A deep, gnawing desire festered within me. I wanted to be a bird. I truly believed that as a bird, I could finally seize freedom, a release from this relentless suffering. Looking back now, the sheer pathetic nature of that thought is almost comical.
They say death brings peace, a final rest. Some even cling to the idea of an afterlife. For me, there was nothing. Two entire lives, nothing but a relentless parade of disasters. And now? Even this third life, this supposed new beginning, has already begun as a catastrophe. The pattern holds. It always does.
It was all Veythor's subconscious, a fleeting flicker in the abyss of his unconsciousness. He remained submerged, adrift in the void.
Then, a jolt. His eyes, heavy with the weight of unremembered lives, slowly parted. The first sight that greeted him was a girl, perhaps two or three years his senior in this new, fragile form.
Her hair, the color of a cloudless sky, framed a face that held a delicate, almost fragile beauty. He realized, with a detached sense of irony, that he was lying in her lap.
His eyebrows, unbidden, furrowed. A familiar, unwelcome question clawed at the edges of his nascent awareness:
What in the world is going on?
The absurdity of the situation, the sheer, unyielding chaos of his existence, pressed down upon him.
The girl, oblivious to the storm brewing within his newly awakened mind, offered a smile. It was a soft, beautiful curve of her lips, a stark contrast to the bleak landscape of his thoughts.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice a gentle ripple in the oppressive silence of his internal world. The question, simple as it was, felt like a profound mockery.
He slowly rose, his gaze sweeping across the grim reality of his new confinement. It was a place that reeked of despair, a prison-like enclosure, its surfaces grimy and stained. A faint, metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, a scent that spoke of violence and desperation.
The girl, who had cradled his head, now stood, her delicate form a stark contrast to the harsh surroundings. Beside her, a boy, seemingly of his own age, stared at Veythor with an intensity that suggested Veythor himself was a walking testament to countless unforgivable sins.Veythor, too, rose to his feet, his mind already calculating, assessing.
So, that wretched slave trader dumped me here. But why with these two children? What purpose does this serve?
"Hey," the girl began, her voice a hesitant tremor, "I know you're very confused about this place, about many things. But you can trust us. We are victims, just like you."
Her words, meant to soothe, instead ignited a cold, bitter amusement within Veythor. He wanted to laugh, a harsh, derisive sound, but he suppressed it. Instead, a silent, chilling chuckle echoed in the desolate chambers of his heart.
Trust them? Naive little fools. Though they seem intelligent enough. So, they share my status, then? Slaves.
Veythor finally spoke, his voice slow, deliberate, yet carrying an undeniable weight.
"Do you know where we are?"
The girl sighed, a sound heavy with resignation.
"No, I don't. And regardless of where we are, there's no point in knowing. I'm sure we won't be able to get out of here. You're new here; you won't understand. This place is like a maze, filled with traps, with too much security. And we are just kids."
Her words held a grim truth, a logic that Veythor's pragmatic mind acknowledged. Yet, his heart, that stubborn, defiant organ, refused to accept such a pathetic existence. He would not live as a slave. He refused.
"I must escape from here," he declared, his voice a low murmur, yet it resonated with an unyielding resolve.
"What? Didn't you hear what I said?" the girl retorted, her voice laced with disbelief.
"It doesn't matter what you said," Veythor interrupted, his tone sharp, cutting. "I must escape. I refuse to live as a slave."
Before she could utter another word, Veythor cut her off, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the grimy walls, already plotting, already calculating the impossible.
Suddenly, the boy lunged, his hand seizing Veythor's collar with surprising force.
Veythor, caught off guard by the unexpected aggression, felt a flicker of annoyance, but his recovery was instantaneous, a testament to instincts honed over multiple lifetimes.
"What are you trying to pull off?" Veythor's voice was a low, cold rasp, devoid of any warmth or genuine curiosity.
"You bastard! Didn't you hear her words? We can't escape from here! If we try, we'll get killed! Even as a slave, we can live. Who do you think you are, huh? "The boy's words were a torrent of fear and resentment, his grip tightening on Veythor's collar."
