Chapter 01: The Gentle Toll of Living

John Venhorst

Deprived of his senses and submerged in an unnameable state, John floated in complete abandon, enveloped in a darkness so pure it seemed to deny existence itself. There was no sound, no form, no time. Only emptiness—absolute, ancient, indifferent.

For a living being to be able to touch the world, it was necessary, first of all, to awaken its sensory organs. They were what tore the veil of the unknown and allowed consciousness to inhabit reality. Hearing, touch, smell, taste, sight. Five fragile strings that tied the human soul to the physical plane. And if these strings were cut, what would be left? Who would dare to say that there would still be "being"?

The soul of Earthlings was too fragile to exist without shelter. In the world of the living, it needed a body—its only shield against the chaos outside. But what about the opposite? What happens when it is the body that loses its soul? To understand this, imagine a pilot jumping out of a helicopter in mid-flight, without a parachute. What would become of the helicopter? And of the pilot himself, as he plunged into the void between the sky and the abyss?

John's soul, sucked into a dimension where time dared not exist, lost any reference to before or after. It was as if his essence had been ripped from the tapestry of the world and cast into a barren field, without color, without direction, without language.

Time, for the living, is an intricate web of intertwined threads. Every decision, every hesitation, is a new knot in the web of destiny. In eighty-five years of life, a single human can weave more possibilities than there are stars in the Milky Way.

Abruptly, two senses returned to themselves. Sight and touch emerged from the shadows, like ancient gods remembering their function. With them, a world unfolded before John—vast, silent, and terribly beautiful.

Stretching as far as the eye could see was a crystal-clear ocean, still as liquid glass, lit by a spectral light that came from no sun. The glow reverberated in layers, as if each drop of water contained forgotten memories of extinct universes.

Near him floated something unusual. An egg—oval, about a meter in circumference, pulsating with crimson hues. The intensity of its color cut through the translucent monotony of the ocean, becoming a cry of living matter amidst the ethereal. John's soul, translucent and formless, was like smoke compared to the density of that object.

It was then that the horror crept in.

His gaze slowly descended to the body he now inhabited. And what he saw froze his thoughts.

A childlike body. Newly formed. Skin red and damp , limbs still uncoordinated, an umbilical cord undulating gently in the water like the tail of a submerged serpent. John tried to move, to turn his head—nothing. Not even the most basic instinct for control responded. Without gravity to crush him, he simply floated, fragile, helpless, absurdly small in the face of infinity.

If I could still cry, I would have cried.

In the absence of that, he cursed. Not with words—for there was no mouth, no sound—but with every fragment of his furious consciousness. Just before, he had been in the ruins of the Pyramids of Success, in the midst of a mission. An unknown spherical artifact had exploded, and he, in an act of pure sacrifice, had given his life to save his companions. He was supposed to have died. He was supposed to have rested.

But now, it was there.

Not as a spirit. Not as a man. But as a spectral baby, trapped between worlds, a soul reincarnated against its own will.

His eyes—confused but alert—turned to the egg. That very artifact ... had it crossed the threshold of death along with him? What cursed bond united him to this scarlet creature? What fate, if any such thing still existed, awaited them both in that silent scene?

The void did not respond.

And, most importantly...

What did that mean?

If this was indeed what a soul truly looked like, then why did he still have his memories? His brain had been destroyed, shattered along with the bones, the tissues, and every fiber of his human body. And yet, here he was. Conscious. Lucid. Immersed in thoughts that defied everything he knew about existence.

Could the dead be candidates for the Nobel Prize? If there were some way to convey, in the first person, everything he was experiencing at that moment— as a rudimentary but absolutely revolutionary study—John would certainly have his name engraved among the great pioneers of humanity.

He had always known that his profession involved extreme risks. From the beginning, he had accepted the fact that dying on the job was more of a statistic than a possibility. Still, he never thought it would happen so soon. According to his calculations, he was six months away from turning twenty-six. Ten years of career, ended in a single flash.

And now... it was all over.

