---
Asterion's eyes flew open. My consciousness slammed back into existence, not with a gentle fade, but like a thunderclap. I was floating in a vast, star-dusted void, and I was moving at a speed that defied physics. My first thought was of the Being, the curse, the endless white plain. My second was the sudden, shocking realization that I could still breathe, or at least, I had no need to. I could see, though the 'stars' were not stars at all, but distant, swirling nebulas of color I had no name for. The sensation was both surreal and utterly exhilarating.
This continued for what felt like an eternity, the silent, cold emptiness stretching around me like an endless tapestry of dark silk. I was a disembodied mind, a passenger on a cosmic current. The perfect, agonizing memories of my family, of Mishel, of the fire and the pain, were my only companions. They were sharp, crystal-clear, and they kept me sane. They were my anchor in this nothingness.
Then, the void changed. I felt a pull, not a suggestion, but a colossal, gravitational summons. I was suddenly pulled, accelerating from ludicrous speed to something even faster, toward a planet teeming with greenery. The vibrant hues of emerald, jade, and deep forest-green rushed to greet me, a living marble of impossible life. It promised a new start, a new world, a new Path.
Then, everything faded to black.
When I regained consciousness, the universe had collapsed. The cosmic void was gone. My vision was blurry, my senses muted, my limbs heavy and unresponsive. I was... small.
I found myself in a new, unfamiliar body—a newborn child, no more than three months old.
Asterion realized that he was in a basket, wrapped in a rough-spun, damp cloth. He was in the middle of a forest, with nobody around. Panic, cold and sharp, surged through him. It was a tide of primal dread that threatened to swallow him whole. His 22-year-old mind, the mind of a Nobel laureate, was trapped inside a skull that could barely support its own weight. He tried to sit up, to assess, to move. His limbs only twitched, a spastic, useless flailing.
He looked around, wide-eyed, his new pupils struggling to focus. Towering trees loomed like ancient, indifferent giants, their canopy a dense ceiling that dappled the forest floor in shadow. The shadows themselves seemed to stretch ominously, twisting into shapes his panicked mind interpreted as predators.
"What is this?" he thought, his mind screaming. But the thought had nowhere to go. "Am I going to die as soon as I started my second life? Is this some kind of punishment? To starve or be eaten alive by wild animals?"
The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. His tiny heart raced, a frantic, rabbit-fast drumbeat echoing in the stillness. He squirmed in the basket, acutely aware of his profound vulnerability. This world, so vibrant from orbit, felt unwelcoming from the ground—a vast expanse filled with unseen dangers lurking just beyond the dim light.
He tried to take a deep, calming breath, the kind his father, Wilhelm, had taught him for stressful exams. Instead, his infant lungs managed only a shallow, hitched gasp. The damp, earthy scent of moss, wet bark, and decay filled his lungs. The forest was alive with sounds—the incessant rustle of unseen leaves, the shrill chirp of insects, and the distant, lonely call of a bird—yet it felt eerily, terrifyingly empty.
Asterion strained his new, weak ears to hear any hint of human life nearby, longing for someone, anyone, who could assure him he wasn't alone. But the silence wrapped around him like a shroud, tightening its grip.
"Focus," he told himself, commanding his mind to overcome the panic. He tried to speak, to form the word. All that escaped was a wet, gurgling sound. Foreign baby babbles came from his mouth, a mouth he could barely control. The disconnect was maddening. "You can't give up. Not after... not after them."
He shifted awkwardly in the basket, exploring the woven confines that held him. The forest was beautiful in its raw, green abundance, yet it felt like a labyrinth, each shadow holding secrets he couldn't comprehend. What had happened to him? Why was he here?
As he lay there, the truth began to seep into his awareness, chilling him to the core. All of this—the vibrant life, the towering trees, the promise of adventure—could be taken away from him in an instant. He was, for the second time in his existence, utterly helpless. He was nothing more than an abandoned child, left to the whims of fate by parents who had disappeared into the night. Deadbeats, he thought with a flash of anger, or worse—those who had chosen to leave him behind in this vast green wilderness.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of thumping. It wasn't just a sound; it was a vibration through the ground, through the basket, a rhythmic thud... thud... thud... growing closer. And with it came a surge of new, painful memories. This body's memories.
At first, there were only sounds—distant, worried murmurs and hushed, desperate conversations. Then, blurry visions began to take shape, seen through the unfocused eyes of an infant. He saw two people, a man and a woman, their faces gaunt, their bodies malnourished and starving. Yet, they always managed to feed him. He remembered the taste of thin, watery broth, the feel of a roughened hand stroking his cheek. This cycle went on for days, weeks, until the food eventually ran out.
The memory-vision focused. The woman looked at him, her expression a terrible mixture of despair and fierce, animalistic determination. But she did not do anything to change their situation, not yet. She went on with her usual business outside their hovel, accompanied by the man who was most likely his father. He would come in occasionally to check on Asterion, his visits brief, his eyes filled with a worry that cut deeper than any knife.
