the multi

Chapter 1. Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

He awoke at a funeral. It had been hard to make sense of at first, but the solemn air, the preaching figure, and the repeated mentions of God's embrace for the dearly departed had helped confirm his suspicion.

He assumed it was his own funeral. It would only make sense - a very logical conclusion. The last thing he remembered was the impression of drowning: this intractable feeling of choking, trying to take in air but finding none. The coughing had been incessant, with secretions stuck deep in his lungs, refusing to clear out. The only sounds surrounding him had been those of alarms and shouts, cold and efficient. The memory of his helplessness was imprinted in his mind. He recalled being stuck in his body without any reprieve in sight, with fatigue slowly overcoming his will to live as seconds passed. 

Or had he been choking on smoke instead? A different image had sparked in his head. A scene from his point of view, of a compacted earth floor slowly passing under him, illuminated by nearby flames. He remembered his throat being parched and tight as he coughed on ashes. The fire had gained on him, the blaze licking his feet while screams battered his eardrums, and hoofs almost trampled him. 

Whichever sequence he preferred, the ending was clear: death. His, to be precise. A horrible, breathless death, steeped in panic and pain. His last moments had been a constant fight for survival. An exercise of will doomed to fail by the ruthless circumstances. Considering where he was, the inevitable had happened. He had failed to survive despite trying his hardest to live, despite his desperate cling to life. Death had finally welcomed him in their bittersweet embrace. 

He took a look around him and noticed how most faces were unfamiliar. Actually, all faces present belonged to strangers. Weird. Wasn't a funeral supposed to gather loved ones, friends, and family of the deceased? While he had never been a particularly popular guy-hard to be when one spent most of his life sick in bed - he would have at least expected his favourite nurse to show up. To be abandoned even at his own funeral was a bit much. His estranged grandparents should have shown up, for appearance's sake at the very least. Their precious reputation should have forced them to fake the bare minimum of consideration due to their lone grandson's death. 

Oh well, nothing to do about it. Hard to act from the afterlife.

Centering himself, he was pleasantly surprised by how calm he remained. He felt somewhat numb, emotionally speaking. Death wasn't that bad after all. Deceptively not that different from living. He was not even cold. He was quite warm in fact - for a dead guy at least. And sweaty. And a little hungry. Not enough to consider himself in the "ravaging ghoul" category of undead, but a little concerning. He had never envisioned himself as someone at risk of becoming a fantastical evil entity, but maybe that was a mistake. Maybe he was the exact type of person who later became a horrible undead monster. Clearly, he needed to work on his introspective skills...

Guess you keep on learning about yourself, even when your life is over, he surmised.

Nonetheless, he would prefer to avoid such a transformation. Becoming an all-devouring ghost did not appeal to his sensibilities. He did not wish to ponder the associated moral dilemmas. Vegan versus meat-eating - cute animals and environment against deliciousness - was as much ethics as he could take. He did not need to add unhinged consumption of sapient beings to the things he had to think about. He would aim to dodge devolving into any type of human-eating entity with all of his meagre power. 

Looking around, he realized the church, or perhaps it was a temple–not like he knew the difference- was odd. He had expected his service to be in a church, a synagogue or a boring and basic funeral home's non-denominated space. Neither he nor his late parents had been religious, but one of those would have made sense, culturally speaking. This edifice, however, was none of the above. He did not recognize what kind of spiritual building he was in. 

The bizarre building's inside was clad in shades of white, gold, and touches of purple. It looked quite fancy. The nine-sided, even shape of the main room was pleasing to the eyes, especially with the abundant natural light present. Gentle sunlight entered through stained-glass mosaics set in the domed ceiling. Gold and white rays descended on the room, adding an ethereal feel to the dour ceremony.

The people in attendance were murmuring all around him. Their low chatter made a subtle buzz in the background of the priest's chanting. It gave a mildly dissonant effect, cutting with the solemnity of the event.

Looking further, he noticed everyone, without exception, was dressed in light gray. No sombre suit in sight. Instead, men wore embroidered kaftans over robes with flowing sleeves, and a similar outfit for the women, with the kaftans replaced by shorter, corset-like belts with extravagant over skirts attached. No colour other than light gray was seen. Not even black or white, the only "funeral appropriate" shades he knew of. Unexpected. Although he had to admit he had never researched other cultures' funerary customs. Regardless, the monochrome impact of the crowd managed to awe him for a moment.

He honed in on the priest again. The officiant's attire was undoubtedly the most striking, so flamboyant was he. He had donned a golden robe threaded with white, shimmering silk thread. His white overgarment was inversely embroidered with gold. Disproportionate shoulder pads and a stiff, flared bottom gave an exaggerated and sharp hourglass effect. The priest's attire could also be described as a borderline successful marriage between a 1980s power suit and ancient Chinese emperor garb. As he looked at it, he found it less and less odd, and more and more fashion-toward. Bold even.

Was this setup a governmental attempt to, in a weird way, compensate for the lack of love at the end of his life? Did they decide, in their oh-so-grand wisdom and good intentions, to invent flashy new traditions for lonely foster kids, especially chronically sick ones? Depressing, it was all so depressing, he...

"Myrkas? Myrkas! Are you there?" a feminine voice screamed, next to his ear.

Surprised, he turned to his right. The girl standing next to him looked frazzled. She had grabbed his shoulder and was shaking it gently, as if afraid to hurt him. Her hazel eyes stared straight into his own, large and unblinking. It took him a moment to process. Up until then, he had been convinced no one could see or touch him. He assumed he was a ghost, after all. 

He examined her closer. He could detect a mix of fear and hope on her visage. As if she had a wish she held dear, but was afraid it would never come true, just missing the mark. An eternity passed while they gazed at each other, both bewildered. Then relief, tremendous relief fell upon her, and a weight visibly vanished from her shoulders, She had found whatever it was she had searched for in his eyes. A luminous smile instantly transformed her entire demeanour. 

"Oh Myrkas, you are finally back! I was so scared you'd be lost forever. That you'd stay like that... You have no idea how scared I was, how worried. You were so empty. You would not answer. You barely ate or drank. It was as if the ashes we recovered you from, still kept buried whatever spark you had left. Like what made you you had been burned away," she said, with complete disregard for the ongoing ceremonies. 

She turned silent then and, without further warning, proceeded to bear-hug him. She threw her arms around him and crushed his head to her sternum in a smothering embrace.

Utterly confused, Myrkas - apparently his name- froze. The skinny girl - young woman? - had clearly recognized him. He sensed he should have known her. The name she called him, Myrkas, wasn't exactly right, but it wasn't wrong either. It could very well be his name, not like he knew any better.

Wait, did he not know his own name? Wasn't a first name a pretty basic thing to know? The exact manner of his - presumed- death, he could understand forgetting. Trauma response and all that. But his own name though, was going too far. Something was wrong, very very wrong.

Unaware of his sudden existential crisis, the young woman continued to squeeze him to her chest, unfortunately restricting his breathing in her unbound enthusiasm.

As panic surged. Myrkas - he would roll with it for now - pushed her away. Gasping for air, he had no time to compose himself before getting surrounded by the crowd. In an instant, gawkers flooded him from all around. A chorus of "Ohhh" and "Aaahh" and "Thank Allrikh" assaulted his eardrums. Hands grabbed him. Prayers rose. Bodies collided with his own. Myrkas could not manage. His breathing quickened along with his heart rate, the beating organ attempting to escape his chest. His vision darkened, becoming tunnel-like. He barely had time to acknowledge how alive he felt for a supposedly dead man before blissful relief rushed over. Myrkas had passed out.

–––

"Silence," the bass voice resounded inside the temple. 

People quieted as the imposing middle-aged man parted the crowd and reached the collapsed boy. Carefully, he cradled Myrkas in his darkly tanned arms.

"Nirrina, come girl," he ordered, before leaving the main room through a side door hidden behind drapes. Few heard his whispered "worse than a pack of vultures, the lot of them" as he left. 

The girl, Nirrina, half-walked, half-ran after him. She kept her eyes low, conscious of the ongoing murmurs in the crowd. The ceremony had been irrevocably interrupted. The priest paused, able to take a hint. How could he proceed when the front-row guests - the remaining family of the deceased - were leaving for a side room? The holy man did not seem overly upset by this unexpected break in his duties. It might had to do with the clergyman's known penchant for stiff drinks at any hour. Rumour was he hid expensive Eternal Willow Wine under his robes at all times.

While the ceremony came to a halt, Nirrina sat quietly next to an unconscious Myrkas. The same imposing man who had quieted everyone sighed in a corner as he rummaged through his bag. No words were exchanged between the two. The near silence in the room weighed heavily on Nirrina's spirit, the muffled brouhaha seeping in from the main room insufficient to distract her.

