Somehow, against all odds, he had managed to fall asleep on that fateful day. Despite the cacophony of fervent religious chants, the unsettling glimmer in Dozia's eyes, and the recent kill they had witnessed, exhaustion had claimed him. And so it was that he awoke early the next morning to the sight of Dozia's face, her fingers gripping his shoulder as she gently shook him awake. His eyes met hers as she greeted him with a smile. "Good morning," she spoke, rising to her feet, and Oliver followed suit. "We have the witch to meet today."
There was a noticeable change in Dozia's attire. She now donned a set of lightweight leather armor and carried a new sword, rougher and more utilitarian than the previous one that hung at her side. "The witch," Oliver began, recalling their previous conversation, "you mentioned that she was the one who saved me."
Dozia nodded, motioning for him to follow with a beckoning hand as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the caverns. Oliver pressed on with his questions. "How did she find me? Think about it for a moment. You said I fell from the sky, and others have spoken of a trumpet sound echoing throughout the land. Doesn't that strike you as peculiar?"
"Strange?" she echoed, her words carrying an icy edge. "In what way..."
Oliver felt the sting of her curt response. "My father always warned me against falling for bullshit, to think critically and outside the box. Don't you find it odd how the witch knew where to locate me?"
Dozia fell silent, quickening her pace down the corridor, refusing to answer his query. "The prophecy foretold your discovery, that you would descend from the heavens," she finally spoke, turning her zealous gaze toward him. "The prophecy was not mistaken. The witch spoke the truth, and now you are here with us."
Oliver sighed, realizing that extracting further information from Dozia would be futile. They continued their journey, the fresh morning light streaming into the cavern as they emerged. "Hey, Oliver. Hi, Dozia," Rasmus chimed in, holding a coiled rope in his large hands, while horses stood behind him.
"I did warn you that it would be quite the journey," Dozia interjected, stepping behind Rasmus and deftly mounting one of the steeds. She extended her arm to Oliver.
Taking her offered hand, Oliver settled in behind her on the horse. Rasmus mounted his own steed, securing a massive hammer to his side. "We'll be gone for a while," Rasmus declared, flicking on a compass and directing his gaze toward the seemingly endless expanse of trees and treacherous mountain dunes. "It's a few hours' ride, there and back. I've packed a few mana stones to ward off any monsters, but we should definitely steer clear of Benjamin's territory."
"No kidding, Rasmus," Dozia retorted, producing a rolled-up piece of paper from her pocket before leading the horse down the mountainside. Oliver surveyed their surroundings, realizing there was only one viable path up here. The rocky terrain and natural vegetation offered some semblance of cover, but...
"Why did we stay here?" Oliver's voice rose above the steady rhythm of the horse's hooves, capturing the attention of his companions. "There's only one entrance, one way in and one way out."
"Yeah, it's a strategic location," Rasmus acknowledged, only to be met with Oliver's disapproving shake of the head.
"My father taught me that no man should ever find himself trapped with only one entrance and one exit," Oliver's voice quivered as he wrapped his arms around himself. Dozia's eyes widened at his unexpected words. Ah, so he does understand the importance of strategy, she pondered to herself. "It's foolish to rely on a single entrance. Slavers or anyone else could easily destroy it, leaving us to starve in the darkness."
Rasmus heard the words, a memory of Lena's wisdom resurfacing in his mind. "The boy is perceptive," he mused, "though scared at the moment. But once that fear subsides...I wonder what he could truly bring to our tribe."
Lena's words echoed through the caverns like ghostly whispers. Dozia couldn't help but let out a chuckle that interrupted Rasmus's thoughts. "You caught that, Rasmus?" she teased. "Oliver here thinks you're a fool."
Oliver's face contorted in shock, his arms flailing in protest. "No, that's not what I meant!" he pleaded, turning to face Rasmus, who stared back at him, dwarfed in size but not in wit.
"Oh, really?" Rasmus feigned anger, puffing out his chest to appear larger. "So, this imposter believes that killing a single slaver makes him competent, does he? Maybe we should bring him down a peg or two, lest he steal the chieftain position right from your hands, Dozia."
