡± Tristan called out hastily. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­adjusting. What is this place?¡± ¡°It¡¯s my domain.¡± The eyes replied smoothly, looking smug. ¡°Your soul was headed for limbo, but I heard your dying cries and decided to intercept it.¡± Tristan hesitated. ¡°Who¡­no ¨C what are you?¡± ¡°That does not matter, Tristan Clark. What matters is what I can offer you.¡± A shiver ¨C not physical as he lacked skin ¨C ran through him. This being ¨C whatever it was ¨C knew his name. That only deepened the surreal weight pressing down on him. ¡°You can offer me a second chance?¡± Tristan asked, his voice cautious, connecting the pieces and already bracing for the inevitable catch. ¡°Indeed.¡± The eyes narrowed, as if they were smiling. ¡°What say you?¡± Tristan had been through enough in life to know nothing was ever given freely. ¡°What would that entail exactly?¡± The voice chuckled, pleased. ¡°Straight to the details. How fun.¡± It paused before continuing. ¡°I¡¯ve seen your suffering ¨C your life. You¡¯ve died young, full of promise and wasted potential. I can change that. ¡°You¡¯ll be born into a loving and caring family.¡± Suddenly, the space around Tristan shifted. Darkness turned into light, revealing a sequence of visions. A newborn cradled in the arms of two loving parents. A father teaching his son how to throw a ball, how to ride a bike. A mother wiping away tears on his first day of school, helping him with homework in the afternoons. He realized it was him. In a home warm with love, laughter, and safety ¨C everything Tristan had wished for, but had lost so long ago. ¡°Your childhood sweetheart ¨C the love of your life ¨C will become your wife. Your love will be straight out of a fairy tale.¡± The scene changed to a high school prom, where Tristan danced with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Then, a wedding. His new parents beamed with pride, overjoyed. And then¡­children of his own. ¡°A perfect life.¡± The yellow eyes summarized. It was everything. Every single thing he had longed for. But¡­something was missing ¨C someone was missing. ¡°Where is my brother?¡± Tristan asked, his mind racing. ¡°Ahhh.¡± The being sighed teasingly. ¡°You see, that is where the price I mentioned before comes into play. For this perfect life to exist, the cost will be your brother¡¯s permanent death. His soul will be denied reincarnation for all eternity.¡± ¡°No deal.¡± Tristan¡¯s response was immediate, fierce even. ¡°And if that¡¯s the price you were thinking about, you can send me to my death right now. So long, prick.¡± The eyes¡­laughed. A deep amused sound that echoed around Tristan. ¡°Relax, Tristan. I already knew you would refuse.¡± The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Tritan scowled. ¡°Then why bother?¡± ¡°Because I have another suggestion. One I¡¯m rather curious about.¡± ¡°Which is?¡± ¡°What if it were the other way around? What if I gifted this perfect life to your brother instead, in exchange for ¨C ¡° ¡°Yes. In a heartbeat.¡± Tristan cut in without hesitation ¨C without ever letting the eyes finish. He would give everything for his brother. Over and over again. The being laughed again, harder this time. ¡°Beautiful. Humans always romanticize the love between partners, but I find brotherly love ¨C sometimes bound by blood, sometimes not ¨C is just as profound.¡± Tristan ignored the musing. ¡°Well? Are we doing this or not? I told you, I agree.¡± ¡°Not so fast, Tristan Clark.¡± The yellow eyes glowed brighter. ¡°I have a third proposition. One that might interest you more.¡± Tristan narrowed his gaze, untrusting. ¡°If it has something to do with sacrificing my brother ¨C ¡° ¡°No. It does not.¡± The being cut him off. ¡°My last proposition is this: Your brother will live. He will survive the car crash, he¡¯ll be treated in the hospital and released without punishment. He will go on to live a better life, become a famous musician, and always remember you fondly, even naming his firstborn after you.¡± Tristan held his breath. It wasn¡¯t as good as the perfect life deal. But it was still better than Kal dying. ¡°And you?¡± The voice dropped, almost teasing. ¡°You will be reborn into a new world. A different world.¡± The being¡¯s words shook Tristan. It made no sense to him. It was talking about prices, but this¡­seemed like a win-win situation. ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡­¡± Then, the being spoke, and it all made sense. ¡°You will not be reborn into a perfect life.¡± It clarified, its voice slow. ¡°You will live a life of hardships. Of challenges. Of battle. Of struggle. Of blood, sweat, and tears. In short, not too dissimilar to your current one, but at the same time a thousand times worse. But you will have a weapon.¡± The voice chuckled before it continued. ¡°You will retain your past soul. A head start. If you are clever enough, if you use your skills well, you may carve out a fate unlike any other. You may become a pivotal figure in this new world. Someone everyone knows. Someone everyone respects.¡± It let the offer settle in. Tristan analyzed the situation. He had always been strong in analytical thinking, but his impatience was his downfall. It often got the better of him, thwarting any attempt of strategic thinking. But now, he took a deep breath and tried to relax ¨C to think things through. His brother would live, pursue his dreams. And he? He would survive as well, but in an unknown world, armed with an edge that could become his greatest advantage. Living a harsh life wasn¡¯t unfamiliar to him. He already knew how it felt. He could survive this. He will survive this. In the end, the choices were simple: 100-0, 0-100, or a 50-50 split. And Tristan felt that the 50-50 choice was the fairest for both of them. But there was one thing he couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°What do you get out of all of this?¡± He asked, narrowing his gaze. The glowing eyes seemed to smile. ¡°That¡¯s none of your concern at the moment. Just tell me if you agree. If not, we¡¯ll part ways here. Yours and your brother¡¯s souls will rot in limbo for a long time before they¡¯re reincarnated again. Decide quickly. I don¡¯t have all day.¡± Tristan¡¯s mind reeled. But deep down, he had already decided. ¡°Okay.¡± He said at last. ¡°I agree.¡± The yellow eyes gleamed. ¡°So, you agree to be reborn into the harsh life I just described in exchange for your brother being alive as well?¡± Tristan took a deep breath, thinking of his twin. ¡®Thank you, Kal, for everything.¡¯ He thought, saying his final goodbyes. ¡®I¡¯ll never forget you. Please live a better life than I ever could. For the both of us.¡¯ With his mind steady and his resolve clear, Tristan spoke. ¡°Yes. I agree.¡± The eyes smiled again. ¡°Very well, Tristan Clark. Then I shall grant you a second chance.¡± Then, a sudden burning sensation spread through Tristan¡¯s body, and unfamiliar, searing force he couldn¡¯t describe. ¡°What is this?¡± He asked, his voice strained. ¡°What¡¯s happening to me?¡± ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡± The being replied. ¡°Your soul is simply being marked by my seal.¡± ¡°WHAT?!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± The eyes assured him. ¡°In the world you¡¯ll be reborn into, it¡¯s standard practice for a human receiving patronage from a god.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a god?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve said too much already.¡± The eyes smiled. ¡°Oh, would you look at the time? If I don¡¯t send you away now, you¡¯ll be late for your own birth. So long, Tristan Clark. We will meet again one day.¡± ¡°But I don¡¯t even know your name!