He was back at the funeral, which was starting to get quite old. At least, Myrkas was a bit more aware now. It was not his funeral, that was clear. Myrkas was very much alive.

Instead, one man, two women, and four children were being mourned this day. The entire neighbourhood had gathered in the nearest temple to Allrikh. They were present to honour the deceased's memories, as well as to gossip about the tragedy that caused their deaths. But mainly to gossip. An activity not at all hindered by the ongoing ceremonies. Murmurs flew around Myrkas, ripe with information for anyone willing to listen.

The departed family had not been well-liked, to say the least. Most had thought the man, Kalor Hakhmir, an upstart. A cruel man, undeserving of his rising status in the city guards. His two late wives had likewise been seen as snobbish and petty. The nearby shopkeepers each had horror stories regarding their incessant quarrels. The collateral damage from the Hakhmir wives’ schemes had ruined more than one business in this provincial town.

In truth, most attendees had shown up to learn more about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the family's demise. The entire household had been devoured by flames. No one had had time to react. The sudden fire had lit up the sky, overpowering the early dawn. The Hakhmir family and their servants had been swallowed by the blaze in an instant. Only one survivor remained. Well, two if one counted Kalor Hakhmir's young third wife, the one who had been away at the market when the fire started.

The story gained clarity as Myrkas pieced together ever more whispers. Myrkas was the only one to survive the flames. Despite being the first son of the second wife, the second in line to inherit, Myrkas' standing in the Hakhmir family had been low. The tween was in the stables, sleeping with the animals as punishment, when the tragedy occurred. He had survived this literal trial by fire thanks to those same beasts. Their hoofs had broken down the door, opening the way for their escape and allowing him the chance to flee as well.

The young boy had still suffered grievous burns, left at death's doorstep. Nirrina and his uncle were the only reason Myrkas was alive. Nirrina, seeing the reddened sky from the market, had gone to fetch the alchemist immediately. She had been scared for Myrkas. The location of the fire had sparked her instincts. She had gone straight to get help. And Master Koriss Hakhmir's impromptu treatment on arrival had allowed Myrkas to survive.

It was a terrible tragedy. Everyone and their cousin were obsessed over the details. People, strangers, kept on guessing and commenting through the service.

"Wasn't it strange how the youngest wife was the only one away that morning?" said one.

"Had she known the estate would vanish in flame?" replied another.

It was suspicious, so suspicious. Everyone knew young Nirrina had never wanted to marry Kalor Hakhmir. Rumour was she had been won at cards, betted by her father like a mundane horse. Such shame.

There was no way her father, a low-grade merchant, would have tried so hard for the favour of the city guard's second lieutenant. She had had better prospects, closer to her age, as plain as she was. No doubt her shameful father cursed the day he lost a precious asset in his gambling. Such a loss of face for all involved. If the merchant had truly wanted the younger Hakhmir brother's favour, he would have sent Nirrina's older, prettier sister to marry him.

Wild hypothesis flourished in the crowd. Maybe the fire had been Nirrina's father's ploy to get her back or to get a better profit for his "gift?" And what about that wolfish Sona Ranil, suddenly in line for Kalor's officer position? Everybody knew he and Kalor had hated each other. Hard not to when they had taken bribes from competing gangs. Even the shopkeepers were suspect. Didn't they find the remnants of a mysterious artifact at the scene? Were the merchants in cahoots? Could they have formed an entente, and fomented revenge against the despised Hakhmir Sabisa and Sabi? Money grudges knew no bounds, rage and greed ever a powerful combination.

Myrkas heard it all. One comment after another, some more fantastical and some sounding too much like truth. As hard as he tried, his recollections of his supposed family were fragmented, barely accessible. The chatter brought blurry images to his mind, accompanied most often by feelings of dread and rage deep in Myrkas’ gut. The more he tried to focus on those, the more his head hurt. So much so he was nearly convinced his head would split down the middle if he continued so. The boy knew not what to make of it, so he tried to fill his memory's gaping chasms with the gossip.