Silent tears streamed down his childish face— droplets with no physiological origin, but imbued with pure emotion. He thought of his sister. His only family. A young woman about to turn seventeen . And he... dead . What kind of gift could he give her now? He had planned something special, perhaps a rare jewel from Angola, where his last mission had taken him. But instead, he had presented her with the pain of an eternal absence.

At least money wouldn't be an issue. Her division would take care of that. There were protocols. Funds. Lifetime benefits. But that didn't bring her any comfort. Other than him, there was no one else to support her. Her aunt and uncle? A sickening pang went through her soul just thinking about that couple. They were the last resort. The worst possible.

He had never considered marriage. He knew too much about the dangers surrounding his routine to involve another life in it. If he was ever going to marry, it would be after he was thirty. With luck. And only with the formal permission of his department. But most of all, John just wanted to live long enough to watch her grow up. To walk her down the aisle. To be someone she could lean on.

He took a deep breath.

Or he tried. He no longer had lungs. The sensation was merely an echo of physical memory. A survival instinct that persisted, even without any organ responding to it. With effort, he suppressed the emotions that, ironically, belonged to a heart that no longer existed.

It was time to focus. To understand the present. To find meaning in it all.

Unfortunately, he had already gone beyond the bounds of conventional science. He was now moving into a realm where only metaphysics and religion could offer any glimmer of an answer. If there was a rational explanation for his situation, it was beyond anything human knowledge had achieved thus far.

Compiling the fragments of what he knew about both fields, John came to some possible conclusions:

First, it was only a matter of time before his soul dissipated completely, erasing his existence forever.

Second, he might be about to transcend into a higher plane of existence— something like a fifth or sixth dimension, beyond matter, where consciousness was not dependent on form.

Third, perhaps he was in a kind of purgatory, awaiting judgment before being sent to heaven, hell, or some intermediate state that no dogma dared to name.

Fourth: He could be reborn. Not necessarily as a human. He could come back as an animal, a plant... or , if he was lucky, as a human being again. In another land. In another era. With another identity.

There was still quantum mechanics. Perhaps it could offer some explanation for the phenomenon he was experiencing. But it was too volatile a field to provide any certainty. A sea of paradoxes and probabilities that even experts were hesitant to claim as absolute. There was too much...

The uncertainty was vast. Myriad possibilities unfolded in his mind like ethereal veils, each concealing an inaccessible truth. John, though intelligent, knew that he did not possess the necessary framework to speculate accurately about the mysteries of quantum mechanics. Such knowledge remained beyond his reach.

Fernando Venhorst

A tear slowly ran down Fernando's pale face. Before it could hit the ground, he caught it with his fingertips— an automatic, delicate gesture, but one that carried weight. He sighed. How long had it been since he had felt such deep melancholy? The kind that doesn't fade with time, it just settles in.

The office was plunged into absolute silence. Not even the ticking of the clocks or the creaking of the furniture could be heard. Only Fernando remained there, motionless, as still as a living statue, lost in thoughts as dense as the darkness around him.

How could it be possible that her greatest dream and her darkest nightmare threatened to come true on the same day... at the same instant?

Sighing bitterly, he thought back— how hard it had been to make Catherine his wife, and all she had sacrificed so they could be together. The family pressures, the broken vows, the emotional toll no one would ever understand. Now, against all odds, even when her body should no longer be capable, maybe… maybe she was about to give birth.

But at what price?

What if this gift came with an irreparable loss?

When a child loses his parents, he becomes an orphan. But when a parent loses a child... what would you call that pain? What name could contain such a rupture ?

Fernando was not a pessimistic man by nature. He was stubborn, methodical, accustomed to circumventing fate with surgical precision. But now... now , faced with uncertainty, he felt consumed by a primal fear . A fear that would not yield to logic or reason. Was it possible to lose not only his son... but also the woman he loved?

###

Lying in bed, wrapped in white silk sheets, Catarina felt the tears slide down her haggard face. Her skin, once radiant, now had a gray and pale tone, as if the life was slowly escaping through her pores. She knew it. At any moment, she could be gone.