¡± Tristan called out, feeling himself being pulled away ¨C like a vacuum cleaner sucking him somewhere. The eyes smiled one last time. ¡°You may call me Gartan.¡± Then, Tristan was gone. *** Gartan, satisfied with his catch, grinned from ear to ear. ¡°That wasn¡¯t very nice, Gart.¡± A pair of blue eyes emerged in the void, their voice carrying a note of boredom. ¡°You lied to the poor sap.¡± ¡°No, I didn¡¯t.¡± Gartan dismissed the idea. ¡°I never lie, Roxelle. I just¡­fool people. Lead them into traps they blindly refuse to acknowledge.¡± ¡°It¡¯s still not nice.¡± The blue eyes seemed to frown, their glow dimming slightly. ¡°Well, not everyone was born a saint like you, sister.¡± Gartan said, rolling his yellow eyes. ¡°Besides, it was his choice in the end. I simply provided the options. It¡¯s not my fault he was pressured so easily and didn¡¯t ask the right questions when it mattered the most.¡± Roxelle exhaled, her sigh reverberating through the darkness around them. ¡°You¡¯re always like this. Playing these little games. Twisting words. Acting as if everything is just one long, elaborate gamble.¡± ¡°And why shouldn¡¯t I?¡± Gartan asked, amused. ¡°Our world runs on gambles, Roxelle. And Tristan Clark is going to be my Royal Flush.¡± A moment of silence stretched between the two siblings. The void itself seemed to wait for their next words. ¡°¡­He has no idea what he¡¯s truly agreed to.¡± Roxelle finally said, her voice quitter now. ¡°That his brother is ¨C ¡° ¡°No, he doesn¡¯t.¡± Gartan¡¯s grin widened. ¡°And that¡¯s what makes it fun.¡± ¡°Fun?¡± Roxelle scoffed. ¡°You think throwing an unsuspecting soul into that world is fun? That world will chew him up and spit him out before he even learns its name. And you also tricked him with his brother.¡± Gartan chuckled, his gaze turning sinister. ¡°Oh, I wouldn¡¯t be so sure. I already told you ¨C Tristan Clark will be my golden ticket. He has an edge most don¡¯t. He¡¯s been broken before. He knows what suffering is. He won¡¯t shatter the way others did. He will do anything possible to make sure that this life turns for the better.¡± Gartan¡¯s chuckle now turned into a full-blown laugh. ¡°And when he crosses paths with his brother again¡­now that would be¡­unforgettable!¡± Roxelle sighed, tired of her brother¡¯s scheming and ramblings. ¡°What now?¡± She asked, hoping he would reveal more. ¡°Now, I wait.¡± Gartan replied simply, not sharing too many details. ¡°Tristan Clark is an investment. It will take him years to reach his true potential, but I will be here ¨C watching him all the way as he rises higher and higher. Until he reaches the heights mere mortal could only dream of. My beneficiary will make a name for himself, and consequently for me.¡± ¡°And then?¡± Roxelle pressed on, still sounding uninterested. ¡°Then? Who knows?¡± Gartan replied. ¡°It all depends on Tristan Clark.¡± ¡°And his brother, right?¡± Roxelle asked, as if making sure. The yellow eyes grinned. ¡°And his brother, of course.¡± 2. Reborn 2. Reborn A second before Kal died, he wondered what came next. Their parents were Christians. Uncle Rob and Aunt Jill were Christians as well. But he? He never found the appeal of religion. And still he wondered ¨C when he opened his eyes again, would he see clouds and angels guiding him to heaven, or pools of molten lava and imps holding tridents ready to punish him for all eternity? Surprisingly ¨C or not ¨C it was neither. Blinding light. Heat. Pressure. Kal gasped ¨C only, it wasn¡¯t a gasp. It was a shrill. A helpless wail. He found the sound odd. ¡®That didn¡¯t come from me, right?¡¯ he thought. He was being squeezed, his body struggling, forced forward by unsees forces. The sensation was disorienting, suffocating, but he had no control. Then, suddenly, he was free. Cold air surrounded him in an instant, shocking his lungs into action. He cried instinctively, not sure what was going on with him. His vision was blurry, but he could make out flickering lights, movements, and the shadowy figures of people surrounding him. The smell of hay and¡­dung filled his nose. Somewhere in the distance, he heard soft murmuring, hushed voices filled with excitement. ¡°Ruhaka shiv¡¯na, tolma resi?¡± A woman¡¯s voice cooed. ¡°Fethka la no-resh?¡± Kal blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his sight. He just cried ¨C he couldn¡¯t stop himself. He felt himself being wrapped in a warm fabric before being handed over. The hands changed ¨C these one broader, more rigid. ¡°Noltha renh.¡± A deep, masculine voice said. Kal struggled to make sense of it all. The words meant nothing. It wasn¡¯t English. ¡®Maybe it¡¯s¡­Portuguese?¡¯ He thought, then immediately internally facepalmed. ¡®Hell, who am I trying to fool? Even if it was Portuguese, how would I even know?! I never even heard someone speak Portuguese in my entire life!¡¯ His thoughts spun as the realization slowly formed in his mind. He had just¡­been born? No, that wasn¡¯t possible. He had lived. He had died. But here he was ¨C small, weak, wrapped in soft blankets, and cradled like a newborn. The deep-voiced man holding him chuckled, his voice deep and warm. ¡°Shetan maru, lohka te res.¡± The man was big, his arms strong. But he held Kal with a gentleness that contrasted his imposing presence. His features were partially obscured by Kal¡¯s blurred vision, but he could tell the man had a strong jaw, dark eyes and a loving expression. Kal wanted to speak, to ask what was happening, but as he opened his mouth, only more cries escaped. His heart raced. Slowly understanding his new predicament ¨C he was indeed a newborn. Heaven was fake. Reincarnation was real. Then, he heard it. ¡°Kalvin.¡± They had called him Kalvin ¨C his real name. He tried to laugh, but all that came was another infantile wail. ¡®Of all the names they could have given me¡­they chose the one I already had.¡¯ Kal thought. It was comforting. He didn¡¯t believe in fate, but this ¨C this had to mean something¡­right? His new father ¨C his father? ¨C chuckled warmly. Then, gently, he handed Kal off, and suddenly he was enveloped in a different kind of embrace. The arms that cradled him now were softer, the touch lighter, yet just as firm and loving. The warmth was immediate, soothing. He could feel the steady rhythm of the heartbeat beneath him. A delicate hand brushed over his head, finger trailing against his soft scalp with such tenderness that made his heart skip a beat. ¡°Oh, Kal,¡± The beautiful woman whispered, her voice like a melody, smooth and affectionate. The rest of her words he couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°Resihi tolah ka noren¡­¡± Even without comprehension of the new language, Kal felt the meaning ¨C the love, the devotion, the promise to keep him safe from all the dangers and harm the world could bring to him. His vision was still blurry, but he could make out the shape of her face, framed by cascading brown hair. Her scent was light and comforting, like flowers ¨C daisies to be precise. She was breathtaking, not just in beauty but in presence ¨C an undeniable gentleness, a quiet strength, something deeply maternal. ¡®This must be my new mother.¡¯ Kal thought. He didn¡¯t even know her name, but somehow, he already trusted her. She had filled with warmth and love he hadn¡¯t felt in years ¨C not ever since his first mother had died¡­ This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Kal¡¯s mind spun with questions. ¡®If I was reincarnated¡­why do I still have my memories? Why am I still me?