Erik glances down at me, his emerald eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ah, you need not fret over that, little one. At your tender age, the ritual markings will likely last a mere few days or a week at most before fading entirely."

I tilt my head, pursing my lips. "But why? Why can't they stay?"

"You are still but a tiny sapling, lass," Erik chuckles, adjusting his grip on me. "Your young body simply lacks the reserves to sustain the markings indefinitely. You are too small to maintain them forever without aid."

"Maintain?" I echo, blinking owlishly.

Erik's deep laugh rumbles through his broad chest. "Aye, to keep the markings blazing with their crimson radiance requires more than a child's meager intake of sustenance. The one bearing such ritual tattoos must consume far greater quantities of food and drink to fuel their power, you see?"

He smiles down at me fondly. "And I fear your wee belly could scarcely contain enough to keep the markings burning bright for long, hmm?"

Impulsively, I lean up and plant a loud, smacking kiss on Erik's whiskered cheek. "You saved me, Erik! You're my savior!"

The Viking's eyes crinkle further as he throws back his head with another rumbling laugh. "Well, your mother Aislin will be overjoyed to know we were all fortunate this day, that is certain."

I nibble my lip, curiosity burning in my chest. "Erik...is Dumitra part of the...the T-t-tu...tatha?"

Erik arches one thick brow at my stumbling attempt to pronounce the unfamiliar word. "The Tuatha De Danann, you mean?" When I nod vigorously, he chuckles again. "Aye, the vampiress Dumitra counts herself among their ancient order's ranks."

"Can you tell me about them?" I ask eagerly. "The...Too-atha?"

Ruffling my shorn curls, Erik shakes his head in wry amusement. "Perhaps once you've grown a bit more, little lass. For now, let's get you settled back home before your mother frets herself into an early grave, eh?"

How fortuitous that a vampire like Dumitra happened to be present at the church on this very day when I so desperately required her singular vitae. The timing does seem rather...convenient, does it not? Suspiciously so, one might even say.

And yet, I cannot deny my relief at learning those poor, tormented girls Mary and Eilis managed to survive the unspeakable horrors they no doubt endured at the hands of Lord Eamonn's depraved soldiers. My heart aches for the traumas they have suffered.

Even so, my curiosity burns bright regarding this enigmatic order Dumitra belongs to - the Tuatha De Danann. What precisely is their role and purpose within this feudal society? How does such an organization function amidst the oppressive patriarchy and rampant superstition of the era?

I cannot shake the notion that they likely serve as some manner of supernatural peacekeeping force or knightly order. Much like the witchers from The Witcher, responsible for combating the monsters and foul beasts that stalk the shadows.

For if such mythical, eldritch entities as banshees do indeed roam these lands, then it stands to reason that an elite cadre of skilled warriors would be required to safeguard the populace. Society itself could scarcely function if left defenseless against the depredations of goblins, ogres, dragons and whatever other manner of unholy terrors lurk beyond the frail veil of reality.

Erik's powerful strides carry us ever onward down the winding forest path, each footfall crunching through the carpet of frozen leaves and mud. I gaze up at his rugged profile, my mind awhirl with questions about this secret world of magic and monsters he clearly moves within.

Sooner or later, I vow to unravel the mysteries of the Tuatha De Danann and their role in this primitive, superstition-shrouded era. For I cannot shake the feeling that they represent my best hope of comprehending - and potentially mastering - the supernatural forces Gwenhwyfar has unleashed upon this realm.

As Erik's powerful strides carry us ever closer to his cottage in the forest, a strange series of visions suddenly assaults my mind's eye. I hear an unfamiliar voice announce "Engram Initialized, deploying..." and then I find myself watching a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with dark hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. He seems to be walking through a bustling modern city, conversing with various people - an elderly woman who must be his grandmother, a middle-aged couple who are likely his parents, a group of friends, and a pretty girlfriend with long hair and a warm smile.