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One thing was sure: natural fire had been dismissed as the sole cause. The flames had been too sudden, too destructive. The blaze had come and gone in an instant, burning little else but the estate. It stinked of Qi-fuelled flames.

A terrible tragedy indeed, seeped in mystery. Koriss, Kalor's older brother, was a renowned alchemist. And while he catered more to the common people, his talents were well recognized. Popular wisdom deemed him able to create such a feat.

Although it was unclear what Koriss would gain from his brother's death. There was the third wife, but little else. It was doubtful Koriss had craved Kalor's meagre fortune, especially with the elder Hakhmir already living at the border of the upper district. Hence why Koriss killing his brother made little sense. Unless... Unless the old alchemist became mad with jealousy, rendered insane in his loneliness, unable to tolerate his brother's happiness. Indeed, Koriss was wifeless and childless before the event, but no longer.

"Or maybe Koriss had succumbed to a heart demon, suffering Qi-deviation and engaging in bouts of mindless violence."

"Or a demonic sacrifice caused the blaze!"

"Or ..." as the guessing game went on and on.

Tired of the endless chatter, Myrkas stopped listening. He had figured out they were "mourning" his family by now. Myrkas did not know how to feel, how to react, still reeling at the news. His head hurt. His brain felt like mush, having difficulty processing. The boy's memories were scrambled, especially those from his current body's life. All Myrkas had were vague impressions, scenes and emotions sensed through fog.

Myrkas' other, distinct set of memories was more clear. His past in that technologically advanced world was easier to recall. He had been sick, chronically so. His whole life had comprised of brief interludes at home first, then in foster care, in between hospitalizations at a children's hospital. Hooked to machines and intravenous drugs, without any signs of magical Qi, alchemy or remedies of the shifty purple variant.

Those existed in the realm of fantasy. Of epic adventures to fight world-ending threats while saving pretty princesses. Unfortunately, these usually came with a dire lack of modern convenience and amenities. Myrkas preemptively missed easily accessible electrical power and temperature control. He refused to think about the loss of the internet and its trove of knowledge, previously at his fingertips. It would break his poor little beaten heart.

As Myrkas dreaded these more than likely lost facilities, his head split in half. Figuratively. His headache, that low thrum beating inside his skull since he woke up again, was worsening. He imagined his two sets of memories clashing against each other, his brain transformed into a battlefield. The armies of his pasts warred without mercy, each unwilling to settle for anything but supremacy.

It was all too much. Overwhelming. Myrkas needed time to digest, to figure himself out. All he wanted, no needed, was for this damned funeral to end. Have time to take a breather and rest. To lay his head down and let the headache pass.

The ceremony went on, the people continuing with their quiet chatter. Trying to preserve his sanity, Myrkas switched his focus to the decor. He would think no further about the dead family he didn't really remember, nor about sinister enemies plotting their downfall. He preferred to look up at the domed ceiling, to observe the exotic craftsmanship.

The tall dome was splendid, adorned with glittering mosaics. Tiny white-and-gold ceramic shapes made up repeating geometric patterns. A giant sun, its rays speckled with flecks of metallic purple, presided in the center, directly above the believers' heads. The stained-glass windows interspaced between the ceramics gave the illusion the light truly came from the depicted star.

The late afternoon light further entered the premises through pale stained-glass images ensconced in the walls. They depicted religious scenes–something Myrkas had deduced all on his own. A blond-haired man, with golden skin and purple eyes took center stage in most of them. Images of conquests and peaceful times alternated. The largest picture stood behind the priest at the front. A large purple sun was rising above the clouds, its rays blessing the adoring crowd witnessing the ascent. It was quite grand, very impressive.

Much opulent, thought Myrkas. And strangely familiar...

The entire imagery sparked a hint of recognition in Myrkas' mind. Deja vu suffused him. A piece of the puzzle was on the tip of his tongue, relishing its escape from Myrkas' consciousness.

Nothing to do about it.

Myrkas' head hurt too much to spend brain power on a feeling. He did miss the internet. A quick "purple sun religion" in a search engine should have answered his question. Oh well, not like the missing info could change much to his situation…