¡¯ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall everything ¨C trying to grasp onto the last things he remembered. The crash. The car flipping. The windshield shattering. And his brother ¨C His brother! Panic surged through him. His twin. His other half. What happened to him? Kal tried to think of his brother¡¯s name, but it was like grabbing something intangible. His mind reeled, the name literally at the tip of his tongue, but nothing came. He remembered his face, his blonde hair, his voice, even the way he laughed, but his name ¨C the most important part ¨C was missing. No matter how hard he tried to bring it forward, it just wasn¡¯t there. ¡®Why? Why was that the thing taken from me?¡¯ he thought, feeling his soul was on the verge of tears. His mother hummed a soft tune, trying to calm him. It grew gentler, soothing him. He felt her hand stroke his tiny head again, and against his will, the warmth of her touch steadied him. ¡®Would she be a good mother? Would she love him the way his first mother had?¡¯ This thought filled his mind. And what about his father? He had no way of knowing what kind of people they were. He couldn¡¯t know for sure, but there was no hostility radiating from them. No roughness, no tension. His new father approached his new mother, wrapping a loving arm around her as they both watched him, exchanging words in a language he didn¡¯t understand. Tears welled up in his tiny eyes. He was always a crybaby, but these tears were different. He knew his brother would blame himself for what happened. He hoped ¨C no, he prayed ¨C that his brother had survived the crash and Vassallo¡¯s men. That he would live on. And even if he couldn¡¯t remember his name, he promised he wouldn¡¯t forget what he meant to him. ¡®I don¡¯t know why I was given this second chance¡­¡¯ Kal thought as he felt his new mother holding him tighter, rocking him gently. ¡®But I¡¯ll live this life right. For me. And for you.¡¯ *** When Tristan opened his eyes, his mind was still reeling from the conversation he just had with that¡­thing ¨C a devil, surely. He couldn¡¯t say for certain, but after that mysterious exchange ¨C and the seal now etched onto his soul ¨C what else could it be? Something was off. But it was too late to take anything back. The being had promised his brother would survive the car crash, that he would go on to live a long and fulfilling life. And Tristan would do anything for his brother. Even be reborn under these cryptic, unsettling circumstances. The being had warned him of a difficult road ahead. But it had also promised that if he played his cards right, he would have a significant role in this new world. Its name was Gartan, though that meant little to Tristan. It wasn¡¯t someone ¨C or something ¨C he knew. Just a pair of floating, yellow-glowing eyes, suspended in an endless void of darkness. The name carried no weight, nothing he could recognize. And yet he was a god ¨C or at least he claimed he was. Another question gnawed at him. ¡®Why me?¡¯ He knew that every day, close to 160 thousand people die worldwide. That¡¯s around one million every week. In the grand scheme of things, his death was insignificant ¨C just another among millions. So why was he the one chosen? He couldn¡¯t say¡­ But one thing was certain: even in death, he had looked out for his brother. He had ensured both of them would survive. They were apart, but they were alive. And for now, that was all the comfort he needed. A rough grip yanked him from warmth, jolting him into the first moments of his new life. The immediate sensation of discomfort, followed by an overwhelming sense of wrongness. Harsh light stung his eyes, and an unfamiliar scent of incense and aged wood filled his tiny nose. His body, so small and fragile, struggled to adjust to its new reality. His blurred vision quickly caught the details of his surroundings. Lavish furniture, golden ornaments, thick and luxurious curtains ¨C in short, wealth. This was not an ordinary home. He had been born into money. This felt wrong. Gartan had promised hardship. But with such riches¡­how difficult could this new life be? A tall young man with ashen hair and rich red eyes, dressed in extravagant robes, held him carelessly, barely sparing a glance at the crying woman lying in bed ¨C Tristan¡¯s new mother. ¡°Kresha vol¡¯nat ferat!¡± The man barked impatiently. The woman sobbed, her voice desperate. ¡°Nesh! Tol revas Kal¡¯tir, neshi, neshi!¡± But the man ignored her entirely. His grip was too tight, his presence radiating something evil, something that made Tristan¡¯s newborn body want to recoil. An old woman ¨C the midwife who had assisted in the birth ¨C shrunk away in fear. The man¡¯s hands felt wrong. Cold. Devoid of feelings. There was something unnerving about him beyond his ashen hair, his harsh demeanor and the fear he summoned in the women ¨C something deeper that Tristan couldn¡¯t quite place easily. It was a sense of control, of absolute power. The robed man turned sharply to another figure in the room, an older man with glasses hunched in the corner. ¡°Maester Flaghern, gashit ilnaien?!¡± The old man, dressed in robes resembling those worn by mages in fantasy novels, approached Tristan cautiously. He studied him for a moment before his eyes widened in shock. He stumbled backward, falling to the floor, hands shaking as he babbled. ¡°Fethka¡­Nesh val¡¯torin! Reshta vol Karnet! La fiedern eha Ifrit!¡± Tristan tried to understand the new language, but nothing made sense to him. But he could tell enough from the tone ¨C Awe. Fear. But why? Why would this old man react with such reverence and terror at the mere sight of him? His new father¡¯s lips curled into the widest of smiles. Then he laughed, deep and almost maniacal, sending a chill through Tristan¡¯s tiny body as he lifted him up in the air. ¡°Val¡¯neti shorn ka resthal. Moa asedar!¡± Whatever he said, it sounded significant ¨C like a promise. Then, the man leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to Tristan¡¯s forehead, but there was nothing loving about it. Finally, he shoved Tristan into his new mother¡¯s arms. She cradled him as though he was the most precious thing in the world, her warmth soothing ¨C the complete opposite of the man who had just held him. This ¨C at least ¨C was comfort. For a moment, he allowed himself to bask in it. To experience this unconditional love he had long forgotten. Then, his thoughts drifted back to his brother. ¡®Wait a minute¡­¡¯ He thought, panic gripping him. ¡®I can¡¯t remember his name!¡¯ His mind scrambled for a name, but there was nothing. A void where it should have been. That thing ¨C that demon, Gartan ¨C had done this. He had taken something from him. Suddenly, his new father spoke again, and one word cut through the haze. ¡°Tristan.¡± ¡®Of course, they had named me Tristan. Figures. All part of Gartan¡¯s vision ¨C whatever it was.