Chương 4: Chapter 002 Waking To A Better Past

Jack was ripped from oblivion by a cold so deep it felt like drowning in a frozen river. He tried to bolt upright, but his limbs betrayed him as he tumbled off whatever he'd been lying on, hitting the floor with a damp, breathless thump. He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving, heart hammering so violently he thought his ribs might crack. In the space between heartbeats, the last twenty years came rushing back. A decade of begging for food and work to survive, of cheap ale and bitter, sleepless nights.

A pointless year wasted on weapons training. The phantom sting of a sword hilt blistering against burn-scarred palms. The sharp twang of a bowstring snapping across a damaged forearm, the bow clattering to the forest floor as he cursed his own useless body. Months wasted on spears, swords, bows… all of it fruitless, his burns and ruined lungs stealing any hope of martial skill. Until he'd settled on the poisoned drow blade, a weapon that asked for precision, not strength.

Then came the years of drudgery: twelve, sometimes sixteen hours a day hunched over a desk in a filthy room, inscribing [Fireball] and [Frost Breath] scrolls until his burn-scarred fingers cramped and his one good eye felt ready to bleed. The nights were worse. Cheap ale to dull the guilt, depression, and nightmares, to silence the screams he still heard when the firelight flickered too low.

Finally he had the five hundred gold—more coin than most commoners earned in a lifetime—required to buy the drow dagger and poison. And after that, the return to the capital and three months of patient, obsessive watching. Following Greaves through Lundun's rain-slicked streets, never close enough to be noticed, always close enough to taste the revenge just out of reach. Then the alley. His own drow blade, twisted in his gut. The poison, eating him alive.

And Greaves' smug, grinning face, hovering like a vulture over carrion, as Jack's life bled out onto the cobblestones. Jack was breathing hard, his heart pounded so loud that he thought it would burst from his chest.

"I… I can feel my heart. How is…" Still disorientated, he took a deep breath.

"The poison. What's. I'm dead? I must be dead." Still draped in the cold, wet darkness, he felt his stomach for stab wounds. He found nothing but more confusion. His mind, still spinning from the shock, grabbed at the worst possibility. The Gods of the Underworld had claimed his worthless soul, and he'd woken in Tartarus, wrapped in a damp death shroud.

"Is-is this the Underworld?" He prayed to the Gods that he wasn't in Tartarus. Anywhere but Tartarus. Tartarus, the deepest pit of the Underworld. Reserved for the damned, the wicked, and the unforgiven. Surely his failed attempt to kill Viscount Greaves wasn't enough to damn his soul? That had been justice. Hadn't it? Fear crept up his spine as he shivered from the coldness, as a familiar female voice broke through his panic.

"Were you having a bad dream, Jack?" She chuckled. Jack froze. No. It couldn't be. His eyes opened wide, and with caution, he removed the wet shroud covering his face, half expecting to find himself before the bronze gates of Tartarus. He squinted against the light and saw a small, square room of timber walls and brass piping. A faint tick-tick-tick came from the cog-driven wall clock above a familiar bed; six in the morning it read. Spent blue aether-steam hissed from the vent in the corner.

And in front of him stood a teenage girl with long, dark, curly hair, wearing a navy dress and the smug grin of someone pleased with themselves. Jack's jaw fell open. Disorientated and confused, he stared at the smiling teenager.

"Polly?" It was her! His younger sister was alive, young, and mischievous. Not the charred body he'd failed to bury in his memory.

"Good morning, Jack," his sister said. His eyes scanned the room. It was the same childhood bedroom he'd once called his own. To the right, the narrow wooden bed, now soaked through. To the left was his old desk, a mess of ink bottles, pens, and dusty tomes he'd once treasured. Manuals on runes and magical classification, magic spell scrolls to memorise for when young Jack would be capable of inscribing his own. Even the scent of parchment and spent aether-steam from the desk lamp lingered in the air.

He recalled the wonderful smell of old scrolls and the call to sit at his desk with his head buried deep in research.

"I'm-I'm home," he whispered. This was his home, not how he remembered it as the fire destroyed his life two decades earlier, but how it should be. This was before everything went wrong in his life; five years before the fire, when his family was still alive, and he was whole and happy. He could almost hear his mother's voice from the kitchen calling him to breakfast. With reluctance, he pulled his eyes away from the old study area. Jack stared in shock at his sister, who looked much younger than he remembered.