Veythor's face remained impassive, a mask of cold indifference. Though his current body was that of a child, his mental age, a culmination of forty years of brutal experience, far surpassed it.
He wasn't a professional fighter, but in his first life, he had meticulously acquired knowledge of various martial arts, not for glory, but for survival, for the cold, hard reality of self-preservation.
His hand moved with practiced efficiency, striking precisely at the boy's elbow joint.
A sharp, guttural cry of pain erupted from the boy's lips. "Aaagggh!" Veythor's collar was released as the boy's hand spasmed, his face contorted in agony.
He immediately crumpled to the ground, clutching his arm, a pathetic heap of youthful despair.
"Don't ever touch me again. You may be content with the status of a slave, but I am not." Veythor's voice was a frigid whisper, his gaze a shard of ice.
The girl, sensing the escalating tension, immediately darted between them, a fragile barrier.
"Why are you two fighting? Please, we are not in a position to fight," she pleaded, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "I want to go home. I miss mommy, daddy…" Her words dissolved into sobs.
The boy, despite his earlier aggression, instantly rose to comfort her, his anger momentarily forgotten in the face of her distress.
Veythor, however, remained detached, his mind already calculating, dissecting the situation. His thoughts were cold, pragmatic, devoid of any genuine concern for the weeping child.
These two could be perfect pawns. I can use them to my benefit if the situation is ripe. But the problem is, they're not like any other kids. They're far more advanced in their intellectual abilities. The advantage, however, is their abundance of emotions. A weakness I can exploit.
"I'm sorry," Veythor stated, his voice carefully modulated to convey a manufactured sincerity. "I shouldn't have fought. It's just… I get angry if anyone grabs my collar. I'm genuinely sorry."
Both the boy and the girl stared, their faces a tableau of utter shock, as if they had fallen from the sky. Veythor's sudden shift in demeanor was entirely unexpected.
The girl's face brightened, a delicate smile blooming through her tears. "Then you believe us?" she asked, a fragile hope in her voice.
"Yes," Veythor replied, his lie perfectly crafted, his expression unreadable. "Because there's a reason to believe you. You two are in the same position as me." His acting was flawless, a performance honed by countless years of deception and manipulation.
"Then, shall we introduce ourselves?" Shimi asked, a tentative smile gracing her lips. The boy, Raika, looked at her, then at Veythor, a silent agreement passing between them.
"I agree," Veythor stated, his voice devoid of any genuine enthusiasm, merely a pragmatic acknowledgment of the situation.
"Okay, then I'll start first," Shimi declared, her youthful exuberance a stark contrast to Veythor's inner turmoil. "I'm Shimi, I'm currently nine years old. My mage talent ranking is A."
Mage? Veythor's brow furrowed, a silent question echoing in the desolate chambers of his mind. What did she mean by 'mage talent ranking'? Is that supposed to be a joke? Is this a fucking magical world? What the fuck?
Despite the torrent of confusion and disbelief, Veythor maintained his impassive facade. To reveal his ignorance now, to question the very fabric of their reality.... what a 'mage' was, what a 'mage ranking' signified, or if this was indeed a world steeped in magic.... would only breed suspicion, a vulnerability he could not afford.
Raika, the boy, spoke next, his voice a monotone, as if reciting a well-rehearsed line. "I'm Raika, currently seven years old. I haven't yet awakened my magical powers."
Both children looked at Veythor, awaiting his turn. He remained silent, his mind racing, processing the new, unsettling information. So, there's a certain condition to gain magical powers, hm? Considering that, there must be a way to scale the talent of a mage. This world… it's more complex than I initially assumed. A new set of rules to exploit, perhaps.
Veythor met their curious gazes, their small eyes wide with an innocent expectation he found both amusing and pathetic. He spoke, his voice carefully modulated, a performance for his unwitting audience.
"I'm Veythor. I'm currently six years old. As for mage talent ranking… I don't know."