¡¯ Tristan¡¯s gaze shifted to the man who held him mere moments ago. The extravagant robes, the cruel glint in his new father¡¯s eyes, the dangerous scar beneath his eye, the opulence of the room. His new father was rich. But he was clearly not a good man. A criminal, surely ¨C but of what level? Tristan closed his tiny eyes, realizing his new life really was going to be a lot similar to his first. ¡®Here we go again¡­¡¯ He thought to himself, preparing for the worst, hoping for the best even when the best was something that never happened to him. Either way, this time he was ready. He won¡¯t let his impatience lead him. This time he would plan, he would strategize, he¡¯ll make something of himself. He was certain of it. 3. Kal: Words and Music 3. Kal: Words and Music Kal had learned a lot in the past nine months since he was reborn. His mind remained sharp, even as his baby body lagged behind ¨C too small, too weak to do the things he once had. But he had made peace with it. For now, he had to focus on learning. His new home was in Terenhill, a quiet farming village nested within the Kingdom of Stulan. The village lay in the kingdom¡¯s south, far from the large cities, but not too far to escape the tensions brewing across the realm. From what Kal had gathered ¨C through careful observation and listening to the conversations between his parents and travelers that passed through their village ¨C there were five great kingdoms in this new world called Terra, each holding dominion over vast lands. But the best part? This world had magic. And he had witnessed it with his own eyes! A lonely traveler ¨C akin to a circus performer ¨C had passed through their village. Gusto the Great, they called him, and he delivered quite a show. He juggled balls with the power of his mind ¨C only the balls were made of fire and dissolved whenever he felt like it. He floated in the air, pretending he was walking up a staircase. And he even disappeared ¨C for only like two seconds, but it was still impressive. That was when the adults used a word Kal didn¡¯t understand. Slowly, he understood the word they were using must have been the word for magic. There was also something about Threads that they constantly mentioned, and Kal wondered what does sewing have to do with magic. Still, Kal couldn¡¯t wait until he was old enough to use magic. He hoped he wasn¡¯t born magicless like the rest of the villagers of Terenhill ¨C including his parents. That would suck. Varelis, his home, was one of the five great kingdoms. It was a land of fertile plains and rich harvests, a nation who had built its prosperity mainly upon the sweat of its farmers. Kuizar, Varelis¡¯ closest neighbor to the east, had long been both a rival and an uneasy ally, and rumors had whispered of a war on the horizon. Kal felt relieved that Terenhill was relatively far away of theses troubles ¨C but the tension remained. The men of the village spoke about the possibility of conscription, and Kal was afraid his father would have to enlist. Varelis and Kuizar weren¡¯t the only ones on the brink of war. Across the sea, another war was steering up, one between Kareth and Ostia, the other two of the great five kingdoms. Their conflict had been simmering for years, and now, many believed it was reaching its boiling point. Overall, the feeling of a great war coming was palpable and Kal wondered if that¡¯s how the people of Earth felt at the brink of World War I and II. Trade routes had been disrupted, mercenaries were on the move, and even a small village like Terenhill felt the effects ¨C fewer goods in the market, higher prices for imported items, and a grand sense of uncertainty. Kal heard it all and was afraid. But for now, he was just a baby. Not much he could do about it. He was a baby in a farmer¡¯s home, with parents who were too young to have seen war firsthand but old and experienced enough to fear it. His father was Reiner Varren. A farmer first and musician second. He worked in the golden rye fields. The long hours under the sun had darkened his skin, and his hands were rough from heavy labor, yet he carried himself with warmth that made him loved by all the villagers. He was always ready to lift Kal into the air no matter how exhausted he was. And when the day was done, he would sit by the hearth of their house with his voutar, which was, for all intents and purposes, an acoustic guitar. The body was slightly rounder, the neck a bit shorter, but the shape was unmistakable. It had six strings, strung over a wooden soundhole, and a fretboard. The tuning pegs weren¡¯t metal ¨C or plastic ¨C but rather wood. But even so¡­this was a guitar. The first time Reinar played it, Kal felt something stir within him ¨C an ache, a longing. He wanted to grab the instrument from his father¡¯s hands and strum all his favorite melodies. But he couldn¡¯t. He was too small, and far too weak. For now, he could only sit, listen, and wait for the day his fingers were strong enough to hold the voutar himself. His father, on the other hand, enjoyed strumming beautiful melodies to him whenever he wasn¡¯t busy working the fields, recognizing Kal¡¯s joy of music. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. His mother, Elara Varren, was just nineteen when she gave birth to him, yet she looked nothing like a teenager her age. She was practically Kal¡¯s age when he died, but she was nothing like him ¨C she was a real, actual grown up. Her brown hair and green eyes made her striking, but it was her patience and control that made her presence felt. She tended to the small olan orchard, cultivating some red fruits that resembled pears, but tasted like plums. It wasn¡¯t her job, though, a hobby at most. And she was always talking to him. Even if she didn¡¯t expect him to understand, she would hum softly as she worked, carrying him in a baby sling. She told him stories about their world, whispering hopes and worries about their future. Slowly, over the past nine months, Kal had learned. He had spent countless hours listening, piecing together the meaning of the words spoken around him. He understood far more than he let on ¨C staying careful. Too much, too soon, and he might scare his loving parents away. He had promised he would make the most out of this life for his sake, and his brother¡¯s. Still, there were moments when he wanted to push things forward. Tonight was one of them. Reinar sat beside the hearth, his voutar resting against his knee as he cleaned it, while Elara sat across him with Kal in her lap. The night was cool, but the fire and their love kept them warm. ¡°Kal,¡± Elara murmured, her fingers brushing gently through his brown curls. ¡°Can you say Mama?¡± Kal blinked up at her, feigning confusion. He had been expecting this. His mother had been trying to get him to speak for weeks now. He couldn¡¯t recall how early he was able to speak in his previous life, so he remained warry. But they were so nice, so loving, he wanted to give them something in return. ¡°He¡¯s still too little for this, El.¡± Reinar interjected. ¡°My mother told me Kal wouldn¡¯t speak his first words at least until he¡¯s two. At least that¡¯s how it was for me and my brothers.¡± ¡®Challenge accepted!¡¯ Kal thought, determined to prove his father wrong. ¡®Prepare to be amazed!¡¯ Kal furrowed his tiny brows, tilting his head, trying to speak the new language he was listening to all this time. ¡°¡­Mah.¡± Elara let out a soft gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. ¡°Reinar! Did you hear that?!¡± Reinar, immediately turned his attention to them, his expression a mix of excitement and disbelief. ¡°I did.¡± He said, setting the instrument aside, leaning closer to them. ¡°Say it again, baby boy. Mah-mah.¡± Kal scrunched his nose, making sure to appear as if he were really trying. He let the word sit on his tongue slowly, deliberately, repeating. ¡°¡­Mah.¡± Elira laughed, gathering him in her arms and pressing a barrage of kisses to his cheeks and forehead. ¡°My baby is a genius!¡± she exclaimed, swaying him lightly. ¡°Reinar, our baby boy is talking already!¡± Reiner let out a low whistle, shaking his head. ¡°I mean, of course, he is my son after all.¡± Elara rolled her eyes. ¡°That¡¯s the reason. Sure.¡± ¡°Well, he¡¯s your son as well.¡± Reiner tried to salvage the situation. ¡®Oh, my¡­¡¯ Kal internally rolled his eyes at the attempt. Coming to his aid, Kal tried to disarm the tension, trying to get his father to play the voutar. Music can always fix everything. Reaching out with his tiny hands, he gave Reiner an expecting look. Kal wished his father could play ¡®Winds of Ruin¡¯, but for now he¡¯d settle for anything really. The room went quiet. Elara was the first to react. ¡°Reinar¡­did he just¡­?