Chapter 5: Power of the Past

The ember hummed. Aaron felt it in his hands, his legs, every inch of his skin vibrating like a plucked string about to snap. For months, he'd watched it, studied it—released it into his body slow, let it sink into his nerves until it was part of him, a second heartbeat he couldn't shake. Twelve years old, scrawny as hell, and his body was a live wire, buzzing with something he'd once called power and now just called mine. He sat on the riverbank, boots dangling over the edge, the water below dark and restless, like it knew what he was planning.

Months of this. Months of coaxing ember in, letting it settle, feeling it prickle under his skin like a thousand needles, each one a memory of who he'd been. Before regression, he'd mastered it all—mages with their grimoires, warriors with their reinforced bodies, and him, some unholy bastard of both. He'd gone further. Spells woven into his brain, his eyes, his bones. He'd even cut himself open once—twice, actually—shoved a dragon's heart into his chest, an experimental organ he'd stitched together with trembling hands and too much blood. The scalpel's bite still lingered in his dreams, the way his ribs had screamed, the pulse of that heart syncing with his own until he didn't know where he ended and it began.

Not this time. No more blood-soaked shortcuts. That pain—he could still taste it, coppery and sharp, and he wasn't going back. He rubbed his wrists, where scars should've been but weren't, and muttered, "Third time's the charm, right?" A laugh slipped out, dry and jagged, because it wasn't funny, not really.

First, the brain. That's where it had to start. Back in his past life, he'd authored a grimoire—his own, scratched out in ink and desperation—and three spells from it still burned in his mind. One to pull ember to his head, automatic, like breathing. One to sharpen every thought, every flicker of cognition, until his mind was a blade. And one to lock in memories, so he'd never forget—not Ma's off-key humming, not Amelia's grin, not the weight of what he'd done.

He shut his eyes. The river's murmur dropped away, the wind's howl faded to a sigh. It was just him and the ember now, a dance he knew too well. He pictured the spells—symbols twisting like smoke—and started weaving. The first one snapped into place, a jolt that made his jaw lock. Ember flooded his skull, hot and bright, a star bursting behind his lids. He hissed, fingers clawing into the dirt, but he kept going. The second spell crept in slower, threading through his thoughts like silk, sharpening them until every sound—the water's lap, the crack of a twig—hit like a gunshot. Too clear. Too much.

Then the third. Memory slammed him back: Ma kneading dough, flour on her cheeks; Amelia laughing as she dodged his clumsy punches; the dragon's heart, slick and pulsing in his grip, blood dripping onto the floor. He bit his lip, tasted metal, and wrestled it down. The memories locked in, vivid, unyielding—a library he couldn't escape.

He opened his eyes, gasping. The world stabbed at him—colors too bright, the river's ripple too loud. His head throbbed, a dull ache synced with the ember's hum. It was done. He'd cast the spells, planted them in his brain like seeds in cracked earth. But there was a flicker, a whisper in the dark corners of his skull. More, it said. You could be more. The old him, clawing up from the grave.

"No," he snapped, voice rough, shaking his head like he could knock it loose. He scrubbed his hands on his trousers, fast and hard, until his palms stung. The river stared back, cold and uncaring, carrying secrets downstream. Could it wash him clean? He snorted. Fat chance. Some stains stuck.

Aaron sucked in a breath, let it out slow, like he was trying to remember how lungs worked. His head was buzzing—enhanced cognition, they called it, like some fancy textbook term could cover the way his brain felt like a goddamn hornet's nest. It wasn't new, not really—he'd been the Demon King once, torching shit and laughing while the world screamed. But this body? This scrawny, twelve-year-old sack of bones? It was a rookie, trembling under the weight of a mind that could outrun a storm.

