Once again, Myrkas awoke, briefly disoriented. He was on a roll, well on his way to becoming a "passing out" champion. Eyes wide open, he sprung out of bed. One thing was certain, Myrkas had not felt this well in decades! Or well, maybe a decade, at most two with both his past lives combined... It was hard to do a proper count in his circumstances. And did baby years count or not? Anyway, his head didn't hurt any longer and he felt great. Myrkas'd take the win,

Smiling, Myrkas took the time to look at his brand-new self, as he felt all shiny and new. The simple, silver-tinted wall mirror did its job, revealing Myrkas in all his glory. The tween was scrawny, little more than skin and bones. However, the lack of fat did give him some nice muscle definition. And meant he could eat to his heart's content. Obesity concerns were not in Myrkas' near future.

A mass of tight black curls fell from atop his head. The lengths reached just above Myrkas' shoulders. His curls were messy, in dire need of some upkeep. Myrkas would have to ask Nirrina for help. His smooth, darkly tanned skin was otherwise devoid of any "manly" hair. It seemed puberty had not yet knocked on Myrkas' door. The boy repressed a shiver, unsure whether to rejoice or despair at this fact.

Myrkas was surprised by how much he resembled his uncle. They had the same eyes, sharp, and a rich whiskey in colour. His strong brow made him look a little too serious to be called cute but overall, the boy was happy with his looks. Myrkas was no pretty model, but he had potential, in his own opinion.

Height-wise, he had no clue where he stood—pun intended. Myrkas had had more important things to focus on than to compare himself to his peers in the short—two? three?—days he had been aware of in this world. Seeing his uncle, though, Myrkas had high hopes for puberty. The mature man stood a good head above the average, the top of Nirrina's head reaching just above his uncle's shoulder. It would be a sacrilege for Myrkas not to grow at least to the mythical 182 cm—or six feet for imperialist heathens.

Myrkas already envisioned his future grown-up self. Him, tall and ruggedly handsome, towering over the crowd, with his bulging muscles on display. Men would move out of his way. Women would fall over themselves to be at his side. His future deep, baritone voice and undeniable charisma would mesmerize all. Tales of Myrkas' heroic feats would spread far and wide. Myrkas saw it already: the glory awaiting him.

Lost in his daydreams, the boy failed to detect his captive audience. Only when he heard subdued laughter at his antics did Myrkas notice the intruder. She was a short thing, barely tall enough to reach Myrkas' chin. Her curly, reddish-brown hair was a mess. Red jam splattered her cheeks. Her bright green eyes were looking straight at Myrkas, filled with mirth. Her plump face was scrunched, holding in her giggles.

Myrkas assessed the situation at once. He had been discovered, intruded upon in a moment of vulnerability. Unacceptable. The enemy dared to mock him in his own room. Only one course of action was left.

"You dared enter my lair. Impudent!" Myrkas declared.

The boy then lunged across the room, catching the little rogue. A fierce battle ensued, a whirlwind of hair and sticky fingers. Myrkas' opponent attempted to escape in vain, her call for reinforcement unintelligible. Myrkas prevailed, confirming his undisputed dominance with his ultimate technique: tickles. Tickles until surrender and beyond.

The tiny fiend soon recognized her loss. She pleaded mercy through wheezing laughter. But Myrkas gave no quarters. He had to qualm this rebellion in its infancy. He was the Supreme General Myrkas, chosen as the Ultimate Martial Master of the Realm. All needed to bow before his supremacy! Especially puny monsters.

"Martine? Myrkas! what the... Cease immediately!"

The two children froze. A greater foe had appeared. One clad in simple, practical light blue robes, her familiar green eyes fixed on the miscreants. She was armed with the ultimate weapon of all: maternal omnipotence.

One shared look and the former foes became inseparable allies. As the saying went, the enemy of thy enemy is thy friend.

Myrkas gathered his thoughts. It appeared diplomacy was their best bet. Meanwhile, the little devil quickly went on the offensive with a devastating attack: a koala-hug and puppy-dog eyes combo.

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"But Mama, we were just playing."

A critical hit. Proof of a shrewd practitioner of the martial arts despite her young age. The way of Cuteness was strong in this one.

"Don't you try, little lady. You know perfectly well you should never enter the Young Master's room. And still in your night clothes! I turn my back one second and boom, disaster. What will I do with you my Tinesa."

