Chương 12: Chapter 007 The Class Choosing Stone (Part 2)

Jack was perplexed and sat holding the blood-red rose. He contemplated what the old lady had said as he appreciated the birdsong above. Her words echoed in his mind: 'All choices matter. The Fates await to guide you. Don't waste this second chance, Jack.'

"She knew my name." He searched his memories for who the old lady might be and still didn't recognise her. Could she have been a messenger of the Gods? She was cryptic enough to be one. Though rare, it wasn't unheard of for the Gods to interfere in mortal matters, but when they did, the mortals struggled to recall events accurately. She told me not to waste this second chance. Jack's eyes widened as it hit home hard.

"This is real. I have a true second chance." The recent risks he'd taken following Baron Greaves and witnessing the forbidden ritual flashed through his mind. His heart raced at what could've happened had he been caught.

"So stupid." He touched the side of his face that used to be scarred and thought about how he'd been diagnosed with soldier's heart. I lost control again. This had happened many times before over the past twenty years. Something triggered his past traumas, resulting in a temporary loss of control. This time it was the failed assassination attempt and his death. He took a moment to meditate, to centre his thoughts on what mattered most. Mom. Dad. Polly. Little Richard. Protect them from Greaves.

He took a deep calming breath. I have five years to change the future. No more dumb risks. Jack returned to what the old lady had said.

"What is my fate? Guide me where?" Nothing came to mind. He fiddled with the blood-red rose held in his hand.

"She could've just told me what to do." His memories felt hazy for a moment as his eyes drifted down to the red rose. Jack stayed on the pew as dozens of people went about their business in the temple. A robed temple attendant opened a fading aether lantern and replaced the rechargeable aether capsule within. While contemplating his fate, he noticed a teenage beastkin place his hand on the Choosing Stone. The boy's face lit up; he looked thrilled. He must've been offered a good choice.

He caught the boy's eye and offered a smile and a knowing nod. The young beastkin beamed. His black fur was marked with striking white streaks, which made his grin all the more vivid.

"I'm going to be a knight," he said, his voice shaking with excitement.

"Everyone said I wouldn't get the choice since I'm not a noble, but they were wrong." Behaving as though someone might take it away at any moment, the boy selected the knight class.

"I'm a Novice Knight!" he declared, pumping his fist into the air in celebration. His tail wagged like an eager pup as he hopped from foot to foot. His enthusiasm echoed off the temple walls, mingling with the faint trills of birdsong. Many of the parishioners congratulated him on his achievement. It was rare, almost unheard of, for a commoner, especially a beastkin, to be offered the knight class at sixteen. It had taken Jack close to fifteen years before he unlocked the knight class by luck.

It required, amongst other things, basic training in swords, spears, archery, and horsemanship. Jack returned the boy's grin.

"Congratulations. You must have worked damn hard to earn the knight class." Despite being strangers, he was pleased for the young man. Access to a horse, multiple weapons, and formal knight training was a luxury few teenage commoners could afford. For beastkins, it was even less so.

"Well done," he added.

"The Fates smiled on you today." The young man nodded.

"I-I'm going to go tell my friends and family. Thanks!" The newly anointed Novice Knight bounced his way out of the temple, his tail swishing side to side as birds chirped in chorus above. Jack smiled. Good for him. Now for my choice. My fate. His smile faded into a frown. I really want to kill the bastard who ruined my life. And now I know a blood cult exists in the city. I have to kill all the blood mages in Lundun. He felt a responsibility to stop the blood cult.

His hand gripped the dagger at his side as though he might use it that very moment to gut the Baron and every last cultist in the city. Holding the weapon made him feel better. He pushed the intrusive thought down.

"Why should I? That's not who I want to become." Jack remembered his first love. I could marry Jasmin and have a family. He smiled, recalling the first time they'd danced. It had also been his first time dancing. Jasmin had laughed as he kept apologising for stepping on her feet.

"I want that life." It was a simple life of love, laughter, and good food with family, always together. Still gripping the dagger, he thought about the life he should've had and how it was all ruined by Greaves. Jack closed his eyes and thanked the Gods for giving him a second chance. Thank you for this gift. No matter what it takes, I'll stop Greaves to protect my family and have a good life. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"Would you like an apple?" A female voice asked. Jack looked up to find a middle-aged woman dressed in plain priestess robes. She was carrying a basket of red apples. Caught off guard, he blinked at the question.

"They're from an early harvest. With Demeter's blessing," she added.

"Would you like one?" The woman pulled out a juicy-looking apple and offered it to him.

"Thanks," he said, taking it with a smile. The woman returned the smile.

"They're delicious. Demeter has blessed us with another good summer. There's going to be an abundance of fruit soon." The priestess left to offer apples to other visitors.

"Thanks again," Jack called as he polished the apple on his jacket and took a bite with a mouthwatering crunch.