"Fuck me," he muttered, rubbing his eyes 'til they stung. Memories hit harder now—too sharp, too loud. Ma kneading dough with flour-dusted hands, her off-key hum filling the kitchen. Amelia swinging a stick like a sword, grinning so wide it hurt to look at. And the bad stuff—blood pooling under his boots, smoke choking his throat, a laugh he didn't recognize as his own. He shook his head, hard, like he could rattle it all loose. "Get your shit together, man."

The spells helped. He'd cast two earlier—little miracles he'd stitched together after months of fumbling. One to zoom in, like his eyes were a hawk's; another for clarity, peeling the blur off the world. Back in the day, syncing them was like juggling knives—now? It was breathing. The ember flowed through him, warm and restless, a current under his skin. He had room for two more spells, but one would do. The spell to see ember—not his, not from his grimoire, but a gift from her. That demoness, all silk and shadow, whispering promises before he fell back into this life. He'd dodged her deal but kept the spell, and now it was his to wield.

He closed his eyes, muttered the words—old, heavy, tasting like ash—and the air twitched. When he opened them, the world lit up. Ember everywhere: gold threading the trees, red pulsing in the river, blue bleeding through the sky. It was gorgeous, in a way that made your chest ache, like staring at a fire 'til your eyes watered.

Then he saw it.

Past the river's bend, a smear cut through the glow. Not ember. Not life. A demon's aura—black, slick, twisting like oil on water. His breath snagged, heart slamming so hard he felt it in his teeth. He knew that shape—knew it like a bad dream you can't shake. His hands curled, nails biting into his palms 'til they bled, little red crescents staining the dirt.

The river growled louder, like it was pissed off too. The wind kicked up, sharp and sudden, dragging a whiff of something rotten—decay, ruin, the kind of stink that sticks to your soul. Aaron stood there, legs shaky, boots sinking into the muddy bank. The village was behind him—Ma probably elbow-deep in bread, humming her nonsense tune; Amelia chasing shadows, laughing like the world was still good. His chest seized up, tight and hot. He wouldn't let it happen again. Not to them.

He turned, started walking back, boots crunching on dry earth. The ember hummed in his veins, begging to be let loose—spells buzzing in his skull like flies he couldn't swat. He shoved it down. Not yet. That aura was miles off, maybe, but close enough to choke the air. He could still see it in his mind, that dark stain spreading slow and sure, like ink in water.

"Alright," he rasped, voice cracking like he'd swallowed gravel. "You wanna dance, you bastard? I've got moves." A dumb laugh slipped out—half nerves, half defiance—and he kicked a rock down the path. It skittered, bounced, landed in a ditch. Felt good, that little rebellion.

The village came into view, all sagging roofs and chipped paint. Old Tully was out front of his shack, hat drooping over his eyes, tapping his foot like he was waiting for a train that'd never come. Guy had a face like crumpled paper, but his eyes were soft, always watching. Aaron nodded at him, got a grunt back. Good enough.

He passed the bodega—fluorescents buzzing like dying wasps, floor sticky with spilled regret. Inside, someone coughed, wet and deep, and a radio crackled with static and half a song. The air smelled like rain was coming, heavy and electric, pressing down on his shoulders. He kept moving, hands shoved in his pockets, spells still simmering in his head.

Back home, the porch swing creaked under its own weight, swaying in the breeze. He stopped, stared at it too long—long enough to see Ma sitting there years ago, holding him after he'd skinned his knee, her hands rough but warm. "You're alright, Aron," she'd said, voice all gravel and honey. He blinked, and the memory faded, leaving just the swing and the ache.

He wasn't alright. Not yet. That demon was out there, and he was still a kid with too much power and not enough spine. But he wasn't running—not this time. He'd fight 'til his bones broke, 'til his ember burned out, for the people inside that house. For the life he was clawing to keep.

The door squeaked as he pushed it open. Ma glanced up, flour on her cheek, and smirked. "You look like hell, Aaron.....wash up fast, Supper's in ten." He nodded, throat too tight to talk, and headed there. The demon's aura lingered in his mind—a promise, a threat, a shadow he'd have to face. Soon.