"By the Gods, how is this possible?" Polly beamed.

"Well," she said with confidence, patting down her long dress, "first, I filled a bucket with cold water and balanced it above your huge, fat head." With a giggle, she pointed to the small shelf above the bed and the wooden bucket on the floor.

"Then I tied it to your wrist and waited for you to move. Simple engineering, really." Her eyes sparkled with delight.

"Happy birthday, Jack. You're a man now." She broke into laughter as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Jack followed the soaked rope back to his own arm, and recognition dawned. The prank on his sixteenth birthday; his annoying fourteen-year-old sister had done this. She tossed his books onto the floor, soaked his mattress, and almost froze him solid. He'd been furious at the time. Jack smiled at the pleasant memory. Am I still dying? Is this my life flashing before me? Before I'm judged by the Gods?

As he contemplated the situation, he realised he hadn't felt this good in decades. His skin was no longer tight from the burn scars. Other than the cold, his skin felt normal. The constant itch of scar tissue was gone. I can see. The fire that consumed his family had caused significant damage to his body, and the sight in his left eye was compromised. My left arm feels fine. The extensive burn damage to his left side caused pain and tightness in the scarred skin.

While Jack was lost in thought, Polly continued to explain the practical joke.

"You took too long to move, so I tickled your stinky feet." She started laughing again, causing her cheeks to go bright red.

"Worked much better than I expected. You look like a drowned rat, Jack. Jack the rat as wet as a… cat?" She frowned. She was never very good at rhyming.

"No, wait, that's not quite…" Despite believing he was experiencing a last gasp at life, he jumped up and pulled his startled sister into a damp hug; the bucket attached to his wrist clattered on the wooden floor.

"I've missed you so much," his voice cracked with emotion. Tears streamed down his face as he recalled how she died, screaming in the fire. Polly squirmed and tried to push him away.

"Get off, you're all wet and stinky. By the Gods, when did you last wash?" She tried to lift her nose away from his chest, but Jack was half a foot taller and pulled her in closer like she'd vanish if he loosened the hold.

"Stop moving," she complained, "You're making it worse. You're wafting your nasty stink in my face." She made fake vomiting noises.

"Boys are disgusting." In the original memory, Jack had been so annoyed at being wet that he'd chased her down. When she complained about the smell, he'd rubbed her face in his sweaty armpit. This time, he ignored her complaints and gave her a big kiss on the forehead before jumping up and down with her while laughing. With all her strength, Polly pushed him away. Jack laughed again; his laugh was wild and joyful. I've missed this so much. If only this were real and would never end.

"What are you doing, you lunatic?" She wiped her forehead like a stray dog had taken a dump on it.

"Urrr. What sort of brother kisses their sister on the head?" Jack felt alive. More alive than he'd felt in over twenty years.

"What are you two up to at this early hour?" A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Jack froze as the familiar voice of his mother drew closer to his bedroom door. His mom burst into the room. Upon seeing the soaked bedding and her dripping, wet son, she transformed from a curious parent into a fuming, mad mom.

"Pollyanna!" she thundered.

"What have I told you about taking your pranks too far?" She gestured at the drenched sheets and her sodden firstborn. Spent aether-steam hissed from the radiator pipes behind her as the brass vents clicked and expanded with the morning heat. Before she could say more, Jack ran to her—dragging the clattering bucket along the floor—with his arms spread wide for a hug.

"Mom! Mom, I missed you," he choked, wrapping her in his arms like he'd not seen her in twenty years. She smelled of home, lavender soap, warm bread, and safety. His mother recoiled from the damp embrace.

"You saw me last night," she said.

"Did the bucket hit you in the head?" She glared at Polly.

"You know how heavy those things are! You could've brained the poor boy." His mom tugged Jack's damp hair aside to inspect his scalp for signs of bumps and cuts. Glaring at Polly while gesticulating, she said, "Did you forget about your poor old Great Aunt Elsie?" Without waiting for an answer, she added, "Hit on the head with a bucket. Dead the next morning." She shook her head. His sister rolled her eyes.

"I think he had a bad dream, Mom," she remarked, attempting to sound helpful.

"He should be grateful I woke him," she added with a playful grin.