"Wait, I..." Oliver began, his voice trailing off.
In the next moment, Rasmus and Dozia erupted into laughter, their mirth filling the air. The goblin girl spun toward Oliver, her finger pointing playfully at his chin. "Oh, the look on your face!" she exclaimed, unable to contain her amusement.
Oliver could only manage a resigned sigh as he hugged himself tighter. He despised being the object of laughter.
"Alright, alright, we're sorry..." Rasmus uttered sarcastically, while Dozia wiped away a tear of merriment from her cheek.
"Okay, then...here, Oliver, take a good look at this map. You need to familiarize yourself with your surroundings," Dozia instructed.
Oliver accepted the map, holding it carefully in both hands. His eyes traced the intricate details on the parchment. In an instant, he snapped the map straight, eliciting a gasp of alarm from Rasmus. "Stulte, quid agis?" Dozia's voice erupted.
"Do you realize how expensive that was?" she scolded. "We had to trade away a significant portion of our supplies to that conniving merchant, and it wasn't even a map of the entire world—just the forest!"
"Sorry," Oliver murmured, his gaze returning to the parchment. He noticed the elongated rows of mountain dunes, peculiar symbols inked onto the paper—undoubtedly Dozia's handiwork—and even the surrounding bodies of water.
"Pay attention to the inked lines," Dozia directed. "They represent battle routes, shortcuts, and escape paths. They allow us to navigate the forest with minimal resistance from the monsters."
"Monsters?" Oliver repeated, his curiosity piqued.
Rasmus nodded sagely. "Yeah, I've heard tales that Imposters don't have to deal with the same kind of monsters we face in our world. But trust me, Oliver, killing that slaver is child's play compared to the abominations lurking in the darkest corners of the forest."
"Rows of teeth as sharp as razors, limbs multiplying like a twisted nightmare, and hell...do you remember Riley?" he mused. "All we found of him that time was his leg."
"What the fuck..." Oliver muttered, his voice trembling with disbelief.
"Damn it, Rasmus," Dozia interjected sharply. "We don't need Oliver freaking out on his first expedition."
"Sorry," Rasmus apologized, his expression contrite.
Oliver took a deep breath, his gaze returning to the map, only to notice something peculiar. Amidst the messy red ink that contrasted with the bluish-black markings, strange characters were haphazardly splattered. They formed a small area in the northeastern part of the forest—an area devoid of tribes or paths. "Dozia, what's this place enclosed in a red circle?" Oliver inquired, lifting the map slightly, but he saw it.
The tension in Dozia's shoulders, the tight grip on the reins—both signs of unease. Rasmus's eyes widened, but he quickly shook his head. "Never go there."
Her words were icy, piercing the air like a blade. They lacked the warmth and care of their prior interactions. "Come on, Dozia. I want to learn. Can't you just..."
"I said, never go there. Do you understand?" Dozia's voice was stern, leaving no room for argument.
Oliver grimaced. "Fine."
He turned his gaze back to the map, his eyes tracing the lines and dots. "The blue dots represent tribes, the lines are paths. Remember that. The green dots represent people we know and trade with, but the blues...we have a complicated relationship with them."
Oliver was astounded by the number of tribes scattered throughout the valley. They appeared as blips, reminiscent of those old submarine games. But there was something more—he saw the intricate strategy woven into their placement.
The valley was vast, its landscape adorned with natural defenses, open grassy plains, and dense forests perfect for concealment. "Look at it, take it all in...see everything at once," his father's voice echoed in his mind. Strategy, the old war games he and his father used to play. It had been one of the few things they bonded over. "Are all the other tribes as diverse as the Lost Ones?"
Dozia shook her head. "Nope," she replied. "The other demi-human tribes are pretty set in their 'old ways' and tend to stick to their own kind. But don't get me wrong. The Storm Drummer tribes, for instance, are a mix of Wolfmen and Goblin men. And the dwarven tribes will trade with anyone if you have enough silver."
"Or knowledge," Rasmus added with a knowing smile.
"Or knowledge," Dozia reaffirmed, her voice carrying a note of certainty.
