The sun had begun tilting toward the horizon, casting pale orange light through the small wooden window. The smell of burning wood from the hearth filled the room, mixing with the scent of cold soup forgotten on the table for hours.
Alexander sat alone on an old chair that creaked with every shift of his weight. His eyes stayed fixed on his left hand, a look of pure fascination on his face.
That hand had become the only thing he wanted.
He watched his fingers slowly, opening and closing them, trying to recall that feeling from when the dark energy first surged through them — something like a hidden pleasure, a cold that ran through his bones before turning into fire.
(This feeling... I’ve never known anything like it. Not even in my best moments in the ring. Is this what they call real power?)
From the next room, Snow’s soft crying drifted in every so often — Daron’s newborn son — mixed with his mother’s gentle laughter as she tried to soothe him. The whole house was living that new joy, the joy of a first grandson, a first nephew, while Alexander alone felt like he was standing on the edge of two worlds, belonging fully to neither.
While everyone else was busy with Snow, only the father kept his eyes on Alexander the whole time, a look heavy with something closer to worry than joy. He knew the competition was only a week away now.
Alexander heard his father’s heavy footsteps approaching the room — the steps of a man far more used to walking battlefields than the floor of his own home. The father rose, carrying an old leather-bound book, its edges worn from years of use, then walked toward his son and set it down on the table hard enough to rattle the cups, splashing cold water droplets across the wood.
"Enjoying that power, boy?"
Alexander could see nothing in that moment except his own hand. He already knew what was coming — some lecture about power and its toll on a man, the kind of speech he’d heard a thousand times in movies, about how power could become more of a burden than a gift.
(Here it comes... the same old boring wisdom about the price of power. Heard this exact speech from my old coach a hundred times. Never helped me once, back when I was losing every single fight.)
The father spoke, his tone sharp, as though weighing every word before letting it go:
"I’m certain you’re the Great Priest... but I don’t think you understand what that actually means."
That caught his son’s attention at once. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Yeah? What does it mean?"
The father sat down across from him, picked up the book, and opened it with a motion born of habit, its worn pages rustling faintly like the breath of an old man. Then he began explaining the origin of the Great Priest, his voice calm but carrying a weight of seriousness Alexander had never seen on his father’s face outside a battlefield.
It wasn’t complicated, really — not even for Alexander.
According to the book, it was a power granted by God to the Church’s chosen, meant to fight the power of the Devil, and it allowed its bearer to acquire all four Blessings at once.
The first Great Priest in this world had been a monk, who used his power to expand Christian rule, helping to build empires and kingdoms. But he never actually defeated a demon — he died fighting one.
Many others had since carried that power.
Most worked within the Church, under Christian rule, but occasionally, "anomalies" appeared out in the desert lands.
Warriors from Arab, Persian, even Kurdish lands had carried that same power, though they never used energy-based magic — their focus was entirely on sword magic.
That was why the churches had built energy bells, which only rang when that specific energy appeared... the energy of the Great Priest.
All to control him, to direct his power, and to bind him in service of Christ.
Alexander heard all this, and naturally found himself laughing inside, though he made sure none of it showed on his face.
(Service of Christ... religious nonsense wrapped in gold foil. Just an excuse for the Church to control anyone who steps out of line. Doesn’t matter, though — as long as this nonsense gets me Blessings, I’ll take it.)
He knew how powerful the Church’s influence was in an era like this, and that’s exactly why he’d never actually say any of that out loud to his father — he’d be branded a heretic, looked at the way people looked at madmen in this age.
But the part about the Great Priest controlling all four Blessings was genuinely fascinating — it stirred a curiosity in him he hadn’t felt since arriving in this world.
"What are the four Blessings?" Alexander asked, a trace of excitement slipping into his voice this time, one he couldn’t quite hide.
"What?! What do you mean, what are the four Blessings, boy? They’re the foundation of this whole world!"
Alexander had completely forgotten he was supposed to already know this. Unfortunately, those memories hadn’t been working for a while now — as though the original Alexander’s body had decided to keep its secrets locked away from this new intruder.
All he remembered was that the boy who used to live in this body had been a coward, silent, someone who never asked questions, never argued with his father.
So he said, trying to sound like someone who’d merely forgotten rather than never known:
"Just remind me."
The father looked at him for a moment with faint suspicion, but continued without commenting on how strange the question was:
"The Strength Blessing, the Evolution Blessing, the Intelligence Blessing, and the Healing Blessing... these Blessings are the balance of this world. If even one falls, the whole balance falls with it... or so the book claims, at least."
"Your brother and I carry the Evolution Blessing. Your mother carries the Intelligence Blessing... if you’re truly the Great Priest, you’d become the one who holds them all, and we might restore our old glory... the glory of the Christian state."
(Nonsense on top of nonsense. A father trying to resurrect a dead empire through his son. Heard this exact tune before — just a different instrument playing it.)
All that mattered to Alexander was how he’d win that competition in front of everyone, when he still didn’t even know how to fully use his power, let alone control it without it slipping loose from him like it had the first time.
But he had already decided, deep down, that this world would not be like his last.
(I lost so much back in my world... my father’s words here are the exact same words my father used to say back in China. Nonsense about my future, about family glory, about a son’s duty. But this time, I’m not just going to listen. I finally have a real chance to become what I always wanted — the greatest fighter alive. Maybe this time, the greatest sorcerer too.)
He watched the flames dancing in the hearth, imagining for a moment how it would feel to stand in the middle of that arena, in front of everyone, unleashing that dark power from his hand.
Alexander stood up quickly, his chair scraping back and knocking against a nearby wooden wall, and said with a firmness that even surprised himself:
"I need to train. I need to understand this magic I have."
The father looked at him for a long moment, as if measuring just how serious his son was, then said, without a trace of hesitation in his voice:
"I’ve spoken to your brother... your training starts tomorrow."
Alexander nodded with visible gratitude, but inside, he knew this was good — just not enough. One week was far too little for someone who needed to master a power whose true nature he didn’t even understand yet.
(A week... just one week between me and standing in front of all those knights. If this were boxing training, I’d have asked for a month at least. But I don’t have a choice. I’m not backing down now, not after everything I’ve seen.)
The father closed the book with a sharp, dry sound, as though the conversation was entirely over as far as he was concerned, then stood, tucking it under his arm, and headed for the door without looking back at his son again. He paused for a moment at the threshold, the dim evening light stretching his long shadow across the wooden floor, all the way to touch Alexander’s feet.
"Sleep early tonight, boy... your brother won’t go easy on you in training the way I did on that battlefield."
The father left, leaving behind a heavy silence mixed with the smell of burning wood from the nearby hearth, and the sound of the wooden door slowly closing behind him.
Alexander stayed alone in the room, Snow’s faint crying drifting in from the next room now and then, mixed with Daron’s calm laughter as he soothed his son, and the sound of Alexander’s mother humming an old tune in her sweet voice. That sound stirred something strange in him — a family warmth he’d never known in his previous life. But he quickly pushed the thought away, as though afraid of growing attached to something he might one day lose.
(No time for sentiment right now. I have exactly one week to prove I’m not the coward this body used to be. I won’t be weak again. Not in this life.)
He looked one last time at his left hand, turning it over in the faint candlelight, studying the shadow that fell across it as though it were an inseparable part of it, before snuffing out the nearby candle with a single breath, darkness swallowing the room slowly, letter by letter, as though he himself were practicing control over the darkness inside him.
(Tomorrow... it all starts tomorrow.)