As a baby, Asterion could not do much but try to move around, his tiny body constrained by the limitations of infancy. But his new mind, his old mind, was a sponge. He started to understand what his parents were talking about. Their conversations were laced with a heavy sense of dread. They spoke about their dwindling food supply, the worsening drought, and the increasing, desperate violence among the other people in their starving settlement.
They expressed their fears about the "order" and the "knights" not coming to help, their voices tinged with a brittle hopelessness. Each word sank deep into Asterion's mind, forming the foundation of a reality that was both terrifying and all too real. He felt their anxiety seep into him, a weight that pressed down on his small frame, leaving him with an unsettling sense of foreboding.
Then one day, only his mother returned. The memory was sharp, visceral. She had a weird, empty look on her face, yet she carried with her a heavy sack that dripped. A lot of meat. The sight, and the smell, both startled and intrigued Asterion's infant body. His adult mind recoiled. Where was his father? The thumping, rhythmic sound he remembered... was that chopping?
She quickly cooked it into a thick, dark soup. The rich, iron-heavy aroma filled the small space and awakened a deep, ravenous hunger within him. His adult mind screamed 'Don't!' but his baby body cried out. She fed him, her hands gentle and careful, though they trembled. He ate. It was the first real sustenance he'd had in weeks. Afterward, she went to sleep, or perhaps collapsed, her exhaustion etched on her face.
But the next day, things did not continue as normal. She fed him again, the last of the soup. Then she bathed him, her touch tender and loving, almost reverent. Once she had finished, she placed him in this very basket, wrapping him snugly in a cloth that smelled faintly of herbs and her own warmth. As she started to move, Asterion could only see the shriveled, dying trees that loomed near their camp at first, their twisted branches reaching up like skeletal hands.
Then he caught sight of the vast blue sky, stretching endlessly above him, a stark, beautiful contrast to the dark reality of his surroundings. The openness of the sky filled him with a sense of wonder even as uncertainty gnawed at his little heart.
This journey continued for about three months. The food from that dark day had run out half a month ago. Now, they had arrived in this lush, living forest. But his mother was too weak to hunt. She was a skeleton now, draped in skin. She foraged around to gather berries and roots, feeding him first. Only after this dumb, weak baby body of his ate did she smile, a cracked, painful-looking grimace, while feeding him. Then, she would consume whatever was left, licking the berry juice from her fingers.
But the next day, she came back with a wound. A deep gash across her leg, black at the edges. It looked very bad.
She sat close to him, holding him in her arms, her warmth a fading ember providing a sense of safety despite the grim circumstances. He felt her heartbeat against his tiny frame, a slow, fluttering rhythm that no longer calmed his worries. Soon, his infant body succumbed to its own exhaustion, and he fell into a careless sleep.
When I awoke, the thumping sound was back. I found myself back in the basket. My mother looked panicked, her eyes wide with terror. Two men, both starved, ragged, and holding crude clubs, moved toward our direction. Fear surged within me, and I instinctively reached out for her, a useless, tiny hand grasping at the air.
She grabbed a rock that she had sharpened, her expression resolute, a mother's final, hopeless stand.
She leaned down, kissed me on the head. Her lips were cracked and dry. She whispered, "Stay here." With that, she slowly moved away, placing herself between the basket and the men, her figure retreating into the shadows of the trees.
I watched her go, feeling a mix of dread and a terrible, familiar helplessness. For the second time, I am forced to watch. Powerless.
Soon, I heard screams echoing through the forest, chilling my tiny heart. Her scream, first, one of defiance. Then, a shriek of pain. The sounds of a brutal, wet struggle pierced the air. And then, suddenly, silence. A heavy, absolute silence that was worse than the screaming.
I was left alone, my mind racing with confusion, rage, and a grief so profound it felt like it would split my new body in two. I knew what had happened. I would never see her again.
After this, I felt only pity and sadness for my parents. This new set of parents, who had starved to infeed me. His mother, who had... who had fed her husband to me to give me the strength to travel, only to be killed herself.
My adult mind wanted to analyze, to mourn, to rage. But my body reacted badly. The pressure was too much. It let out a high-pitched, piercing cry that echoed through the stillness of the forest.
The sound, my own traitorous, infant wail, attracted the attention of some people on horses who were approaching me.
All of them were heavily armored, their plate mail scarred and functional, their imposing figures casting long shadows as they reined in. One among them wore the robes of a priest, the contrasting white and gold attire both unsettling and intriguing in this savage place. The priest's garments were adorned with symbols—a hammer and anvil—that glinted in the dappled sunlight, a stark reminder of authority and power.
The knights searched the surroundings, their movements economical and practiced. One of them found the source of the screams. "Sir! Over here!"
They found the horrifying sight of a half-eaten corpse, distinctly dressed in women's clothes. My mother. The two men were gone, having taken what they could.
The knights looked at me, their faces masked by their visored helmets. One of them grunted, "A babe. Left for dead." They showed no emotion, as if they were mere machines devoid of compassion. One of them glanced at the priest, who dismounted from his horse and approached the gruesome scene.
He knelt by my mother's body first, closing her eyes and chanting something under his breath, his voice low and rhythmic. Then he approached me. As his words filled the air, I felt a deep pain rise within me, a sharp, sudden sensation, as if a tuning fork had been struck inside my soul, resonating with his words.