Oliver observed intently as his gaze returned to the map. "So, for the beast men...like Lena's people. Their fur would provide protection against the harsh climate, so I assume their settlements would be further north?"
Rasmus nodded approvingly. "You catch on fast," he chuckled. "We've got a thinker here, Dozia."
"We chose the plains of our old base for a few reasons," Dozia explained, her eyes glancing back towards the hill where the Lost Ones now resided. "We had clear visibility of the enemy, enough space for farming. But we've been considering a move for a while now."
"We can't go back, Dozia. The slavers know our location. We're lucky to have escaped with just a few casualties that day. Remember the roughneck tribe?" Rasmus let out a low whistle. "They lost everything in a single night. One of the strongest tribes, completely blindsided."
"They fought with all their might that night, though. Not one of them was enslaved," Dozia remarked.
"Spilled slaver blood," Rasmus chuckled. "It scared the human empires enough to back off from picking more slaves in our territory. But things have changed," he gestured towards Oliver. "You made a good kill, Oliver. Dozia already filled me in on your doubts, but there's honor in such acts."
"Honor in killing?" Oliver's voice quivered with uncertainty.
His grandfather, a military man, had once told him that killing was simply a fact of life. "Me or them, and I choose me," he recalled those words, the echoes of war stories shared around a fireplace. His father had been similar, yet different.
"We fight because we must. We take what is given. I feel no remorse for those crushed beneath my conquest," his father's words resonated in his mind.
Oliver slowly shook his head. Lately, thoughts of his father had been haunting him. Not pleasant thoughts, but they lingered. Just like the Lost Ones, his father had led his own tribe, his own brigade of people in need of a leader. When he was younger, he had relished being by his father's side, wholeheartedly believing in their cause. But now, it only filled him with regret.
"Your act of killing that slaver and escaping may not seem significant to you, Oliver, but trust me, it gives us hope," Rasmus proclaimed, his hand forming a fist as a grin spread across his face. "As an Imposter, you're changing the tide of the tribe."
"...and so, we must adapt as well," Dozia interjected, her voice filled with determination.
Oliver bore witness to their demeanor—the tension in their muscles, the cadence of their speech. They emanated a mix of enthusiasm and urgency, sharing tales of battles fought and knowledge gained. But what resonated with Oliver were Rasmus's words—hope.
He couldn't fathom what he had unleashed when he tapped into that strange power to save Dozia. It had been a reflex, an accident. Yet, somehow, it held the potential to ignite hope. His gaze fixated on the three enigmatic lines etched into his left hand, his dark eyes studying them intently.
How could such a bizarre occurrence bring hope to a people?
The journey had taken hours, navigating through the dense forest until they arrived. Disembarking from their horses, Oliver plunged into the mire, his boots sinking into the muddy ground. They stood at the entrance of an expansive swamp-like marsh, a foreboding sight.
Rasmus and Dozia followed suit. Rasmus secured his hammer to his belt, his calloused hands expertly tending to the horses. He retrieved a pair of milky white crystals from his pouch, their pulsating energy evident. With deftness, he circled the horses, ensuring their protection against the lurking monsters.
"To protect against monsters," Dozia's voice carried the answer to Oliver's unspoken inquiry. "We may have lost our magic, but this world hasn't."
"All set!" Rasmus bellowed, making his way back to the duo. Oliver's dark eyes penetrated the dense jungle as they pressed forward, slicing through the tangled tendrils of vines and sloughing off the clinging mud. After a grueling thirty minutes of traversing the treacherous terrain, they finally arrived.
Oliver didn't quite know what he had expected. To be honest, a part of him had grown accustomed to surprises and shattered expectations. He was a stranger in this world, a fact that fueled his yearning to return home. So, when the trio stood before the Witch's hut, a revelation struck him—a dull note resonating within his being. A feeling he couldn't fully comprehend enveloped him as he gazed at the humble dwelling.
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He beheld the crude construction, fashioned from weathered brown wood, its glass panes faded and smudged. Warm orange light radiated from within, piercing the jungle's darkness as Oliver continued to stare.
