The young teen lay in a pile of trash, blankly staring at the darkening sky above. His dirty, tattered clothing barely hung onto his emancipated body, while his long, entangled hair framed a boyish face with sunken cheeks. His vacant eyes were unfocused, the pupils abnormally enlarged, but if one were to look closely, they would notice that the pale blue of the teenager's irises was undergoing a strange change. Slowly, strikes of red and silver emerged, twirling in the depths of his eyes until they slashed through the blue at irregular intervals. Only once the whirlpool of colors settled down did the teenager seem to come back to life, letting out a faint, disgruntled grunt.
"I hate waking up," he humbled, his voice raspy and his throat parched.
Although his movements were sluggish, the teenager managed to prop himself up to sit in the pile of trash, then rubbed his sore neck as he took in the sight around him. In the processes of waking, the memory of his current life got jumbled up with the past one, and it took him an instant to organize and untangle everything. As always, it was a headache-inducing mess.
"Hm, am I called Allen now?"
The teenager stretched his arms as he finally got a sense of who he was and how he had been living up to now. This reincarnation hadn't had it easy, being an abandoned child in the slump with no one to lean on. It was a miracle he hadn't yet died in a forgotten corner.
"How ironic," Allen scoffed. He had done his best in his last life to rectify the dire situation in this part of the town and help the less fortunate people, but lo and behold, it had all been for nuts! The moment he passed away, the elders, who were in charge of running the tribe for the time it took for their god to choose their next leader, had essentially scrapped every policy he had put forth to rectify the matter. Not right away, of course. They did it gradually over the first few years, trying to avoid the backlash from the populace. Now, things were back to square one, and the poor had grown even poorer, left to rot in a corner of the harbor, while the wealthy grew only wealthier, enjoying every riches the merchants had to offer. The disparity was flabbergasting.
"I swear, each passing generation gets more and more enamored with that thing the foreigners call money," Allen sighed, slightly annoyed. He'd like it if, one day, he woke up to a tribe that hadn't gone through unreasonable changes during his sleep, changes that should never have occurred in the first place. It was infuriating to wake up and witness his most beloved tribe being led toward its downfall by its elders, despite everything he had done during his previous lifetime to avoid such an outcome. Perhaps, he should just put Myrven in charge while he was asleep, although he doubted the familiar spirit would like it. This geezer wasn't that fond of mortal beings, to begin with, even if he did pretend to listen to whatever dumb things the elders said. He was good at smiling and nodding along. "Now, what's the best course of action?"
His eyes had turned into their mesmerizing signature, meaning people would perceive him as the chosen one. Whoever inherited these otherworldly eyes after the previous chief's passing was believed to have been blessed by their tribal god to lead them. Little did they know that it only meant their previous chief had woken up; whenever he died, he reincarnated almost immediately afterward, thanks to this goddamn cursed bloodline of his.
Allen tilted his head to the left, then to the right. Hadn't he woken up a little too early? His memory usually came rushing back when he was nearing adulthood, when his spiritual veins were mature enough to channel his spiritual energy throughout his body without ripping everything from the inside out. When that happened, the old memories buried in the deepest part of his soul resurfaced, and he recalled his past and who he truly was. It had always been the case.
Yet, this time, Allen was barely in his teens. He wasn't exactly sure of this body's age, as he had been scavenging through the slums for as long as he could remember, and no one had ever told him his birthdate. It wasn't like he could remember his time as a baby, nor his early childhood. A brain wasn't a massive storage unit that could hold indefinite data. It wasn't because he had woken up that he suddenly got access to forgotten memories: what was forgotten stayed forgotten. The rule applied for this life, and to the previous one as well. At the end of the day, he only remembered what he hadn't forgotten at the time of his most recent death. Whether it was fortunate or not, he always died relatively young, never past fifty. Hence, he never reached the point of senility and had not yet forgotten the important events of his past lives, or the crucial knowledge he had scrambled into his brain over the course of many lifetimes.
"You seem lost in thoughts."
The stern but amiable voice snapped Allen out of memory lane, and he glanced at the man who had appeared between two piles of discarded, broken boxes. His appearance hadn't changed a iota in the decade he was asleep. Not like it had ever changed in hundreds of years, to begin with. Myrven was still the same and would always remain the same.
"You know my mind always gets a little murky whenever I wake," Allen cocked an eyebrow at Myrven, who responded with a shrug. "Where are the children? Oh, wait."