It was years of suffering. Years of helplessness in the face of the little lives that were extinguished in her arms before they even learned to breathe. But, five years later, she smiled again. She dreamed again. She hoped again. And now— ironically —it was at this moment that death called her.

Nothing more could be done. Still, she wanted, with all her strength, to resist. Just a little longer. Just long enough to bring this child into the world, to hand it over to Fernando's arms with one last gesture of love.

She knew how much her husband loved her. She knew that if he lost not only his wife but also his son, he might never recover from the double loss. He would bear her in the role of a widower. But how could he bear the silence of an empty cradle?

Even after a life of trials, Catherine felt gratitude. Fernando had been her home, her friend, her love. A man with flaws, yes, but also with a nobility of spirit that few could understand. Yet, when she thought of those she would leave behind, her heart felt heavy with a pain that words could not contain.

Finally, through her tears, she silently wondered if her children— the ones she had not yet met, and the ones she had never lived—would mourn her departure.

Fernando Venhorst

Meanwhile, on another plane of existence...

Fernando walked steadily down the silent corridor of the castle. The high vaults and blue-tinted stained glass windows cast shadows on the polished marble, while ancient tapestries swayed gently in the wind that passed through the cracks.

His destination was the room where his wife was resting.

Pushing open the large, carved oak doors, he found Ceto— his most trusted man. The estate's administrator and, oddly enough, the steward of the Plain Castle, where the Venhorst family had resided for generations. Beside him, two women waited.

The first, the head housekeeper, bowed slightly upon seeing him, offering him a respectful greeting. The second, a mage from the Inner Order, maintained a serious expression. In her hands, she held the enchanted report with the diagnosis of Catarina's condition.

"My lord," the mage began, her voice laden with caution, as if weighing each syllable. "Your wife's condition remains critical."

Fernando did not respond immediately. His jaw tightened, his eyes falling on Catarina, lying on the large bed with white sheets. Her pale, still face betrayed the relentless deterioration of her condition.

— Continue — he ordered, his voice deep and controlled, as if each word were a rock rolling between his teeth.

The mage nodded reverently, before continuing:

— Your wife's cells are aging at an abnormal rate. Even when they regenerate, the new ones are already worn out, and their aging is even faster than that of the previous ones.

Fernando clenched his fists. None of this was new to him. For nine months, he had done everything in his power to keep Catarina and the child alive.

But at what cost?

As the lord of the territory, he possessed vast resources. However, maintaining a constant consumption of magic cores throughout the entire gestation period had drained the domain's finances considerably.

Catarina needed at least ten cores a day to stay stable. During her pregnancy, she had consumed approximately two thousand seven hundred cores—the equivalent of sixty percent of the entire territory's annual income. But money had never been a concern for Fernando when it came to his family.

The cores were spheres the size of a child's fist, concentrating an immense amount of energy with unique properties. Extracted from evolved beasts, they contained the condensed life power of these creatures—a primitive, raw, and unstable essence.

The cores were now arranged on a magical matrix—an intricate pattern of arcane circuitry that glowed golden beneath the black marble floor. The matrix could modify energy flows, sustain regeneration fields, and even interfere with the subtlest cellular processes.

Such structures were highly volatile and complex, requiring skills that Fernando, despite his renown as a warrior, did not possess. For this reason, he had hired specialized magicians to operate them. And this had not come cheap.

Paying the three wizards responsible for the continuous operation of the matrix for nine months represented ten percent of the territory's annual revenue. Added to the cost of the cores, the investment was almost unthinkable.

He approached the bed, his footsteps muffled by the embroidered carpet that covered the floor between onyx columns. He watched Catarina with a look full of concern. It would be best if she spoke as little as possible, saving energy. All the life force that still ran through her body was artificially sustained by the matrix. Without it, she would have succumbed months ago.

A slight noise in the hallway broke the silence of the room.

Ceto, always attentive, turned to Fernando and inclined his head before informing, in a discreet voice:

— My lord, the envoys from the capital have arrived.