He felt something—something peculiar. It was almost like sadness, as if he had forgotten something of great significance. A pang of loss gnawed at his gut, yet there was an uncanny familiarity. "It feels like I've been here before," he pondered, his voice lost to the jungle's symphony. "Like returning from a long journey, even though this is my first visit."
"Come on, let's not keep the witch waiting," Rasmus urged, his hand sweeping in a beckoning gesture, propelling Dozia and Oliver forward.
Deep within the recesses of the dark woods, Oliver's keen eyes caught glimpses of elusive gems, their brilliance concealed beneath a shroud of dirt. These were the enigmatic treasures that Rasmus had scattered along the path, a bewitching secret yet to be unraveled. Oliver couldn't help but wonder, what were they?
The door groaned open, emitting a grating sound that clawed at Oliver's ears. It was as if the passage hadn't welcomed an outsider for decades. As the door swung ajar, a wave of warmth enveloped him, its comforting embrace offering solace and seclusion from the world beyond. Oliver glanced at Rasmus and Dozia, observing their nonchalant disposition as they discarded their weapons and shed their boots. Following suit, Oliver reasoned, "If they have nothing to fear, then neither do I."
A pang of guilt tugged at Oliver's conscience for doubting the situation. According to Dozia, it was this very witch who had tended to him, nursing him back to health after his fateful crash from the sky. Despite his fragmented memories, he owed her his life.
Stepping behind Rasmus and Dozia, Oliver surveyed his surroundings with dark, inquisitive eyes. The room, despite its status as a witch's abode, emanated an odd sense of familiarity.
The dark wood paneling that adorned the walls and floor fostered a cozy ambiance, reminiscent of his childhood home—a time before his parents' bitter divorce, before that unfathomable incident, and before his immersion into his father's belief system, and the place it led them to.
Shaking his head slowly, he banished the haunting memories, focusing instead on the task at hand. This peculiar locale was not the setting for such introspection, and yet that unmistakable pull, that whisper of home, persisted.
"Rasmus, Dozia. You've brought him," a voice chimed, its youthfulness defying Oliver's expectations of a witch's timeworn rasp. Dozia and Rasmus instinctively distanced themselves from him as the woman's gaze fixed upon him.
She possessed a certain youth and beauty, an unexpected allure for one who bore the title of a witch. Oliver had envisioned a decrepit crone in his mind's eye, but this encounter defied his preconceptions. Once again, that ineffable sensation welled up within him.
With her dusky tan complexion and elvish features, illuminated by the dancing flames, she possessed ears resembling Thomas, elven ears, but longer and delicately entwined in her tresses of ebony curls. And then there were her eyes—a mesmerizing shade of deep purple bordering on indigo. Their weight bore down upon Oliver, threatening to suffocate him with their intensity.
"Ah, Oliver," she addressed him, her voice a caress of his name. "How do you know who I am?" Oliver countered, seeking answers to quell the growing unease within.
"I am a witch. I possess knowledge that transcends mortal boundaries," she replied with an air of rehearsed confidence. Yet, Oliver detected a fleeting tension in her muscles, a momentary flicker in her gaze that betrayed hidden secrets. Something peculiar lay within these walls, something that elicited discomfort in him.
"Do you remember anything?" she inquired, her voice pregnant with anticipation. "Anything at all?"
Oliver responded with a hint of frustration, "Of what? My memories are murky, elusive. Often, it feels like grasping smoke."
"And what of your sustenance?" She turned to face Dozia, her gaze piercing. "How much has he been eating?"
Dozia recoiled, taken aback by the sudden shift in focus onto her. "What...," she faltered, shaking her head to collect herself. "He eats a lot. It's not been a problem. Though, it's been slowing down the past few days, just like you instructed me to monitor."
Watching me eat, what the hell.
"And what about his motor skills?" the witch inquired.
"Motor skills?" Rasmus queried, his brow furrowed in confusion.
The witch emitted a sigh of exasperation. "Oliver, is he experiencing difficulties with basic physical coordination? Reflexes, movement, handling objects," she gestured with a slight flick of her hand. "Is there anything you can think of that's out of the ordinary?"
Rasmus shook his head. "No, he just cries a lot."