His eyes weren't yet accustomed to his spiritual energy, and Allen had to focus first. After a few seconds of concentration, he could more or less discern the silhouette of the siblings. It seemed like he was still too young. If he tried to tap too much into his spiritual energy when his body was still underdeveloped, he knew it would only result in backlashes, especially in his case. It wasn't like he had been practicing and preparing his body to circulate a vast amount of spiritual energy while he was asleep. His sleeping self didn't know anything about the spiritual energy that had been lying dormant inside of him, after all. Becoming a shaman had only been a pipe dream, something only the pure and noble werewolves who stood above the drudge of their society could achieve. Right. As if.
"Before you fill me in on what happened during my sleep," Allen sighed, patting his stomach, "how about offering me a meal? I'm starving."
***
The cloak Myrven handed over was too big for his small body, and it dragged at his feet, almost like a veil. But at least, the hood did its job and hid his eyes well. Allen didn't want people to make a fuss about him for the time being. He wanted to observe how the tribe was faring first, for he had only seen the desolate scene of the slums for the past decade. Even though he had tried to escape a few times, the guards patrolling the area just outside always caught him and threw him back to 'where he belongs'. As such, he didn't know how the situation had evolved at the harbor, nor if hunters still went out into the jungle, and what had become of the working class, the shamans, and the fishermen.
Therefore, one of the first things Allen did after waking was to climb on Myrven's back, ordering his aide to bring him out of that hellhole, discreetly and without alerting anyone. It was an easy task that had been completed in less than a minute, and now, they were at the harbor just in time for the sun to set.
"There are quite a few more additional stalls along the wall," Allen noted as he chewed on a skewer, courtesy of Myrven. "Business seems to be thriving."
On one side of the harbor, almost a hundred shops and temporary stalls were lined up one after another, with only the necessary spaces left for accessing the roads. On the other side, numerous ships were either anchored at the various docks or in the middle of the lagoon, waiting for their turns. Despite the growing late hours, the place was crowded, and shouting, laughter, and chatter filled the air. Many different smells hovered together, making Allen's nose wrinkle in utter disgust. Sweat, street food, perfume… He could barely breathe in the salty air of the sea. Not like the slums smelled any better, but he had some expectation for the harbor, and maybe too many fond memories of it.
"It changed."
"Of course things will change in a decade," Myrven mercilessly pointed out, tugging on his hood to hide his face a little better. He hadn't been going out much during Allen's sleep, but if someone managed to recognize him, it would be a pain to handle. "I told you everything I witnessed and what the children gathered. Is there anything you want to explore first?"
"Why do you think I asked you to bring me to the harbor?"
"Wasn't it because you were hungry?"
A deadpan look passed across Allen's face as he took a bite of his skewer. He had to admit he had missed good meat. Feeding on rats and rotten food hadn't been the ideal diet these past few years. But back to the point.
"From what you told me, the elders haven't been regulating the merchants much lately. I already saw a few guards pay no heed to whatever was in the discharged boxes after receiving a bribe from the crew. It's on full display for everyone to see, but no one is blinking an eye. What was the point of instating rules about what's allowed in our territory if the elders can't even enforce them in my absence? Drugs are definitely rampant in the back alleys. It'd explain some of the changes the children reported in the people. Great, this is going to be a pain to eradicate."
In the final year before he died, Allen had drawn up a strict list of the forbidden goods that weren't to be allowed in the White Moon land for any reason whatsoever. Harmful, addictive drugs were obviously included among the various other nefarious items. Any merchant ship that was caught carrying any of the prohibited goods was to be banned immediately from their land. There was no second chance. If the people from outside couldn't abide by simple rules, why should they entertain them? A meek slap on the wrist wouldn't do. If they wanted their talismans, arrays, and other shamanic merchandise that the White Moon tribe had to offer, then they had to agree to some basic trade regulations and follow through with their actions.
Allen knew just how precious his tribe's shamanic craftsmanship was, and he wouldn't provide it on a silver platter without asking for nothing in return. He wasn't a fool, although he couldn't say the same for some elders. Many tended to focus only on short-term gains and overlook the long term.
A sigh escaped him, and just as he was about to call it a day, for his frail body had become quite sore and painful after his awakening, his nose caught a peculiar smell amid the foul stink. His face grew livid at once, and his blood boiled when he figured out from where it originated. It was coming from a box that was being hauled up on a rowboat.
"You have to be kidding me!" Allen growled through gritted teeth, throwing his half-eaten skewer on the ground as he gave chase. "Just how much lower can these boneheads reach!"
That scent came from a living being. A living being caged into a box like livestock; a living being that was very similar to him. Too much, he'd dare say. And he knew that if they were treated that way, they hadn't been born the same way he had, and the reason they were brought into this world certainly wasn't for anything praiseworthy.