On these words of infinite wisdom, Koriss left the room, his nephew as confused–if not more–as before their enlightening discussion. A little stunned, Myrkas sat up, his sleepiness forgotten. This impromptu conversation had not helped his state of mind whatsoever. Anxiety filled him, his soul issues back at the forefront. He took a deep breath, to calm himself. The simple, easy act was endlessly soothing. Ignoring his headache, he chose to focus on what he knew, what he could plan to act on in this mysterious universe.
First item: what to do about his dead family. All had died in a suspicious fire. A fire which almost killed Myrkas too. Suspects and motives abounded. Good thing Myrkas had already decided looking for revenge was a foolish endeavour, a waste of time and resources. He had an entire world to discover and only so much leeway to do so. No need to chase after shadows. Anyway, the likelihood the perpetrator had something personal against a powerless twelve-year-old boy was so low as to be laughable. Myrkas was safe, most likely.
Fortunately, he, Myrkas Hakhmir–he had accepted the identity at some point in the day–still had living relatives, caring ones. His uncle might not be the easiest to talk to, but he was present. And sufficiently rich. At the risk of sounding a tad materialistic, Myrkas much preferred a rich uncle to a poor one. The boy might even become his uncle's apprentice! Employment security was essential, even in a fantasy setting, if "Qi" was indeed as real and magical as people believed. At worst, he would become a pharmacist equivalent and call himself an "alchemist." With the scientific method in his metaphorical back pocket–a feature so lacking in robes–Myrkas was sure to improve whatever this so-called alchemy ended up being.
Family-wise, Nirrina remained an enigma. She obviously adored him. Myrkas has not seen his face yet, but he had to assume he was insanely adorable. That, or past Myrkas had had a great personality. With his family history, he doubted the latter. While not blood-related, she seemed set on acting like his big sister. According to gossip though, she was technically his step-mother–his only six-years-older-step-mother–from his late father's harem. A bona fide harem, for decency's sake. She–a person!–had been inherited by his uncle as part of the Hakhmir succession. Was Nirrina his uncle's wife now? Or, Myrkas shuddered, his future wife? That image did not agree with his insides. It felt plain wrong.
Myrkas did not know exactly why. It wasn't her appearance or her personality. She was not terrible to look at. A little on the skinny side maybe. Her straight, light-brown hair was pretty enough. Nirrina had a few pimples but who didn't? This universe did not seem to be very advanced in terms of skincare. If the ambient smell was to be trusted, soap was a seldom used commodity. Cultivation–if truly possible, for Myrkas was a realist at heart even if he did dream of Qi-powered superhuman feats–did not automatically equal jade beauties with perfect complexion and inexistent body odour.
Anyway, Myrkas liked Nirrina–a lot–but not in a romantic way. Whatever the reason, she was now family. That was what mattered. He would have to make sure her place at his side was secure. To do everything he could so she stayed safe and happy. For Myrkas, living in a new world was manageable, being lost and lonely was not.
Myrkas would not cry that night. He had better things to do, no time for wallowing. He needed his priorities straight. Emotional distress could wait. Nothing bad ever happened from chronically repressed emotions.
His first worry had become his clashing memories, as having two sets in one's head was definitely not normal. Especially with one set coming from another dimension. Random flashbacks and glimpses from his pasts kept popping into his conscious mind. It was disorienting and frankly annoying. Surprisingly, his recollections of people–real people, not fictional ones–and his close relationships were vague in both his past lives. He could not remember names or most events. Myrkas recalled an odd mix of faces and impressions, sometimes associated with violent emotions. But it was too much to analyze at once, too much to untangle. And they were in the past, most of them dead or in another world, unreachable. Clearly a sign that triaging his incomplete memories could, and should, wait.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
On the other hand, a lot of his factual knowledge was intact. Myrkas remembered a staggering amount of information such as basic physics and chemistry, or how to differentiate pyrite from gold. While he did not know how useful this knowledge would be, he did appreciate its availability. It did not replace the internet, but it was a start.
At least, if Myrkas ever became bored, he could fall back on his plethora of fantastical references, including a bat detective, three different gun-loving archeologists, and many giant-sword-swinging heroes. Hopefully, his memories of characters dumped to different worlds by a truck accident or an afterlife bureaucratic error–also known as divine intervention–would help him navigate his new reality.
Fatigue was catching up to him. Myrkas hadn't yet addressed his damaged soul. He would have to think about it in the morrow. His head was bad, the pressure on his cranium begging him to rest. Thinking was hard, like cogs turning through sticky slime. Put against insurmountable odds, Myrkas quickly surrendered and let sleep take him.
–––
Late into the night, Serni Kroush listened to the familiar sound of his wife's sighs. With a half-smile, he waited, knowing she would soon share her worries. His sabisa always did.
"I swear, Master Hakhmir is even more stiff with his new family here. And you'd think the Young Master would look better awake than whatever he was before, and yet, the boy is nearly as silent, stuck in his head. Before, he looked dead. Now, he looks dumb!
"Thank Allrikh that Nirrina is a good girl. I had feared the worst. She is smart, that girl, hear me Serni. Allrikh knows a woman's touch would do Master good, if only he would let her."
"Sabisa, he'd have to remember she exits for that," the man replied, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
"Stop laughing you, husband! Master has always been kind to us. I prayed and prayed for him to settle down. To get a nice wife and a few rugrats. Then he finally lands some and it is all wrong! So messy, so tragic! I worry.
"Poor Master. See Serni, even now in the middle of the night, he is at his workshop, ruining his health on who knows what. He will tire himself to death! Then what will we do, huh? Put our hopes on the Young Master? Find another household to serve? Oh Savosa, I worry. I wish Srevan was back. It would ease my nerves."
"Stop worrying Martasa. Everything will be fine. It will fall in place, you will see. Master Hakhmir and his family just need some time. They are grieving. Now sleep Sabisa, we have a big day tomorrow."
———
Morning came too soon. Myrkas' headache had worsened through the night, becoming unbearable. With great effort, the boy forced down half his breakfast–Nirrina's stare was scary.
His head was in so much pain, Myrkas was nearly convinced two highly competitive construction crews were having a sledgehammer contest in his brain. Not fun. Not a recommended experience. At this point, Myrkas wished they would finally break his skull, to relieve some pressure and pain. Surely, a brand new hole in his cranium would help. Nothing could be worse than enduring this pain.
Blinded by the state of his head, Myrkas did not notice his uncle and Nirrina's worried gaze, nor their intense murmurs. Keeping his eyes open was an ordeal, the pain sending lashes of light with its incessant pounding. Only half aware, Myrkas recognized the purple, shimmering flask in front of his eyes. Dread filled him. Before the boy could react further, the sickly sweet liquid was poured down his throat.
Pins and needles travelled through Myrkas' limbs, numbing all. His head started to float–though not literally. When Myrkas started to see sounds and taste colours, he made the executive decision to fall unconscious. A task Myrkas promptly succeeded at.
Blacking out was quickly becoming Myrkas' go-to solution, whether ill-advised or not.