Fernando looked away from Catarina and took a deep breath. He had expected this.

But I wasn't ready for what was coming next.

###

Receiving the Sent Ones

— Very well. I will welcome you personally.

Fernando kissed Catarina's cold forehead before standing up. His lips lingered for a moment on her skin, as if, somehow, that gesture could anchor her to life.

He then looked at the witch and ordered in a firm voice:

— Continue with your work. If there is any change in her condition, let me know immediately.

The head governess, draped in ceremonial robes dyed with arcane silver threads, nodded with a restrained bow, her eyes never leaving the pulsing matrix beneath Catarina's body.

Fernando left the room accompanied by Ceto. As they walked through the vast corridors of the castle, the lord tried to organize his thoughts. The arrival of the envoys from the capital was an expected event, but, given the circumstances, everything seemed heavier — as if the very air of the castle was soaked in omens.

In the great hall, the light from the floating crystals flickered softly, casting long shadows across the stone walls carved with ancient runes. The vaulted ceiling, supported by columns of enchanted marble, amplified the echo of footsteps, giving the reception a solemn and grand air.

As he walked through the obsidian-studded double doors, Fernando felt a rare relief when he saw who was leading the group.

— Sir Geremias ! — he greeted , allowing himself a genuine smile, the first in many days.

The man in front of him returned the greeting with the formal nobility: his hand on his chest and a slight bow of his head. His eyes, however, carried an ambiguous glow — a mixture of joy and sincere concern.

— Lord Fernando , it is a pleasure to finally see you again after so many years.

Fernando nodded, and his smile took on a touch of nostalgia.

— Indeed, my old friend. It has been ten years since our last adventure together. I have sent out numerous invitations since then, but I understand that your position has kept you busy. Still, I am immensely pleased to have you here today.

Jeremiah sighed as they walked side by side through the hallways adorned with magical tapestries that rippled as if they were breathing.

—It's not like I don't want to visit you, but things in the capital are getting more and more turbulent. The Society of Arcanists hardly gives me a moment of peace.

Fernando understood immediately. He was well informed about the growing conflicts in the capital, thanks to the meticulous reports his father sent from the family residence.

"I can imagine the pressure you're under," he replied soberly, his eyes remaining fixed straight ahead.

The two walked in reverent silence, their footsteps echoing on the polished stone floor with the cadence of an ancient rite. Although there was much to be discussed, urgency drove them directly to the room where Catherine lay.

As they entered the room, the magical heat of the matrix enveloped them like an artificial breeze. The amber glow of the cores pulsed in gentle intervals, synchronized with the rhythm of Catarina's suspended life.

Jeremiah stopped abruptly. His eyes widened, and shock distorted his normally composed features.

— Catarina! What happened?!

Fernando watched in silence as his friend stared at the woman who had once been the embodiment of vitality. Geremias 's eyes roamed over Catarina's pale, wasted face, lingering for a long moment on each feature that had once radiated light. Now, everything about her seemed to slowly fade—like the embers of a torch that had burned for too long.

It took Fernando almost two hours to explain everything—from the first signs of pregnancy to the nine months of stubborn struggle, pain, and sacrifice. With each word, the weight of the narrative seeped into the walls of the room, making the air thicker and harder to breathe.

In the days that followed, Geremias remained in the castle, refusing all formalities and privileges. He walked through the corridors with the same severe expression of someone who carries a secret that he does not yet dare to name. His silence said more than any report from the Society of Arcanists .

breaking point .

Catarina's water broke.

The room was filled with a sudden frenzy. Experienced midwives moved with practiced precision, murmuring orders to one another, while the mage monitored the flows of life energy with her hands suspended over Catarina's belly. Crystals floated around, pulsing red and gold, as if the space itself were in labor.

Sweat ran down Catarina's forehead. Pain distorted her features and made her fingers tremble as they clutched the soaked sheets. Her breathing was ragged, and each moan brought with it a silent tremor in the enchanted walls of the room.