"They say if you die in a nightmare, you'll wake up dead. So, I'm a hero, saving poor Jack from waking up dead." Though Polly tried to maintain a straight face, she couldn't help but burst into laughter. Their mother groaned, and Jack couldn't stop smiling. His mother was there, with her beautiful green eyes and a happy smile. Well, she wasn't smiling or happy right now, but she was there. Overwhelmed by emotions, tears poured down his face.

Soon, he was sobbing like a toddler who had lost his mother in a scary crowd, only to find her again.

"I-I missed you so much, Mom." Jack felt his mother's hug. He'd missed this feeling more than anything else he'd lost. Don't end. Please don't end. I can't lose her again.

"It's alright, Jack." His mother comforted him, stroking his back with care.

"Did you have a bad nightmare?" She patted his wet back.

"You're safe now." Jack didn't want to ruin the moment; still sobbing, he nodded. While absorbing the loving warmth of his mother's hug, he closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods that he'd get enough time. Please, whoever's controlling this, please give me time to say goodbye. Please, I'll do anything.

"It's alright. It was only a dream." She kissed the top of his damp head before pushing him away by the shoulders to look into his eyes.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jack nodded.

"That's good," his mom said.

"Now, you need to get cleaned up before breakfast." She was still looking at him with worry.

"You do remember what today is? That it's your sixteenth, and you get to choose your class today? Right?" He nodded again.

"Happy birthday, Jack. It's not anything to be worried about. With all your hard work, you're bound to be offered scribe, just like your father." She smiled in that way parents did when trying to reassure a child too nervous to sleep the night before a big exam. Jack stared, tears still glistening in his eyes. Just like Dad. In this world, choosing a class at sixteen was a sacred rite. Your dedication determined what classes the Choosing Stone revealed. Want to be a swordsman? Train with a sword for a few months.

Dream of being an archer? Practise with a bow. But if you studied history, copied scrolls, and translated old languages, then you might be chosen as a scribe. A few hours from now, during his first life, he'd head to a temple, place his hands on a Choosing Stone, and select Novice Scribe. Choosing a class granted him access to the Gods-gifted System and the Primary Novice Scribe Skills: [Copy Text], [Translate Text], [Draughtsmanship], [Bind Book], and [Restoration].

Over time, he learnt Secondary Novice Scribe Skills like [Calligraphy], [Layout], [Emboss Text], [Cartography], [Cataloguing], and many others. For Jack, that had once been everything. A good, honourable class that would mean a good, safe life for him and his future family. His few friends had wanted to be flashy knights or monster hunters, but he'd loved sitting at his desk by aether light, ink-stained fingers scribbling into journals or inscribing spells on scrolls. His father had been an Expert Scribe.

His grandfather, a prodigy, had reached Master Scribe by sixty-seven. An exceptional achievement, given that levelling slowed with age and he'd also taken the Novice Explorer and Apprentice Explorer classes! At sixteen, Jack had believed he'd level even faster; the signs were there. He'd believed in the future, but life had betrayed that belief. Jack thought about his father and sobbed even deeper at the thought of seeing his dad again. If this memory held true, he wouldn't see him until the evening.

He was working at the Royal Library under Baron Greaves. The thought of his father being near the murderous Baron made him shiver with both fear and rage. Would the death dream even last long enough for him to see his dad again?

"Come on, Jack. You're shivering from the cold. Go get cleaned up. You smell worse than a wet dog," his mom said. Polly gave Jack a mocking, toothy grin.

"That's what I said. He stinks worse than an old dog that bathed with a dead skunk in sour milk." She smiled even wider at the high-quality insult. Jack chuckled through his tears. He did stink, and he'd missed her insults. He'd stayed up half the night working by the soft, blue glow of his aether lamp, practising calligraphy to ensure he was offered the scribe class. His shirt was stained with sweat and ink, his skin sticky with nervous anticipation.

He took a deep breath to calm himself before releasing the bear hug he'd been giving his mother.

"S-sorry, Mom." He took another deep breath to get the sobbing under control.

"It-it was a really bad nightmare, and I love you so much." He forced a smile. Please don't end while I'm bathing. Please. His mother pulled him in for another hug.

"I know. I love you too, Son." After a dozen seconds, she released the hug.

"Go get cleaned up," she ordered, "and I'll get breakfast ready." Jack nodded. Their mother gave Polly a look of righteous vengeance.

