The musty air of the shack felt heavier after my return from the Sefirot Castle. The brief taste of power and control there only highlighted the crushing weakness of my current reality. My head throbbed, a hollow, aching emptiness where a sliver of mana had briefly glowed. I was a child, stranded in a body that felt like a prison of bone and fragile flesh.
Kaelen's words echoed in my mind. Orange core. Third Level Alchemical Body. They were distant stars, goals I had to chart a course toward through a sea of current misery. But first, I had to understand the port I'd been dumped in. I had to understand who Elian was, or rather, who he had been.
The gray light from the window was stronger now, promising a sun that hadn't yet bothered to show itself. My stomach growled, a sharp, insistent reminder of this body's needs. Food. Information. Both were likely outside this door.
With a groan that was too old for this young throat, I pushed myself off the lumpy bed. My legs trembled, but held. I walked to the rough-hewn door, my bare feet cold on the packed earth floor. I took a steadying breath, bracing for whatever was outside, and pulled the door open.
The view stopped me short.
The shack wasn't nestled in the village as I'd assumed. It was isolated, perched on a steep, wooded hill that overlooked the settlement below. A narrow, worn path snaked down through tall, needled trees towards a collection of perhaps two dozen buildings clustered around a central green. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, and the sounds of life—the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the shouts of children, the lowing of livestock—drifted up on the cold morning air. The village looked… normal. Peaceful. It was a stark contrast to the profound loneliness of this hilltop.
Why was I up here, alone? The question nagged at me as I started down the path. The descent was tricky; my weak legs threatened to buckle on the uneven ground, and I had to grab onto rough-barked trees for support. By the time I reached the bottom and stepped onto the main dirt road leading into the village, I was breathing heavily, my thin shirt clinging to my back with a light sweat.
The first few people I saw—a woman carrying a basket of laundry, an old man whittling on a stump—barely glanced my way. But then a group of children, older than me by a few years, stopped their game of kicking a leather ball. They fell silent, staring. One of them, a boy with a shock of red hair, elbowed his friend and nodded in my direction. Their expressions weren't curious or friendly. They were closed-off, wary. One of them, a girl, actually took a small step back.
A cold knot formed in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. This was not a good sign.
I kept walking, forcing my chin up, pretending I hadn't seen them. The main street was lined with simple, functional buildings: a smithy, a general store with a placard of a carved loaf of bread, a tavern called The Grizzled Boar. People went about their business, but a pattern quickly emerged. Eyes would flick to me, then away. Conversations would hush as I passed, then resume in lower tones once I was a few steps beyond. It was a subtle thing, a current of quiet rejection that flowed through the village, and I was a rock disrupting its stream.
I needed to try. I needed to know. I spotted a man who looked like he might be in charge, or at least less likely to shoo me away immediately. He was a broad-shouldered farmer unloading sacks of grain from a wagon outside the general store. He had a practical, no-nonsense look about him.
Summoning what little courage I had, I walked up to him. My small shadow fell across the sack he was hefting onto his shoulder.
"Excuse me, sir?" I said, my voice smaller and higher than I was used to.
He straightened up, turning to look down at me. His face was weathered and lined, his eyes a flat, uninterested brown. They registered me, and then, just like the children, they shuttered. His expression hardened into a mask of dismissive annoyance.
"What do you want, boy?" he grunted, his voice rough.
"I… I was wondering if…" I faltered, suddenly unsure what to even ask for. Food? Help? The truth? "I'm new to the village," I finished lamely, which was technically true from a certain perspective.
A humorless, sharp bark of laughter escaped him. "New? You've been here three years, lad. Don't bother me with your nonsense. Run along back to your hill."
He turned his back on me, hefting the sack and carrying it into the store without another glance. The dismissal was absolute, final, and ice-cold.
The message was received, loud and clear. I was not welcome here. I was a pariah. The reasons were a mystery, but the effect was undeniable. Any attempt to get answers in the light of day was futile. My presence only seemed to irritate and unite them in their silent disapproval.
