Chapter 1 - Wait, There's More? (Patreon)

Awareness is a fickle thing, at first. 

There are a few brief moments of clarity, but even when things are fuzzy and indistinct, he feels… safe. Peaceful. 

Surprising, but considering Kalen’s last coherent memory was the unique sensation of his organs shutting down one by one, he feels it’s forgivable to be a little confused. He was, depressingly, familiar enough with with the symptoms of a heart attack to recognise the shooting pain up his left arm and call for the nurses, but even as he did so he could tell they wouldn’t be able to help.

His heart giving out seemed to be something of a signal to the rest of his organs that the gig was up, and they all decided to go out with a bang.

It was almost a relief when he fell unconscious because at least it was an end to the pain. The last thing he expected was to wake up again.

Waking in warmth, subjected only to gentle touches and soft, incomprehensible murmuring initially has him thinking he’s in some kind of afterlife. The lack of pain is so blissful it’s almost overwhelming, and he bursts into tears from sheer relief.

It takes him a depressingly long time to figure out what’s going on. 

Still, there are only so many times he can be physically picked up before he realises that his caretakers aren’t giants caring for his useless, unresponsive body.

No, it’s him that’s changed. He’s in the body of a newborn infant.

Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that he is a newborn infant, but he feels he can be forgiven for getting the vernacular wrong. He doesn’t know if this is a hallucination, brain damage, or if reincarnation was actually a thing all along, but at this point, he doesn’t care. Whatever it is, it’s a welcome reprieve from the horror of his old life, and he’s going to enjoy every second of it, no matter how temporary.

Only… weeks pass, months pass, and it looks more and more likely that this situation might be a little more permanent. He’s starting to get used to waking up without pain and being able to wiggle his chubby little fingers and toes without feeling the ache of damaged joints.

The woman who takes care of him – his mother? – is always so gentle with him. Her hands are soft and sure as she swaddles him, as she feeds him, burps him and changes his diapers. It’s a good thing he’s used to struggling with basic motor function – he’s spent far too much time in hospital too weak to move to feel any lingering embarrassment over someone taking care of him like this.

She sings to him sometimes, words strange but mostly recognisable, barely able to hold a tune but he loves it all the same.

And… he loves her. 

Loves the smiles on her face, the warmth in her pretty eyes, the shape of her face, not quite pretty but comely, the cleverness of her fingers, the scent of her. 

His parents from his previous life had died when he was young, too young to really remember them. He’d grown up in various foster homes, and though he appreciated the care he received, there was always a distance. An awareness that he didn’t belong, that he was a guest in their home.

And when he first started getting sick… there wasn’t even that anymore.

He couldn’t blame them, not really. It would be hard enough to deal with if he actually was their child, let alone someone else’s. He’d… never gotten over it, not really, but he’d gotten used to it. The feeling of being alone, of having to stop himself from caring about others because they wouldn’t care about him.

Now though, it seems so easy to love. 

To look up into his new mother’s eyes and know that she wants nothing but to love and protect him and want to do the same for her.

He sinks into this rare, wonderful kind of happiness with gratitude so strong his chest aches from it. Savours each smile and laugh like a starving man in a desert.

Hordes each precious moment with her.

Time passes. He finally grows past the point that he needs to take a nap every five minutes, and he’s able to pay more attention to the world around him. 

The language isn’t his native tongue.

He’s not sure why that surprises him as much as it does. Statistically speaking, something like three-quarters of the world speaks a language other than English, so it would be more surprising if he did live in a country that spoke it.

At least it gives him something to focus on – even now that he’s conscious for most of the day he’s finding that boredom is quick to set in. His tiny pudgy body still lacks the coordination and strength to do anything more than wiggle, so he’s more than a little starved for mental stimulation.

Over the next few days, he’s distracted by a new sense he’s never encountered before. It feels vaguely like a sneeze that just never comes or a word on the tip of his tongue. It’s incredibly frustrating.

Maybe sense isn’t the best descriptor because it’s so strange. More an awareness. It isn’t purely a physical sensation, nor is it visual or auditory, yet it somehow encompasses all of those senses. He’d heard of synaesthesia, how some people could see music or feel colours, but he’d never experienced it for himself before. 