"Hey, I don't!" Oliver retorted, wrapping his arms around himself defensively.
"Good," the witch responded with a sigh of relief. "Now, let's return to the memory question. What's the last thing you remember before you found yourself in this world?"
Oliver nodded, recounting the circumstances—how he recalled the previous day at school, the customary rituals, and their venture into the mines with Aidan, Hunter, Fatima, and a few others. He described the rain, the horrifying cave-in, and the encounter with the peculiar orb. Throughout his explanation, the witch remained silent, her narrowed purple eyes fixed unwaveringly on Oliver, absorbing every word he uttered.
"Okay, very good," she finally spoke. "I was concerned that the fall from the sky might have caused irreparable damage. A vegetable wouldn't be of much use for the task that lies ahead."
"The task that lies ahead?" Oliver echoed, his gaze darting between the witch and Dozia. "What is this?"
"Excuse me?" the witch interjected. "Dozia, you haven't told Oliver about..."
Dozia shook her head. "No, there's been so much going on lately. We simply didn't have the time. We were attacked by slavers, and without Oliver's awakening, who knows what could have befallen us."
"Slavers..." The witch's eyes widened as they gravitated toward Oliver's left hand, a sudden comprehension sweeping across her features. "Oliver, he killed someone, didn't he?"
Her words hung in the air, unanswered. "Imposter Powers," she continued, her tone carrying a hint of inquiry. "They usually manifest when one is in danger or when someone they care for is threatened."
Oliver's right hand instinctively rested upon his left. "I was able to..."
"Telekinesis. You moved an object with your mind," the witch affirmed, leaving Oliver dumbfounded. "Your ability must have left you drained. Think of it like a muscle—training will only make it stronger."
A heavy silence settled upon them, reality seeping into every corner of Oliver's mind. It was becoming all too real. "Dozia said you could help me return home," he uttered, the words hanging in the air like a shroud. The group was ensnared in contemplative silence, the Witch's narrowed eyes glaring, while Dozia wrapped her arms tightly around herself, her gaze averted towards her shoes. "I need to go back home," Oliver continued, his voice tinged with desperation. "My grandparents must be losing their minds searching for me. I understand what Dozia said about me, about what I might become, but I have to go back to my life."
A weary sigh escaped the Witch's lips as she ran her hand through her dark locks, a vein pulsating on her forehead—an observation not lost on Oliver. "Dozia, we've already discussed this," she stated, her voice strained.
"Mistress, I know, I'm sorry. But with everything happening in the tribe, I didn't have a choice," Dozia replied, her voice trembling.
"It was wrong, Dozia," the Witch retorted with venom, her words laced with disappointment. "I thought you were more mature than...this."
"I didn't have a choice. He had just taken a man's life. The wound was still fresh in his psyche. To burden him with something like that... it would've been cruel!"
The Witch let out a laugh, a chilling cackle that echoed off the walls. "Cruel," she repeated, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "No, there is nothing cruel about the truth."
Her gaze shifted to Oliver. "I'm truly sorry, Oliver."
"What?" His head whipped around to face all three of them. "What the hell is going on?" His foot slammed into the floor. "I want to go back home, Dozia!"
Dozia's head snapped towards him, her eyes filled with anguish. "I said she would help you find a way back."
"You never said that! You told me to talk to her!"
"Bullshit! You knew what I meant!" Oliver snapped, his harsh words causing Dozia to flinch. "You lied to me."
"Enough! Silence!" the Witch interjected, bringing an abrupt end to their argument. Dozia, on the verge of tears, shielded her face from Oliver, her shirt lightly pressed against her eyes.
"Oliver, you cannot return home. This world is now your world. This place is your forever home. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is," the Witch declared.
A suffocating silence engulfed them, awkward and dreadful. The only sound that broke through was the faint clicking of Rasmus's boots on the floor. And then it happened—Oliver's face streaked with tears as his mouth unhinged. "No!" he screamed. "That's fucking bullshit!"
He slammed his foot against the floor, anger and frustration coursing through his veins. "Oliver," Rasmus called out to him, but the Witch raised her hand to stop him.