A plan formed in my mind, cold and pragmatic. If the day belonged to them, the night would be mine. I would come back under the cover of darkness, listen at windows, maybe even peek into the tavern. Intel gathered in shadow was often more valuable than that asked for in the sun.
With my head down, I turned and walked back the way I came. The stares felt heavier on my back now, prickling like needles. I didn't look back until I was on the path leading up the hill. From the higher vantage point, the village looked even more like a closed fist. I was definitely on the outside.
The climb back to the shack was arduous. By the time I pushed the door open and collapsed back onto the miserable bed, I was shaking with fatigue. The brief foray had cost me most of my energy. I needed to eat.
The pantry was a recessed shelf next to the cold hearth. It was pitifully bare. A half-sack of coarse oats, a small clay pot of hardened honey, a few wizened potatoes starting to sprout eyes, a smaller sack of salt, and a wedge of hard cheese wrapped in cloth. I did a quick mental calculation. If I was careful, stretching each meager meal, it might last two weeks. Maybe.
Desperation began to itch at the back of my mind. Two weeks. That was my timeline to somehow not starve to death.
I grabbed a handful of oats and chewed on them dry, the gritty texture unpleasant but filling. As I ate, my eyes scanned the single room. Where would a lonely, ostracized boy hide his secrets? Or his treasures?
The bed was the only piece of furniture that offered a hiding place. I got on my knees and peered into the dusty darkness beneath the rough frame. Nothing but dirt and cobwebs. I reached a hand under, sweeping it through the dust. My fingers brushed against something coarse and hidden right up against the wall, tucked into a corner where the frame met the floor. I grabbed it and pulled.
It was a small, burlap sack, tied tightly with a piece of twine. And next to where it had been was a book, its leather cover stained and worn.
My heart beat a little faster. Jackpot.
I sat on the floor, my back against the bed, and first undid the knot on the sack. I upended it into my lap. Two coins, each about the size of my thumbnail, gleamed in the dim light. Gold. A small fortune for someone living like this. This was his emergency fund. His escape money. Why hadn't he used it?
I set the coins aside carefully, their weight feeling immense with possibility. Then, I picked up the book. It wasn't a proper book, but a folio of cheap parchment clumsily stitched together. The cover was blank. I opened it.
The handwriting inside was a child's scrawl, uneven and often blotted with what looked like tear stains or… something darker. It was a diary.
I took a deep breath and began to read. And as I did, the voice in my head shifted, the narrative of this tragic life unfolding not in my first-person perspective, but in the third-person horror of the boy who had lived it.
---
[The Diary of Elian]
Entry 1: Ma says I should write my thoughts. She gave me this book and a charcoal stick. She says it helps when things are loud inside. Pa is yelling again downstairs. The walls are shaking. Ma says it's the house settling. I'm nine today. Pa didn't remember. Ma gave me a sweetroll she hid. It was the best thing ever. I heard her crying later. I don't like it when she cries.
Entry 5: Pa came back from the hunt. He was hurt. His friends carried him. He's sleeping now. A mana beast with tusks like swords got him. Ma is scared. She says his core is damaged. I don't know what that means, but his face is gray.
Entry 11: Pa is different. He doesn't smile. He smells funny. Like the stuff the men drink at the tavern. He yelled at Ma for burning the stew. He never yelled before. He threw the bowl. It broke against the wall. Ma jumped. I jumped too. He looked at me and his eyes were empty. Like a dead fish.
Entry 23: He hit her today. A slap. So loud it echoed. She fell against the table. She had a mark on her face after. Red and angry. She told me it was nothing. That he was in pain. That we had to be strong for him. I tried to be strong. I hid under my bed until he stopped shouting.
