Chapter 5: Fiachra

Toren Daen

My approach toward the city felt agonizingly slow. Though only a couple of miles from the forest at my estimate, it took a few hours of painful walking to truly be near the tall walls that bordered the city.

My speed was hampered by my bruised ribs, every inhale sending a sharp pain through my chest. I took frequent breaks, too. A growing hunger gnawed at my gut, highlighting the fact that I hadn't eaten in at least a couple of days. My mouth was parched, having only had something to drink several hours before walking and fighting continuously. My arm, mercifully, was gaining some of its mobility back at a surprising pace. Fast enough that I knew it wasn't natural.

The city became more distinct as I neared it. A river cut through the city, tracking down and running south along the edges of the accursed forest I had just left. Tall walls of dark stone surrounded the city, looming twenty feet in the air. They blocked much of my view of the inner city from my distance, but there were plenty of structures that stood even taller than the walls. Opulent buildings gilded in red and gray hues stood out to me from afar, judging the city from on high.

The river ran right beside the cobbled road I trudged on, all the way up to the gate. An iron trellis allowed the water to pass under the stone walls. The gate became clearer as I approached: they were tall, impressive doors of black metal, inscribed with illustrations of basilisks, black fire, and other unique works of art, but my mind was too bleary to study them long. A couple of guards stood watch outside the doors, keen eyes on the lookout for visitors. They each held a long spear, with full metal armor adorning their bodies.

There wasn't much traffic at this gate, only a few people a ways ahead being let in. When the last was allowed inside, their gazes turned to me. Their helmets concealed their faces, however, making me more nervous to approach.

I painfully plodded to the gate, doing my best to straighten my back in the face of the guard's stares. After a second, I gave up on that. Too painful.

"Vritra's horns," one of them said. "You look like death itself, kid! I almost didn't expect to see you back!" they continued. The other snorted in agreement.

I realized with a start that I did look like hell. Probably smelt like it, too. I was covered from near head to toe in blood, dirt, and sweat, the cleanest spot being my face from when I washed it with cold creek water. Unfortunately, I had since gathered more dirt there as well as I struggled to learn tree parkour and almost died to that whip-lizard-thing. My clothes were also torn in a dozen different places, and I was pretty certain the thin cord that wound through my trousers to keep them tied to my waist was about to simply snap from wear.

The guards had also apparently seen me leave the city as well, or at least the previous owner of the body. That was something to note. I was also surprised by how little outward reaction the guards showed to my battered state. Did people often come here half-dead?

"I feel like death, too," I ground out tiredly. "How much to get back into the city?"

I had seen the people entering before me exchange a few coins at a distance. I assumed I would have to do the same.

"Three copper marks to enter Fiachra for a single person, as usual for the later hours of the day," the guard closest to me said, before leaning forward slightly. "But tell me something, kid: did you make a kill? End a few skaunters? Maybe a barkskin grohd?" he whispered conspiratorially.

So the city was called Fiachra, then. It felt true to the lingering emotions in my mind. I squinted in confusion at the question, though, trying to connect the dots in my head. "Killed a good dozen of those rat-lizard bastards," I offered, wincing at the phantom pain from their jaws on my forearm and the stab in my ribs from speaking.

The guard barked a short laugh, turning to his companion. "Didn't I tell you, Joran? The kid here left looking like he was prepared to die, all grim-faced and whatnot!" He turned back to me, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "Instead, he prevails against the devious skaunters!" he finished with good cheer.

His companion scoffed but didn't offer a comment.

The guard began to open the door. "Entry's free for today, kid. Can't take away the joy of the first hunt. You do our Sovereigns proud! Every drop of strength you get brings glory to them all!"

With a quiet thanks, I trudged into the city. I followed a phantom memory in a bleary daze, tracing emotions of home and comfort as I weaved through streets simultaneously familiar and foreign. The powerful river continued along the main road, weaving through Fiachra. Artificial canals and waterways split off from the mighty flow like stretching roots, and I guessed they weaved through the entire city. I saw men on small boats ushering people and goods all along the channels, using a strange artifact to propel their slim craft along the currents. Foot traffic was constant everywhere, with most people dressed in semi-casual attire. I saw many wearing shirts with cuts along the spine, proudly displaying their runes for all to see.