Both Shimi and Raika's brows furrowed in unison. Raika's lips parted, a question forming, but Shimi, ever the more direct, cut him off. "What do you mean, you don't know?"
Her voice held a hint of disbelief, a challenge.
Veythor remained calm, his face a perfect mask of serene ignorance. "I don't remember anything of my past. I only remember my name and age. I don't even remember anything about this world. I think I've… certainly lost my memories." He finished, his voice soft, yet carrying a subtle resonance, designed to evoke sympathy.
This time, Raika spoke, his voice sharp, laced with suspicion. "If you've certainly lost your memories, why do you remember your age? Could it be you're lying to us?" His tone was fierce, almost accusatory. It was clear he was intentionally probing, trying to expose a weakness.
This kid is a pain in the ass, Veythor thought, a flicker of cold annoyance in his eyes, quickly suppressed. His face remained unchanged.
Then, with a practiced subtlety, he lowered his gaze to the ground, his facial expressions shifting, morphing into a convincing portrayal of profound sadness and vulnerability.
"I'm really not lying. Please believe me. I… I really can't remember anything. I don't know why I can remember my age and name." His voice was desperate, trembling with a manufactured sincerity. His acting was picture-perfect.
He hadn't always been like this. Once, he was just a naive, helpless kid who wanted to be a bird. But now, after two hellish lives, he had changed. He had adapted. He had become a master of deception, a survivor in a world that offered no mercy.
Shimi spoke, her voice sharp with a sudden anger. "Raika, don't pick on him! We can't afford to fight among ourselves. Regardless of whether he's lying or not, it doesn't matter. Can't you see he's just a victim, like us?"
Raika's face immediately fell, a shadow of sadness replacing his earlier defiance under Shimi's scolding.
"But—"
"No buts!" Shimi cut him off, her youthful authority surprisingly firm.
Veythor watched the exchange, a cold, calculating amusement blossoming in his heart. This Raika kid… he has most likely fallen for this girl. Even children can feel the stirrings of romantic affection, though most of them don't truly comprehend what love is. Their hearts, however, will still feel its pull. And once you fall in love, especially if it's one-sided, even an outsider can exploit it as a weakness.
Love is like a vast, mysterious ocean. Once you fall into it, you are doomed. Instead of trying to save yourself, your heart will lead you deeper into its crushing depths. And you will feel very happy, even as you sink, oblivious to the impending oblivion.
"It's okay," Veythor stated, his voice a low, measured tone. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, maintaining the facade of vulnerability. "Raika is right. He has every right to suspect me."
Shimi looked at Veythor, her facial expressions softening, a wave of sympathy washing over her. "Veythor, don't degrade yourself. I like your determined and ambitious version more." She offered a gentle smile, a gesture of unexpected warmth.
Veythor's facial expressions gradually returned to their usual impassiveness, a subtle shift that Raika, watching from the periphery, did not miss. A deep sense of jealousy and hatred began to fester within the boy, and he silently gritted his teeth, a silent vow of resentment forming in his young heart.
But what now? Veythor mused, his thoughts a cold, calculating stream. I have successfully taken the first step in manipulating these two. But my future path is still uncertain. I have to gain some rudimentary knowledge about this world and its magic. Then, I must escape from here.
He parted his lips, about to speak, when a sudden, excruciating pain lanced through his head. It felt as if his skull would explode at any moment, a searing agony that threatened to tear his consciousness apart. His vision blurred, the world around him dissolving into a swirling vortex of black. He stumbled, then fell to the ground, a puppet whose strings had been abruptly severed.
"Veythor! What happened?!" Shimi's voice, laced with panic, cut through the encroaching darkness. Both she and Raika were shocked, their youthful faces contorted in alarm. Shimi rushed towards Veythor, her small hands reaching out.
But it was too late. Veythor's mind was no longer in the present. He was suddenly seeing a series of blurry, disjointed scenes, images flashing through his mind like fragments of a shattered mirror.