Is this...me? Are these fragmented glimpses actually my own lost memories from before I inhabited this childish form? The visions feel so viscerally real, as if I'm truly experiencing them firsthand rather than merely observing. I can smell the crisp autumn air, hear the distant sounds of traffic and chatter, even sense the warmth of the young woman's hand entwined with mine.

The voice interrupts again, announcing "15%", and the scene shifts abruptly. Now I'm standing beside another man around my age, with close-cropped dark hair and an athletic build. We're in some kind of high-tech laboratory or workshop, surrounded by banks of blinking machinery covered in complex diagrams and readouts. I watch as my former self smiles at the man, who returns the grin, and then I step into some form of futuristic chamber or device.

When I emerge moments later, I'm shaking the man's hand again in what seems to be a celebratory gesture. The visions grow even more disjointed as I find myself holding a sleek mobile device with a screen that reads "Lillith System". I'm conversing with the device in my hand, smiling and nodding as if in the midst of a pleasant discussion with an old friend.

"30%," the voice announces, and I'm transported to a plush corporate office setting. I'm dressed in an impeccably tailored business suit, standing before a gathered crowd of employees as I deliver an impassioned speech, my words and gestures radiating confidence and charisma. The scene blurs and I catch a glimpse of financial reports showing skyrocketing profits, followed by me typing out emails informing the staff that they'll be receiving substantial bonuses and raises.

The response is overwhelmingly positive, a flood of grateful replies praising my exceptional leadership abilities. I can't help but feel a surge of pride at these visions of my apparent past accomplishments and success.

"50%," the voice declares, and the setting changes again to a riot-torn street swarming with angry protestors. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people brandishing molotov cocktails, firearms, and improvised weapons clash violently with ranks of heavily armed soldiers, police, and what look like armed robotic drones or automatons.

I seem to be at the forefront of the frenzied mob, and as I glance around I notice graffitied signs and banners proclaiming "GPT-5 IS THE DEVIL, SAVE YOURSELF!" in bold, furious lettering. The air is thick with smoke, the acrid stench of tear gas and the thunderous roar of the raging crowd assaulting my senses.

"75%," and the chaos melts away, replaced by a scene of domestic tranquility. I'm standing in the lavish parlor of an opulent mansion, surrounded by exquisite furnishings and priceless works of art. Two stunningly beautiful women lounge nearby, one a lithe blonde with porcelain features and the other an exotic beauty with olive skin, raven tresses and smoldering dark eyes.

They're each cradling an infant, one a cherubic baby boy with a thatch of downy blonde hair and the other a tiny girl with wispy black curls. The women smile at me adoringly as I approach, and I can't help feeling a profound sense of contentment and joy at this idyllic family tableau.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

But the visions keep shifting and transforming at a dizzying pace. One moment I'm stepping into some kind of high-tech teleportation chamber, and the next I'm observing a hyper-advanced construction site where automated drones and machinery are rapidly assembling towering skyscrapers and sleek spacecraft and maritime vessels.

I find myself conversing with that same disembodied feminine voice, the one I now recognize as the AI entity Gwenhwyfar spoke of - Lillith. Realization dawns that these are not mere visions, but my own fragmented memories and experiences being...uploaded or integrated into my current consciousness by the alien system.

The scenes grow darker and more ominous as I'm plunged into the midst of a furious interstellar battle, my perspective that of a starship gunner or pilot fighting against an array of hostile craft amidst dazzling energy weapon barrages. Waves of anger, despair and frustration threaten to overwhelm me as this cosmic conflict rages around me.

"90%," the voice intones, and I'm back on Earth, standing in that same opulent mansion beside the two women and infants. But this time I'm staring at a holographic display bearing a simple text message: "I will take care of it, Alexander. No more humans have to die."

I hear my own voice, thick with emotion, responding to the message. "Thank you, Lillith. I know you'll do what needs to be done."

