Echoes of a Past Life [1]

Then, I heard. 

A voice, deep and ancient, resonated through the cavern—or perhaps from the depths of my own mind. 

**"Worthy to be my successor."** 

The words dissolved into the void, ephemeral, before I could react. And in a final instant, darkness swallowed me, dragging me into an abyss where time and destiny blurred. 

--- 

This memory was a brutal contrast to the present. In the darkness of unconsciousness, I relived moments that seemed like another life—and indeed, they were. 

My mother… Celestia Black. 

The name echoed in my mind, bringing memories of a time when I still believed the world was simple, that love and care were enough to give meaning to existence. Her smile, her crystalline eyes, her voice firm yet gentle… 

I, Elyon Celestia Black, a child outside the norm, with hair white as snow and eyes reflecting all the colors of the aurora borealis. Different. A genetic error, perhaps. But to her, I was perfect. 

She raised me surrounded by love and knowledge. The house we lived in—which she insisted on calling humble—was anything but. Three bedrooms, three living rooms, a spacious kitchen, a gym, even a pool. More books than any library I'd ever seen. 

Psychology, philosophy, politics, power strategies—all within my reach before I even understood their meanings. By age two, I'd devoured Machiavelli and Robert Greene, even if many concepts remained nebulous. My mind absorbed them, cataloged them, slowly comprehended. 

My mother knew. She knew I was different. She knew my mind was sharp, my memory absolute. She watched me grow with silent expectation, as if aware I'd one day need all of this. 

I was loved. I was protected. 

But life wasn't a bed of roses. 

The weapons scattered around the house, like part of the decor, were a constant reminder that my mother wasn't ordinary. 

Deep down, I knew. 

I just didn't want to see it. 

The memory began to dissolve like sand slipping through fingers. The garden's image, the flowers my mother loved, the stories she told… all faded. 

The sun's warmth bathed my skin, mixed with the garden's gentle breeze. Even in unconsciousness, memories unfolded like an old film, tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. 

My mother… 

She was the center of my universe. The woman who shaped my world with her strong, serene presence. I could see her face clearly—golden hair tousled by wind, blue eyes shining like crystal waters. 

She always smiled at me, a smile that seemed to carry the weight of something I didn't understand back then. There was tenderness, but also something hidden… a shadow my childhood self couldn't perceive. 

The house I grew up in was large and cozy. She called it "humble," but to me, it was a palace. Three bedrooms, three living rooms, a spacious kitchen, even a gym and backyard pool. I especially loved the garden. 

My mother had a special love for plants. She spoke of them like old friends, telling their stories—where she found them, how to care for each. I listened with fascination, even without full understanding. To me, only her voice mattered. 

Days followed a comfortable rhythm. In the morning, she calmly prepared breakfast and lunch, then we'd go to the garden. She taught me small life lessons, sometimes through funny superhero stories, sometimes through subtle advice I'd only grasp years later. 

"When you grow up, treat all women like princesses." 

She'd say this with a playful smile. "That way, they'll know you were raised by a queen." 

I laughed, not fully understanding the weight of those words. 

At six months, I began speaking. By two, I'd read nearly all the books she left within reach. Psychology, philosophy, politics… I absorbed everything, though much of it was just intellectual play. Life was simple, tranquil. 

But now, reliving these memories, I felt something different. 

They weren't just memories. They were reminders of what was lost. 

The garden vanished. Her smile dissolved into darkness. 

Reality pulled me back. 

By five, I understood more about the world than any child should. 

My mind was a machine, absorbing information at absurd speeds. Learning languages was like breathing—within months, I spoke over twenty. Math, physics, chemistry, sciences… all came easily. 

My mother noticed early but didn't want me to lose my childhood. So, she slowed down. 

She began teaching differently. 

Experimentation. Practical application. We spent hours together testing theories, seeing how the world truly worked beyond books. 

Then came my fifth birthday. 

A surprise party. 

Bright lights, an impeccably set table, a flawlessly decorated cake. My teacher was there, plus an unfamiliar man—likely someone from my mother's circle. But nothing mattered more than that moment. 

My mother was radiant. 

She smiled, her blue eyes shining with happiness and something deeper, heavier. 

The party was perfect. 

But after it ended, when we were alone, she changed. 

She sat beside me, ran fingers through my white hair, and spoke with unusual seriousness: 

— Elyon, never forget what you've learned. Never forget the books you've read. Psychology, philosophy, politics… These matter more than you imagine. 

I just nodded. 

At that moment, I didn't understand the weight of her words. 

But with time, I realized. 

She wasn't just teaching me to be smart. 

She was preparing me to survive. 

After the party, something shifted. 

The next day, my mother looked at me with solemn eyes and said: 

— Elyon, you're the man of the house now. You must learn to defend yourself. 

And so my training began. 

She never forced me but always knew how to motivate me. Whenever I said I was tired, she'd smile and promise cake if I continued. 

The house's gym became my second home. 

She made me run daily. At first, she said it was just for health, but I soon realized it was more. 

She never let me lift weights—I was too small—but taught endurance, body control, reflexes. 

Over time came combat. 

Self-defense. Strategies. 

She had me watch action movies, asking what I'd do in certain situations. 

I learned to fight, at least in theory. My body was still too weak to apply it all, but my mind absorbed every detail. 

Months passed intensely. 

But I loved it. 

I was just a five-year-old, but I understood my mother wasn't playing. 

She was molding me. 

Preparing me for something I couldn't yet grasp. 

The alley's dim lamplight cast twisted shadows on damp, grimy walls. The air hung heavy with the stench of trash, rusted metal, and something denser—maybe mold or dried blood. 