She occupied herself as best she could, laying a fresh, damp cloth on the boy's forehead. She worried her bottom lip as she looked at him. Her short-lived elation upon his awakening was all but forgotten. Nirrina felt powerless, again, at the precipice of despair. She had lost too much in too short a time. She knew she could rebuild her life - she was still young, barely eighteen. She had time if little resources. But she did not want to do it alone, not again. And the only person in the world she had a true connection to, her only family, lay unconscious next to her. 

She had so hoped her prayers had been answered when his gaze had lit up back there. When Myrkas had looked around, "seeing," for the first time in two long weeks. It had lasted but a moment. Now, they were back to square one.

And that useless uncle of his was still not doing anything. Stuck in a corner, ceaselessly muttering, shifting through powders, pills, and concoctions but never actually trying anything. What a reputed alchemist he was, leaving his only living relative in a catatonic state.

Myrkas was only twelve, for Allrikh's sake. He was so young, so full of promise. And all that fool of an alchemist could do was lock himself in his workshop and worry endlessly about " deviations," "anomalies," "twisted flux," and "soul cracks," whatever those meant. Myrkas' uncle had shelved everything he had made these past two weeks, from potions to pills to elixirs. Even that one weirdly shaped candle had been shelved, never to be lit. 

The pathetic man did not dare look at his own nephew. Myrkas was the last of the Hakhmir line, the fool's only blood left, his only heir. It should mean something. Prompt the alchemist to save his lineage at minimum, bring him to try something, anything to save Myrkas. That old man had no other options.

Unless... unless he finally decided to use her key and unlock her belt, as was his right. Such was Nirrina's fate, as Myrkas' uncle had "inherited" her through this tragedy. But she preferred not to think about that. Myrkas needed her attention and care, everything else would wait. She would be there for him like he had been for her, her only ray of sunshine in his father's house over the past two years. She would get back her sweet, serious Myrkassa. 

He will wake up again, he will. Soon, or I swear I will find a way to make that useless uncle of his act. No matter the price I pay. I swear on my face, may I be damned to the deepest hells if I fail, Nirrina promised herself.

For the second time that day, he awoke at his funeral. Wait. Scratch that. Rewind, restart. Afuneral, not his. Myrkas felt way too alive to be dead. Dead people did not faint from panic attacks. They also did not possess a beating heart. It was pure logic. One needed to be alive for their heart to speed up. No one had ever heard of fainting ghosts, vampires or zombies. 

Not that those were actually real but whatever, semantics, Myrkas snarked inward.

Hence, Myrkas had concluded he was very much alive. And he could breathe, truly breathe. Big gulps of air easily flew in and out his airways, without any mucous rattling in his chest or the need for an oxygen mask to blast in his face. Myrkas did not need to sit forward with a desperate hold on his knees, muscles shaking with effort to suck in his next breath. There was no ringing alarm to be heard or screaming people to manhandle him. He just breathed, in and out, effortlessly. He had no recollection of ever breathing so easily, of the last time his innate breathing reflex had been sufficient to sustain him. He breathed automatically, no need to think about it, like a normal person. What bliss, what sweet sweet bliss. 

His momentary musings were interrupted by a feminine voice. A growly older man answered her soon after. Myrkas assumed she was the same girl who had been so happy to see him, though he still could not recall if he was supposed to know her.

He quickly decided to keep his eyes closed to gather clues the others might reveal while he still appeared to be sleeping. The important people - though Myrkas wasn't sure who, why or when- tended to talk around him, about him. They discussed critical decisions at his bedside, usually when he looked asleep. While Myrkas' memories of those occurrences were vague, he knew it was a tried and proven technique to gather intel. 

So he kept his eyes closed, his ears opened, and his breathing regular - once again deeply grateful to all available superior beings for his seamlessly working lungs. 

"We could try smelling salts at least, Master Hakhmir. It should be harmless enough by now," the girl said. 

"Nirrina, girl, it's not his body that's the problem," the older man replied. "The burns are all healed, with almost no traces left from the fire. Myrkas' lungs have little residual damage anymore. No girl, the problem lies in his soul. It's cracked. Still fracturing as we speak. That is a whole other monster, one you don't mess with lightly."

"But how? Myrkas never cultivated. He never received any aid or resources. How could his soul be damaged? 

"Myrkas was awake, I saw it right before he fainted. It has to be a good sign, no? Is there really nothing to try? He is my only family. Please, I beg you, I will do anything," Nirrana said, sniffling. Her sobs were subdued as if she tried to keep them inside.

"I don't know girl, I don't know. It is what it is," the man replied softly. "However it happened, the fact remains. I'll look at him again though. We should aim to make him stand until the end of the prayers at the very least."

Chapter 2.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd 

The gruff man reached Myrkas' bedside with one stride. He replaced the cloth on the boy's forehead with his hand and concentrated, focusing on obscure forces Myrkas had no clue about. Meanwhile, the boy was doing his very best to keep "sleeping". The recent info dump had not been within his expectations. His body had burned then healed? Without significant sequelae? 

How much was "almost" exactly? Was it a "can expect a normal life" almost or a "will survive but cannot run up a flight of stairs" type of almost? This is a vitally important distinction, Myrkas thought.

Important but glossed over by the two interlocutors. And inexplicable soul damage? That sounded more than ominous. How was Myrkas supposed to fix himself? 

To add insult to injury there was no appropriate moment in view to "wake up" naturally. Was Myrkas supposed to simply open his eyes following this dreadful conversation? To stand and shout "Hey! What's up, people? Sounds like I'm in bad shape. By the way, I have no idea who you are, who I am or where we are. Beautiful day, isn't it?" 

While Myrkas' thoughts spiralled further towards the nonsensical, the alleged alchemist at his bedside finished his examination. In truth, the older man was only touching Myrkas' forehead and sighing gravely. It was a fairly limited medical examination in Myrkas' humble opinion. Sighing again for the umptieth time, the alchemist went back to his bag and took out a small vial.

"Boy, open your eyes. I know you're awake," the man said while turning back towards Myrkas. 

The man held a small flask in his hand. It was filled with a strange, murky, purplish liquid which twirled inside the glass container in ill-defined patterns. One could almost guess at symbols hidden in the swirls' depths. Especially if one possessed the imagination of a five-year-old child, or if one partook in the use of certain "recreative" substances. 

Myrkas, after receiving the perfect cue to "awaken," sat up in the cot. The boy eyed the forbidding substance and felt a chill run down his spine. He could already see himself forced to swallow the undoubtedly foul mixture in his very near future. Myrkas could only imagine the terrible side effects that would follow. His extensive knowledge of science-fiction and fantasy literature pointed towards a disgusting, painful, and horrifying gustative experience incoming. 

Bracing himself, Myrkas turned towards the alchemist. He would not be defeated by a mere dubious potion, Previous mentions of cultivation, soul, fast healing burns, and the look of the liquid itself all hinted at a magical aspect in this world. Myrkas' memory might be lacking, but all hinted he was no longer in the land of demystified, pragmatic technology his brain remembered. More and more, Myrkas suspected he had fallen victim to a somewhat recent but wildly popular fictionary trope: transmigration, or being "isekai'd" in westernized japanese. Somehow, he had been sent to another world. His soul or his mind - not his body, it seemed- had taken residence in a new reality. One with magic, at least Myrkas hoped so.

Probably. That was probably what had happened. Myrkas wasn't entirely convinced yet. His entire self was still confused, his mind scrambled like eggs. It was a daunting possibility, as exhilarating as it was scary. For the moment, Myrkas would follow his instinct. Not like he had much else to refer to. 

Staring at the alchemist, Master Hakhmir as the girl had called him, and the purple vial in his hand, Myrkas exclaimed "I'm ready!" with all the determination he could muster. 

"Ready for what, boy?" was his only answer. 

The conversation died thereafter. Myrkas was speechless, his built-up courage on stand-by. His "uncle" looked just as confused at his nephew's outburst, seemingly unable to process the boy's intent. The two relatives kept staring at each other, unmoving. Without a doubt, social awkwardness ran in the Hakhmir family.

On the other side of the bed, Nirrina was recovering from her apparent disbelief at Myrkas' sudden rousing. This time though, she refrained from any effervescent display of affection. She kept her reactions moderate. A quick pinch to her own forearm shook her out of her daze. Taking charge, Nirrina interrupted the stale staring contest between nephew and uncle. 

"Myrkassa dear, are you truly awake this time? Please be so. Squeeze my hand if you can."

An action Myrkas executed flawlessly. Whatever was happening, following this woman who undoubtedly cared for the confused boy seemed like a good idea.

"Good," Nirrina went on. "Now, Master Hakhmir, did you have a plan for this vial?" 

"I am still debating," the alchemist answered. "However, I believe it would be safest to wait. The boy is no longer in meltdown. It would be much more appropriate to conduct further examinations and to gather a few colleagues' opinions before we take any drastic action." 

"Noted. Now, Myrkas, do you know where we are?" 

Thank Heavens, Myrkas thought. 

She had just provided him the perfect opportunity to disclose his complete and total lack of knowledge about his situation. Myrkas was unbelievably grateful he did not have to lie in the moment. He was lost enough as it was - he could not fathom keeping straight lies on top of everything. Reassured, Myrkas confidently declared: "No." 