The sense is only distinct enough to track when he’s completely focused, so it takes him a while to realise that the lights he can see in his mind’s eye are people. His mother is a shining pale blue warm-honey-autumn leaves to his senses, which is far more poetic than he usually is, but somehow it’s the only way to describe it that makes sense.

Now that he’s opened whatever third-eye nonsense that lets him do… whatever it is that he’s doing, it’s been impossible to switch off. Outside his tiny world of mother, he can pinpoint the location of the neighbour who frequently stops by to check in and foist containers of food off on them, her rippling yellow-cotton-feathers steady and placid.

Whatever this new sense is, he can sort of… tune it, so to speak – narrow his focus to increase the range and strength. If he concentrates hard, he can vaguely sense the presence of other stars further away, though not clearly enough to tell them apart. 

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to think to turn his ‘sense’ on himself.

There’s a well of energy inside him, sitting in the depths of his belly with smaller off-shoots running through his limbs and chest and head. It is tiny and fragile and somehow feels like the heat and crackle of a fire. It’s warm and bright and feels like infinite potential.

It’s simultaneously terrifying and the coolest thing he’s ever felt.

Part of him, the part that’s slowly getting used to the sheer bliss of living a simple, pain-free life, wants him to ignore it and whatever complications it might bring. Bury his head in the sand and pray that the universe isn’t so cruel as to take away his peace so quickly.

The other part, the part of him that never bought into the fallacy that life was fair, that the cold uncaring cosmos owed him anything, urges him to seize whatever opportunity this energy represents. It tells him that the only things he can truly rely on are the things he’s seized himself. That if he doesn’t take advantage of the chances he’s given, he’s as good as giving up any semblance of control.

Besides… what was the point of having a second chance at life if you didn’t use it to live dangerously?

It takes him months to figure out how to do anything with this well of energy, how to control it and push it through the channels in his body. It’s an exhausting process. Half the time he feels like he’s barely even started brushing against the strange crackling power inside him before it splutters and dies, and suddenly he’s too weary to lift his head. 

He’s not sure if it’s healthy to be doing this – for all he knows he’s giving himself an exotic new form of cancer by messing with things he doesn’t understand, but the sheer possibilities have him pushing on regardless.

As a result, though, nap time is extending longer and longer. His mother notices, of course, and is concerned enough that his first trip outside is to the local equivalent of the clinic. It takes him a little while to realise that, oh yeah, he’s only like a year old at this point, and a baby randomly coming down with narcolepsy would be pretty worrying for a parent.

The doctor feels like a pale green moss-chalk-damp to his new senses, a surprisingly comforting combination.

“How old is he?” he asks, already reaching out to press a hand against his cheek to check for a fever with quick, practised motions.

“Not far off a year old,” his mother replies, wringing her hands in the corner. He feels a spike of guilt. Probably a good idea to ease back on the experimentation for a while. 

“Hmm. You said he’s sleeping excessively?” 

Almost every other hour of the day,” she affirms, reaching out to hold his hand. He’s not sure if it’s supposed to be for her sake or his. 

The doctor is clearly experienced with children, running through some basic checks while rattling off a list of additional questions to his mother. He reluctantly submits to the doctor’s ministrations, enduring the poking and prodding as patiently as he can.

“As far as I can tell he’s perfectly healthy,” the doctor announces after a few minutes, eyeing him curiously, “and might I say he’s unusually well-behaved, too.” The man hesitates for a moment before continuing. “It might not be relevant, but do you mind me asking if you have any Cultivator ancestors?”

His mother looks up, startled. “No, not that I know of. Why?”

The man shrugs. “If he were a few years older, I might say that he’s trying to ignite his dantian. I’m no cultivator myself, of course, but I’ve heard that the process tends to be exhausting. Might be worth checking out when he’s a little older.”

His mother scoops him up against her chest, and though her tone doesn’t show any alarm, he can feel her heart pounding against her chest.

He winces, feeling even more guilty. Definitely going to take it a little slower with the experimentation. He might not know what these ‘cultivators’ are, though the term sounds vaguely familiar. Either way, he has no real excuse for stressing out his new mother like this. 

Even if he really wants to learn how to throw fireballs around.

Oh well. There’s always later.