"And you, young lady. You'll be cleaning everything you soaked." She pointed at the wet bedclothes." Everything. Then we'll have another long conversation about boundaries and why murder-by-bucket is not a valid prank." Jack smiled at this part of the memory. He knew what was coming next. As a punishment, Polly had to do all the washing for an entire month, so he'd made sure to get his clothes filthy. He recalled sitting and kneeling in mud, so that his sister had a harder time cleaning his clothes. Good times.

Polly moaned, "But, Mom, it was only a joke." She saw Jack smiling as he left the room.

"See, Mom." She pointed towards Jack.

"He's smiling; he's not even annoyed. Look! He's happy." Jack popped his head back around the door.

"I don't need to get annoyed. I have a mom who can do that for me." His laughter bounded off the walls as he headed to the bathroom with the clattering bucket still attached.

Jack stared in disbelief at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Staring back was a teenage boy with wide, cobalt-blue eyes and a full head of dark, dishevelled hair. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt.

"I'm sixteen again." His left eye was no longer clouded by damage. The red, angry burn scars that had once stretched across half his face, disfiguring him for two decades, were gone. Erased, as though they had never existed. His breath caught in his throat as he raised a trembling hand to the side of his face. The skin beneath his fingertips was smooth and unbroken.

"It's all gone," he whispered. Tears welled in his eyes and began to roll down his cheeks.

"I look so young!" His fingers explored further, brushing through thick hair where once there had been brittle tufts and bald patches. He pressed his palm to his temple, to the place where the fire had seared his skin, where guilt, pain, and shame had lived for so long.

"I-I'm whole again." Emotion gripped him with a fierce intensity as he clutched the edge of the sink for support. His legs felt weak. A lifetime of hiding beneath hoods, flinching from stares and pitying glances, all gone. He wiped the tears with the sleeve of his damp shirt, his breath shuddering as he forced himself to focus.

"Pull yourself together, Jack," he muttered.

"This death thing could end at any moment." His gaze drifted to the bathtub. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"It's the old one." Stepping closer, he gave the rounded brass side of the clawfoot bath a fond pat, like greeting an old friend. It donged like a brass bell; he couldn't help but smile at the familiar sound. A small rechargeable aether capsule, its polished copper casing etched with delicate runes, pulsed with blue light and hummed. Inside, refined aether crystals shimmered like bottled lightning. This was the bath's dedicated power source.

"I always preferred this one to the new model," he whispered, sliding the plug into place and turning the hot water valve. As it hissed open, the aether capsule emitted a soft hum, resonating like a cat's purr as spent aether-steam curled into the air in gentle plumes. He remembered his dad proudly having the latest aether-powered system installed throughout the house. It was a few months before Jack's sixteenth birthday.

It started with hooking up the kitchen to the new mains aether supply, followed by the radiators and then the bathroom.

"I think it's next month we get the new bath," he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. The upgraded model would draw power directly from the new city's main aether grid via copper piping. More efficient and no more flat aether capsule halfway through a bath. A sleek and impressive design, but this one, this older, clunkier tub, felt more substantial. The water was deeper. The heat was more intense, and the hum of the aether capsule was like a comforting lullaby.

It wasn't as good as the new one, yet it was somehow better. Jack peeled off his damp clothes and stepped into the steaming water. Sinking down slowly, he sighed as the heated bath water enveloped him. He examined his arms, chest, and shoulders. Skin, once warped and twisted, was now pale and smooth; every scar from that terrible night had vanished. He flexed his fingers, and there was no pain. He rolled his shoulders; no stiffness. He breathed in deep, and there wasn't even a hint of a rasp.

His once scorched and frail lungs now drew in the air like the bellows of a forge, steady, strong, and healthy. Jack sank deeper into the water until only his eyes and nose remained above the surface. The warmth wrapped around him like a mother's embrace. Memories of laughter, of family breakfasts, of firelit evenings returned unbidden, and with them came the tears. Silent, wrenching sobs shook his chest. Years of grief, guilt, and self-loathing poured out in a flood of disbelief and raw gratitude.

He didn't care how foolish he looked. The Gods, or whoever had gifted him this miracle, had given him something he thought forever lost. A chance to be himself. When the bath was done, and his tears had run dry, Jack stood again before the mirror. He turned the small brass knob at its side, activating the heat rune. The fog cleared, revealing the boy staring back at him; a boy he never thought he'd see again. Jack smiled. A single happy tear rolled down his cheek and fell, soundlessly to the tiled floor.