"I see," Nirrina continued. "Do you remember anything? You were a little out of it these past two weeks."

"Honestly, not really. I don't even know my name. Everything is confused, tangled in my head." 

He choked on a sob as he answered, the enormity of his circumstances finally crushing him. The boy was lost, utterly lost in a strange and unfamiliar land. He had no landmarks, no scale to rely on. He felt inadequate and nearly fell into despair in the split second it took for him to acknowledge his crumbled world. As emotions rushed him, Myrkas noticed a flash of sadness pass through Nirrina's face, quickly replaced by deep-set determination. 

"It's okay Myrkassa. It will be alright. I'm here with you. I will always be there for you," she murmured, taking Myrkas in her arms gently this time, without any likeness to bears. 

"I will always care for you, like a true big sister. Take your time. When you are ready, we will have to go back to the ceremony. Once it is over, we can go home, We are almost done. Don't worry, I am here, by your side. I will explain everything. We'll be strong together, as always." 

Soothed a little, Myrkas nodded, his emotions receding. He might be lost, but he was not alone. He had Nirrina, even if she kept changing his name- a worry for later. Myrkas knew, from deep inside himself - dared he say from his soul that they were linked, Nirrina and him, no need for precise memories to confirm their bond. Myrkas wiped his tears away and, for the first time since he had awoken that day, smiled. It was a small one, a slight, closed-mouthed one but a smile nonetheless. 

Nirrina noticed and smiled back. Of course she did, her entire focus was set on Myrkas. Before they left the side room, Nirrina hesitated to add something, as if she wanted to tell the boy more but could not decide if she should. With a short sigh, she chose silence and took Myrkas' hand to share courage and strength.

"Let's go. Just follow me, do what I do, and everything will be fine, Myrkassa."

Resolute, the three of them headed back to the temple's main room

Chapter 2.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

He was back at the funeral, which was starting to get quite old. At least, Myrkas was a bit more aware now. It was not his funeral, that was clear. Myrkas was very much alive. 

Instead, one man, two women, and four children were being mourned this day. The entire neighbourhood had gathered in the nearest temple to Allrikh. They were present to honour the deceased's memories, as well as to gossip about the tragedy that caused their deaths. But mainly to gossip. An activity not at all hindered by the ongoing ceremonies. Murmurs flew around Myrkas, ripe with information for anyone willing to listen. 

The departed family had not been well-liked, to say the least. Most had thought the man, Kalor Hakhmir, an upstart. A cruel man, undeserving of his rising status in the city guards. His two late wives had likewise been seen as snobbish and petty. The nearby shopkeepers each had horror stories regarding their incessant quarrels. The collateral damage from the Hakhmir wives' schemes had ruined more than one business in this provincial town.

In truth, most attendees had shown up to learn more about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the family's demise. The entire household had been devoured by flames. No one had had time to react. The sudden fire had lit up the sky, overpowering the early dawn. The Hakhmir family and their servants had been swallowed by the blaze in an instant. Only one survivor remained. Well, two if one counted Kalor Hakhmir's young third wife, the one who had been away at the market when the fire started. 

The story gained clarity as Myrkas pieced together ever more whispers. Myrkas was the only one to survive the flames. Despite being the first son of the second wife, the second in line to inherit, Myrkas' standing in the Hakhmir family had been low. The tween was in the stables, sleeping with the animals as punishment, when the tragedy occurred. He had survived this literal trial by fire thanks to those same beasts. Their hoofs had broken down the door, opening the way for their escape and allowing him the chance to flee as well. 

The young boy had still suffered grievous burns, left at death's doorstep. Nirrina and his uncle were the only reason Myrkas was alive. Nirrina, seeing the reddened sky from the market, had gone to fetch the alchemist immediately. She had been scared for Myrkas. The location of the fire had sparked her instincts. She had gone straight to get help. And Master Koriss Hakhmir's impromptu treatment on arrival had allowed Myrkas to survive.

It was a terrible tragedy. Everyone and their cousin were obsessed over the details. People, strangers, kept on guessing and commenting through the service.

"Wasn't it strange how the youngest wife was the only one away that morning?" said one. 

"Had she known the estate would vanish in flame?" replied another.

It was suspicious, so suspicious. Everyone knew young Nirrina had never wanted to marry Kalor Hakhmir. Rumour was she had been won at cards, betted by her father like a mundane horse. Such shame. 

There was no way her father, a low-grade merchant, would have tried so hard for the favour of the city guard's second lieutenant. She had had better prospects, closer to her age, as plain as she was. No doubt her shameful father cursed the day he lost a precious asset in his gambling. Such a loss of face for all involved. If the merchant had truly wanted the younger Hakhmir brother's favour, he would have sent Nirrina's older, prettier sister to marry him. 

Wild hypothesis flourished in the crowd. Maybe the fire had been Nirrina's father's ploy to get her back or to get a better profit for his "gift?" And what about that wolfish Sona Ranil, suddenly in line for Kalor's officer position? Everybody knew he and Kalor had hated each other. Hard not to when they had taken bribes from competing gangs. Even the shopkeepers were suspect. Didn't they find the remnants of a mysterious artifact at the scene? Were the merchants in cahoots? Could they have formed an entente, and fomented revenge against the despised Hakhmir Sabisa and Sabi? Money grudges knew no bounds, rage and greed ever a powerful combination. 

Myrkas heard it all. One comment after another, some more fantastical and some sounding too much like truth. As hard as he tried, his recollections of his supposed family were fragmented, barely accessible. The chatter brought blurry images to his mind, accompanied most often by feelings of dread and rage deep in Myrkas' gut. The more he tried to focus on those, the more his head hurt. So much so he was nearly convinced his head would split down the middle if he continued so. The boy knew not what to make of it, so he tried to fill his memory's gaping chasms with the gossip.

One thing was sure: natural fire had been dismissed as the sole cause. The flames had been too sudden, too destructive. The blaze had come and gone in an instant, burning little else but the estate. It stunk of Qi-fuelled flames. 

A terrible tragedy indeed, seeped in mystery. Koriss, Kalor's older brother, was a renowned alchemist. And while he catered more to the common people, his talents were well recognized. Popular wisdom deemed him able to create such a feat. 

Although it was unclear what Koriss would gain from his brother's death. There was the third wife, but little else. It was doubtful Koriss had craved Kalor's meagre fortune, especially with the elder Hakhmir already living at the border of the upper district. Hence why Koriss killing his brother made little sense. Unless... Unless the old alchemist became mad with jealousy, rendered insane in his loneliness, unable to tolerate his brother's happiness. Indeed, Koriss was wifeless and childless before the event, but no longer.

"Or maybe Koriss had succumbed to a heart demon, suffering Qi-deviation and engaging in bouts of mindless violence." 

"Or a demonic sacrifice caused the blaze!" 

"Or ..." as the guessing game went on and on. 

Tired of the endless chatter, Myrkas stopped listening. He had figured out they were "mourning" his family by now. Myrkas did not know how to feel, how to react, still reeling at the news. His head hurt. His brain felt like mush, having difficulty processing. The boy's memories were scrambled, especially those from his current body's life. All Myrkas had were vague impressions, scenes and emotions sensed through fog. 

Myrkas' other, distinct set of memories was more clear. His past in that technologically advanced world was easier to recall. He had been sick, chronically so. His whole life had comprised of brief interludes at home first, then in foster care, in between hospitalizations at a children's hospital. Hooked to machines and intravenous drugs, without any signs of magical Qi, alchemy or remedies of the shifty purple variant. 

Those existed in the realm of fantasy. Of epic adventures to fight world-ending threats while saving pretty princesses. Unfortunately, these usually came with a dire lack of modern convenience and amenities. Myrkas preemptively missed easily accessible electrical power and temperature control. He refused to think about the loss of the internet and its trove of knowledge, previously at his fingertips. It would break his poor little beaten heart. 

As Myrkas dreaded these more than likely lost facilities, his head split in half. Figuratively. His headache, that low thrum beating inside his skull since he woke up again, was worsening. He imagined his two sets of memories clashing against each other, his brain transformed into a battlefield. The armies of his pasts warred without mercy, each unwilling to settle for anything but supremacy. 

It was all too much. Overwhelming. Myrkas needed time to digest, to figure himself out. All he wanted, no needed, was for this damned funeral to end. Have time to take a breather and rest. To lay his head down and let the headache pass. 

The ceremony went on, the people continuing with their quiet chatter. Trying to preserve his sanity, Myrkas switched his focus to the decor. He would think no further about the dead family he didn't really remember, nor about sinister enemies plotting their downfall. He preferred to look up at the domed ceiling, to observe the exotic craftsmanship. 

The tall dome was splendid, adorned with glittering mosaics. Tiny white-and-gold ceramic shapes made up repeating geometric patterns. A giant sun, its rays speckled with flecks of metallic purple, presided in the center, directly above the believers' heads. The stained-glass windows interspaced between the ceramics gave the illusion the light truly came from the depicted star.