Entry 40: The bottle is his best friend now. He drinks it all day. He calls me names. 'Useless runt.' 'Foundling.' He says I'm not his real son. That Ma took pity on a bastard left on a doorstep. Ma says he doesn't mean it. That he loved me once. I try to remember that love. It's getting hard to find.
Entry 58: He hit me today. I dropped a cup. It was an accident. His hand was so big. My ear is still ringing. It hurts to lie on that side. Ma put a cold cloth on it. She was crying. She said she was sorry. Over and over. Why is she sorry? It wasn't her fault.
Entry 75: The bruises are easy to hide under my shirt. Ma says to keep them hidden. We can't let the village know. They look up to Pa. He was a great hunter. A strong mage. They won't believe us. They'll think we're lying. So we stay quiet. We are very good at being quiet.
Entry 89: Ma is sick in the mornings. She's getting fat in her belly. She says I'm going to have a little brother or sister. She tried to tell Pa. He was drunk. He laughed a horrible laugh. He said it wasn't his. He called her a whore. He threw his bottle at the wall. The glass flew everywhere. A piece cut my arm. I didn't make a sound.
Entry 90: I heard them fighting. Worse than ever. Ma was screaming. Not scared screaming. Angry screaming. She said she wouldn't let him hurt her baby. She said she wouldn't let him hurt me anymore. He called her a liar. There was a crash. Then silence. A terrible silence. I was too scared to move.
Entry 91: Ma came into my room. Her eyes were wild. There was blood on her apron. Not a lot. A smear. She told me to get my warm clothes. She said we were leaving. Right now. I asked about Pa. She said Pa wouldn't be hurting us anymore. She said he was sleeping. Her hands were shaking. We ran into the night. We ran for a long time.
Entry 92: We came here. To this village. Stonehaven. Ma told the village elder what happened. She told them everything. The drinking. The hitting. She told them she defended herself and me. She told them she had to… make him sleep forever. The elder listened. He nodded. He said he was sorry for our trouble. But his eyes didn't believe her. Nobody's eyes did. They looked at us like we were monsters. Pa was a hero from the next town over. We were strangers with a scary story.
Entry 100: They whisper when we walk by. They call her a witch. They call me a demon child. They think we murdered him in cold blood. For money? For fun? I don't know. The shopkeeper charges us double. The children throw rocks if I get too close. We live on the hill. Away from everyone. Ma says it's for the best.
Entry 110: Ma had the baby. A little girl. She's so small. She has Ma's eyes. Ma named her Lila. Ma is tired all the time. She cries holding Lila. She says she's sorry for bringing her into this world. I tell her it's okay. I help as much as I can.
Entry 125: Ma is gone. She left in the night. She took Lila. She left me a note. It said she was sorry. That she couldn't do it anymore. That the village was starving us out and she couldn't watch me suffer. She said she was going to her sister's house far away. She said she would send for me when she got there. She left me the three gold coins from her wedding ring. She told me to be strong. To be brave. That was a month ago. No one has come.
Entry 126: I went to the village today. To buy milk. The woman spat at my feet. She said my mother was a murderer and a deserter. She said I was a curse. I ran home. I still have the money. I'm so hungry. But I'm more scared.
Entry 127: No one will help me. They all hate me. They think I'm evil. Maybe I am. Maybe I made Pa angry. Maybe I made Ma leave. It's so cold. And quiet. The quiet is the worst part.
Entry 128: I found Pa's old hunting knife. It's sharp. It would be easy. Just a little push. Then the quiet would stop. Then the hurting would stop. I wouldn't be hungry anymore. I could just sleep.
---
The diary ended there. There were no more entries.
I sat on the cold floor, the final words burning into my mind. Just a little push. The charcoal scrawl on that last page was shaky, desperate.
A profound silence filled the shack, a silence far deeper than the absence of sound. It was the silence of a story cut short. The silence of a small, lonely boy sitting in this very spot, holding a knife, and seeing no way out.