"You expect me to believe this crap? I came here through that orb. Give me another one, and I'll be able to go back home."
The witch shook her head slowly, a mix of pity and exasperation on her face. "That's not how it works, Oliver. The Orb was a device of transference, stretching from the old world to this one. It's one of only two ways to be brought here."
"Two ways?" Oliver repeated, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Then what's the other way? If I can find it, maybe..."
"The other way is through summoning, being handpicked by the gods of this world. But you can't go back home. I'm sorry, but that's the reality you have to accept."
Her words lacked sympathy, but Oliver didn't care. "No, that's impossible. You're telling me there's no way back home. I only came here to help my friend Aidan, to protect him from bullies and trouble."
"You've done a noble thing, Oliver," the witch acknowledged. "You're a good person, a good kid. But you have to come to terms with the fact that you can't go back."
"No, you don't understand," Oliver retorted, pointing his finger at her. "You don't get it. My grandparents, my school, everything that's a part of my life...it's all back there. This isn't where I belong."
Dozia parted her lips to speak, but closed them again almost immediately. She clung to herself, while Rasmus remained silent as a tree. "You can't go back," the witch reiterated, her voice now tinged with anger. "Do you think you're the only one who has been summoned or arrived in this world by chance? Such insolence!" She spat out the words with bitterness. "Your body is infused with magic now. It's connected to the atmosphere, infused with magic. It's like a...drug. You don't realize how dependent you've become."
She leaned back in her chair, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "You may not feel it yet, perhaps because you only know your Imposter power, but you've already become accustomed to it."
"What?" Oliver interjected, confusion etched on his face. "How does this..."
"It's like a drug, or rather, a poison in the way you perceive it," she explained. "You're already dependent on it. Even if there was a way to send you back home, you would die within minutes without the constant flow of magic in this world. Even the demi-humans, even after their connection to magic was severed, still require a dependency on atmospheric magic."
Oliver's breathing and heartbeat echoed in his ears as he stared at the witch. Slowly, the anger that had consumed him began to dissipate. There was no going back home. And even if there was, he would perish within seconds.
He glanced down at his hands, imagining his grandparents' anguish. They were probably being questioned by the police, organizing search parties to find him and his missing friends. The cavern was destroyed in the rockslide, buried beneath tons of rocks and sludge.
The Orb had blinded them, but he could swear he felt the ground shake beneath his feet once more. For all he knew, the ground had given way, and multiple rockslides had buried their path. The Orb and any recollection of their journey were now lost.
But those thoughts were overshadowed by an image—the sight of his grandmother and grandfather weeping, clutching each other as they gazed upon a photograph of his mother and himself. They cursed his father for taking their daughter away, for traumatizing their only grandchild. The last glimmer of hope had now vanished.
What about his mother? He had promised to visit her, but now a terrible realization settled in. He would spend the rest of his days in this world, forever cut off from modern technology, immersed in the darkness of a medieval era. A world infested with monsters, slavers, and unspeakable horrors. Trapped, a messiah figure among the tribal people who had brought him here. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor. "Oliver!" Dozia cried out, reaching out to him.
"Don't touch me!" he snapped, slapping her hands away. Hurt etched across her features as she sniffled, tears streaming down her face. Oliver sat on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. A last act of control, a feeble attempt to shield himself from this overwhelming uncertainty. His breath echoed in his ears, but amidst the turmoil, a strange sense of calm began to settle. "Even in such a strange place, even the smallest and most insignificant creature...can survive."
His father's voice echoed in his mind. Yes, even the smallest, even the weakest could find a place to belong. His father's words, usually a source of pain, now carried a warmth that enveloped him in his darkest hour. He clung to those words, grasping for any semblance of stability or foundation. Rasmus observed the witch, noting how she regarded Oliver with a peculiar gaze. But Oliver was too lost within himself to notice.
Those eyes, those piercing purple eyes, held a mixture of pity and something else. At first, he had thought they belonged to an older woman, witnessing a child grapple with a harsh reality. He had seen the same glow in Dozia's eyes as she tried to explain to the younger members of the tribe why their loved ones never returned. But now, a nagging feeling tugged at his mind, suggesting something more. It was as if the witch herself had experienced a similar ordeal, as if she had faced a situation just like this.
