I remembered something about my father—he had been obsessed with fantasy stories. He played every game, watched every show, read every book in the genre. My mother shared the same interests.
I, however, found it all childish. Cliché, unrealistic, and boring. Stories about people being transported to another world, heroes fighting monsters, kingdoms ruled by destiny—it all seemed like a tale written by toddlers who never knew reality. The characters spoke in flawless, poetic lines, villains monologued endlessly, and magic worked perfectly like clockwork. I hated it. If anyone asked me what I hated most in life, I would have pointed to those ridiculous stories.
Yet here I was, living one.
I muttered it to myself, trying to cope. The sun filtered weakly through a thin layer of clouds, casting pale light across the cracked wooden floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams, and the faint smell of damp wood clung to the air. Even in this strange world, small details reminded me of reality's harshness.
Even though I could understand the language, I couldn't speak it. No matter how hard I tried, the sounds wouldn't form. Writing was worse—letters were foreign, alphabets strange. I scribbled futile symbols on scraps of paper, but they meant nothing.
But I had time. Plenty of it.
The house I now lived in was strange. My father, Alexander, was often away. Whenever he returned, the neighborhood fell quiet, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping. The home was cracked, dusty, smelling faintly of decay, no matter how much my mother cleaned.
Elizabeth, my new mother, though barely fifteen in appearance, still bought expensive things for the house—fine fabrics, delicate trinkets, ornate vases—while our meals remained meager and simple. Alexander hated it, though he rarely spoke of it. His sharp eyes would scan the room as if judging the balance of extravagance and poverty, and his presence alone seemed to tighten the air.
My new parents were… odd. Special in some ways. I didn't like them, but I didn't hate them either. They existed like distant stars—beautiful, untouchable, and impossible to fully understand.
Months passed. I began learning to walk—impressive for a one-year-old, at least according to some. I stumbled, fell, and slowly gained strength in my legs. Each step was a small victory. Outside, snow often dusted the streets, crunching softly underfoot as I watched from the window, wondering what the world beyond our home looked like.
Time rolled on, weeks into months, and my curiosity began to grow as I observed my parents more closely. I learned their names—Alexander Wisdom and Elizabeth Glasses. I discovered little quirks: the way Elizabeth meticulously polished every corner of the house, the way Alexander frowned when he read letters from the kingdom, the faint but constant clinking of chains that seemed almost symbolic of the secrets they kept.
One day, I noticed Elizabeth hiding a book from me. My curiosity surged. I had learned to read and write by now, devouring heavy books filled with dark, adult stories. But this one book—kept locked, chained, key always taken by my mother—called to me.
When she left the house, I seized my chance. I traced a copy of the key from a piece of paper. Using baking soda, a small mold, and hot candle wax, I repeatedly recreated the key. The faint smell of burnt wax and the sticky residue on my fingers didn't bother me. Days of trial and error finally paid off—I could open the chain.
The book was ancient, its text mostly meaningless symbols, but a few words were understandable. Slowly, I realized why it was forbidden—it belonged to Alexander. He had brought it here when he first arrived in this world.
I read obsessively, uncovering its secrets. My name in this world was now Xiver Wisdom. And the book taught me about magic. Magic was divided into three distinct forms:
Divine Magic – Healing, support, translation, raising defenses, calming, even office work for the kingdom.
Manipulation Magic – Offense, defense, creating structures, controlling elements.
Sorcery – The strongest magic, capable of running cities without using your own mana, instead drawing energy from the surroundings.
The more I read, the more I felt alive. The symbols, patterns, and secret codes consumed my attention. I treated it like a puzzle, using mathematics, algorithms, context, brute force, and even human errors to decode its meaning. I could almost hear the book whispering to me, teasing me with hints of power I had no right to wield yet.
By the time I turned four, I had made considerable progress. But life at home was complicated. Alexander came and went unpredictably, leaving me under Elizabeth's care. The house grew more crowded with her possessions—new clothes, decorations, shiny things—yet none of it mattered to me. My tiny hands barely grazed the surface of the books and trinkets she adored.
My fifth birthday arrived. Outside, the wind was sharp and cold, swirling pale leaves in lazy spirals. I remembered my old life—the celebrations, the presents, my friends. A pang of longing hit me. I missed those days more than anything.
But my new parents… forgot entirely. No celebrations. No joy. Just the suffocating emptiness of my new life.
I cried. I screamed. I tore through the house in anger. Elizabeth tried to calm me, but only made me more furious. I lashed out blindly, hitting and biting, refusing to stop.
When the noise spilled outside, Alexander returned in his carriage, dark red with wild horses. Their hooves struck the cobblestones with a rhythmic clatter that echoed in the quiet night. He entered the house, witnessing the chaos. I clung to his leg, biting and screaming, tears streaming down my face.
"I FUCKING HATE YOU! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" I yelled, spittle and tears mixing as I lashed out.
Alexander knelt, holding my hands gently. "Xiver… are you sad that I can't be with you? You might think our bond isn't that of father and son… but I need you to speak to me."
I didn't listen. I had no faith left. Fear of another cruel life kept me silent, my anger overwhelming me.
He continued. "Xiver… the reason I can't be with you… the reason I can't live with you and Elizabeth… is because… I am the future king of Holmes Kingdom."
I froze. A prince? Living in a castle while I rot in this hellish world?
Elizabeth tried to intervene, but Alexander pressed on. "As my duty, I must protect the kingdom. But I am caught in political conflict. I cannot even be certain I will become king."
I spat blood from my mouth, screaming, "YOU HAVE A LOT OF GUTS! SAYING FUTURE KING WHILE LEAVING ME TO ROT!"
Apologies weren't enough. Alexander hung his head. "You cannot come with me… because of your mother's family. I am… sorry."
I punched, kicked, bit, and lashed out, fueled by every ounce of resentment and betrayal I felt. Elizabeth finally used her divine magic to calm me into sleep, weeping softly. Alexander left, and I drifted into an uneasy slumber, my mother holding me tightly, the perfect family I had dreamed of now reduced to fragments of pain.