¡± Reinar exhaled slowly, shaking his head in surprise and reaching for the voutar. Kal immediately giggled. ¡°Gods, he understands more than we thought.¡± Reinar reached out, ruffling Kal¡¯s hair. ¡°You want me to play, huh?¡± Kal gurgled, clapping his hands. Of course he wanted him to play. Reiner laughed, pulling the voutar back onto his lap. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t say not to that, can I?¡± Then, Reinar began to play. He strummed gently with his thumb, open chords ringing out with a mellow warmth. The instrument¡¯s resonance was rich and full. The chord changes were simple, shifting between a few familiar shapes in a steady, predictable pattern. The way his father strummed was measured, brushing smoothly over the strings. It gave the song a soft, rocking motion ¨C something that was meant to soothe a restless mind rather than throw off a show. Kal couldn¡¯t help but silently judge his father¡¯s technique. No palm muting to give the chords a sharper sound. No accented strokes to make the melody pop. No variation in picking technique. Just steady, warm chords, held for a little longer for the lullaby effect. The playing was clean, his transitions were smooth, his rhythm never faltered. But Kal still wanted more. Then Reinar began to sing. ¡°Little bird, little bird, gliding so high, What do you seek in the vast, endless sky? Do you race the wind? Do you chase the sun? Do you drift till the night¡¯s begun?¡± His baritone was deep, carrying strength and warmth. He wasn¡¯t a trained singer, but he had a natural richness in his voice ¨C something many professionals could¡¯ve only dreamed of. Then, for the first time ever, Kal heard his mother sing, and it made his world stop. ¡°Tiny bird, tiny bird, where will you go? When the night creeps in and the dusk winds grow? Do you dance with the stars? Do you follow the moon? Will you soar through the dark till the dawn comes soon?¡± Her voice was soft and breathy, complimenting his father¡¯s by contrasting it. But it wasn¡¯t just soft ¨C she had control, precision, and a natural vibrato that made the melody feel alive. More than that, she wasn¡¯t just singing along, her voice didn¡¯t simply follow Reinar¡¯s ¨C it moved just above or below his notes, slipping into harmony rather than singing the same melody. Sometimes she sang slightly higher, sometimes slightly lower, always beautifully. Kal suddenly recognized what she was doing, recalling his music teacher from middle school. ¡®She¡¯s harmonizing¡­¡¯ he thought, remembering some music theory. Elara was creating depth, her voice finding the sweet spots between the main melody. Sometimes she drifted into a third above the note, sometimes a fifth below, shifting with ease. Kal was amazed. Before he even realized it, his tiny hands shot up, clapping ¨C more like hitting ¨Ctogether in pure excitement. A bright laugh burst from his mouth, high-pitched and giddy, stopping the melody. Elara gasped, eyes widening as she looked down at him. Reinar blinked, looking puzzled. ¡®Too much?¡¯ Kal wondered. Then his parents burst out laughing. ¡°Look at that!¡± Reinar grinned, strumming a quick flourish on the voutar. ¡°I think our boy¡¯s got a love for music!¡± Elara¡¯s expression melted as she hugged Kal close, and rained down kisses on him. ¡°Oh, my sweetheart.¡± She murmured lovingly. Kal giggled again, glad he didn¡¯t freak them out. Reinar played a few extra cheerful chords, the music lighting up their house. ¡®It¡¯s not metal¡­but I guess it¡¯s fine too.¡¯ Kal thought. ¡®I wish you could¡¯ve been here too, brother¡­¡¯ 4. Tristan: The Heir 4. Tristan: The Heir If at first Tristan believed that living in wealth couldn¡¯t be as hard as Gartan had promised, he quickly realized how wrong he was. His father wasn¡¯t just any criminal, nor was he merely a crime lord ¨C he was Kain Vortalis. Known as Ifrit, he was likely the most fearsome man in all of Stulan, operating in its capital, Dalina. From the moment Tristan was born, the ashen-haired man had never shown an ounce of love toward him. He barely spoke to him, never held him. All he had were expectations. And even those were passed down through the mansion¡¯s servants, not directly from him. Whenever Tristan actually saw him, the man always sent a shiver down his spine, while not even looking at him. In the six years since his birth, Tristan had rarely set foot outside the mansion¡¯s perimeters. But even within its walls, he could tell ¨C from the lavish robes their visitors wore ¨C that his father¡¯s web of influence ran deep, perhaps even into the royal family itself. As for why he wasn¡¯t allowed outside, it was a precaution set by his father. In fact, only a select few even knew that Kain Vortalis had a son. Tristan assumed it was to prevent anyone from using his existence as leverage against his father, while Ifrit prepared him for adulthood, waiting for the right moment to reveal him to the world. His mother wasn¡¯t in the picture either. Rumors around the household suggested that she had been paid to come from a distant land and carry Kain Vortalis¡¯ son ¨C that it had been nothing more than a business transaction to her. But Tristan knew that couldn¡¯t be the truth. He remembered the fear in her eyes when Ifrit had taken him from her arms ¨C the way she had desperately tried to hold onto him. He remembered how carefully she had cradled him on the night of his birth, and for a few months after that ¨C before she disappeared without saying a word. One day, when he was old enough, he knew he would look for her. But that wasn¡¯t the only thing on his mind. Gartan. He needed to learn more about him. But the problem was, he couldn¡¯t just ask. A six-year-old wouldn¡¯t just ask about some deity who can grant reincarnation. That would be too weird and suspicious. For now, he would have to be patient. First, he¡¯ll learn. Slowly and surely. His father made sure he wouldn¡¯t have a moment of idleness. From the moment he had spoken his first words, his father had arranged private tutors to teach him everything ¨C literally everything. And so, alongside world history, mathematics, etiquette, science, and the intricacies of his father¡¯s criminal enterprise, Tristan had been trained restlessly. No one dared to question whether teaching such things to a young child was logical. Those who did were not heard from ever again. Either way, Tristan had no difficulty learning any of those things. His martial arts training had started as theory ¨C as he was still too small and weak to practice ¨C but for months now, he had been learning how to throw punches, execute holds on dummies, and even swing a sword. His schedule was ruthless. He wasn¡¯t allowed to have a normal childhood. He never had time to breathe, constantly forced to either learn or train. Tristan was always exhausted, but he had made a decision early on: if his life was going to be harsh and unforgiving, as Gartan promised, then he would take everything his father could give him. So, he had shown promise from an early age, building upon his previous life¡¯s knowledge, shocking everyone around him with his unusual focus and comprehension. Everyone ¨C except one person. His father. Ifrit had never once seemed impressed, not even when Tristan had been forming full sentences at only a year and a half. It was as if he had expected it ¨C as if anything less would have been unacceptable. But there was one thing Ifrit wanted Tristan to learn more than anything else ¨C magic. Specifically fire magic ¨C the very magic that had earned him his legendary nickname. Kain Vortalis was obsessed with the idea of his son controlling this power as well. He had constantly pressured Maester Flaghern ¨C the same old man who had feared Tristan on the night of his rebirth and one of his father¡¯s most trusted advisors ¨C to begin his training immediately. ¡°If he can speak, then he can understand speech.