The Entity's command—"We now commence your departure"—was followed by a silence that shattered. I felt the endless, black Void claw him apart, not with physical pain, but a sickening violation of dimension. He was ripped through existence, his mind flayed by a torrent of hostile light: the blinding gold of a newborn sun, the primal red of life's first stirrings, the electric blue of structures collapsing into dust. Time collapsed. He saw epochs—galaxies spinning, civilizations rising and boiling away—all reduced to one meaningless, agonizing streak. His very essence, the conscious container of Andhkar, was violently crushed, squeezed from the infinite and deafening silence into the screaming, fragile confines of a single, minuscule human body.
The crushing pressure finally eased. The chaotic light vanished, replaced by a humid, stale air that burned my lungs. For a single second, the pain of the transition vanished, replaced by a profound, physical relief, as if I had never known suffering at all. Only the haunting memories of my past remained. Despite all I'd endured, a strange sense of calm settled over me.
The first words that pieced the ringing silence were: "Honey, look how beautiful he is."
The first words that pieced the ringing silence were:
The only people who had ever called me beautiful were Noora and Katherine. The words were the kindest I had heard in a lifetime, but deep inside, a fact lodged like an iron spike: I'd have to betray them one day.
I forced my eyelids open, praying this world would be just as horrible as mine, hoping betrayal would be easy. As I struggled to see, I felt long, silky hair brushing against my face, and inhaled the sweet, unmistakable smell of rose. When the light finally focused, I saw her: a woman whose eyes were blue like a drowning ocean, her skin smooth as butter.
But my admiration was instantly shattered by a sound. A piercing, persistent wailing. I wondered where the terrible noise was coming from, but as the sound grew louder and louder, the realization struck me with horrifying force: it was me. I was the one wailing on top of my lungs. I was trapped inside this pathetic, screaming animal.
The woman suddenly erupted into tears. Why would she cry at a moment like this? My human mind registered confusion. Was it the pain of giving birth? Why weep? What did I do to deserve someone to cry over me...
The feeling of her tears against my cheek was an alien thing, warm and messy. It was an overwhelming declaration of unconditional love, a debt I knew, with sickening certainty, I would one day have to repay with betrayal.
"Honey, What should we name him?" she said with a soft and calm voice
Ever since I was little, I believed names never really mattered. People believed that their names were everything—their identity, their livelihood. I never believed that. I always believed names were only helpful for identifying people, to remember them. That's why I never really cared about my own name, since I never wanted anyone to remember me. But the more I thought about it, the more I understood: I just never had self-esteem. I never really believed in myself. For me, names were useless, something that could be disregarded because I never took myself seriously.
But I have been given a second chance. And I won't make that same mistake again.
I stopped wailing, the sound choking into a sudden, deliberate silence. I looked into the eyes of the woman above me, accepting the life she had just given me, and the destruction I would bring.
My name is Agna.
The man who made a deal with the devil himself.
The door to the humid room opened with a quiet creak. A tall shadow stretched across the floor, broken only by the dim bedside lamp. He was a stark visual contrast to the woman who held me. Where she was blonde and soft, he was sharp and commanding. His hair was black and slicked with sweat, framing a pale face dominated by a pair of intense, emerald green eyes. Scars, thin and white, traced across his cheekbones and brow. His face was that of a warrior who had conquered the seven seas, but his movements were heartbreakingly tentative.
He knelt beside the bed, his presence filling the space. The harsh lines of his face dissolved as he looked at his wife; the warrior replaced by a desperate, exhausted man.
He leaned in, slowly and gently, to kiss the woman. Then, with infinite care, he rested his forehead against mine, his rough skin a sudden, warm pressure against my own. I could feel the tremor in his body, the release of tension that mirrored the strange calm I had felt moments before.
He pulled back just enough to look into his wife's eyes, and his voice was a low, steady rumble of exhausted relief.
"His name is Julius. Julius Highland."
The mother's beautiful blue eyes closed, a silent, joyful acceptance of the name. My mask had been chosen.
The hours that followed the naming were a study in pure, humiliating helplessness. The warmth I felt from her—the woman holding me—was comforting, a strange, vulnerable sensation I hadn't felt since my first life. When I tried to touch her, I felt a persistent, sickening pressure. My adult will commanded my hands to lift, but this tiny body refused, the limbs feeling impossibly heavy. That weight was constant throughout the day. I felt as if this entire body was a crude, cumbersome mechanism, too heavy for my own consciousness to handle.
When I tried to stand or walk, I would immediately collapse, my legs simply unable to handle the weight. My stomach felt like an empty void—a perpetual, aching chasm that, despite my mother's tireless efforts to feed me, remained profoundly hungry. I couldn't stop myself from wailing; the cries were primal, exhausting, and utterly beyond my command. This complete loss of autonomy was honestly a very strange and deeply frustrating experience.
My new mother's name was Clara Highland, and my new father's name was Martin Highland.
With those names identified, I turned my attention to the decaying context of this life: the land and the history that defined the Highland name.
I observed the manor. It was a decent-sized structure, not opulent, but sturdy, rising from the cold earth of the countryside. We lived in the Highland District, a remote area located inside the Kingdom of Ethinburg, and the name itself was a testament to my family's strange history. The Highland line wasn't originally noble, but a name forged by generations of farmers and small landowners. Nobility was a gift, a political reward from the Royal Family for our ancestors' immense contributions.
The Highlands always favored this simple land. We always preferred living with the common people. Our family never discriminated against anyone based on their status, and we spent a significant portion of our fortune not on court luxuries, but on easing the burdens of the commoners here. This history was why we were loved.
But being loved by the commoners, I noted with cold clarity, bought us nothing.
It showed.
The decay of our surroundings: that distinct smell of mildew choking forgotten silk, the spiderweb cracks in the plaster, was the bitter, physical proof. This was the visible price of my father's integrity, and the only certainty I recognized: their virtue was the root of their entire, pathetic ruin.
I also observed that my father, Martin Highland, was a remarkably punctual man; a man of routine. He would visit the nearby farmlands, spend time speaking with the farmers, and then return. He insisted on helping the manor's few servants with the cleaning and and would often assist in the kitchen. He was, in essence, the kind of man revered in every romantic tale: someone who respected others regardless of their origin, someone who, in turn, commanded quiet respect. He was, purely and simply, a man of honor.
Despite the scars that marked his face, he was soft and calm with me. He had a surprising warmth in his voice and his rough, calloused hands. Every evening, he would take me to bed. He and my mother would then tell me long, winding stories about adventures in the outside world. I was always fascinated by them; their eyes held a pure, unmistakable excitement when they spoke of their experiences, especially my father.
My actual father was a rapist. I never once felt the presence or comfort of a true fatherly figure. Deep inside, I found myself drawn to both of them. They were kind and understanding, possessing the very qualities I wished I had known when I was a child.
What surprised me most was my father's honesty. No matter the situation, he would always take full accountability for his actions and immediately move to make amends for his mistakes. Martin truly was a noble man.
But, just like in the tragic stories passed down through generations, good people never last long, and with a cold, sickening sense of dread, I knew my father was merely the latest victim, crushed by the crude twist of fate.
End of Chapter....