Chapter 01: Life, Death, and Other Unusual Magic

Chapter 01: Life, Death, and Other Unusual Magic

I wail in a gut-wrenching scream, snatching another chance at life from the clutches of Death.

Pain rips through my core as my eyes snap open. I blink repeatedly, struggling to adjust to the bright light. Tears blur my vision, and I have to fight to keep my eyes from wavering. Even then, I can barely see. The light dims and draws back, and in its place, a huge glowing head looms closer, staring at me unblinkingly.

Spooked, I cry, exerting every ounce of my will to break free from the giant’s grip. But my efforts are futile, as I can’t muster up the barest minimum of strength. All my power is wasted on wailing. No matter how much effort I put into speaking, all I manage is incoherent wailing. It hurts so damn bad.

The giant holds me close, as though afraid to let go. Then I notice the bright auburn locks cascading over the shoulders and know her to be a woman. She is staring at me kindly, tears in her eyes, a deluge of raw emotions playing across her luminescent face.

Finally, I apprehend the ultimate conundrum of my predicament. The woman isn’t a giant. She is likely as normal as a human could be. It is I who has shrunk, nestled in the protective custody of her arms as if I were a baby to be pampered.

In fact, I am a baby—a newborn at that.

The woman cradles me and passes her other palm over my chest. She whispers soothing words into my ears—words I am hopeless to comprehend—yet they calm my restless heart. A dim golden light spills out of her palm and disappears into my skin as she rubs my chest.

Something inside of me resonates with the light. My chest grows warm with the combined effort of the light and her soothing voice.

Relieved, I try to contemplate the sheer absurdity of my situation. This could be a feverish dream for all I know, a figment of my imagination. Not even for a second do I believe that events such as reincarnation or rebirth are normal... At least not with my memories intact…

Wait, who am I?

My memories fail me. Only an image remains in my mind…

I was dying… somewhere cold and dark…

The thought of my father, with whom I had a love-hate relationship, crosses my mind, yet no mental image of him appears. Only a vague silhouette.

I forget him first. Utter terror grips me as I lose more and more about myself. The most emotion-laden memories go first: my friends, companions, and family—people I could trust with my life. The memories drift off like wisps of river fog threading their way up in the sunlight. Despite all my efforts to cling to the fog, it slips away from my grasp.

All that is left of me is the vague impression of my education. Without a second thought, I try to put it to the test… The best I can muster with my current mental faculties is to count to thirteen before I feel a strain in my mind.

I turn my attention back to the woman. The incandescent feature of her skin dimmed while I dealt with my inner turmoil. Under her efforts, my pain vanishes too, though the powerlessness lingers.

Well, I am a baby, for God’s sake.

My fragile brain turns to mush just thinking about the mysteries of such an event. I have no other choice but to sleep on the problem...

Several hours later, I awake again, properly cleaned and swaddled in a cotton cloth, still within the protective custody of the woman… My mother?

I try to commit her face to memory. It is a demanding job with my terrible baby eyes. At least she doesn’t glow like a light bulb anymore—I wonder what’s that about.

She is in her early thirties, her face pale but good-looking. A little sickly, perhaps, as if she has been through a great battle recently. Maybe she hasn’t fared well in labour, but I feel a tinge of pride that she can still stand with a baby in her arms.

Sometime later, the door of the hovel opens, and a man comes in. Tall, dark, and bald, he is swathed in black attire and looks somewhat frightening to be my father. Then his eyes find me, and the look in them changes. Tears stream down from those bloodshot eyes as he picks me up into his arms. The man is large, built like a boulder, and his arms are… not particularly gentle.

He kisses me on the cheek, once, twice, thrice, and wipes his tears. I contemplate another bout of cries. Thankfully, the man returns me to the more responsible person.

He kisses her on the head and leads us to sit on a bedroll. After conversing a little, he utters some words into my ears.

Obviously, my feeble brain is unable to grasp the words. But then I am jolted awake by flashes of golden light streaming into my sight, combining to form some complicated scripts that elude me completely at first. The language isn’t familiar, and then suddenly a voice rings in my mind. I could not be any more surprised.

I look between my parents to find that neither of the two has uttered the words. Furthermore, the voice is clearer, younger, and comprehensible.

[You have been Named.]

[Arilyn Solara, welcome to the paths. The Spell understands your unique circumstances. The Paths are partially open for you.]

What in the world? I am flabbergasted. No ideas of what it could be come to mind. All I can do is stare at the texts and listen to the words until they finish and disappear. More information comes shortly after, followed by a voice commentary.

[Profile]

Arilyn Solara

Path: U/A

Attributes:

• Cognition (Elementary) +1

Gift:

• [Fractal Soul]

The words hang before my eyes, disembodied, floating in mid-air. I stare at them dumbly. It seems to be something only I can see, as my mother betrays no sudden reaction to suggest otherwise.

This is the second, no, third startling revelation after my reincarnation. I have to account for the healing spell as well. Well, compared to rebirth and magic, this interactive system is rather tame.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how it is possible to manifest illusory text like that. Some trick with light? I wonder how it is related to the other two.

That reminds me, what magical power does my mother has? In my earlier restlessness, I had failed to see the implication behind that. Is she a healer? Considering her spell drove away my pain.

Can she teach magic to me? Is it possible? Did I inherit the power from her? Dozens of such questions crawl up my mind with little to no answer to them.

I would be lying if I said I hadn’t considered all of it to be a drunken dream, a figment of my imagination. Mother always thought I had a knack for creativity…

Mother… I sigh as I remember one last fact about myself.