¡± Ifrit told Flaghern back then. ¡°Start explaining him the basics. I want him to have as many Threads as possible before he¡¯s ten.¡± But the old man managed to keep Ifrit at bay, insisting that it was too early. That a child¡¯s cognitive abilities were not developed enough to understand the complexities of weaving Threads or the concept of the Inner Eye. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. A compromise had been made ¨C Tristan would begin his training once he turned six. Today was his sixth birthday. And of course, rather than any kind of celebration, his father had already arranged his first magic lesson with Flaghern. As Tristan had expected. ¡°C¡¯mon, Little Demon, Flaghern is waiting.¡± Rosalina, Tristan¡¯s personal bodyguard, called out as she leaned against the threshold of his room, arms crossed. Rosalina was a woman in her late twenties, her short dark hair cropped into a sharp pixie cut. Her tanned skin held a warm, golden undertone, a trait common among people from the southern kingdom of Ostia. She was relatively short, her body incredibly fit, carrying a sixpack of abs. But her most striking feature was the black eyepatch over her left eye. Despite that, she was still one of the most beautiful women Tristan had ever seen ¨C in both his lives. She was also really scary carrying a massive greatsword on her back. From what Tristan gathered, Rosalina was a mercenary from Ostia who had begun working for his father in her late teens. Over time, she had proven her loyalty to him, rising through the ranks to become one of his top officers. But after a terrible accident that cost her an eye, Ifrit had relegated her to ¡°simpler¡± tasks ¨C one of which included babysitting Tristan since he was two years old. When he was younger, and Rosalina rightfully assumed he couldn¡¯t understand her, she often ranted about how humiliating it was to be reduced to a glorified nanny. At first, Tristan felt bad for her ¨C but that feeling had quickly passed. Instead, she had become his primary target for bullying and teasing ¨C the only outlet he had to alleviate the stress of his new life. ¡°I can¡¯t change with you standing there.¡± Tristan said, subtly teasing her. She sighed, incapable of understanding humor as usual. ¡°Trust me, there¡¯s nothing there I haven¡¯t already seen when you were smaller. Just change already.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t until you leave, Rosie.¡± Tristan crossed his arms, grinning after calling her with that nickname ¨C he knew she hated it. Her eye twitched in irritation as she slowly approached him. ¡°Listen here, you little shit ¨C if Flaghern tells Ifrit we were late, guess who¡¯s getting the blame? Me. So get ready.¡± Then, after a brief pause, and before Tristan could retort with another tease, she cleared her throat. ¡°¡­Please.¡± That single ¡®please¡¯ made Tristan pause. He knew he was untouchable ¨C the son of someone powerful ¨C but he didn¡¯t want to abuse it too much. He wanted to keep his humanity in check as much as possible, for as long as possible. ¡°Fine.¡± He exhaled, relenting. Rosalina smiled weakly, showing her softer side for just a moment. ¡°Here, I¡¯ll turn around.¡± Tristan smiled for the third time that week. All of them had been because of Rosalina. He liked her. They got along better than he did with anyone else in his new life. He dressed quickly, but before he could leave, Rosalina reached into her back pocket and pulled something out. ¡°By the way, Little Demon, I got something for you.¡± She extended her hand. ¡°Happy birthday.¡± A small dagger rested in her palm. In her hands, it looked like a big needle ¨C but to Tristan¡¯s smalls hands, it was just the right size for a knife. It had a fairly simple design. A thin silver blade with a golden handle. And that¡¯s pretty much it. Tristan¡¯s heart raced. He blinked in disbelief. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time someone got him a birthday present. In his previous life, he and his brother hadn¡¯t exchanged gifts ever since they ran away from home ¨C their financial situation had been always too tight. At some point, they had just agreed that presents weren¡¯t necessary. Tristan reached for it, gripping the handle and swinging it a few times to test the weight. ¡®A dagger. As a present. For a six-year-old.¡¯ He thought in disbelief. ¡®Gods, Rosalina¡­¡± He really, really liked her. But of course, he couldn¡¯t resist teasing her. ¡°Did you really just give me a dagger?¡± He asked, feigning disbelief. ¡°Damn¡­Dad¡¯s going to be pissed.¡± Her eyes widened in horror. ¡°Shit. You¡¯re right!¡± She lunged to snatch the blade back, but Tristan was fast, expecting her reaction, hiding it behind his back. ¡°It¡¯s mine now.¡± He grinned. ¡°But don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t tell dad. There will be a price, of course.¡± She let out a deep sigh, already regretting her decision. ¡°Figures¡­¡± Then, shaking her head, she motioned toward the door. ¡°We¡¯ll discuss this later. For now, let¡¯s go. Flaghern is probably going crazy already.¡± *** Maester Jorah Flaghern was old. If Tristan had to guess, he¡¯d say the man was well over seventy. And yet, he moved with ease, his steps fluid and healthy. Earth¡¯s elders always had that stiff, slow movement about them. But not Flaghern. Tristan assumed it was because the man was a mage ¨C one his father trusted enough to allow into his inner circle. Ifrit wouldn¡¯t keep someone weak so close. No. Flaghern was one of his top officers. Today, for the lesson, Flaghern wore a light gray robe. ¡®All he¡¯s missing is a ridiculously large matching hat, and he¡¯d literally be The Gray mage from that fantasy novel.¡¯ Tristan mused. ¡®He already has the beard and hair for it.¡¯ ¡°Finally!¡± Flaghern exhaled dramatically as they stepped into the small classroom ¨C a space Ifrit had specifically built for Tristan¡¯s studies. The old mage¡¯s gaze immediately snapped to Rosalina, his expression souring. ¡°You should¡¯ve been here ten minutes ago.¡± Rosalina rolled her eyes. ¡°The Young Master was getting ready. We cannot rush him, don¡¯t forget, Flaghern.¡± The old mage sighed, mirroring her annoyance. ¡°Sure.¡± Then, he turned to Tristan, his gaze still carrying the same wariness it had since the day Tristan was reborn. ¡°Are you ready, Young Master?¡± Tristan didn¡¯t particularly like Flaghern. The feeling was mutual. And Trsitan didn¡¯t mind for now. The old man respected power, that much was obvious. He didn¡¯t really fear Tristan now, but one day he would. And when that day came, Tristan wanted control over him ¨C not friendship. Still, he gave a curt nod. ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡± Flaghern returned the nod and gestured to the single chair in the front of the room, positioned close to the blackboard. Tristan took his seat, excited by the prospect of learning magic. Most people couldn¡¯t ¨C Rosalina, for example ¨C but Flaghern already ensured Ifrit that Tristan was capable. Rosalina stayed close, leaning against the wall near the board ¨C her sharp eye never leaving either of them. ¡°You can leave if you want.¡± Flaghern said, visibly annoyed by her presence. She grinned at him. ¡°I¡¯d rather stay.¡± Flaghern let out a long-suffering sigh, but didn¡¯t argue. Instead, he turned back to Tristan. ¡°How do you feel your math and science studies are coming along, Young Master?