1 Prologue (1/2)
”Your arm is unsteady because your aim is unclear; you do not shoot the deer, you shoot survival.”
The mild voice of a handsome middle-aged man echoed beside a teenage boy. The two wore their jet-black hair in the dreadlocks typical of their tribe, with cold blue eyes showing hints of similarity. They hid behind the bushes of a deciduous forest, eyes locked on a white-tailed deer trotting without any knowledge that its life neared its end.
The teenage boy's hands bent a bow, arrow ready to fire. However, they trembled, making the arrow dangle and the string quiver. The middle-aged man initially believed the boy floundered due to the deer being his first kill. But when he lowered the bow and shook his head, he sensed something else.
”Dad, why kill one that doesn't harm? It's incorrect. I'd rather shoot a wolf, or slay a tiger.” Again, the boy spoke words that left his father perplexed.
At the age of 12, talks of slaying wild beasts should have reeked foolishness. But in the boy's tone, there was an uncanny composure that made his elders unable to take him as the child he should have been. Although he often tried to restrain that trait, it didn't escape his father's trained eyes.
”Kilian, the first rule of survival is to understand that fairness is a fool's yearning. Nature is the mother of injustice,” the man began as his lips curled in an amused smile. ”To us, carnivore meat is not merely unpalatable; it's also toxic and needlessly dangerous...” The man, Viktor, then proceeded with explaining all the reasons why herbivore meat ruled the market, making Kilian close his eyes for an instant.
When he again opened them, there was no hesitation within his gaze or stance. He armed his bow, fired the arrow, and it hit the deer right in its brain, killing it on the spot. There was no surprise in Viktor's eyes. Kilian may be an odd teenage boy, but he undoubtedly was a talented warrior.
Their tribe was split into two categories, warriors and farmers. Farmers tended to the land, warriors cleared nearby wild beasts, deterred bandits, and hunted for pelt and meat. In the backwater corners of the Kingdom of Orloth, such tribal divisions were the norm.
But while his father felt no shock, as he rose to step toward the deer and hurl it at his father, Kilian couldn't help but inwardly sigh. An adult male deer weighed 136 kg on average. But he could toss such a beast without breaking a sweat. Although he'd grown accustomed to his strength, for a former earthling such as himself, the change was indeed astounding.
Viktor was right, Kilian didn't fit his age, because he wasn't his age. Born in one of the darkest corners of Chicago, he survived the streets by joining a gang but fortunately grew without gutting another man. At the age of 15, an operation allowed him to make the acquaintance of an art forger, who soon recognized his astounding talent in the craft -- and brought him into a ”classier” form of crime.
Specialized in paintings, it only took Kilian three years to make a name for himself in his criminal ring, and obtain the approval of his superiors. Increasingly, they bypassed his mentor to feed him tasks of greater importance, making his pockets swell, and his mentor's hatred rise accordingly.
Alas, as a perpetual loner, Kilian lacked connections and, therefore, had no protection. It didn't take long before he found himself framed of the robbery of an ancient hammer and his skull punctured by a lovely bullet. His brain debris and blood plastered the floor. The worms buried him—the typical dog-death, really.
Not that he cared, life on Earth was dull and uninteresting. Conning those so-called art collectors soon became a tedious matter. The majority were nothing more than blind donkeys ager to hoard the artist's fame. And they dared discuss art appreciation, ha.
But never would Kilian's mentor expect that the very hammer he snuck into his belongings would turn into his ticket for a second life. The hammer swallowed Kilian's soul and vanished alongside him. Kilian awoke as a swaddled baby, in a medieval household, with no hammer in sight...his following cries could raise the dead.
It had now been 12 years, and Kilian had long-since learned to adapt to his new environment. Although in this backwater tribal village, men and women alike slaved their days away, the people were warm and supportive, across the population of 300 denizens, fights rarely broke out. For a place where fierce warriors abounded, this was indeed refreshing.
The first oddity Kilian realized upon landing in this world, was the change in the air. The air was not only void of pollution, but left a sweet aftertaste. They called it Dra. To the people of this world, Dra was the source of life, the foundation of all things. But more importantly, the foundation of magic. For the people of these remote lands, magic was a foreign concept best left in the hands of the aristocracy. Yet, it shaped the lives of all.
In this remote tribe of medieval technology, the average man's lifespan was 85 years, beating even the 21st century United States. But when compared to the physical changes Dra triggered, that lifespan was barely noticeable.
Although Kilian was a freak among his peers, the average adult hunter could easily lift 250 kg, and they didn't spend their days breaking their back on impossible weight lifting. In retrospect, beasts were also much stronger. However, humans proportionally benefited a lot more from Dra.
Unsurprisingly, those who could control Dra ruled the world, they built society around Dra control, with magocracies, magus-kings, and nobles dominating the land. In those grand cities, backed by magical advancement, the technological level had reached a height that left Earth in shame. DNA modification and genetic enhancement were old news.