The late afternoon light further entered the premises through pale stained-glass images ensconced in the walls. They depicted religious scenes–something Myrkas had deduced all on his own. A blond-haired man, with golden skin and purple eyes took center stage in most of them. Images of conquests and peaceful times alternated. The largest picture stood behind the priest at the front. A large purple sun was rising above the clouds, its rays blessing the adoring crowd witnessing the ascent. It was quite grand, very impressive.

Much opulent, thought Myrkas. And strangely familiar...

The entire imagery sparked a hint of recognition in Myrkas' mind. Deja vu suffused him. A piece of the puzzle was on the tip of his tongue, relishing its escape from Myrkas' consciousness. 

Nothing to do about it. 

Myrkas' head hurt too much to spend brain power on a feeling. He did miss the internet. A quick "purple sun religion" in a search engine should have answered his question. Oh well, not like the missing info could change much to his situation…

Chapter 3.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

The ceremony dragged on. There was a finite amount of chants, prayers, and sermons any individual could endure at a time. Myrkas had long passed his quota. With his aching, pulsing head on top, Myrkas could barely restrain himself from walking out. His guilt, born from his lack of emotion regarding his family's passing, was nowhere large enough to make the experience bearable. Myrkas could not even remember one tender feeling related to any of the departed. It was hard to feel grief–or guilt for its lack–for those who amounted to strangers. He did not wish to add mourning, and a possible righteous revenge, on his to-do list. 

The Hakhmir boy refrained to chuckle at the thought. According to most fantasy works, he should have felt a rising anger, a burning desire to avenge his dead family. Only to later find out revenge did not carry many benefits in and of itself... Myrkas had reached this conclusion on his own, without the need for the usual tribulations. Revenge was way too much trouble.

No thanks, he thought. 

The overarching vengeance plot had officially been killed in its shell. Myrkas simply had better things to spend his energy on. Such as figuring out who he was and what he wanted from this life.

It took what felt like hours for the funeral to end. The few remains which had been found were further cremated in golden flames, directly in front of the audience. The ashes were then buried in the temple's garden, under the eyes of the gathered crowd. The mortal cycle ever turning. The immortal souls released to the heavens, on their way to judgement and reincarnation. A final prayer blessed the souls' journey to Allrikh's warm embrace, concluding the whole thing.

The sun was setting as they exited the temple. At last, it was time to head home for Myrkas, to his uncle's house at least. If it was "this" Myrkas' home was to be seen. Myrkas simply followed Nirrina and Master Hakhmir, letting himself be led without any resistance on his part. He saw no better option to choose, and he preferred not to run away on his own. Myrkas was dead–pun intended–tired. 

Nirrina and his uncle were the only people around with an ounce of care for Myrkas. Sticking with them was his best bet for survival in this unknown world. Too many transmigration stories were strife with mortal dangers hidden in plain sight. Myrkas was desperate for support, for trustworthy people to help him navigate his new reality. He could have gotten much worse, he concluded. He hoped his situation would provide the respite he needed. Especially while his identity remained fuzzy. Fuzzy to himself, to be clear–the people around him were pretty convinced he was this boy named Myrkas Hakhmir, to be honest. 

The trio walked home, winding through a number of paved streets. Simple gray-beige brick buildings gave way gradually to larger and larger estates, glimpsed through cement-like walls bordering the road. Lush greeneries grew along those borders, interspaced by mature fruit trees. The walls became taller and fuller as they went, the plant similarly becoming more curated as they neared the richer neighbourhoods,

Myrkas recognized citruses and peaches among the fruits hanging from branches. They were early in the season, not yet in the middle of spring, Many trees they passed intrigued him, their fruits and flowers not any he recognized. 

Small, pink-and-white berry clusters particularly caught his attention. They gathered three-by-three atop the highest branches. Myrkas salivated at the thought of eating one. Their sight and scent evoked warm summer nights and whispered lullabies to his addled mind. 

"The louktams are almost ready. It's your favourite fruit, right Myrkassa?" asked Nirrina. 

Myrkas nodded reflexively in answer. Darkness had fallen when they veered left. They turned just shy of a large, gray-and-white marble arch. It was set in an intricately carved inner city wall, with guards standing near the open doors. They jealously guarded the most prominent domains of the city of Piercing Jade Valley. The walls and greeneries, ever more extravagant, continued past the arch and down the road, keeping the rich–and maybe famous'–secrets. Sprawling estates were visible above the barriers, imposing in their unabashed grandeur. Lanterns, statues, and private gates completed the tableau.

Myrkas stood agape, wanting to look his fill despite his aching head and feet. His curiosity had been sparked. Unfortunately, they had arrived at his uncle's estate, adjacent to the inner wall, on the "wrong" side of the marble arch. They passed through the estate's gate at once. 

Myrkas' new house–although housing complex might be a more accurate term–was somewhat modest in comparison to the truly wealthy's domains. Its gray and tan stone blocks–an upgrade from cheaper bricks–made up a dozen squared pavilions, arranged around extensive gardens. A small, domed tower stood above the largest building. Plain stone paths ran through, leading from one feature to the next. Small bridges crossed streams and ponds where carps could be seen and heard breaking the water's surface. 

The view upon his entry stopped Myrkas in his steps. He had not dared to have any expectations about his living situation. Myrkas had feared the worst. The apparent low level of technology had hinted at crudely made houses without running water. So far, Myrkas was more than pleasantly surprised. His uncle's estate was way more luxurious than he could have reasonably hoped for. What the grounds lacked in extravagant flourish and art pieces, they more than made up in magnificent blooms and meticulously cared for bushes and trees. Furthermore, Myrkas had definitively avoided the classic "street urchin orphan" trope. With such a large and well-maintained estate, there was no way his uncle would notice one more month to feed. Myrkas could survive without flushing toilets, most likely.

As long as I have a nice bed to collapse in. 

"Come boy," his uncle urged while grabbing Myrkas by the shoulder. 

Koriss walked his nephew towards one of the smaller buildings in silence. On the way, they almost collided with a man so concentrated on his rose bushes he was oblivious to his surroundings. 

"Master Hakhmir! Welcome back. I apologize, I was entranced by these beauties. We already prepared a light dinner in the secondary hall. Marta and I thought it better to leave you with your family tonight. Is there anything else we can do?" said the man, unfazed by the situation.

" No," Koriss answered, short and to the point.

"I see. My condolences again. Let me know if there is anything," replied the man with a sad smile, " Have a good evening then, Master, Young Master," he concluded, kneeling right back to his roses. 

Said dinner passed quickly, none in the mood for useless chatter. Nirrina, ever-attentive, made sure Myrkas ate his fill, if not more. The fare was simple but filling, eaten with metal chopsticks. Myrkas was quite glad he knew how to use them, even if he was too tired to be embarrassed by anything. 

Without needing to ask, Nirrina guided the boy to his room, anticipating his lack of familiarity with the estate. Collapsed in his bed, Myrkas was finally alone. His headache lurked in the background, memories still clashing. As he closed his eyes, he heard a knock at his door. 

"Yes?" 

"Myrkas," said a gruff voice, no doubt his uncle. "Can I talk to you?" 

Without waiting for an answer, Koriss Hakhmir entered the bedroom. The large man had changed from his light-gray mourning robes to some beige night clothes. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were still wet from washing up before bed. Rigidly, Koriss sat down next to his nephew, the bed creaking under his weight. 

"I wished to talk to you. We need to discuss... how to say it... hmm... what do you recall of the past two weeks?"

He paused.

" It's important. There were some... things... I found earlier, in your soul I mean. It may be concerning."

The young boy stared, unsure how to answer. Myrkas had already deduced his state was far from ordinary, yet he lacked the knowledge required to guess the kind of danger he was in. If he should keep his cards—his past life—close or reveal everything. His diverse fiction knowledge had limits. And it was, for all intents and purposes, based in fiction, unclear if truly applicable to his current reality. So Myrkas stared, letting the growing silence fill the room. Crickets sang outside, the only sounds to be heard in the quiet night.

Visibly disheartened, the older man sighed. 

"Well, I'm not sure what you heard today or how much you remember, but you must be tired, so I will let you rest. Sleep well."

Chapter 3.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

On these words of infinite wisdom, Koriss left the room, his nephew as confused–if not more–as before their enlightening discussion. A little stunned, Myrkas sat up, his sleepiness forgotten. This impromptu conversation had not helped his state of mind whatsoever. Anxiety filled him, his soul issues back at the forefront. He took a deep breath, to calm himself. The simple, easy act was endlessly soothing. Ignoring his headache, he chose to focus on what he knew, what he could plan to act on in this mysterious universe.

First item: what to do about his dead family. All had died in a suspicious fire. A fire which almost killed Myrkas too. Suspects and motives abounded. Good thing Myrkas had already decided looking for revenge was a foolish endeavour, a waste of time and resources. He had an entire world to discover and only so much leeway to do so. No need to chase after shadows. Anyway, the likelihood the perpetrator had something personal against a powerless twelve-year-old boy was so low as to be laughable. Myrkas was safe, most likely. 