¡± Tristan blinked. That was not the question he had expected. ¡°I¡¯ve already spoken with your tutors. I already know your progress is incredible.¡± Flaghern continued, watching him carefully. ¡°But I need to hear your thoughts before we begin.¡± Tristan hesitated. He wasn¡¯t sure how to respond. Back on Earth, before his parents¡¯ deaths, he had been a diligent student, even a promising one. He had always had a passion for academics ¨C but life had never given him the chance to truly pursue it. Now, in this new life, with every possible resource at his disposal, he didn¡¯t even care how strange it must have seemed that a young child grasped these subjects so easily. So, he simply nodded, telling the truth. ¡°I feel like I understand these subjects all too well.¡± Flaghern hummed, tapping his fingers on the desk. Then, after a moment, he smirked. ¡°Then let¡¯s see just how well with a quick test.¡± 5. Tristan: The Inner Eye 5. Tristan: The Inner Eye Flaghern didn¡¯t hold back. He straightened up and fired the first question. ¡°A foreign merchant is selling a bundle of goods for 80 gold pieces. The buyer requests a discount of 6%. Additionally, the city imposes a 12% trade tax, and a separate 5% levy on foreign merchants. After all deductions and taxes, how much does the merchant take home?¡± Tristan barely had to think. He knew many ways to quickly calculate using his mind alone. ¡°Sixty-two point four, one, six.¡± Rosalina snorted. Flaghern¡¯s smirk widened slightly. ¡°Good. Now, for something more theoretical.¡± He folded his hands together. ¡°If an object is falling at a steady, constant acceleration, what happens to its velocity over time?¡± ¡°It increases at a steady rate.¡± Tristan answered immediately, recalling all his physics classes from school. ¡°Assuming no resistance, it will continue accelerating until something external stops it.¡± Silence followed. Flaghern still smiled as he nodded slowly. Rosalina clicked her tongue before winking at Tristan. ¡°Tch. That was too easy for him.¡± Tristan chuckled at her reaction. Flaghern nodded, releasing a low chuckle as well. ¡°As expected of the son of Ifrit¡­¡± Tristan rolled his eyes. ¡®That has nothing to do with that man¡­¡¯ He thought, irritation growing within him. But then Flaghern continued, moving to the interesting part, and Tristan¡¯s anger faded. ¡°I was merely testing you, Young Master.¡± Flaghern adjusted his sleeves. ¡°You see, magic in our world, aside from being hereditary, is heavily reliant on our understanding of the world itself. ¡°There are many ways one may perceive the world, but I am a firm believer in the scientifical approach, and that is the approach I will be teaching you. Your early and remarkable success in your studies only proves that you are well-suited for this method.¡± Tristan remained silent, his curiosity burning hotter than ever. ¡®This was real magic. Not tricks. Not sleight of hand. Real. Magic.¡¯ ¡°Young Master, do you remember when we spoke about Cognition Threads before?¡± Flaghern asked. Tristan nodded excitedly. ¡°Yes, Maester. You told me our understanding of the world builds our magic. Each understanding creates a Thread.¡± Flaghern smiled proudly at the title Maester ¨C exactly what Tristan had been aiming for to feed the old man¡¯s ego. ¡°Exactly.¡± Flaghern clasped his hands together. ¡°To put it simply: for each concept we truly understand, we ¨C unbeknownst to us ¨C weave a Cognition Thread in our mind. This allows us to use magic related to that concept and our level of understanding of it.¡± Tristan¡¯s excitement was immediately dampened. ¡®That was so¡­vague.¡¯ He thought. His expression must have given him away, because Rosalina sighed and ran a hand down her face. ¡°You¡¯re terrible at explaining this, old man. Give him examples or something.¡± Flaghern¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°Ah, ah, ah! I allowed you to stay, but do not interfere with my lesson. You¡¯re not a mage, you silly Ostian.¡± Rosalina rolled her eyes but backed off. Flaghern turned back to Tristan, taking Rosalina¡¯s advice and choosing a different approach. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about fire magic ¨C your father¡¯s signature.¡± A smile spread across his face. Tristan nodded, eager to hear more. ¡°There are five levels of understanding of any concept in our world.¡± Flaghern explained. ¡°Let¡¯s break it down from the scientifical approach perspective, starting with level one ¨C basic understanding of fire.¡± He reached for a small, unlit candle that had been resting on the table beside him. Tristan eyed the candle, then Flaghern, curiosity rising within him. The old mage checked his pockets as if looking for something for a long minute before resigning with a deep sigh. He turned toward Rosalina. ¡°Do you have a¡­some sort of fire starter? I know you smoke¡­¡± ¡°Oh, so now you need this silly Ostian to interfere?¡± Rosalina exhaled, rolling her eyes theatrically. Tristan was surprised by her reaction. He never saw her trying to joke with anyone, especially not with Flaghern of all people. But she quickly showed she wasn¡¯t joking ¨C she was actually growing angry. Flaghern rolled his eyes. ¡°Just be helpful, would you? It¡¯s for the Young Master¡¯s sake.¡± Rosalina twisted her face in displeasure but eventually yielded. With a sigh, she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small, wooden matchbox ¨C not a flimsy carton like the ones Tristan had known and used in his past life, but a sturdy case of some light-colored woods, with a roughened strip on the side for striking. She tossed it to Flaghern, who caught it easily. ¡°Much appreciated, dear Ostian.¡± The old man slid the box open, took out a matchstick, and struck it against the coarse edge. With a faint hiss, a small flame bloomed to life at the tip. Then, Flaghern brought it closer to the candle¡¯s wick, flickering it on fire. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Tristan leaned in, his eyes locked onto the fire as he waited for the magic to happen. Flaghern began his lesson. ¡°At its core, fire is the result of a chemical reaction between oxygen and fuel in the presence of heat. Without one of these three elements, fire cannot exist.¡± He brought his fingers next to the wick and snuffed the flame out. ¡°That is why a candle can be snuffed out by removing oxygen, why wet wood refuses to burn, and why an ember dies if it lacks heat.¡± Tristan nodded, knowing these principles from grade school. ¡°Before Level One, a mage must understand these principles to even begin manipulating fire. When he does, he¡¯ll weave a single Fire Magic Cognition Thread and become able of using it¡­to an extent.¡± He pulled out another matchstick and lit the candle again. Meanwhile, Rosalina coughed nervously, whispering. ¡°Stop wasting my matches¡­¡± Flaghern continued. ¡°With a single Fire Magic Cognition Thread, a mage cannot create their own fire. They can only control what already exists ¨C a candle, a torch, a bonfire.¡± With a slow motion, he raised his hand upward, and the flame twitched. Suddenly, it stretched, narrowing and rising higher than it should¡¯ve been able to. Tristan¡¯s eyes widened in excitement. Outside of simple cleaning spells the house servants had used, he was yet to see magic with his own eyes. Well, until now that is. Then, Flaghern slowly moved his hand to the right, and the flame bent sideways, then curled in a spiral, hovering just above the wick. Then, just as quickly, it snapped back to normal. ¡°The first Fire Magic Cognition Thread is what allows you to interact with fire at all. But having it doesn¡¯t mean you can control fire well. That part requires skill ¨C training. Sometimes a mage will have a deep understanding of a magic discipline ¨C one that matches higher levels of mastery ¨C but his skill is too low to implement what he knows. That is true to all magic ¨C not just fire magic. ¡°Take invisibility magic as another example.