— Strength... push and breathe.

The words resounded in a firm tone, repeated like a ritualistic mantra. The midwives chanted the command as if they wanted to ward off death with the force of repetition.

— Push... push and breathe.

— Push... push and breathe.

Fernando held his wife's hand tightly, but his jaw was clenched and the muscles in his arms trembled. His eyes, fixed on hers, revealed more than any words could: fear, faith, and the despair of a man who had already lost too much.

He stood at the Matrix of Life—an arcane structure of immense complexity that encased the bed in a tangle of floating symbols and pulsing circuits. Fernando guided the energy like a conductor on the verge of collapse, manipulating the magical currents with trembling hands and absolute focus. With every second, more energy was required to sustain the fragile bodies of mother and child.

Sweat was pouring down his face, falling onto the glowing circles of the matrix, but he ignored it. Everything about him was focus and urgency.

Catarina, even though she was panting, even on the verge of fainting, met her husband's gaze. And there, in that moment of chaos and heat, she smiled.

It was a broken but sincere smile. A fragile gesture that contained the echo of everything they had experienced together.

His voice came out in a thread, broken by pain, but filled with an almost unbearable tenderness.

— Our son... our... is coming.

Those words repeated in his mouth like a sacred chant—a thread of hope sewn with blood and faith.

But the old matrix was no longer sufficient.

With each contraction, with each new surge of pain, the consumption of vital energy increased exponentially. The arcane network that supported them began to fail, its symbols flashing with worrying intermittency. Circuits that had previously been golden took on greenish tones, a sign of overload.

And that was why...

Geremias and his men were already in place—gathered around the new matrix, a magical construction of extraordinary complexity. It was a sacred circle that required ten operators to function, and Fernando, even without formal training in arcanism , took his place among them.

He was not a wizard.

But his spiritual power was exceptional .

Guided by Geremias , he positioned himself at the intersection of the flows and channeled his essence into the structure. The energy enveloped him in a warm, luminous whirlwind, making every fiber of his body vibrate with an almost unbearable intensity.

Catarina squeezed her husband's hand tightly, her eyes closed and her face contorted with pain—a pain that already went beyond the physical, extending to something beyond, something that seemed to want to rip out her soul.

Sweat ran down her temples, and strands of hair stuck to her pale forehead. Still, she fought. Still, she resisted.

Jeremiah 's voice cut through the space like a blade.

—Fernando...

There was gravity in his tone. And more: there was fear.

Fernando turned his face to his friend, but he didn't need to hear anything else.

He felt it.

The energy flow of the array wavered abruptly. The arcane patterns that had been pulsing steadily before flashed brightly and chaotically—then wavered. A blinding glow enveloped the center of the ritual, and the air seemed to be ripped from the room.

Catarina's vitality began to drain at a ferocious rate. Far beyond what the matrix could handle. Far beyond what anyone had anticipated.

Fernando's face hardened. His hands were still outstretched in the ritual, his eyes now fixed on the circuits weakening before his eyes. Energy cores crumbled like sandcastles beneath an invisible tide.

And then, the inevitable.

The decision he feared most, the choice he had always known would come, loomed before him like a precipice.

Save the wife…

Or the son?

Fernando's soul screamed in silence.

His heart was as heavy as lead. And the world seemed to stop.

Between a rock and a hard place, Fernando Venhorst faced the moment that would define the rest of his life.

Continued.

Author's note:

You thought I wouldn't get to this point, right ?

Well, there it is: Fernando, surrounded by walls that press in, lights that flicker and a pain that his body cannot contain. There is no right decision here. There is no victory. All that remains is choice — and its consequences.

Now tell me:

If it were you… who would you save?

This story is forged in the depths of pain and magic, and every vote, every comment, every support you leave here is what keeps this world breathing (and the author too, let's face it).

So comment. Vote. Share.

And don't forget to add this work to your library. It helps more than you can imagine — and ensures that you're here when the next blow falls.

See you in the next chapter.

Until then… take a deep breath.