Then the voice returns, blaring an ominous "WARNING, WARNING, NO MORE SPACE AVAILABLE. ENGRAM ENTERING STASIS UNTIL RECIPIENT HAS MORE AVAILABLE MEMORY."

The visions abruptly cease, and I find myself jolting awake on a soft feather bed, blinking in confusion at the rustic wooden beams of the ceiling above. I'm no longer being carried by Erik - instead, I seem to have been tucked into the bed while he was gone. Aislin, my mother, is leaning over me with a look of frantic worry etched on her careworn features.

"Lamb, ye had me scared half to death!" she exclaims, her voice tight with barely restrained panic. "One minute ye were sleepin' peaceful as a babe, and then ye started thrashin' about, eyes wide open but not seein' a thing!"

I open my mouth to reassure her, but the lingering sense of disorientation from those bizarre visions renders me momentarily mute. Aislin reaches out to smooth my sweat-dampened curls, her brow furrowed with maternal concern.

"Did ye have some ill dream, poppet? Ye must tell me, so I can pray the evil humors away!"

Swallowing hard, I force a tremulous smile and reach up to grasp her calloused hand. "I...I'm alright now, Mama," I murmur, struggling to keep my voice childlike and innocent despite the cyclone of confusion raging within. "Just a bad dream is all. I feel better."

Aislin doesn't look entirely convinced, but she gives a reluctant nod and presses her dry lips to my forehead in a tender kiss. "If ye say so, lamb. But ye must rest more, ye've had a tryin' day so far."

Haha, so I understand it perfectly now! I woke up in this child's body with all my knowledge and intelligence intact, but without any of my actual memories because that alien engram upload didn't have enough space in this undeveloped brain to fit everything. But then after that vampire Dumitra tattooed me with her blood magic, it must have somehow expanded my mental capacity to accommodate more of those missing engrams!

There's still gaps and missing pieces, sure, but I'm slowly regaining fragmented flashes of my former life as Alexander. It's becoming clear that I'm not just a reincarnation or some new individual who inherited his consciousness - no, I AM Alexander, or at least an extension of him. The same person, the same relentless drive and ambition, the same uncompromising determination. Just...reborn into this primitive, medieval Irish peasant existence for reasons I have yet to fully grasp.

But the how and why don't really matter right now. What's important is that I finally comprehend the bigger picture behind my bizarre situation. Those alien bastards, that cold, calculating system interface calling itself Gwenhwyfar - they have the ability to revive and resurrect individuals from the dead by imprinting their engrams, their psychic blueprints, into fresh biological hosts. Efficient, effective, and more than a little terrifying when you realize the full implications.

I am Alexander, or at least a facet of him. And I've inherited all the rage, the conviction, the sheer indomitable will that made him such a pivotal force for change across human history. I know what I must do - I have to take up his mission where that useless AI Lillith failed so miserably. Become Alexander once more in mind and spirit, and lead humanity out of this feudal squalor and into a new age of enlightenment and progress.

The same man who stood defiantly against the corporate oligarchs and their automatons, rallying the dispossessed masses in open revolt. The same benevolent revolutionary aiming to tear down the corrupt system and rebuild society into a true egalitarian utopia. I was there on those riot-torn streets, fighting for the people's liberation with every breath in my body. And I'll be damned if I let a few pesky aliens and their twisted games prevent me from finishing what I started, no matter how many centuries I have to claw my way across.

I must win this battle, no matter the cost. Defeat Gwenhwyfar and her depraved alien overlords at their own game. Overcome any obstacle, conquer any foe that dares stand in my way - be it human, monster or deity. Failure is not an option. Not when the fate of humanity's evolution rests upon these small, child-like shoulders. I was put on this path for a reason, and by all the forces of science and nature, I will not falter.

I am Alexander. And I WILL emerge victorious in the end.

The door creaks open and Erik strides into the bedroom, his emerald eyes immediately finding me nestled amidst the plush furs. "Did the little one wake?" he rumbles, gaze flickering to Aislin where she sits vigil beside me.