The priest looked surprised by my reaction, his eyes, old and weary, widening for a split second. He studied me, his gaze lingering. But without saying anything, he lifted me from the basket and handed me to one of the biggest knights there, a towering figure clad in heavy armor. "Hold him, Sir Kaelen. Gently."
With that, they continued their journey, the weight of my new reality settling over me like a heavy cloak. The sound of hooves echoed through the forest as they marched forward, each step taking me further away from the only warmth I had known in this life.
The knight's, Kaelen's, hands were rough through his gauntlets as he held me, his grip firm yet careful. The sword at his side would make a clinking, rhythmic sound with every movement of the horse.
Soon, they came to a stop. I smelled it before I saw it. The village was shrouded in thick, black smoke. The acrid scent of burning wood and something far more sinister—an oily, coppery, sour smell—hung in the air, stinging my nostrils. Shadows flickered at the edges of my vision, and the oppressive atmosphere pressed down on me, filling me with a familiar unease. This was the smell of the Tainted. The once vibrant village now appeared lifeless, its structures cloaked in a veil of darkness, as if the very essence of life had been snuffed out.
The knight, Kaelen, handed me over to the porter in their group, a man in simple leather armor. "Protect the child," he grunted.
All the knights and the priest donned their battle helms. I was very surprised when I saw the priest, Father Gregor, wield a massive mace, the heavy armor gleaming in the dim light. But then I witnessed something even more stunning: the priest slammed the head of his mace to the ground, and a golden light erupted from him, enveloping his weapon, casting a warm, holy glow that contrasted sharply with the surrounding darkness. It was Faith.
Once they were fully equipped, the knights formed a tight formation, their expressions resolute. The porter hugged me tightly, turning my body to shield me from view. I could feel the tension radiating from him, his heart pounding a fast rhythm against my back. I wanted to see what was happening, to analyze this new power, but he kept me close, not allowing me to glimpse anything else.
Then came the horrifying screeches that pierced the air, a sound that grated on the soul. It was followed by the thunderous sound of hundreds of feet pounding against the ground. The noise reverberated through my tiny frame, a cacophony of chaos that sent chills down my spine. I clung to the porter, fear swelling within me as I realized something was coming for us, something dark and menacing that threatened to shatter this fragile moment of silence. The battle began. I heard the clash of steel, the golden sizzle of the priest's mace, and the wet, tearing sounds of Tainted flesh.
After the sounds of the grueling battle went on for a few more moments, silence fell over the clearing, heavy and suffocating. The air was thick with smoke and that acrid, sour scent, a reminder of the chaos.
Soon, the knights carried one of their comrades, whose arm was badly mutilated. It wasn't just cut; it was corroded, blackened, and weeping a dark ichor. The injury was a gruesome testament to the violence they had just faced. The man's eyes seemed glossed over, a vacant stare that sent a chill through me.
One of the knights knelt beside him, a sense of urgency in his movements. He poured some kind of gray powder over the injured warrior's shoulder, and it sizzled as it touched the blackened flesh. They then asked the porter to bring over a piece of wood, instructing him to place it in the knight's mouth. "Bite down on this, Tovin. For the Father's blessing."
The priest approached, his demeanor calm yet commanding. He was wielding a clean, sharp-looking knife. He held it up, and to my astonishment, it began to glow with a dull red light, a focused, intense heat. Without hesitation, he pressed the glowing blade to the knight's shoulder and cut off the arm just above the corruption.
The knight screamed, a raw, visceral sound that was muffled by the wood, his body convulsing. In that moment, I instinctively flinched, feeling the pain resonate deep within me. The knight bit down hard, his face contorted in anguish.
The priest dropped the knife and placed his hand on the bloody, cauterized stump. He began to chant, not a low murmur this time, but a powerful hymn. The golden light I saw earlier returned, but this time it was focused on his hand, blindingly bright.
The incantation seemed to resonate through the air, filling the space with an otherworldly energy that pulsed with intensity. Each word he uttered felt like a thread woven into a tapestry of healing. And then, I witnessed the impossible.
The hymn caused the knight's arm to grow back.
My 22-year-old, scientific mind reeled. I watched, breathless, as new flesh, muscle, and sinew wove themselves out of the golden light. I heard a wet, sizzling sound as a new, clean bone structure pushed outward, followed by skin knitting itself whole. In less than a minute, a new, perfect arm lay at the knight's side.
Soon, the glossiness returned to his eyes, the vacant stare replaced by a flicker of awareness. He passed out, the tension in his body finally releasing. The priest looked more than a little winded from the miracle he had just performed; he was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead as he stumbled back and returned to his horse, taking a moment to gather himself.
Meanwhile, the knights began to set fire to the village, flames licking hungrily at the wooden structures. They were also dragging the bodies of the monsters—twisted, broken things that looked like cancerous parodies of men and animals—into the blaze. The crackling of the fire mixed with the night sounds of the forest, and the foul, oily smell of the burning Tainted filled the air. It was a chilling reminder that life, death, and now, miracles, danced hand in hand in this unforgiving world.