¡± Flaghern continued, running his fingers through his long beard. ¡°A scientifically inclined mage must understand invisibility as light bending around oneself in order to gain the first Cognition Thread. But if he does not practice his knowledge, he won¡¯t be able to apply it.¡± He paused, eyeing Tristan carefully. ¡°Do you understand, Young Master?¡± Tristan¡¯s mind raced. There was something he couldn¡¯t quite grasp, but before he could open his mouth, Flaghern pressed on. ¡°Back to fire magic ¨C the extent of your capabilities will only grow higher as your understanding deepens.¡± He folded his hands behind his back. ¡°Once you reach the third Cognition Thread, you will no longer need to rely on external conditions. Your flames will burn using your mana ¨C your life force ¨C as fuel.¡± Flaghern gave a small smirk at Tristan¡¯s annoyed expression. ¡°Now, Young Master, your father, Ifrit, has woven five Fire Magic Cognition Threads ¨C the highest possible mastery of flame.¡± Tristan stiffened slightly. He never saw him in action but he already knew his father was powerful. Hearing it framed that way ¨C that he had reached the peak of mastery of something as dangerous and volatile as fire ¨C made him even more fearsome in his eyes. ¡°Ifrit does not summon fire, child. He is fire. He understands it ¨C truly understands it ¨C better than nearly anyone in our world.¡± Flaghern exhaled. ¡°For comparison, I myself have only four Threads, with no real hope of ever reaching the fifth. Not at my age.¡± But Tristan wasn¡¯t focused on Ifrit or Flaghern anymore. One thing still bothered him. ¡°Maester Flaghern, there¡¯s something I don¡¯t understand.¡± He reached a hand toward the candle¡¯s flame. Rosalina snorted. ¡°Well, that¡¯s something I¡¯ve never heard you say before.¡± Flaghern simply nodded. ¡°What is it?¡± Trsitan stared at the flickering fire, his brows furrowing. He focused. He understood the fundamentals of fire ¨C fuel, oxygen, heat. It was grade school knowledge. He even understood heat transfer ¨C how fire spreads through conduction, convection, and radiation. Surely that was enough to grant him multiple Cognition Threads. So why wasn¡¯t the flame yielding to him? Tristan gritted his teeth, frustration growing. His patience snapped. ¡°I understand fire, but I can¡¯t control it!¡± Tristan barked, his small hands curling into fists. Rosalina tensed at his reaction. Stepping closer, Tristan could see her worried expression. Flaghern, on the other hand, merely chuckled. ¡°Slow down, Young Master. We haven¡¯t even opened your Inner Eye yet.¡± Tristan¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°My¡­Inner Eye?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Flaghern nodded. ¡°At the end of the day, magic is a gift humanity wields because the God of Magic, Eludranth the Great, granted it to us. But before a mage can use magic, he must first open his Inner Eye ¨C his connection to Eludranth.¡± Tristan¡¯s heart pounded, he was growing impatient. ¡°Well, how do we open it?!¡± ¡°Slow down.¡± Flaghern repeated, sounding amused. ¡°Before we get to that, I need you to understand something important.¡± He held Tristan¡¯s gaze. ¡°Thinking you understand a concept does not mean you actually do. If magic were that easy, mages would simply share knowledge with each other, and everyone would reach five Cognition Threads in every magical discipline. But that¡¯s not how it works.¡± He tapped his temple. ¡°A mage must understand a concept down to the very fiber of his being ¨C not just read about it in a book and assume he had grasped it because he understand language.¡± Tristan barely heard any of that. His focus had narrowed to a single thing. ¡°The Inner Eye?¡± He pressed. Flaghern sighed, shaking his head before gesturing to the wooden floor before him. ¡°Come. Sit there in a lotus position.¡± Tristan practically jumped from the chair and did as he was told. Flaghern¡¯s expression turned serious. ¡°To unlock you Inner Eye, you must enter a tranquil state ¨C a heightened form of meditation in which your mind and soul open to the flow of mana within your own body and around you.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow. He was no stranger to meditation. ¡°Yes.¡± Flaghern nodded. ¡°Once you reach this state, you¡¯ll feel a tingling sensation ¨C that¡¯s when you need to mentally reach for you Inner Eye.¡± ¡°What happens then?¡± Flaghern chuckled, folding his arms. ¡°Oh, you¡¯ll see. I wouldn¡¯t want to spoil the experience for you.¡± His smirk faded slightly as he added. ¡°The first dive into the Inner Eye is merely a formality. Speak to it, and it shall grant you magic. There is nothing to fear.¡± He gestured toward Tristan. ¡°Go on, Young Master. Close your eyes and reach for it. The next time you open them, you will be able to wield magic ¨C and we shall officially begin your training.¡± Tristan exhaled slowly and did as commanded. He closed his eyes. At first, there was only darkness. But soon, as he reached for his Inner Eye, there was something else. He felt like he was becoming weightless. His body relaxed, his breathing slowed. His thoughts quieted, slowly fading away. And then, he felt the world around him shift. When Tristan opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else entirely. He stood in an endless abyss, surrounded by a vast, endless cosmos. Everywhere around him, countless bright lights shimmered in the distance like stars. Tristan¡¯s heart raced. For a fleeting moment, this place reminded him of his meeting with Gartan ¨C the same vast emptiness, the same endless darkness. But then he noticed the differences. First, he could see his own body. Unlike in Gartan¡¯s void, where he had felt like a pair of floating eyes, here he had form, presence, weight. Second, there was something before him. A massive golden circle floated in the air ¨C a perfect ring, glowing brightly, hovering above him. Surrounding it ¨C making its circumference ¨C were thousands golden lines that resembled threads. Tristan took a step forward, his eyes locked onto the mysterious object. And then, he remembered. ¡®Flaghern told me to speak to it¡­is that the it he referred to?¡¯ Tristan swallowed, steadying himself. Then, carefully, he addressed in. ¡°Are you¡­my Inner Eye?¡± For a long moment, nothing happened. But then, without warning, the ring pulsed once ¨C an unnatural, resonating hum vibrating to the very fabric of this space. Then, it spoke. A voice so powerful, so commanding, that Tristan felt it shake through his little bones. ¡°YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.¡± Tristan¡¯s breath caught. The voice was neither male nor female. It was something beyond human comprehension ¨C something ancient, absolute. Despite his fear, he took a step forward. ¡°What? What do you mean?¡± The ring pulsed again. ¡°YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.¡± He took another step toward it, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. ¡°Explain yourself. I don¡¯t understand.¡± The golden ring began to glow even brighter, fiercer. Then, suddenly, it turned red. The entire space trembled as the ring¡¯s glow flared violently, coloring the entire cosmos with its crimson aura. And then, the voice thundered once more. ¡°YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE, TRISTAN CLARK.¡± ¡°I DENY YOU ACCESS TO THIS WORLD¡¯S MAGIC.¡±