Fortunately, he, Myrkas Hakhmir–he had accepted the identity at some point in the day–still had living relatives, caring ones. His uncle might not be the easiest to talk to, but he was present. And sufficiently rich. At the risk of sounding a tad materialistic, Myrkas much preferred a rich uncle to a poor one. The boy might even become his uncle's apprentice! Employment security was essential, even in a fantasy setting, if "Qi" was indeed as real and magical as people believed. At worst, he would become a pharmacist equivalent and call himself an "alchemist." With the scientific method in his metaphorical back pocket–a feature so lacking in robes–Myrkas was sure to improve whatever this so-called alchemy ended up being. 

Family-wise, Nirrina remained an enigma. She obviously adored him. Myrkas has not seen his face yet, but he had to assume he was insanely adorable. That, or past Myrkas had had a great personality. With his family history, he doubted the latter. While not blood-related, she seemed set on acting like his big sister. According to gossip though, she was technically his step-mother–his only six-years-older-step-mother–from his late father's harem. A bona fide harem, for decency's sake. She–a person!–had been inherited by his uncle as part of the Hakhmir succession. Was Nirrina his uncle's wife now? Or, Myrkas shuddered, his future wife? That image did not agree with his insides. It felt plain wrong.

Myrkas did not know exactly why. It wasn't her appearance or her personality. She was not terrible to look at. A little on the skinny side maybe. Her straight, light-brown hair was pretty enough. Nirrina had a few pimples but who didn't? This universe did not seem to be very advanced in terms of skincare. If the ambient smell was to be trusted, soap was a seldom used commodity. Cultivation–if truly possible, for Myrkas was a realist at heart even if he did dream of Qi-powered superhuman feats–did not automatically equal jade beauties with perfect complexion and inexistent body odour. 

Anyway, Myrkas liked Nirrina–a lot–but not in a romantic way. Whatever the reason, she was now family. That was what mattered. He would have to make sure her place at his side was secure. To do everything he could so she stayed safe and happy. For Myrkas, living in a new world was manageable, being lost and lonely was not. 

Myrkas would not cry that night. He had better things to do, no time for wallowing. He needed his priorities straight. Emotional distress could wait. Nothing bad ever happened from chronically repressed emotions. 

His first worry had become his clashing memories, as having two sets in one's head was definitely not normal. Especially with one set coming from another dimension. Random flashbacks and glimpses from his pasts kept popping into his conscious mind. It was disorienting and frankly annoying. Surprisingly, his recollections of people–real people, not fictional ones–and his close relationships were vague in both his past lives. He could not remember names or most events. Myrkas recalled an odd mix of faces and impressions, sometimes associated with violent emotions. But it was too much to analyze at once, too much to untangle. And they were in the past, most of them dead or in another world, unreachable. Clearly a sign that triaging his incomplete memories could, and should, wait. 

On the other hand, a lot of his factual knowledge was intact. Myrkas remembered a staggering amount of information such as basic physics and chemistry, or how to differentiate pyrite from gold. While he did not know how useful this knowledge would be, he did appreciate its availability. It did not replace the internet, but it was a start.

At least, if Myrkas ever became bored, he could fall back on his plethora of fantastical references, including a bat detective, three different gun-loving archeologists, and many giant-sword-swinging heroes. Hopefully, his memories of characters dumped to different worlds by a truck accident or an afterlife bureaucratic error–also known as divine intervention–would help him navigate his new reality. 

Fatigue was catching up to him. Myrkas hadn't yet addressed his damaged soul. He would have to think about it in the morrow. His head was bad, the pressure on his cranium begging him to rest. Thinking was hard, like cogs turning through sticky slime. Put against insurmountable odds, Myrkas quickly surrendered and let sleep take him.

–––

Late into the night, Serni Kroush listened to the familiar sound of his wife's sighs. With a half-smile, he waited, knowing she would soon share her worries. His sabisa always did. 

"I swear, Master Hakhmir is even more stiff with his new family here. And you'd think the Young Master would look better awake than whatever he was before, and yet, the boy is nearly as silent, stuck in his head. Before, he looked dead. Now, he looks dumb! 

"Thank Allrikh that Nirrina is a good girl. I had feared the worst. She is smart, that girl, hear me Serni. Allrikh knows a woman's touch would do Master good, if only he would let her." 

"Sabisa, he'd have to remember she exits for that," the man replied, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Stop laughing you, husband! Master has always been kind to us. I prayed and prayed for him to settle down. To get a nice wife and a few rugrats. Then he finally lands some and it is all wrong! So messy, so tragic! I worry.

"Poor Master. See Serni, even now in the middle of the night, he is at his workshop, ruining his health on who knows what. He will tire himself to death! Then what will we do, huh? Put our hopes on the Young Master? Find another household to serve? Oh Savosa, I worry. I wish Srevan was back. It would ease my nerves."

"Stop worrying Martasa. Everything will be fine. It will fall in place, you will see. Master Hakhmir and his family just need some time. They are grieving. Now sleep Sabisa, we have a big day tomorrow."

———

Morning came too soon. Myrkas' headache had worsened through the night, becoming unbearable. With great effort, the boy forced down half his breakfast–Nirrina's stare was scary.

His head was in so much pain, Myrkas was nearly convinced two highly competitive construction crews were having a sledgehammer contest in his brain. Not fun. Not a recommended experience. At this point, Myrkas wished they would finally break his skull, to relieve some pressure and pain. Surely, a brand new hole in his cranium would help. Nothing could be worse than enduring this pain. 

Blinded by the state of his head, Myrkas did not notice his uncle and Nirrina's worried gaze, nor their intense murmurs. Keeping his eyes open was an ordeal, the pain sending lashes of light with its incessant pounding. Only half aware, Myrkas recognized the purple, shimmering flask in front of his eyes. Dread filled him. Before the boy could react further, the sickly sweet liquid was poured down his throat. 

Pins and needles travelled through Myrkas' limbs, numbing all. His head started to float–though not literally. When Myrkas started to see sounds and taste colours, he made the executive decision to fall unconscious. A task Myrkas promptly succeeded at. 

Blacking out was quickly becoming Myrkas' go-to solution, whether ill-advised or not.

Chapter 4.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

Myrkas was floating. His body was aimlessly drifting, weightless. The walls of this sphere he was in were far away. They had an intangible quality Myrkas sensed even from afar. They should have been smooth and even, he knew, but instead were marred with cracks, holes, and fissures. Void-like space could be glimpsed through.

As he drifted, Myrkas noticed he wasn't alone in this mysterious space. By flexing his will–which did look a lot like aggressively staring at nothing–his position stabilized. It allowed Myrkas to look at himself, or, more accurately, at other versions of himself. It was as if he was seeing double, an uneven double. Two versions of Myrkas were fighting, blind to their surroundings.

They fixated on each other, focused on their clash, each trying to prevail, to dominate their adversary. The two clones? alternates? metaphysical representations? had Myrkas' curly black hair and amber eyes. They looked remarkably similar but for a few crucial differences. 

One was obviously older, with the beginning of a beard on his chin as well as a flimsy moustache on his upper lip. He stood almost a foot taller than Myrkas himself, but was way too thin, his cheeks sunken, bones showing under his stretched skin. He wore a hospital gown, pale blue and tied at his side. This taller version of Myrkas had trouble breathing. His chest rattled with his every breath. His neck muscles strained visibly under the effort, the skin in between his exposed ribs and clavicles drawing inside his ribcage with each of his inhales. The older teen looked sick, and deadly so. 

Nevertheless, he fought on. His strikes were wide and uncoordinated. He was slow, his footwork poor even to Myrkas' amateur eyes. But he tried, he persevered. He used his superior height and mass to his advantage, though not skillfully enough to win, He only prevented his opponent from gaining on him. 

The smaller Myrkas was more skilled, more trained. He ducked and dodged, retaliating with fast but weak blows. His body was half-burned, red and peeling in places. Half his hair had burned away, his scalp pocked with blisters. His clothes were scorched and hung on his small frame. The boy wheezed each time he breathed in. His swollen throat menaced to close at any time. And still, the young teen fought, grappling and kicking, only to be pushed back again and again. 

Their fight spread shockwaves through the sphere. The damaged walls shook under the strain, some cracks crawling further and deeper.

Throughout the two's battlefield, frames and varied lights filled the space, in no particular order. They floated around, sometimes bumping each other. On occasion, a new light was born from those gentle collisions.

The drifting frames presented pictures, moving scenes from Myrkas' past lives. The images made an eclectic mix.

One showed the last Tremblay-Stein "Happy Holidays" card, with a tween black-haired boy smiling between his parents despite the nasal cannula on his face. Another revealed a younger Myrkas, four or five years of age at most, being held down in the dirt by his half-brother, the beaten Myrkas black and blue with bruises. Their father's shadow hung in the background of the scene. 