But Myrkas would not abandon his newfound ally so easily. He settled his expression and advanced to the front.

"Don't you even try, Young Master. How is she to learn if you indulge her so? You should be resting, in bed. Not wrestling around with a child, no matter how much she begs and pesters.

"Young Master, you were unconscious for two whole days," Marta di Kroush continued in a gentler tone. "Now is not the time to chase around little terrors. Back to bed immediately or I'll get Nirrina. Master Hakhmir will come to assess you soon. Do not dare come out of bed before!"

Defeated, Myrkas obeyed.

A slight smile still managed to stretch his lips. He felt good, great even; his mind cleared, his pain gone. With nothing better to do, Myrkas took this time alone to reflect, to actually make sense of his situation.

His memories had settled, no longer dashing around randomly in Myrkas' head. Holes cribbled them but now, they made sense, mostly. The loose threads of his pasts had been spun into rudimentary balls, then unceremoniously dumped in the basket of his skull, With his life experience somewhat organized, Myrkas could navigate his mind.

The memories overlapped at many points. In both lives, Myrkas had experienced extensive loneliness, helplessness, and recurrent bouts of unbridled anger. Despite it all, Myrkas' desire to live, to stir his destiny with his own hands was stronger than ever. No longer would Myrkas feel useless, battered by fate's currents. Power rested at his fingertips, waiting to be gathered. Cultivation was the key.

Myrkas spent a while shuffling through his memories, carefully examining each clue, linking events, and corralling general facts. He was tempted to write a dissertation to properly organize his thoughts: it would have been a masterpiece, Myrkas was certain. However, he refrained. Not only would some of his thoughts make a random reader potentially question Myrkas' sanity, but Myrkas suffered from a distinct lack of nearby paper and pen, and his bed was way too comfortable to leave. It was not that Myrkas was scared to disobey Marta's order to stay in bed, not at all.

After analyzing all the facts, Myrkas was pretty convinced he was, indeed, a transmigrator. A modern soul—or mind—magically transported to a fantasy world. Or, possibly, a past life's personality resurfaced through extensive trauma. One or the other. It didn't matter much as the end result was the same: two sets of memories for one person. Furthermore, Myrkas had an inkling he should recognize this universe. Too many things seemed familiar, like knowledge half-forgotten he needed to review to remember. A missing puzzle piece patiently waiting under the couch.

Anyway, the magical aspect of this world had been all but confirmed. Nothing else could explain his body's rapid recovery from extensive burns a mere two weeks ago. A feat witnessed by enough people to be believed. In addition, whatever that purple potion was, it was undeniable it had cured Myrkas of his headache and confusion. Qi energy was real, Myrkas knew it in his bones.

It was tremendous. According to all his sources—though fictive in origin—Myrkas should be a so-called mighty protagonist! A main character, the unparalleled existence of any story, armed with plot armour, "random" luck, and convenient plot holes. All Myrkas needed was to find his fated overpowered advantages and to get stronger. His golden path to power and riches was traced. The sky was no limit to Myrkas. He was destined to rise above the heavens; as any good cultivation novel's protagonist.

Myrkas needed more information. Knowledge was power—cue profound music. His first order of business was to figure out if his new world belonged to a known fictional universe, be it a book or a videogame from his past life. Myrkas intuited he should recognize this place. He knew it, but could not yet ascertain where he was. Fortunately, he had ruled out the popular style of games where the main character died every five minutes. The horror genre was similarly out, to Myrkas' unending gratitude towards whomever deserved the praise.

The boy secretly wished his new fate included great adventures, lifelong friendship, and a reasonable end goal to his story, such as saving the world from a great evil. He could also settle for saving a continent. The Empire at the smallest. Although rescuing an Imperial Princess would also be acceptable. As long as there was a dragon somewhere. Because dragons were awesome and made everything better.

To figure out his current universe, Myrkas needed more information. He, unfortunately, did not remember any specific names. The Holy Allrin Empire, in which he lived, or the God Allrikh did not ring any bells. Even Piercing Jade Valley, their town, did not bring up more than vague recollections from his younger self. Certainly nothing to indicate in which work of fiction he had travelled to. Any rumours of a demon king to defeat, mysterious towers sprouting, monster invasions, aliens or any other world-ending calamity would be beyond helpful. Everything was too damn peaceful, suspiciously so in an isekai world.