"You must focus, you have to keep moving. Look around you, son. You're in a challenging situation, surrounded by dangers, lost in the darkness..." Shut up, he wanted to scream at his father's voice. He longed to wallow in self-pity, to surrender and shut down. After all, he had every reason to. But his father had always been an infuriating bastard.
"There is a time for that," his father's voice persisted. "But Oliver, this isn't the time. You're being tested, observed, watched. You have to forge ahead and cast everything else aside. You're a clever boy, your mind races at a million miles per hour, you win those war games because your thoughts never rest...but that's a danger, a mind that never rests leads to the darkest places. Block it out, right now."
Block it out.
He always struggled with it, that thing in his head, a hyperfixation that therapists couldn't quite pin down. Was it OCD, ADHD, Autism, or some other label? Regardless, it served him well when learning, studying, and training. His mind raced at a million miles per hour, but right now, in the grip of emotions, it wasn't functioning logically. The Witch's words, as much as he wanted to deny them, rang true deep within his heart. He would never return home.
His gaze fixed on the flickering orange glow of the fireplace, the smoldering logs crackling in its depths. The flames danced in his eyes, but beneath their mesmerizing display, a chilling awareness settled in. There was grief, the agony of losing his family and innocence, but there was also a grim necessity. Nothing remained to fight for or live for, except for a shadowy path that stretched before him.
Rising from the floor, he brushed off his pants, his arms hanging limply at his sides as he fixed his piercing gaze upon the Witch. A smile crept onto her elvish features, resonating with a resounding confidence. "There is a time for battle, a time for peace, and a time for war. Today, it is time to listen and learn."
His father's voice echoed incessantly, a lingering ghost, even after death. It haunted him, a dark shadow he could never shake off. But in this moment, he chose to suppress the grief, to purge the thoughts and memories of his past. Holding onto those chains would only hinder him on this dark journey ahead. The awareness of this decision both impressed and alarmed him.
Rasmus and Dozia spoke of the day Deus Imperiator awakened, witnessing Oliver's transformation from a boy to a godlike figure of strength. He didn't split the ground beneath their feet or turn dirt into gold, but he exuded an aura of superiority.
To be told that his world was gone, that he could never return, didn't drive him to wallow in grief or succumb to a shattered mind. Instead, he pushed those dark emotions aside, standing tall on his own two feet. He was the Deus Imperator, and such a fate came with expectations.
Yet, it was the Witch, wearing that knowing smirk, as if she had experienced something eerily similar before. Almost as though she already knew the outcome before it even happened.
Walking down this seemingly endless path of darkness frightened him, but he refused to let his features betray his fear. A stoic calmness veiled his countenance. Because in this moment, he needed to be calm. He needed to learn, to grow, to become stronger. He wouldn't be a slave or die in some forsaken ditch.
He aspired to live a life he could be proud of, carving a place for himself in this strange new world. To do so, he had to understand his circumstances—the history, the Imposters, and everything in between. He had to know.
So, he blacked it out, just as he had done in those dark times when the only thing keeping him from the precipice of death was the rifle he held in his small hands. My father's training, all those years of trying to push it away, but his father's shadow stretched even to this far-off place. You could never truly escape your past.
He let out a weary sigh, releasing the heavy burden that had weighed upon his shoulders. The Witch observed him, a wicked smile stretching across her face, her teeth bared from ear to ear. "So, you've managed to regain your composure," she remarked.
Oliver nodded, his voice steady. "Yes," he replied. "But I have questions."
Her grin widened, revealing a row of glistening teeth. "You truly are something, Oliver. Did you bring yourself back from the depths of despair through sheer willpower, or was it the haunting memory of your father that spurred you on?"
She dismissed the thought with a dismissive shake of her head, redirecting her attention to the peculiar boy before her, brimming with power and marked with an enigmatic symbol. He had fallen from the heavens, a being that the Demi Human tribes would undoubtedly worship as a god.
"Go ahead, then," she urged, inviting his inquiries.