Some had similarities between his two lives: pictures of a boy falling asleep on a maternal lap, his hair gently stroked. Others were stark in their differences: evenings of videogames contrasted with nights spent on a dirt floor, warmed by an ox's flanc. 

Whichever their origin, the frames were caught in the ongoing clash's shockwaves. The memories did not resist intact. Most broke, fragments breaking away and fusing back randomly. 

The fight was wreaking havoc. The space threatened to crumble, unable to sustain itself any longer. The conflict had gone on for too long. A victor needed to emerge. But none of the two combatants would give the fight to the other. Both were determined, if not stubborn and filled with spite.

That mindset had brought them to this situation in the first place; the refusal to surrender when faced with their inevitable death, their resilience despite all. Both fought to live, to survive. 

The oldest had fought to breathe his entire existence. He had spent an inordinate number of nights hooked to tubes and machines, hanging on willpower, antibiotics, and medical-grade oxygen. He persevered, always, despite setbacks and loneliness. He remembered being loved once, being happy, with goals and dreams and hopes. Life was worth it. Anything needed, he'd do for another chance. 

The youngest gritted his teeth with pure spite. He used his rage to carry on, to keep training despite the scorn, and the repeated disappointments. He had only recently found acceptance and comfort. A warm embrace always ready to dry his tears and bandage his knees. For the first time, he held a piece of happiness. He could not let it go; he would not. This was his life, his body he had held on through the fire, through the pain. He raged on, unable and unwilling to let go. 

Throughout their stalemate, their combined world continued to disintegrate. Myrkas felt painful spikes breaking through, heralding the end. Despite the chaos, the situation seemed salvageable. A purplish substance covered the walls, preventing leaks from the many fissures. However, Myrkas knew it would not last. Already, flakes came off, disappearing into the void beyond. Some lights and pieces of memories seeped by. They were lost, never to be recovered.

Myrkas' life hung by a thread. His state was dire. Dread too soft a word to describe the emotion filling his consciousness. His two alternate selves were fighting still, oblivious to the rampage they brought. Their will to survive alone, to prevail, the only thing that mattered. Compromise was never an option. Their common doom inconsequential. 

Myrkas, the not-fighting version, the "stop being such dumbasses" one, had to intervene. His "Grand War of Selves" was destroying him. Literally killing him, little by little, shredding his soul from the inside out.

Armed with his will and fear of death, Myrkas flew over, stopping abruptly between the fighters. Before Myrkas could act, the other versions of himself attacked, for once in unison. Myrkas narrowly dodged the first blows, leaving him unsteady, unbalanced, and unprepared to deal with his copies' next moves.

The short one kicked Myrkas in the gut, pushing the air out of his lungs with the shock. As if choreographed, the tall one immediately tackled the non-violent Myrkas, using his superior weight to keep him grounded. 

Myrkas saw stars, disoriented. Fortunately, he remembered where they fought. They were floating in a metaphysical space. Meaning there was no actual floor, physical rules did not apply. Superior skills and physique did not provide the expected advantages. Instead of wrestling free, Myrkas "fell" out of the tackle, reversing their position with sheer willpower. 

When the younger version punched Myrkas, he let himself be pushed away, as if inertia never existed, negating all intended damage. Again, he stopped his motion with a flex of his will, preparing to fight back. His battling versions kept fighting as before, oblivious to their third as well as the limitless possibilities this space allowed. Their vision was narrowed, too focused on their need to be the sole winner. 

Myrkas flew back in the ring. The three clashed. Despite avoiding most damage to his metaphorical self–Myrkas hadn't spent much time wondering what he was in the present, he had bigger fish to fry such as not dying from fighting with himself–Myrkas was unable to prevail, to forcefully assert a cease-fire. The momentum had merely shifted from a two-sided stalemate to a three-sided one. 

Worse, while neither of his representations were taking any permanent damage, their soul space and all it contained degraded under his gaze. The wild energy unleashed by their blows reverberated on the walls. The foreign purple energy keeping it together would soon be exhausted. It's shine was visibly dimming. Despite Myrkas' entry into the arena, their predicament had not improved. Death loomed ever closer.

Chapter 4.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

Seized by despair, Myrkas screamed at his other selves. He tried his hardest to get them to hear reason, to cease this doomed brawl. Myrkas pleaded, cajoled, and threatened, to no avail. His versions were blind and deaf to him, too intent on annihilating the threat in front of their eyes. 

Myrkas stopped fighting. It was pointless. The other two ignored him as long as he left them to their battle. They were stuck, headed towards a pyrrhic victory at best, and mutual destruction at worst. There had to be a way. If his copies were too stubborn to listen to reason, Myrkas would force them to fall in rank. This was his body, his soul they were threatening. Whatever concept they represented, he had to bring them to heel, to show them who was boss here. 

A plan quickly formed in his mind. Myrkas needed to restrain them first, to stop the ongoing damage. He gathered part of the ambient energy. Motes of lights and some of the "purple stuff" coalesced in his hands. He was following his instinct and intuition. And a bunch of literary ramblings he recalled from cultivation novels.

Myrkas held a maelstrom of light between his cupped palms. It was warm and tingly, sending light sparks up his arms randomly. The energy spun between his hands, soon becoming thread-like. Myrkas attempted to pinch a strand away, without success. The substance slipped through his fingers, refusing to be used by such a common method as simple physical manipulation.

Myrkas could still hold the ball of light-like material. But doing anything with it was another story. He didn't have time to experiment endlessly. He had to fix this and fast. No help was coming. Guesstimate had to do.

Myrkas closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He concentrated on the feel of the energy in his hands. The warmth, the physical sensation, the way he kept it there, willed it into stability. A thread formed, then chains. That's what Myrkas needed: restrictive bindings. With his fingers and his mind, he combined the energy, shaping it into meters and meters of thick, solid, metal-like chains.

On a bout of inspiration, he weaved images into them: spider silk imprisoning living flies, death-row shackles on both wrists and feet, Qi-restricting ropes as used on criminal cultivators, and seringes filled with anaesthetics and paralytics. Again and again, Myrkas folded these concepts in, molding the chains with his will, strenthening them.

When he next opened his eyes, Myrkas held those links. The metal bindings were dark and heavy, a gray hue with traces of purple.

Somehow, they felt more than solid, almost immutable. 

With his implement ready, Myrkas prepared his trap. He had to hurry. Too much time had passed. More and more motes of light and memory-frames leaked out. He was loosing parts of his soul, parts of himself, his core being. No time left to dally. 

He baited the other two, going to stand between them. As Myrkas foresaw, his alternates charged in unison, blinded by their desire for total domination. Faster than sound, they approached from opposite sides. A fraction of a second before they all collided, Myrkas dodged. He lassoed the two, thightening the first loop around their arms and torsos. Quickly, Myrkas then used his will to bind them tighter. He knotted the chains in complex loops. The two still squirmed, resisting Myrkas effort. Myrkas flexed his will further, sending it down the metal-links. 

The fighters finally bonded and immobilized, the shockwaves ceased. Their surroundings calmed, the sudden silence jarring. The walls were still fractured though, with the purple substance getting ever thinner. Pieces of Myrkas kept on escaping to the void. 

The work wasn't over. The misbehaving children strained against their restraints. Myrkas spent most of his focus to keep them within bonds. He strained as his other selves did.

They had reached a new stalemate. 

At his wits' end, Myrkas resolved to bet on an ancient mystical power. A type of strenght celebrated in most heroic stories. The ultimate power up in dire times: the power of friendship. Friendship under duress still had to count. It was totally possible to become friends with oneself. Even easier to do so with some alternate metaphysical representations of himself. Myrkas suspected they each represented one of his past lives. The exact concept didn't matter as long as they all started to work together. 

Myrkas needed to figure out how to–forcefully–befriend himself (himselves?) sooner than later. All while actively restraining his representations. An uncomfortable and possibly painful situation. Obviously, they were in the best circumstances to build a long lasting, healthy three-way relationship here. 

While thinking, Myrkas tightened the chains further, lest they escape and restart the hostilities. This place, their communal soul plane Myrkas guessed, could not bear any more strain. Memories, energies, and what else leaked evermore. Too soon, they would have nothing left to loose, their core being an empty husk. Time to take the Kids' gloves off. Ruthlessness was on the menu. If reason and metaphysical attacks did not work, Myrkas would harden his heart and appeal straight to their instinct and emotions.

The one floating free boy frowned. His eyes became cold, his body still, his shoulders straight. Resolute, Myrkas moved the last loop higher on his bound copies. Following a quickly passed flinch, Myrkas rounded the chain around his versions' necks, keeping control of the shared pressure on their airways with the lenght he kept in hands. 

The other two immediately glared at him with hatred. They now stood perfectly immobile, focused on the threat to their respective breath. 