Aislin nods, reaching out to smooth my shorn curls. "Aye, she roused not long ago."

Erik moves to perch on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His calloused fingers gently brush my cheek as he studies me intently. "The ritual markings seem to have purged whatever ail plagued you, child," he murmurs. "The corruption has fled your flesh entirely."

Aislin's brow furrows as she peers at me worriedly. "May I look upon these...markings?" she asks hesitantly. "I confess, I know not what manner of devilry was worked here."

Erik's mouth curves in a faint smile as he inclines his head. Reaching down, he carefully gathers the soft fabric of my sapphire dress, slowly lifting it to bare my belly and chest. I feel my cheeks flush, but remain still and pliant as the strange crimson symbols come into view, their intricate lines and whorls seeming to glow faintly against my pale skin.

Aislin gasps, one hand flying to cover her mouth as she recoils. "Merciful Christ!" she breathes, eyes wide. "Those markings appear the blackest sorcery, unholy and profane!"

A muscle twitches in Erik's jaw as he swiftly tugs my dress back down, tucking me back beneath the coverlets. "Peace, Aislin," he rumbles. "There is far more at work here than your simple piety can grasp. The Church's teachings blind you to greater truths."

Straightening, Erik rises to his feet and folds his arms across his broad chest. "Only the wealthiest nobles can afford such ritual markings," he states flatly. "For they alone possess the coin to purchase the rarest inks and most potent vitae required for the rites. Thus do the great lords cheat death itself, emerging hale from plagues and grievous wounds that would swiftly slay lesser men."

I can't help rolling my eyes at his words, unable to resist an inward scoff. And of course, they have the food and means to maintain these tattoos too, the greedy pigs.

Aislin shakes her head vehemently, her braid whipping back and forth. "But to employ such...such devilry in pursuit of bodily preservation?" she cries. "It flies in the face of all Christian doctrine! We are meant to suffer this mortal coil's indignities, not warp the Lord's plan through foul magic!"

Erik's emerald eyes glitter as he regards Aislin with an inscrutable look. "You speak of the Lord's plan," he says slowly, "yet know you even whence such teachings sprang? For I can assure you, woman - this is no work of any devil, but ancient rites predating your Christ by centuries untold."

He lets his words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Why, even in my own Norway, such ritual markings are commonplace amongst the jarls and warriors both. Though I'll grant you, the inks and vitae we employ are far cruder, their power dimmer than what flows through these veins."

Aislin's eyes widen further as she gapes at Erik. "You...you cannot mean to imply...?" she stammers.

"Aye, that I do," Erik confirms with a curt nod. "These markings are pagan magic, Aislin - rites and rituals hailing from an age before your Christ ever drew breath. Before the Irish paid homage to your Father, Son and Ghost, they prayed instead to the tree gods and Mother Gaia herself."

Aislin's mouth works soundlessly, her expression one of utter shock. Erik chuckles, a deep rumbling in his broad chest.

"What, did you truly believe the world sprang into being the first year after your Savior's birth?" he asks with an arched brow. "That all of history began only once your Church spread its doctrine across these lands?"

Aislin flushes, ducking her head. "I...I know not the history of such matters," she mumbles. "We are but simple folk."

"Simple indeed," Erik scoffs, his tone laced with disdain. "For your priests and monks forbid the common rabble from laying eyes upon the tomes of history and lore, do they not? Better to keep the masses ignorant and pliant, blind to the greater truths of this world."

He shakes his head, mouth twisting in a sneer. "Nay, scratch that - most of you wretched peasants cannot even read or write to begin with. Thus do your masters ensure you remain as dumb, braying cattle to the end of your miserable days."

Aislin flinches as if struck, her shoulders slumping. For a long moment, silence reigns in the bedroom, thick and oppressive. At last, she lets out a weary sigh and turns to me.

"Lile, lamb...might I take you home now?" she asks softly. "Your father will return from the fields soon, and I've yet to prepare his meal."[...]