The morning light, soft and hesitant, crept through the curtains, pulling Briet from a fitful sleep. His mind still hummed with the echoes of the crimson warrior, the bewildering download of lethal knowledge. Yet, the first thing he saw was the peaceful, sleeping face of his sister, Lena, nestled in the covers of her bed across the room. The sight grounded him, pulling him back from the future's distant battlefields to the warmth of his home.
He slipped out of his room, the wooden floorboards creaking faintly underfoot. He found Lena already awake in the kitchen, humming softly as she scrolled through her phone. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead," he teased, nudging her gently with his elbow.
Lena jumped, startled, then grinned up at him. "Hey! You're up early. Still on military time, big brother?"
"Something like that," Briet chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Figured I'd make you breakfast for once. What'll it be, short stack? The usual, or are we getting fancy?"
"Pancakes!" she declared immediately, her eyes lighting up. "And don't you dare burn them like last time."
"Hey! That was *one* time," he protested, feigning indignation as he pulled out the flour. "And it was 'caramelized,' not 'burnt.' You just lack appreciation for culinary innovation." Lena snorted, clearly unconvinced, but the easy banter filled the kitchen with a comforting normalcy.
As he mixed the batter, Lena leaned against the counter, chattering about school, her friends, and an upcoming math test she was dreading. Briet listened, interjecting with playful remarks, his gaze often drifting to her. There was an earnestness in her excitement, a simple joy that he cherished. He thought of the stark, brutal images that had plagued his sleep – the experiments, the blood, the raw power. He squeezed his eyes shut for a fleeting moment, pushing the intensity back, focusing on the smell of sizzling butter.
Once the pancakes were golden and fluffy, swimming in syrup, Briet leaned over and kissed Lena's forehead. "There you go, little monster. Fuel up for school."
She looked up, a sweet smile on her syrup-stained lips. "Thanks, Briet. You're the best."
Her simple words, filled with genuine affection, were a balm to his troubled mind. Despite the unsettling memories, he needed to be this brother, this son. He needed to be strong, not just physically, but emotionally, for them. Armed with these strange memories, with or without a normal world, he vowed to improve himself, to carve out a better life for his family.
After Lena finished her breakfast, grabbing her backpack, she turned to him at the door. "See you after school! Don't get into too much trouble without me."
"Never," Briet grinned, watching her skip down the steps. "Have a good day, Lena-bug!"
Once the door closed and the house fell silent, a different kind of intensity settled in. Briet walked out to the small, overgrown patch of grass in their backyard. The sun was fully up now, casting long shadows. This was it. Time to test the waters.
He closed his eyes, recalling the **fragment of soul** that had fused with him, the invisible warrior whose every fiber was a weapon. The image of the **crimson-clad figure** materialized in his mind, not a person, but a pure, abstract concept of power. He focused on the sense of **blood as energy**, the chilling efficiency of turning one's own life force into strength.
He held out his hand, clenching his fist. *Blood as energy.* It was a ridiculous thought, yet the memory insisted. He concentrated, willing it, almost begging for a manifestation. Then, a tiny pinprick of sensation on his palm. He looked down.
There, just a shimmering, almost imperceptible gleam, was a **tiny drop of blood**, no bigger than a dewdrop, hovering above his skin. It was impossibly red, a deeper, richer crimson than anything he'd ever seen. It pulsed, faintly, with a life of its own.
Curiosity overriding caution, Briet reached out and touched the floating droplet.
The moment his finger made contact, his eyes snapped open, blazing with an intense, **crimson red**. The world seemed to sharpen, colors deepened, sounds became more distinct, almost painfully so. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, a low, thrumming hum beneath his skin. This wasn't just a vision; it was a physical augmentation.
He lifted his hand, then, with a strange impulse, bit down on his thumb. A bead of blood welled up, bright red. But instead of dripping, it seemed to **hesitate, clinging to his skin with an unnatural tenacity**, almost like a viscous, living jewel. It was surreal, impossible.
He released his thumb, the small wound already closing. The crimson glow in his eyes faded, leaving him blinking in the regular sunlight. He was still just Briet, a normal man, standing in his overgrown backyard.
The memory, however, was still there, a chilling whisper in his mind. *This is early Earth. The laws of nature, of this world, prevent full imbalance.* It was a cold, logical assessment, a reminder that even these future powers had their limits, at least here and now. He couldn't just transform into a living weapon whenever he pleased; there were rules, resistances. His body, however willing, was still a human body.
He sighed, a mix of disappointment and renewed determination. This was just the beginning. He needed to train, to adapt, to push his ordinary limits to meet the extraordinary potential now residing within him. He started with the most basic poses he'd seen in the memory—simple stretches, slow, deliberate movements, turning his body into a limber, receptive canvas. He warmed up, feeling his muscles loosen, his breath steadying. He was still just a common human, but he was a common human with a very uncommon ambition.
He promised himself he would improve, a silent vow to the unseen warrior and to his own future. He closed the "memory," shutting down the vivid sensation, and walked back inside the house. A shower, a moment to clear his head, and then, the mundane reality of finding a job. A stark contrast, but one he now felt more equipped to handle.
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