Her hand held mine, warm and firm. We walked unhurriedly, her light steps echoing through oppressive silence. The party's laughter and music had faded, swallowed by the maze of alleys. 

She stopped. Released my hand. 

— You can do anything, Elyon. 

— Wait here. I'll come back for you. 

She turned away. Walked without hesitation. 

I stood motionless. Cold stone beneath my feet. My eyes followed her silhouette until it disappeared around the bend. 

I waited. 

Wind carried distant murmurs, dragging footsteps, a dog's hoarse bark. Time passed. 

I waited. 

Night dragged into morning. The gray sky threatened rain. 

I waited. 

Hunger came first, a mild annoyance. Then thirst. Later, cold. 

I kept waiting. 

The tone was calm, almost soft. Words hung in the air, staining the darkness. A cutting wind blew between buildings, lifting dirty papers and dust. 

The alley was a narrow corridor between old buildings, where lamplight barely touched the trash-strewn ground. Rot mingled with dried blood's iron tang; rat whispers echoed through shadows. 

Her voice was a gentle whisper, unhesitating. Her shadow retreated under the streetlight's tremble, footsteps fading into distance. I remained. 

Cold wind sliced through my skin, piercing the fancy clothes I still wore from the party. The alley's silence thickened. My eyes fixed on the filthy ground where broken glass reflected the moon's pale glow. 

I waited. 

Days later. 

Hunger struck first. Cold followed, relentless, sliding over skin like invisible blades. When clothes tore, when shoes were stolen, the world ceased to be a place where someone like me existed. 

I learned fast. 

Filth turned my white hair opaque black. My once light chocolate skin vanished under soot and dried blood. My once-alert eyes now just observed—unhurried, unexpectant. 

Other beggars were predators. Hunger and fear made them beasts. The first time they stabbed, robbed, beat me, I learned the lesson: survival meant invisibility or strength. 

Stealing became inevitable. Manipulation, essential. 

The alley seemed to swallow light. Filth clogged cracks in damp walls; mold and rot saturated the air. Each step echoed hollowly on urine-soaked ground littered with food scraps. 

I didn't know where to go. 

The streets devoured me. Time lost meaning. Hunger gnawed, burned, until it became a constant void. When my clothes were stolen, I didn't fight. When kicked to the ground, I didn't react. When a knife slashed my skin over bread, I watched blood flow, feeling only cold. 

My reflection vanished. 

The white hair that made me unique turned black with grime. My once-light chocolate skin grayed, darkened, merging with surrounding shadows. The handsome boy was gone. 

So I learned. 

To be invisible when needed. To intimidate when required. 

Stealing wasn't a choice—it was necessity. Whispering right words into right ears earned more than alms. Others' fear became my tool; my emotionless, steady voice, my weapon. 

But it wasn't always enough. 

The first time they tried to break me, I refused. The man—big, filthy, eyes laden with lust and rot—tried to claim me as property. 

Night dragged a cold wind through alleys reeking of urine and dried blood. Shadows vibrated with drunken voices and stumbling steps. I walked among them, too small to notice, too quick to catch. The package clung to my body, wrapped in dirty rags. A survivor—better unseen, silent, unhesitating, flawless. 

A man grabbed my collar. Big, filthy, breath reeking of alcohol and rot. 

— Cute, huh? — His rough hand squeezed my face. 

Broken glass slid between my fingers. The shard sank into his neck before he could react. Warm blood sprayed my skin—my first kill at six. He choked, fell to his knees. I shoved him down and kept walking. 

I watched him unhurriedly. 

The gang saw me. 

— You've got guts or just crazy? 

I didn't answer. Didn't need to. 

They made me a mule, saw potential. Ran drugs, delivered packages, learned the city's darkest paths. But it wasn't enough. I absorbed everything—glances, words, movements. Instinct and intelligence did the rest. Memorized every face, deal, weakness. 

Time passed, but I returned to the alley, always the same spot. 

Waited. 

She never came back. 

Her love? An illusion. Just a shadow cast to hide something darker. 

I didn't hate. Didn't seek revenge. Just understood. 

The alley was a cemetery of light. Dark walls crushed the space; air thick with rust and rot. A body leaned against the wall—not a corpse yet. A woman. 

The blood pool under her trembled with the city's echoes. Black fabric clung to wet skin; her breath was a thin thread. She looked at me expressionless, as if already accepting fate. 

— Scram. — Her voice was rough—no urgency, no fear. 

Boots cracked concrete. Heavy footsteps. 

Men emerged as living shadows. Weapons visible. Sharp gazes. One crouched, gray eyes piercing mine. 

— Seen a woman? Tall, black hair, pretty. 

I blinked, analyzing. Four men. Guns unlocked. Gunpowder stench on coats. 

I pointed down the alley. 

— Went that way. Looked drunk. 

They barely hesitated before heading the wrong way. 

But one stayed. 

— Wait. 

The gun barrel rose. The trigger's click deafened. 

The bullet burned my chest. Impact threw me back. Cold. Then heat. Dirty concrete embraced me as the sky faded. 

— Stupid kid — the last thing I heard. 

Pain pulsed like a second heart. 

I woke to smoke and blood. The place was different. A weak bulb lit cracked concrete walls, shadows swaying. 

She was there. 

The woman I'd tried to save, sitting beside me, watching like I was an unsolvable puzzle. 

— If you think you owe me, you don't. — My voice slurred, iron taste in mouth. 

— What's your name? — she asked, no emotion or curiosity. 

I didn't answer. I'd long forgotten who I was. Elyon was the name given by the woman who'd abandoned me. But long ago, that name meant nothing. 

— Nael, Nael Supremium — I said firmly, claiming a name that now defined me. 

She tilted her head. Calm, empty gaze. 

— Nael, do you want to live?