But to the current Kilian, none of that mattered. This world might have been impressive, full of wonders and opportunities, but it couldn't beat the warmth of a functional home. Kilian always believed that God must have taken pity of him. After all, if reincarnation and magic were feasible, how could he doubt the existence of God...or Gods for that matter?
This was his opportunity to lead a proper life, laugh heartily, seed a few lasses, and live as a man rather than a cadaver on autopilot—or so he thought. When the smoke clouds billowed from his tribe's location, when they covered the sky with soaring flames and fluttering embers, for the first time in 12 years, Kilian wondered if he'd not been too naive.
Viktor's eyes widened in disbelief, and instantly, he dropped the deer resting on his shoulder, unsheathed his ax, and without turning toward Killian said, ”Hide and wait for me, I will find you.”
With those words, Viktor stomped his foot and turned into a blur as he shot toward the tribe. Viktor had always been too strong. Although he attempted to conceal his true skills, an elephant couldn't hide among ants. Kilian often doubted the origins of this good father of his, but never raised the question.
Better, he rarely went against his will. But today, he couldn't obey.
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”Our tribe is on fire, my mother's fate unknown, and he wants me to take a stroll in the woods? Yeah, right.” Kilian grumbled and rushed after his father. The speed difference between them ensured Kilian couldn't follow Viktor's trail. In fact, although the village was 10 kilometers away, at Viktor's full speed, reaching it wouldn't take a minute.
For Kilian, however, it was another story. Even if he now ran at Usain Bolt's top speed, it would still take him 15 minutes. In that timeframe, a whole lot could occur. But without a better option, he could only run, and so run he did.
As his mind locked on the flames ahead, even the alarming clatter of his footsteps and the gush of wind slamming his face escaped his usually acute hearing. He ran with desperate vigor, leaving the woods to step onto the road back, and the closer he was, the faster his heart beat.
A fire of that magnitude couldn't appear without external cause. The tribe undoubtedly suffered an attack. But it made no sense. Raiders across dozens of kilometers dared not step into their tribe's territory. They'd long learned the lesson that only death awaited there.
But if it wasn't raiders, who was it? As he got increasingly closer to his home of 12 years, Kilian desperately hoped raiders were to blame. They were not.
By the time Kilian reached the tribe's entrance, the corpses of folks he'd known since he was a babe littered the streets. Dozens of men, women and children, playmates and lasses he envisioned to seed in the future now decorated the ground. Blood stretched across several meters, its stench oppressing the air and stuffing Kilian's nostrils.
Raiders didn't kill young women or anyone that could fetch a price on the slave market. Raiders didn't pursue reckless murder if they held the strength to slaughter. They'd kill a few but spare the many so that work wouldn't end and supplies flow for them. These...were no mere brigands.
But as his eyes swept the fallen, Kilian could give no fuck for the murderers' origins. He just wanted their heads.
*Clang* *Clang* *Clang*
The ringing sound of clashing steel echoed from within the tribe. Amidst the burning thatched houses, 32 men surrounded one, hacking at him with exquisite broadswords and a speed that made a mockery out of the best hunters the tribe initially possessed. Slashing speed, movement skills, technique, organization, although they seemed dressed like common raiders, those men undoubtedly were trained warriors.
No, templars!
Indeed, Kilian was right. Among those 32 men, 20 were top-level Lesser Templars, while another 12 were low-level Core Templars. The weakest of Lesser Templars could lift 600 kg without difficulty. Those were not opponents a paltry tribe could resist. Any one of them could slaughter the 300 denizens of this village. What need was there for 32?
But shockingly, though encircled by this brutal formation, Viktor's ax deflected all the blows aimed at him with masterful skill, and hacked at his foes with feral rage! As Viktor's ax lodged in his skull, the sound of blade tearing through bones and flesh marked the death of the first templar.
Right afterward, Viktor swept his ax in a circular motion, beheading three Lesser Templars in one go!
He leaped into the air, the Core Templars rushed after him, but even as their sword thrusts neared, Viktor defied gravity to whirl in the sky, and land on their colliding sword tips!
His ax then rained on them all, directly gashing the faces of four Core Templars, and sending them all hurtling down! However, not a single one of them uttered a scream! They landed back on their feet and Viktor on his. Kilian couldn't believe his eyes, and again he swept the scene.
Destruction ran amok, with three-fourth of the population having already met their maker. Fortunately, Kilian's mother had yet to join their ranks. She lay in a corner - alongside the dozens of survivors - staring in helplessness at the clash that'd decide their lives. Confusion flared in Kilian's eyes.
”How can such warriors possibly target this tribe? No, they are targeting him. Revenge? If not for revenge, when they realized he wasn't here, why did they condescend to slaughter the helpless?” Kilian reasoned.