Myrkas swallowed back his bile but kept his hold on the chain. He knew how the other two Myrkas felt. He acutely remembered both their deaths, and their appearances didn't let him forget. The burns, the coughs, the wheezes, and rattles all reminded him of what he had endured. Myrkas did not wish to strangle them, as he was filled with sympathy. But they had left him no choice. He, too, wanted to lie. Not just survive but live, and thrive. And his past selves' fighting threathened that simple dream. They needed to listen. Myrkas would force them to understand. 

Myrkas held their stare. He would not falter. They all had to live. The unbound boy scoured his remaining memories. He found all the similar ones between his past lives and battered the chained Myrkases with them. With their airway threathened and their limbs entangled in energy bindings, his two versions had no choice but to suffer the onslaught.

In addition, Myrkas bombarded the two belligerents with how dire the state of their soul was. He showed them in full the damage their battle had wrecked. All that they had lost and were still losing. 

Myrkas' willpower was stretched beyond its limits. The boy tasted blood in his mouth. He felt his pulse beating up to his gingiva. His throat was dry, his mouth stuck in a rictus as he pushed through with effort. Myrkas would have screamed if all his energy wasn't already taken by his task. He held on. To the chains, the binding, and the volley of images and emotions directed at his past selves. 

The war of wills lasted an eternity. A relative one, for Myrkas had no clue how time worked where they were. Then, the balance shifted. His mirror images relaxed together. They stopped fighting. The chains loosened on their own and fell, floating back towards the Myrkas who held their ends. 

The burned boy and the sick one stood back-to-back. They had reached a common conclusion, accepting to co-exist in order to survive. They would fuse, both getting to live fully through their altered selves. It happened within the blink of an eye. One second two stood, and the next, only one was left.

Myrkas stared at his new reflection. The entity's appearance kept shifting, alternating between different mixes of the previous fighters. The effect was eerie. Myrkas and his image took a moment to observe each other, both relieved in the newfound peace.

They did not rejoice for long. They still had a soul to fix. With a concerted nod, Myrkas and his shifting version each took a half-lenght of the remaining chain. The links dissolved back into lights, though uniform and even in color now. The Myrkases condensed this energy, using the infused binding principles to create a plaster-like substance. With it, they patched the sphere's walls, going as fast as they could. 

The dark-gray mixture held well. It mixed with the purple energy left and closed most flaws. In the end, some fissures were left, although they were superficial ones. No leak remained. A soft purple glow emanated from the repaired walls, basking the space in a soothing light. It would have to do. 

Satisfied, Myrkas glanced at his other self one last time. His image smiled for once and gave him a thumbs up. That one would stay in this space, his rightful place, and keep an eye and a hand on things.

Reassured, Myrkas closed his eyes. It was time to go back. Instincts let him know this event would fade from his memory. Myrkas had traveled too deep within his consciousness, his mind was not ready to fully process what had happened.

No matter. Myrkas–all versions–had done the job. He wasn't dead. Surviving in okay shape had been his main goal. 

All considered, a solid performance. Myrkas thought, then scattered away.

Chapter 5.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

Once again, Myrkas awoke, briefly disoriented. He was on a roll, well on his way to becoming a "passing out" champion. Eyes wide open, he sprung out of bed. One thing was certain, Myrkas had not felt this well in decades! Or well, maybe a decade, at most two with both his past lives combined... It was hard to do a proper count in his circumstances. And did baby years count or not? Anyway, his head didn't hurt any longer and he felt great. Myrkas'd take the win, 

Smiling, Myrkas took the time to look at his brand-new self, as he felt all shiny and new. The simple, silver-tinted wall mirror did its job, revealing Myrkas in all his glory. The tween was scrawny, little more than skin and bones. However, the lack of fat did give him some nice muscle definition. And meant he could eat to his heart's content. Obesity concerns were not in Myrkas' near future.

A mass of tight black curls fell from atop his head. The lengths reached just above Myrkas' shoulders. His curls were messy, in dire need of some upkeep. Myrkas would have to ask Nirrina for help. His smooth, darkly tanned skin was otherwise devoid of any "manly" hair. It seemed puberty had not yet knocked on Myrkas' door. The boy repressed a shiver, unsure whether to rejoice or despair at this fact.

Myrkas was surprised by how much he resembled his uncle. They had the same eyes, sharp, and a rich whiskey in colour. His strong brow made him look a little too serious to be called cute but overall, the boy was happy with his looks. Myrkas was no pretty model, but he had potential, in his own opinion. 

Height-wise, he had no clue where he stood—pun intended. Myrkas had had more important things to focus on than to compare himself to his peers in the short—two? three?—days he had been aware of in this world. Seeing his uncle, though, Myrkas had high hopes for puberty. The mature man stood a good head above the average, the top of Nirrina's head reaching just above his uncle's shoulder. It would be a sacrilege for Myrkas not to grow at least to the mythical 182 cm—or six feet for imperialist heathens. 

Myrkas already envisioned his future grown-up self. Him, tall and ruggedly handsome, towering over the crowd, with his bulging muscles on display. Men would move out of his way. Women would fall over themselves to be at his side. His future deep, baritone voice and undeniable charisma would mesmerize all. Tales of Myrkas' heroic feats would spread far and wide. Myrkas saw it already: the glory awaiting him.

Lost in his daydreams, the boy failed to detect his captive audience. Only when he heard subdued laughter at his antics did Myrkas notice the intruder. She was a short thing, barely tall enough to reach Myrkas' chin. Her curly, reddish-brown hair was a mess. Red jam splattered her cheeks. Her bright green eyes were looking straight at Myrkas, filled with mirth. Her plump face was scrunched, holding in her giggles.

Myrkas assessed the situation at once. He had been discovered, intruded upon in a moment of vulnerability. Unacceptable. The enemy dared to mock him in his own room. Only one course of action was left. 

"You dared enter my lair. Impudent!" Myrkas declared. 

The boy then lunged across the room, catching the little rogue. A fierce battle ensued, a whirlwind of hair and sticky fingers. Myrkas' opponent attempted to escape in vain, her call for reinforcement unintelligible. Myrkas prevailed, confirming his undisputed dominance with his ultimate technique: tickles. Tickles until surrender and beyond. 

The tiny fiend soon recognized her loss. She pleaded mercy through wheezing laughter. But Myrkas gave no quarters. He had to qualm this rebellion in its infancy. He was the Supreme General Myrkas, chosen as the Ultimate Martial Master of the Realm. All needed to bow before his supremacy! Especially puny monsters.

"Martine? Myrkas! what the... Cease immediately!" 

The two children froze. A greater foe had appeared. One clad in simple, practical light blue robes, her familiar green eyes fixed on the miscreants. She was armed with the ultimate weapon of all: maternal omnipotence.

One shared look and the former foes became inseparable allies. As the saying went, the enemy of thy enemy is thy friend. 

Myrkas gathered his thoughts. It appeared diplomacy was their best bet. Meanwhile, the little devil quickly went on the offensive with a devastating attack: a koala-hug and puppy-dog eyes combo.

"But Mama, we were just playing." 

A critical hit. Proof of a shrewd practitioner of the martial arts despite her young age. The way of Cuteness was strong in this one.

"Don't you try, little lady. You know perfectly well you should never enter the Young Master's room. And still in your night clothes! I turn my back one second and boom, disaster. What will I do with you my Tinesa." 

But Myrkas would not abandon his newfound ally so easily. He settled his expression and advanced to the front. 

"Don't you even try, Young Master. How is she to learn if you indulge her so? You should be resting, in bed. Not wrestling around with a child, no matter how much she begs and pesters. 

"Young Master, you were unconscious for two whole days," Marta di Kroush continued in a gentler tone. "Now is not the time to chase around little terrors. Back to bed immediately or I'll get Nirrina. Master Hakhmir will come to assess you soon. Do not dare come out of bed before!" 

Defeated, Myrkas obeyed. 

A slight smile still managed to stretch his lips. He felt good, great even; his mind cleared, his pain gone. With nothing better to do, Myrkas took this time alone to reflect, to actually make sense of his situation. 

His memories had settled, no longer dashing around randomly in Myrkas' head. Holes cribbled them but now, they made sense, mostly. The loose threads of his pasts had been spun into rudimentary balls, then unceremoniously dumped in the basket of his skull, With his life experience somewhat organized, Myrkas could navigate his mind. 

The memories overlapped at many points. In both lives, Myrkas had experienced extensive loneliness, helplessness, and recurrent bouts of unbridled anger. Despite it all, Myrkas' desire to live, to stir his destiny with his own hands was stronger than ever. No longer would Myrkas feel useless, battered by fate's currents. Power rested at his fingertips, waiting to be gathered. Cultivation was the key. 

Myrkas spent a while shuffling through his memories, carefully examining each clue, linking events, and corralling general facts. He was tempted to write a dissertation to properly organize his thoughts: it would have been a masterpiece, Myrkas was certain. However, he refrained. Not only would some of his thoughts make a random reader potentially question Myrkas' sanity, but Myrkas suffered from a distinct lack of nearby paper and pen, and his bed was way too comfortable to leave. It was not that Myrkas was scared to disobey Marta's order to stay in bed, not at all. 