"Hmm, that is a good apple." He took another bite.

"What should I choose to change the future?" He began compiling a mental list of options while eating his apple. The first approach was to find a way to prevent his father from deciphering and translating the forbidden blood magic grimoire, the secret that Baron Greaves had murdered his family to protect. In his first life, he had become a Novice Scribe at sixteen and began working under his father, an Expert Scribe, in the Ancient Texts Department of the Royal Library.

When he was eighteen, his father had started work on an ancient tome encrypted with a complex cypher. About a year later, his father had him, by then an Apprentice Scribe, join the effort. His dad had already done most of the heavy lifting, so within six months they'd cracked the cypher and begun translating the ancient Elvish text. After translating a few pages, they realised the book contained forbidden spells and knowledge—a blood magic grimoire—and presented their findings to the Baron.

Greaves had ordered them to complete the translation and not discuss the book's contents with anyone but him. In hindsight, that should've raised a red flag. However, they were so excited to be working on something so fascinating that they missed or ignored the warning signs. Jack had never understood why they continued to work on the forbidden text. Anytime they had doubts, Baron Greaves persuaded them it was the right thing to do for the good of the Kingdom.

A few months later, the first section of the blood magic grimoire was translated and handed over to Baron Greaves. There were still years of work left to decipher and translate the entire tome. That was when the Baron killed his father and left twenty-one-year-old Jack and the rest of his family for dead in their burning home. Despite the bad memories, working alongside his father during those months remained one of Jack's fondest memories.

He had gained plenty of experience and a handful of skill levels working on the grimoire. Even his father gained a level when they'd translated the first section of the book. It was hard for him to reconcile the good memories with the eventual murder of his family. If his father and Jack had never deciphered and translated the grimoire, there would've been no reason for the Baron to kill his family.

He clenched his fists as the memory burned bright of Greaves' beastkin guards pinning his father down while the Baron drove a blade through his heart. I hate that murdering bastard. He winced as a sharp pain stung his right hand. He looked down to find he'd gripped the blood-red rose so tight that a thorn had pierced his palm. He sucked the trickle of blood and hissed. It was a minor wound, but he'd have to hide the cut from his mother, or she'd fuss and worry.

He could already hear her lecture about some distant uncle who died of a thorn wound, possibly even on his right hand. There was always a relative he'd never heard of who'd dropped dead from a harmless injury. With how many family members had met the Gods by such minor mishaps, his mother could've been a soothsayer of medical catastrophes. Jack chuckled and placed his hand on the damaged hilt of the dagger. The worn handle was warm against his palm, then the warmth turned to heat, and the heat became fire.

He was no longer himself. He was crouched in shadows, breath slow, watching a fat merchant count gold in a candlelit room. The blade slid between ribs like a whisper, and the merchant's eyes went wide with surprise before he slumped in his chair, dead. A pulse of power, hot and sweet, flooded his veins. Then another kill. A nobleman on a balcony, his throat opened to the night air. The dagger tasted his blood like fine wine. Another. A drow priestess, her spell dying on her lips as the blade found her heart.

She had been hunting him; he had been faster. Another kill. Another surge of power. Another act of vengeance. Jack gasped as the images slammed through him, too fast to follow, too vivid to ignore. Silk and mud. Snow and desert sand. The wet crunch of steel through bone, the shuddering exhale of the dying, the warm spray of arterial blood across his—no, her—face. A woman's hand, scarred and steady, wielding the blade.

A woman's voice, cold as ice, whispering the same words after every kill:"For vengeance, retribution, and balance. For my Goddess." Hundreds of deaths. Thousands. Men and women, elves and dwarves, orcneas and goblins, creatures he'd only read about in dusty tomes. Each one ended by the blade he now held, and with every death, the dagger grew hungrier. The visions splintered into fragments. A child's scream. A warrior's last stand. A King's dying curse.

And then they were gone, leaving only a dull ache behind his eyes and the taste of copper on his tongue. Jack blinked. The temple of Demeter was still there, but something had shifted in the space between heartbeats, a weight he couldn't name pressing against his thoughts. What the fuck was that? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. The images were already fading, dissolving like morning mist, leaving behind only a faint, unsettling echo.

He looked down at the dagger in his hand, but it was just the old, damaged dagger. And yet… A voice lingered at the edge of his awareness. His own voice, but not one he remembered speaking. It whispered the same words over and over, like a prayer carved into his bones: Choose blood mage. Kill blood mages. Protect the girl. Choose blood mage. Kill blood mages. Protect the girl. Choose blood mage. Kill blood mages. Protect the girl…

Then the haze cleared, and the voice was gone, leaving only the ache in his palm and the strange certainty that he'd just forgotten something important. Jack rubbed his sore palm and frowned.

"What was I doing here again?"