Chapter: 2 [The Awakening] [2]
"52 percent... It's ok."
"You really think so, Dad?"
My heart was beating fast—far too fast for me to even realize that the only sound I was able to hear was the frantic drumming of my own heartbeat echoing in the silence of our living room. It was a rhythmic, heavy thudding that seemed to vibrate in the back of my skull.
Staring at the weathered but handsome face of my father, I braced myself. I expected a harsh scolding, perhaps the sting of a lecture, or even the heavy silence of disappointment. But I was utterly blindsided by his reaction after I confessed the mediocre results of my high school examinations.
He said it was okay. He really said it, his voice calm and steady, lacking any edge of resentment. Was he secretly sad? Was he suppressing a quiet anger? I didn't know; I never truly knew him as well as I should have. Back then, I was a creature of comfort. I never liked to study. I never applied my mind with any real passion, or more accurately, I drifted through my education like a ghost.
I felt a surge of happiness, a light, airy relief that he hadn't scolded me. But what about his feelings? At that moment, I didn't know, and if I'm being honest with myself, I didn't care. I was too wrapped up in the luxury of my own existence. Even a year later, my distaste for academia remained. I only began to apply myself because I had become addicted to the soft life—the fast cars, the expensive gadgets, the absolute comfort. My parents gave me everything, and I realized with a cold clarity that I didn't want to lose my status just because I was too lazy to open a book.
My father was too good for me. My mother was the same. They showered me with affection and provided every whim I ever voiced. Sure, there was the occasional scolding, a few delays to teach me patience, but eventually, they always relented. I became a slave to that lifestyle. To protect it, I studied. I worked. I became a "success" on paper, fueled entirely by the fear of losing my gilded cage.
***
One Year Later
"You really got 80 percent? It's good, son. Really good."
I listened to my father's praise, watching the genuine, crinkling smile spread across his face. He was growing older with each passing day; the lines around his eyes were deepening, and his hair was thinning at the temples. I hated seeing it. I never liked the thought of a world where they didn't exist to catch me.
"Yes, I know you don't believe it, but it's true!" my mother chimed in, her voice ringing with pride as she spoke to a neighbor. "He really got 80 percent. Oh, your son got 85? That's wonderful. But you know, my boy didn't even study until the week before the exam! If he had tried even a little more, I'm sure he could have topped the district. But we don't believe in forcing our children..."
I listened to her boast to the neighbor aunty and seriously wanted to laugh out loud. She was my fiercest defender, spinning my laziness into "untapped potential." To celebrate, she cooked my favorite desserts, and later that evening, we piled into our SUV to head to a restaurant. We weren't obscenely wealthy, but we were comfortable. My father's small business brought in around two million in revenue yearly—enough for us to never want for anything.
They never forced me into a mold. Yet, one evening, my father said something that pierced through my ego.
"Even if you don't study, it doesn't matter," he said softly, looking at the accounts on his desk. "I've earned enough for you to live a comfortable life. But please, at least complete your graduation. I want you to be able to live peacefully after I'm gone. I'm already in my fifties, son. I won't be here forever. Try to understand."
My heart felt a strange, sharp pain at those words—a constriction I couldn't describe. I didn't want them to die. I wanted to make them proud. We were happy. Everything was perfect.
So how did it all come to this? HOW?
***
"Dad... Mom... I'm sorry... I'm scared. It's... it's so painful. I promise... I won't do it again... I... I love you..."
The expansive highway was a desolate stretch of asphalt. There was nothing but a massive truck, its engine still ticking, and a small huddle of people surrounding a scene of absolute carnage. The smell of burning rubber and spilled gasoline hung heavy in the air.
My blood was leaking continuously, soaking into the hot pavement. My vision was a blur of gray and red. My voice was a strained, wet rasp, and I coughed up thick copper-tasting blood every time I tried to draw breath. Yet, with the last of my strength, I forced out the words I had left unsaid for twenty years.
Everything felt like a dream. I saw the world in agonizing slow-motion. I saw the moment the truck's tires screeched, the way the massive grill turned toward me like the jaws of a predator. I saw the horror as my bike—the one my father had gifted me for my birthday—smashed into the iron bumper.
The bike became a mangled heap of metal and plastic. I was thrown, my ribs snapping like dry twigs as the truck's bumper pierced through me. For a heartbeat, there was nothing—just a cold, empty vacuum in my mind. Then came the pain. Pure, unadulterated agony that sucked the oxygen from my lungs and turned the world white.
Memories flooded me like a broken dam. My father's laugh, my mother's cooking, the faces of friends I'd joked with just hours before. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. They weren't lying. It was a highlight reel of everything I was about to lose.
But why? I didn't want to die. I wanted to go home. I WANTED T—
***
"Haaah... Haahaa... haaaahhaa...!"
I suddenly snapped my eyes open, lunging upward in the dark hospital room, gasping for air as if I were still drowning in my own blood. My head was throbbing with a rhythmic violence, and my entire body was drenched in a cold, viscous sweat. My hospital gown was sticky, clinging to my skin like a second, unwanted layer of film.
My heart was racing like a rocket, hammering against my ribs, and my limbs were shivering uncontrollably. The same dream. Again and again. It was a persistent ghost, a nightmare that had haunted me since the moment I "awakened" in this body and realized I had been uprooted from my world.
It wasn't a movie. It wasn't a book. My parents were real. My twenty years of life weren't just data—they were me. How could I be expected to just forget? How could I step into the shoes of Ascera Leafs and pretend the other life never happened?
I forced myself to regulate my breathing, counting the seconds until the shivering stopped. I checked the digital clock on the bedside monitor: 04:45 AM. The world outside the window was still draped in the deep indigo of pre-dawn. After confirming my vitals were stable on the beeping machines, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and made my way to the bathroom.
***
SHAAAA...
The sound of the shower filled the small, sterile room. I stood under the spray for a full half-hour, letting the warm water wash away the sweat and the phantom scent of highway asphalt. When I finally stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror, I looked at my new self.
I had a jacked, surprisingly toned frame for a fifteen-year-old. I wasn't a giant—I stood at exactly 170 cm. It was the same height I had reached at twenty in my previous life. I wondered if the mana in the air here acted as a growth stimulant, or if this was just the peak of the Leafs' genetics.
I pulled on a plain white t-shirt, a heavy brown hoodie, and a pair of sturdy blue jeans. The clock now read 06:00 AM. I took one last deep breath, steadying the tremor in my hands, and opened the heavy door of the hospital suite.
Today was the day I left the safety of the ward. Today, I stepped out into the "Nasel Kingdom." Under normal circumstances, the old Ascera would have been overjoyed to regain his freedom, but I felt only a heavy, sinking dread.
I had a mess to clean up. I had to face the consequences of the fight with the "Protagonist" and accept my family's punishments. Strangely, the memories of Ascera's parents were the fuzziest parts of his mind. I knew they had died when he was young, leaving him in the care of a cold barony. Today, I was supposed to go and pay them respect at their memorial.
Or so, i had thought i would be going, but who would have thought about what was going to happen next.