My second novel is officially live — Awakening: I'm Overpowered in This Changed World.
If you enjoy action, systems, and overpowered protagonists, give it a read. Reviews, comments, and library adds are massively appreciated.
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Chapter Twenty-One — Ashes and Direction
The fire crackled softly between them.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Azeroth watched the embers glow and collapse in slow, steady cycles—burning, dimming, burning again—as though even fire had to remind itself how to keep going. Garet sat beside him, back against the tree, arms resting loosely at his sides.
His gaze wasn't on the flames.
It was on Azeroth.
At last, Garet exhaled.
"You know," he said quietly, "I was a kid once too."
A pause.
"A happy one."
The words were simple. Almost careless. Yet something heavy followed them, like a weight settling into the air.
"I lacked nothing," Garet continued. "Food. Safety. Shelter. I had it all."
"My parents were the heads of our village and I was next in line."
Azeroth shifted slightly on the log, eyes still on the fire.
"But of course I was only a kid," Garet went on, a faint, crooked smile touching his lips before vanishing, "so I complained—a lot."
A brief huff of breath escaped him.
"Funny, isn't it?"
Azeroth didn't respond, but something in his chest tightened.
"I wanted to see the world," Garet said. "The other races. The places I could only hear about in stories."
"My parents always refused." His voice softened. "They warned me. Again and again. About how dangerous the world beyond was."
A pause.
"But I didn't understand, I didn't want to," he said, turning his head just enough to glance at Azeroth. "Not until it became my reality."
The fire popped.
"When I was fifteen," Garet said, eyes lowering, "ogres came down from the hills."
Azeroth's fingers curled against the log beneath him.
"They didn't raid," Garet continued. "They didn't negotiate."
"They slaughtered."
For a moment, his voice faltered—not breaking, just… thinning.
"My parents told me to run."
Garet's grip tightened around the stick he'd been idly holding.
"I didn't want to," he said. "But my body moved before my mind could catch up."
His jaw clenched.
"I ran."
The fire crackled louder.
"And I kept running."
"When I finally stopped, all I could see was smoke." He swallowed. "Black smoke. Rising where my home used to be."
Azeroth's breath slowed, measured, controlled.
"In a surge of courage i went back," Garet said. "But it was too late."
"They were all dead."
No anger. No dramatics.
Just fact.
"My parents—old man Tox, the kids I grew up with—all dead." he continued . "…Yet I survived."
Something cold brushed Azeroth's spine.
"It took years before I could even think straight again," Garet said. "And when I finally did… I came to a conclusion."
His eyes lifted.
"That my survival meant I owed something to the dead."
Azeroth's throat tightened.
So that's how it starts.
"So I trained," Garet continued. "Day and night. I broke bones. I bled. I learned how to kill."
His voice was steady.
Too steady.
"I told myself I was doing it for them."
A breath.
"But really," he admitted, shaking his head once, "I just didn't know how else to live with the pain."
Silence pressed in.
"When I was strong enough, I left."
Azeroth didn't look away this time.
"I hunted anything that reminded me of what I'd lost," Garet said. "Not just ogres."
"Trolls. Cyclopes. Lizardmen. Goblins."
Azeroth's jaw tightened.
"Anything I could convince myself deserved it."
The firelight carved harsh shadows into Garet's face.
"I became strong," he said. "And empty."
"Killing became my purpose."
For a brief, terrifying moment, Azeroth saw himself standing there instead—older, hardened, hollowed out by time and blood.
The thought made his chest ache.
"One day," Garet said, "I realized something."
His voice lowered.
"I was doing to others exactly what had been done to me."
A pause.
"And worse," he added quietly, "I was using my parents as an excuse."
He turned fully toward Azeroth now.
"I'm telling you this," Garet said, "because I saw myself in you."
Azeroth met his gaze.
"That killing intent," Garet continued. "I don't know where it comes from, how you got to possess such at your age. But I recognize it."
Devour stirred faintly within Azeroth—not hunger, but acknowledgment.
"It's killing intent without direction," Garet said. "Without purpose."
"Just like mine was back then."
The fire snapped.
"Just like me, you're running from something," Garet said. "Trying to forget it. To bury it."
Azeroth didn't deny it.
"I don't know what it is, or how a child like you came to carry this baggage," Garet continued. "And frankly, it's not my place to ask if you don't want to share."
"But running won't erase it," he said. "It never does."
His gaze sharpened.
"What you need is a goal—a target."
"Something to drive your focus."
"Something that gives you a reason to keep moving."
Garet's voice softened.
"Because if you don't choose that reason yourself… and soon…"
He let the words hang.
"… then one day you'll wake up and realize you've become something you no longer recognize."
The fire crackled.
Azeroth stared into the flames, chest tight, mind unnervingly clear.
He didn't speak.
But for the first time since waking in this world—
He seriously contemplated on what to do with this body. This life. This second chance of his.
Garet did not interrupt, giving him as much time as he needs to think, while he himself fell into thoughts of his own.
Contemplating a great deal of things, especially on what the hell a child as young as Azeroth had to go through to develop a killing intent like the one he showed.
It was unknown how much time passed, when Azeroth finally opened his eyes again with an exhale. He felt refreshed—the weight he had been carrying somewhat looser.
The sky was already significantly darker. The fire was put out, and before him on a wooden platter was a part of the beast Garet was roasting. But he himself was nowhere in sight.
Not thinking much about it, Azeroth picked up the meat and began munching. About halfway done when Garet finally returned—dragging a stag-like beast nearly twice his size with him.
Garet dropped the stag with a dull thud, wiping his hands against his trousers.
"You eat already?" he asked, glancing at the half-cleaned bone in Azeroth's hand.
Azeroth nodded.
"…yeah."
Garet nodded. "Good. You can rest today there will be no more training."
He began working on the stag, movements practiced and efficient. For a while, the only sound between them was the scrape of a blade and the hush of the night.
Then—
"Sir Garet."
The man paused, but didn't look up.
Azeroth hesitated. The words felt heavier than they should have.
"…Can you take me back to the castle?"
The knife stilled.
Garet straightened slowly and finally turned.
His eyes met with Azeroth's uncertain gaze, who was filled with quiet, yet unmistakable resolve.
Garet studied him for a long moment. Longer than was comfortable.
"What for?" he asked.
"I need to speak with my parents." Azeroth said.
Garet searched his eyes again, deeper this time.
"…You've changed," he said.
Azeroth didn't smile.
"I think," he replied carefully, "I'm starting to."
Silence stretched.
Then Garet exhaled, a slow breath through his nose.
"Alright," he said at last. "We head back at first light."
Azeroth's shoulders loosened—just a fraction.
"Thank you."
Garet turned back to the stag.
"Don't thank me yet," he said. "Choosing a path is the easy part."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Walking it is where most people fail."
With that he turned around and resumed slicing into the dead stag. Leaving Azeroth to ponder on the reality of his words.