I incline my brain to understand… this spell.

My eyes linger on my name for a moment. Arilyn is countless times better than Paul or whatever else I had been called in my previous life. Path and Attributes are topics to contemplate later. But what does it mean by Fractal Soul? On that topic, what is a soul? Is it something that reincarnates you?

[A new Way is accessible: Words I (1/100).]

Hmm, what do you mean? I repeat the sentence many times in my mind, but that only makes my head hurt. All this thinking is still beyond me.

Looks like the spell isn’t all that interactive with babies. Or it can’t read minds.

****

Time flies by. My early days are peacefully boring, with little to do beyond contemplating life, death, and reincarnation. There has to be a reason, a purpose for my rebirth. Just as gravity operates, there must be laws governing life and death.

The topic is so nerve-wracking that I have to spend equal amounts of time staring at the monotone inclined roof to recalibrate my feeble brain.

Imprisoned by the weight of my own head, my daily life is filled with immaculate tasks like drinking, sleeping, peeing, and defecating. Only one of these can I manage on my own.

The worst part is my occasional inability to control my bowels. I am fairly capable of managing them while awake, but on many occasions, I’ll wake to the smell of my own piss. And then cry.

Infantile amnesia, please erase those embarrassing memories! I pray, clasping my palms together.

Only when my mother comes to change my clothes and sing me to sleep do I find relief. She is an angel like that.

I haven’t seen my father since the week after my birth. I fear I won’t be able to recognise his face again. All I remember are his features: tall, gloomy, and bald. And extremely bad at holding babies.

We have moved from the hovel where I was born to somewhere better in the countryside, perhaps. The wooden house does not speak of wealth. I guess I missed out on that lottery.

On top of that, I suspect I was abandoned by my father. But then I remember the only memory of my father—naming me, the sheer joy in his face. I sigh and decide not to jump to conclusions, instead devoting my productive hours to something useful. After all, I only get around five or six hours a day.

With focused thought, I summon the Spell Guide to display my [Profile]. It doesn’t take long to master after the spell explains it to me one night. Apparently, whatever it was, it left a small star circle mark on my palm. All I have to do is stare at the mark and think hard about it, and the [Profile] will reveal itself.

My [Profile] remains mostly unchanged, with some progress in the Way.

[Words I (92/100)]

Just eight more words to go, I muse. It takes some time to figure out what the Way is. It turns out it is exactly as it sounds—just magic tracking the number of new words I learn.

Aside from those immaculate tasks I’d rather not discuss, I dedicate all my effort to learning unfamiliar words every waking moment of my new life, going as far as to rumbling them like a mantra in my mind. Yes, I am bored, and there is nothing worthwhile to do.

The Spell keeps track of all that in the Profile. With each new word I learn, the anticipation of what will occur when I learn my hundredth word grows. From the look of the progress, I don’t have to wait for long.

I am awake in my cradle when my mother comes to check on me. Her lips curl into a smile upon seeing me reach out my arms towards her. That is all I can manage.

Although I have learned many words since my birth, my vocal cords are not yet developed enough to articulate any of them. For instance, if I want to say mama, it comes out as “Yaya” at best.

My mother would always adopt a childish voice to call my name when speaking to me. This occasion is no different. I show my appreciation with giggles, which brings a radiant smile to her face like spring sunshine. She lifts me, ensuring my clothes are dry. It is the Afternoon Stroll Time, arguably my favourite part of the day.

Every day, she carries me around the neighbourhood, past the same houses and wheat fields, as a few people come to talk with her. My attention, however, drifts everywhere. For today, it is skyward, searching for a sun or two. Yesterday, I believed I caught the sight of two suns in the sky.

I know my eyes aren’t perfect—far from it. I struggle to track moving objects. Perks of being a couple of months-old baby. Yet, I don’t believe I am mistaken. Regrettably, today, my mother carries me with my head on her chest, the angle too low for anything but the ground and immediate surroundings to be in view. Well, I could whine to prompt her to adjust her hold for my comfort, but I don’t want to cause her worry. She is already paranoid about my health, casting healing light into my chest thrice a day. Some days, even as many as four times.

I have no complaints. The weather is on the colder side, but I am warm in her embrace, not to mention the healing light keeps me warm. It isn’t as though the sun won’t rise tomorrow, nor as if the scholars of this world haven’t resolved the two-body problem if indeed there are two suns.

What is the two-body problem, though? I wonder. Why is it so cold if there are two suns? Perhaps too far in the orbit? What is an orbit?

See, my mind isn’t completely dull as I can mull over important questions like these. Although the answers to these questions rarely come to me. Oftentimes, contemplating only brings more questions… and headaches.

By the end of our stroll, she casts the same spell on me, regardless of my state. Golden light spills from her fingers and disappears into my skin. Sometimes, I suspect she can somehow read my exhaustion just by looking at my face.

She casts the golden light on me, and the magical power washes away most of my weariness.

I have formed a distinct mental image of the light threading its way through my body in a clear, symmetric form. Naively, I entertain the notion that if I can latch onto this warm power and somehow tame it, I might become a sorcerer or healer one day. Sadly, the Spell finally manifests to quash such wild fantasies.

[A new Way is accessible: Meditation I (1/10).]

Of course, I think, how could I forget that visualisation is a crucial part of meditation? And that is precisely what I have been practising since day one.

At least, there is another Way to keep me invested. Pun intended.