Sylvian woke with a grown and stretched his sore body. The wheat patties were a rough job, especially for someone with no cultivation such as himself.
It had been 14 moons now, and Sylvian finally remembered it all. A different world, a different life. When he was younger it came in waves. Sometimes in the form of emotions, other times in the form of vague memories. Eventually, it all pieced together like a puzzle. He knew that this was a second life.
Some of those memories brought immense pain. He was 11 when he remembered Marilyn. A night filled first with love and compassion, ending with such unimaginable pain. Sylvian had cried; wailed out at the Gods who killed his love. His parents had sadly been on the receiving end of his mourning. That day his father had run to get Ellen, afraid that he may be sick or injured. All while his mother held him close. Her shirt from that day still has his sob stain on it. It took Sylvian weeks to get back into daily life, and months to cope with the trauma. That was when he started to question his very existence. What happened on the day he died? How did he end up reborn in such a foreign world?
Sylvian noticed some similarities, such as the presence of deer or cows. But not all was the same. For instance, Hasita farmed wheat patties. The wheat was basically the same as he remembered, but it grew much shorter and required farming similar to that of rice on Earth. Then there were the animals, such as the presence of kumai in the fields. He heard tales of mythical-style beasts that roamed the vast forests, and giants that conquered the skies.
But the one thing he found the most amazing of all, was the presence of magic. The people of this world, which he learned was called Tel'Mora, had the ability to control what they called Arcana. The thought of it made his heart race, that was until he remembered his inability to use the stuff. Sylvian let out a huff of frustration and pushed himself out of bed. He hated thinking about his inability to use what was basically magic. The majority of the human race could not cultivate, even his mother was the same.
The smell of eggs wafted through the air and stopped his roving mind. A smile crept up on Sylvian's face as he left his small bedroom and traveled the short hall to arrive at the kitchen. There, his dad adorned a slightly too-small cooking apron, likely his mother's, and stood overtop the stove. The skillet in his hand moved with ease as he skillfully flipped an omelte.
"Sylvian!" His mother called out from a chair in the corner of the room. She was reading a book, though he was unable to discern if it was the one about a cultivator romance novel or the one about advanced wheat planting techniques. "Did you sleep well last night? You never seem to get enough sleep these days." Her eyes showed her usual concern for him.
"Silvia, babe." His father called over. "He is a growing boy, he will never get enough sleep." Sylvian's dad let out a little chuckle and stepped over to the dining table, laying done a plate right where Sylvian had just sat down. With his other hand, John tilted the pan over Sylvian's plate. A hot and perfectly cooked omelet slid right onto it. "I can think of a few things a teenager his age could do at night to keep themselves from getting an appropriate amount of sleep." His father grew an evil grin.
"Dad!" Sylvian blurted out, his face red with embarrassment. He had indeed done something of the sort last night on his own. His dad was in the second stage of Arcane gathering, and most certainly overheard him.
"Oh, John, leave the boy alone to his curiosities!" His mother rebutted on his behalf. "Teen boys can't resist those pleasures you know."
"Mother!" Sylvian cried. Why were they doing this? Both his parents had grins of the devil. He wished for nothing but a hole to die in.
"Eat up." John managed to say through his laughter, clearly still enjoying Sylvian's embarrassment. "The first one is yours, it seems like you will need it today." His dad nudged his head in the direction of the door. Leaning against the wall to the right of the main entrance was a bow made of willow sap wood. It was once Sylvian's mother's, but when he had grown out of the bow that his father had crafted for him, his mother had insisted that he take it. Sylvian didn't hesitate to accept.
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It was a bow his father acquired from the army of House Griff, the domain of the family they currently resided in. His father had fought in one of their wars a few decades ago. It was not a treasured heirloom by any means, but it was of good craftsmanship, something Sylvian was happy to be given. Now, he did most of the hunting for his family. While he was clumsy in the rough terrain of the forest at first, over many moons he began to gain a sense of kinship with it. Sylvian now traversed the obstacle-ridden forest floor with such ease that his mother struggled to keep up with him. Over time she allowed Sylvian to often hunt without her, as he was much more efficient.
"I'm sure he will be fine." His mother echoed from her reading corner. "And while you are out, Sylvian," She tossed a small bag of coin to him. "please stop by Zender's and grab some potatoes. I want to make stew tonight and that old man has been in a good mood recently. Best to buy now. I can't remember the last time I saw that old bastard smile."
While John chuckled at his wife's passive aggression, Sylvian dug into his breakfast. His parents switched topics and discussed the harvest and village politics. Most of it was either dull or boring, letting Sylvian easily tune it out, but some information he found vaguely interesting. Apparently, another kid became a cultivator this year. That was the ultimate goal of everyone in Hasita. Being a cultivator meant getting a shot at joining one of the major ruling families. That meant money, cultivation resources, knowledge, and most importantly a sense of support.
Most people never left the village, destined for a life of farming. Others who were luckier got to be brought in at the church as a squire, or became a merchant of some kind. But even then, only those with cultivation levels were respected. And depending on which family's territory you resided in, often those with no cultivation were looked upon as a lesser race. Bogali.It was ancient tongue for 'crippled'.
Sylvian put down his utensils and pushed forward his cleaned plate. Making his way to the door, he strung the bow up across his shoulders, the small quiver laced onto his belt. He let his fingers run across the smooth, darker wood surface of the bow. He could feel it, it was going to be a good hunting day. During his musings and preparations, his mother had snuck over and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Be careful out there." She gently whispered in his ear. She was always overly concerned, but he attributed that to a mother of a single child. His mother gave him two pats on the shoulder. "Your father and I will be waiting for you to return home."
His father and mother gave their goodbyes as Sylvian set out into the early morning sun. It was barely peaking around the mountain's edge to the east, and many of the village folks had yet to set off to the wheat fields. The crisp, dewy air brushed past his lips, and the misty morning welcomed him down the road. As road turned to trail, and trail turned to dirt, Sylvian made his way farther from the comfort of home and closer to the warmth of nature.
Songbirds filled his ears with the melody of late spring, while small animals dashed through the fields of wheat surrounding him. It didn't take long before Sylvian was flanked by trees and branches. Here at the edge of the forest, there was nothing worth hunting. Most animals avoided Hasita and its farmers, aware that strays would become the night's dinner if spotted. So Sylvian trekked forward through the underbrush.
After about an hour in, Sylvian came across one of his usual clearings. Tall grass bowed in the wind and gave shelter to any of the smaller creatures that may lie within. Stealthily Sylvian climbed his favorite nearby tree, keen on getting a vantage of the morning activity. He swiftly reached his vantage point a few meters up and scanned across the clearing. There was nothing of note. There were no signs of herds or groups moving through this area, and he would have to try another clearing deeper in the woods. He hoped that maybe he might stumble upon some tracks along the way.
Before Sylvian began his descent down the tree; however, large wings battered the air around him as a bird landed to his right. It stood two feet tall above the branch and had two long swooping tails that draped below it. Its talon where the size of his own hands and wrapped around the large branch like a twig. The bird's feathers mixed between different shades of green and radiated a minuscule glow. A glow so little that Sylvian first thought he might be imagining it. It craned its neck in an odd fashion and their eyes locked. Slyvian felt a wave of fear rip through his body.
He knew that the bird before him was a transcendent. An animal that transcended its birth and into the realm of cultivation. And here he was, many meters above the ground and stranded on the same branch with what was aptly a bird of death.