Carriages occupied portions of the streets, however, pulled by all varieties of mana beasts I could imagine. Those belonged to the wealthy Bloods of the city, no doubt. People who noticed me shied away, looks of disgust on their faces, but none tried to stop me. That was welcome. If I stopped, I wasn't sure I'd be able to start walking again.

My semi-conscious mind took me eastward across the city. A noticeable decline in wealth occurred as I moved from street to street, like watching a colorful painting slowly shift to more drab colors. The vibrancy and life seemed to drain out of the buildings, an aura of casual depression oozing from every alleyway.

There were fewer people about too I noticed as I crossed a bridge over one of the diverging channels of water. The water, while unnaturally clear everywhere else, had begun to take on a darker tinge. People watched with hooded eyes from corners every now and then, adding to the claustrophobic atmosphere.

I was thankful to finally reach what felt like my destination. The entire haze had been a lot like a game of hot or cold: I thought of shelter, safety, and home. That pulled abstract emotions from the depths of my mind, which grew in intensity depending on my direction. Now, they were strongest as I stood before a building.

It was three stories tall, with dark paint that was chipped and fading where it revealed stone. The door was solid wood, opening with a slight creak as I entered. A row of numbered doors along a narrow hallway greeted me, before a flight of stairs led to the second level. An old lighting artifact cast a warm yellow glow across the hall.

From what I could tell, it seemed to be the Alacryan equivalent of an apartment complex. I sighed in exasperation, before immediately cutting off in a pained wheeze.

My room was unfortunately on the top floor. The emotions rattling inside my brain became warmer and warmer as I trudged on, before finally leading me to room 35. I fumbled in my pouch, awkwardly withdrawing the metal key. I fumbled at the lock before the door opened, thankfully allowing me in.

The apartment was barely lit by the late afternoon sun, with a window at the far end looking out at another nearby building. It was sparsely decorated: a bunk bed and a couple of desks across from it took up most of the space. A single dresser sat in the corner.

Another door revealed a cramped bathroom, so small I could barely stand. A recognizable toilet and bathtub assured me that the building had working plumbing at the very least, but a disconcerting bit of black mold was building in the base of the tub.

I couldn't have cared less at the moment. I gingerly pried off my clothes, grimacing as they tried to stick to my body. With every movement, my ribs protested, causing me to take nearly five minutes to fully undress. I even took time to slowly unwrap my wounded forearm. The gash had healed noticeably, flesh partway through knitting back together in a macabre fashion. But I had larger thoughts on my mind.

Once I was finally free of my stinking, blood-splattered clothes, I entered the shower. I gasped as chilling water struck me from the faucet head, the frigid temperature entirely uncaring of how I had twisted the warm water knob all the way. I shuddered, the cold water startling me and keeping me far more lucid than I had wanted, but it didn't matter. A bar of lye soap slowly scrubbed the grime from a body that was far too young to be my own. Cracked and bloodied fingernails slowly worked over the rest of my form, cleansing me of the horrors of the forest. Skinny, unfamiliar arms worked in time with my thoughts.

I had never allowed myself to think too much in that accursed forest. The threat of danger and promise of death treaded too closely for me to contemplate my new situation. Adrenaline and mana were my only comforts in the wild, and both had barely gotten me through. Any step could mean walking into an ambush from predators. But as I wallowed in the frigid shower water, I couldn't ignore my situation any longer.

I was in another world, far from anything I had ever known. The memory of my car crash yawned before me, engulfing me in the certainty of what had happened. I didn't even remember anything after my death: just nothingness. It was akin to going to sleep and waking up the next morning: my memory simply restarted in Alacrya.

I would never fulfill my Earthen dreams. I would never finish college; never complete my degree. I would never again experience the fulfillment computers and programming brought me. My interests were foreign and strange in this new world, concepts so alien none could sympathize.

And I was alone. So, so very alone. My friends and family were a world away, far from my reach. I hadn't even gotten to say goodbye, to wish them farewell. To tell them how much they mattered to me; how they pushed me to be better.

And I never would. I once read a story about a man who tried to bring a banana tree from Cuba to his home on the upper east coast of the United States. Instead of thriving, the tree wilted in the colder weather. The winter months battered and destroyed it, breaking it over their knees of frost.

I felt much like that banana plant, cast out into an environment counter to what I could survive in. I was a modern man, used to the amenities and luxuries of 21st-century living. I had struggled much throughout my life, but not the hard, physical struggle of Alacryan society where the weak died. I wasn't ready to fight my way through droves of beasts or claw my way up the ranks of Highblood society. No, I was a weak man. I nearly died fighting a pathetic mana beast, after all. And all of Alacrya would soon be plunged into a proxy war between living deities.