After analyzing all the facts, Myrkas was pretty convinced he was, indeed, a transmigrator. A modern soul—or mind—magically transported to a fantasy world. Or, possibly, a past life's personality resurfaced through extensive trauma. One or the other. It didn't matter much as the end result was the same: two sets of memories for one person. Furthermore, Myrkas had an inkling he should recognize this universe. Too many things seemed familiar, like knowledge half-forgotten he needed to review to remember. A missing puzzle piece patiently waiting under the couch.

Anyway, the magical aspect of this world had been all but confirmed. Nothing else could explain his body's rapid recovery from extensive burns a mere two weeks ago. A feat witnessed by enough people to be believed. In addition, whatever that purple potion was, it was undeniable it had cured Myrkas of his headache and confusion. Qi energy was real, Myrkas knew it in his bones.

It was tremendous. According to all his sources—though fictive in origin—Myrkas should be a so-called mighty protagonist! A main character, the unparalleled existence of any story, armed with plot armour, "random" luck, and convenient plot holes. All Myrkas needed was to find his fated overpowered advantages and to get stronger. His golden path to power and riches was traced. The sky was no limit to Myrkas. He was destined to rise above the heavens; as any good cultivation novel's protagonist.

Myrkas needed more information. Knowledge was power—cue profound music. His first order of business was to figure out if his new world belonged to a known fictional universe, be it a book or a videogame from his past life. Myrkas intuited he should recognize this place. He knew it, but could not yet ascertain where he was. Fortunately, he had ruled out the popular style of games where the main character died every five minutes. The horror genre was similarly out, to Myrkas' unending gratitude towards whomever deserved the praise. 

The boy secretly wished his new fate included great adventures, lifelong friendship, and a reasonable end goal to his story, such as saving the world from a great evil. He could also settle for saving a continent. The Empire at the smallest. Although rescuing an Imperial Princess would also be acceptable. As long as there was a dragon somewhere. Because dragons were awesome and made everything better. 

To figure out his current universe, Myrkas needed more information. He, unfortunately, did not remember any specific names. The Holy Allrin Empire, in which he lived, or the God Allrikh did not ring any bells. Even Piercing Jade Valley, their town, did not bring up more than vague recollections from his younger self. Certainly nothing to indicate in which work of fiction he had travelled to. Any rumours of a demon king to defeat, mysterious towers sprouting, monster invasions, aliens or any other world-ending calamity would be beyond helpful. Everything was too damn peaceful, suspiciously so in an isekai world.

Chapter 5.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd

Disappointment did nudge at him a little. Myrkas' dreams of piloting a mecha or of an owl bearing magical letters were down the drain. The typical, western medieval setting was also out. The people's skin colours varied too much, from "burns-like-a-lobster on a cloudy day" to "century-old varnished walnut-wood hard floor." The architecture did not fit the typical castle town. The roofs were too flat, with curved extremities, and half-sphere domes on the taller buildings here and there. The ensemble gave more of an ancient Eastern to Middle Eastern flair to the urban environment. 

Despite the setting, Myrkas had yet to encounter any flashy ninjas, jade beauties, or entitled young masters. It might have escaped his notice that his own circumstances could qualify him as a so-called young master. 

While their absence did not confirm anything, it did narrow down the list quite a bit. At least Myrkas had not ended up in a lower technology mundane world. Imagining leaving modern times, with cellphones and other conveniences for a good-old, magic-less, elbow-grease-powered world made Myrkas shudder. He quickly thanked again any divine entity in his vicinity for having avoided this fate. 

Myrkas couldn't help but be a little worried about his assumed protagonist status. While it usually meant great rewards, protagonists' trajectories were often not straight and involved more pain and sorrows than Myrkas cared for. And while he had all but confirmed to now live in a not entirely typical cultivation world, Myrkas had yet to see overt cultivators: those powerful people on the road to immortality and ascension.

His immediate entourage also lacked any obvious co-leads or important secondary characters. Myrkas himself was pretty plain for a main character. He had no fancy hairdo with natural, two-toned hair or a striking eye color or even a magical birthmark. He was a little disappointed, to be honest. Almost enough to make him doubt his lead character status. Almost.

Another crucial clue, harems were a thing here. Widely accepted and not just for stupidly rich people who could get away with it. Very much double standards though, as they were always composed of one man with any number of women. Absolutely no reverse, whatsoever. As a hopeful romantic, waiting anxiously for his one true love, Myrkas disliked the whole one-sided harem concept. Especially with Nirrina just thrown at his uncle, like mere chattel. It wasn't right. He wasn't sure how exactly marriage worked here, but from what Myrkas knew, it smelled fishy. 

Something to dwell on later, though. He first needed power and influence to be able to change anything. Myrkas had to build his strength to protect Nirrina. His envisioned future awesomeness was only a happy side-effect.

Before Myrkas could ponder any further, the door opened. His uncle, Koriss, entered. Like the previous night, the older man settled on Myrkas' bed without a word in greeting. A heavy silence followed, neither relative knowing how to start the conversation. 

"You scared me," confessed Koriss. "Not your fault, of course. Never your fault, boy, but maybe mine. I thought I would lose you. That Nirrina girl was beside herself, sick with worry. And just as we finally get her to rest, you wake up." 

Sharp amber eyes, the same as his own, looked back at Myrkas.

"Sorry," Koriss choked out, looking away, embarrassed. "I'm not good at this boy, never been. And I can't keep calling you boy, it's not right. Humm... Myrkas, Myrkassa," the man paused, hesitating.

"Kassa, talk to me please."

"I don't know what to say," Myrkas said, his voice feeble. "I'm lost too." 

Silence stretched anew between them, although much lighter.

"I can help with that, I think," Koriss said. "Kassa, the day that fire... burned, I don't know what you remember. Might be better if you don't. Anyway, when I found you, you had stopped breathing. Your body was burned so bad, almost charred. You kept making this terrible wheeze every few seconds, followed by a weak cough of ash and blood. If we'd been even a little later... If Nirrina had not come straight to me..."

Myrkas' uncle stopped for a moment, his eyes glassy, unfocused. Myrkas was transfixed. He swallowed thickly, throat suddenly dry. Flashes of heat, pain, and panic busted in the boy's mind. He closed his eyes and could not help but listen on.

"I dumped every healing salve I had on you. Every potions, elixirs, and pills. I thank Allrikh every day I carried enough. That trauma, that kind of damage Kassa, it can reach deeper. Go beyond the physical and seep through to your soul. 

"You're strong, boy. A lot more than me. Got out of it. Survived on sheer will."

Koriss gingerly reached for his nephew's shoulder, gave it a short squeeze, and retreated his hand. Following a deep breath, the man went on.

"I can sense Qi you know, comes with the profession. Any half-decent alchemist needs to cultivate. Bare mortals are but charlatans, snake-oil salesmen. 

"There was Qi in that fire. Not natural those flames. They had intent, a foreign will was driving them. I don't know who, how or why but they will pay. This, I promise you, Kassa." 

Koriss sighed again. 

"Your soul, boy, it cracked, got damaged. I am not much of a healer but I can still tell some. Again, comes with the alchemy. It's odd. The soul is protected, hard to reach. You never cultivated, never carved meridians or tried to open one of your gates. There should not have been a path for the fire to flow through. And the cracks didn't feel burned. It was almost as if the force came from your soul, not the other way around. It's baffling. Makes no sense. I hoped time was all you needed, didn't want to make it worse. The girl was right though, I should have given you the elixir earlier."

Koriss's shoulders dropped under unseen burdens. His expression was dour. The man was wary.

"What's done is done," he said. "It worked, praise Allrikh it worked."

Koriss stood to leave on these words. In an instant, Myrkas grabbed his sleeve, stopping the man.

"What does it mean?" the boy asked, uncertainty in his voice.

Myrkas recalled all too well his agony and confusion marring the past days.

"I don't know;' Koriss answered. "Some marks are left, scars in your soul. They are hard to detect by now. But there to find if one knows what to look for. The soul remains the least understood of the three planes. Your body is fine though. Few scars in your throat and lungs. Explains why your voice is a little hoarse."

Koriss paused to think, a faraway look in his eyes. His lips moved silently while his hands made intermittent jerking motions. He looked half-crazed for a minute, a madman. 

"Your Qi plane is fine, Kassa. No change, gates closed. No awakened bloodline I can see. And your soul, with the scars and the elixir, I really can't say. Your soul is your core, your link to fate, Karma, your sense of self, and your memories. Your soul is the one immortal plane you have, the one piece going through reincarnations. What it means, I do not know. Anything or nothing. Maybe everything. I wish I could tell you, Kassa. It's beyond me." 

The two kept silent awhile, lost in thoughts. Then, grunting, Koriss stood again to leave.

"I'll go get the girl. She should have rested enough. She'll want to know you're okay. Scared her half to death again," Koriss murmured as he left.