I hadn't realized I was crying until a hot tear splashed onto the open page, smudging the word "sleep." A deep, aching sorrow welled up in my chest, a feeling that was entirely my own and yet completely his. This wasn't just a history I was reading. It was a ghost, handing me its burdens due to ower conection and the residual emotions in this body and my abilty of knowledge gathering.
I understood the gold coins now. They were his mother's last act of love,regret and a way of making up for the abandonment and his final chain. He couldn't bring himself to spend them, to erase that last tangible piece of her hope. And he couldn't bring himself to use the knife. He had just… stayed. Waiting. Withering.
The villagers' hatred wasn't random. It was a judgment passed on a story they thought they knew. A beloved hunter dead, a wife who fled, a strange, quiet boy left behind—it was easier to believe the boy was tainted, a seed of evil, than to believe their hero was a monster. It was a tragic, common calculus.
A connection snapped into place within me, deep and irrevocable. I had been frustrated with this weak body, this poor starting point. But now I felt the weight of the soul that had inhabited it before me. His fear, his loneliness, his quiet endurance. He had held on, through hunger and cold and utter despair, until his very spirit had been worn away, making room for mine.
He hadn't given up. Not truly. He had just… stopped. And Kaelen had seen a vacant vessel.
"I'm sorry, Elian," I whispered into the dusty air, my voice thick with emotion. "You deserved so much better."
The grief was real. The anger was real. This wasn't just a game anymore. This was a life. A life with a past, with injustices, with a name that was spat upon.
I carefully closed the diary, reverently retied the sack of gold coins, and placed both back in their hiding spot under the bed. They were no longer just resources; they were relics. They were his.
My self-pity evaporated, burned away by a cold, clarifying fury. Kaelen's amusement, the village's contempt, the weakness of this body—they were all obstacles. But they were obstacles for me to overcome. For both of us. Elian and I were one now. His pain was my pain. His enemies… would be my enemies.
My original plan to sneak into the village at night felt petty now. I didn't need to eavesdrop to know the truth. I knew it. The whole sordid, heartbreaking truth.
What I needed was strength. Not just to survive, but to rise. To prove them all wrong. To become so strong that their whispers would seem like the buzzing of gnats. To find his mother and sister, if they still lived, and give them the safety they deserved.
I looked at the pitiful pantry. Two weeks of food. That was my deadline.
I would not let his suffering be for nothing. I would not waste this second chance he had, in a way, given me.
I crossed my legs on the scratchy blanket, assuming the meditation pose. This time, it was different. This time, it wasn't an exercise. It was a vow. A promise etched in mana and will.
I closed my eyes, pushing the lingering sadness and rage into a tight, focused point in my mind. I reached for that dormant, cool knot in my chest. The dim, dark red core.
Before, I had invited the mana. Now, I called to it. I demanded it.
Come to me, I thought, the force of my will echoing with the resolve of two souls. I need you.
I thought of the Quincy arts, of drawing in energy not as a passive vessel, but as a sovereign claiming his due. The air around me began to shimmer with those same, tiny motes of light. But this time, they didn't drift. They streamed. They flowed toward me in a faint, visible current, drawn by the power of my compounded will.
The cool trickle in my core became a steady flow. The dim black light began to brighten, warming to a faint, pulsing red splendor. It was working. Faster than before.
I felt the change within my focus. A deeper connection to the mana, as if I wasn't just absorbing it, but communing with it. Understanding it. The boundary between the energy outside and the energy inside began to blur. This was more than just gathering power. This was the beginning of refinement. The start of the long, arduous path to forging a core that could change the world.
The headache started again, and a nosebleed began to drip down my lip. My body trembled with the strain. But I didn't stop. I pushed harder though the danger of forcefully rapidly raising my core level with no formal training or physical improvement was known by me.
The red glow in my chest grew steadier, brighter.
Outside, the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the lonely hill. Inside the shack, a different light was growing. A light of defiance. A light of promise.
The training had begun.
[END OF CHAPTER]