The cold water of the shower trickled down my arms, coating my wound and washing away pink. I didn't have the energy to even wince at the pain. I wept for a long while in the shower after I was finally clean, the streams of water whisking away my silent tears.

—

I awoke late in the morning of the next day, the light of the sun wafting through the window to my apartment. I blinked bleary eyes, my head slowly clearing.

I felt noticeably better than the utter despair I experienced last night. Something about the sunlight made it easier for me to ward away my demons; banish them to the depths of my mind. When the sun shone down on my face, it was easier to weather the daunting weight of the future. The dawn brought hope back to my bones.

I sat up carefully in the bottom bunk of the bunk beds, but the pain from my bruised ribs was noticeably less than I expected. The ribs still ached but with far less severity than last night. On a hunch, I checked my forearm. It was wrapped properly this time: after my shower, I found a roll of cloth that covered my wound far more snugly and cleanly than my previous jury-rigged solution.

I slowly unwound the cloth, and sure enough, my suspicions were confirmed. Underneath the bandages, the gash in my arm was far, far smaller than it had been just over a day and a half ago. Where before the slash had nearly reached the bone, now I could see muscle and tissue having slowly grown back. And another thing I had nearly forgotten: the thin slash on my bicep I received dodging one of the rat-lizards–skaunters, I reminded myself–was practically gone.

It seemed I had a healing factor, and a rather significant one at that. From what I could infer from reading The Beginning After The End, all mages had accelerated healing: but nothing so quick without an emitter mage. I would guesstimate that a gash like the one I had received would normally take a couple of months to fully heal, leaving horrid scarring. At the current rate, I would be rid of the wound in a day or so.

That answered a lot of questions, too. My right arm was essentially back to full mobility, too. I couldn't feel any lingering soreness from the dislocation, but I wouldn't put any load on it just yet. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Before I got up, I checked inwards to observe my mana core. It was still solid orange; the red feather within floating casually. But now that my nerves had calmed, I inspected the feather more intently.

It was radiating mana intensely. It was pulsing out far more than I could even perceive, slowly scouring away impurities and strengthening my core. The observation astounded me, almost snapping me out of my reverie of observation. The feather was automatically advancing my core stage bit by bit and refilling my drained reserves as well.

Come to think of it, I hadn't needed to meditate to draw in more mana after my extensive use of it across the forest, and the core had felt full when I went to bed. But it seemed that my overnight healing had drained my reserves a by about a quarter of my maximum.

I slowly pulled myself out of bed, immediately aware of the rumbling in my stomach. I had gone a long time without food, and I suspected that my healing factor needed to draw energy from not just mana to restructure my muscles. I needed sustenance, but I doubted I had any in the small apartment I called home.

But before I headed out, I would need to clean up a bit. Floss, brush my teeth, and the like. With all of Alacrya's advancements, I would be astonished if proper dental hygiene were not one of them. 

I moved toward the bathroom, wrinkling my nose at the smell of my old clothes in a nearby waste bin. I had found a new set in the dresser that fit me well: a set of loose brown trousers and a dark, long-sleeved shirt. It wasn't the most fashionable of wear, but I had no room to complain.

I meandered into the bathroom, already thinking about how I would have to clean it. I was tidy to a fault: the definition of a neat freak. That was something my family and friends ribbed me for constantly. 

I shoved the thoughts of my previous life away with an effort of will. 

Regardless of my current situation, nobody could stand the black mold that was festering in the bathtub. Not willingly.

I halted in my steps as I raised my head, looking in the mirror. My mind stuttered to a halt as the reflection echoed my actions. Hazel eyes stared back, going almost comically wide. Reflected in the mirror was a teen with short, messy hair colored a bright, reddish blonde. Sharper features looked, but the softness of youth hadn't quite left them.

I recognized the face. How could I not? It was like I was peering into a portal to the not-so-distant past, watching my teenage self mimic my actions. But that couldn't be true, could it? I died on Earth, my soul gone. Some subconscious part of me expected this body to look entirely alien: maybe I would have black hair. Or perhaps my face would be wider. I could have had green eyes, even. Green eyes were rare, but not as rare as reincarnation. But none of that came to be.

But why? Why did I look the same as in my previous life?