Chapter 14: Family Curse

The sun has already dimmed, and only a copious moonlight shed its light on the front cover page of a book. From the end of a table, a mess of muddled words swept his eyes. The book had too many descriptions that he had no single clue about. The words on the pages blurred together, too tangled and confusing for him to make sense of. As the candle burned down to a nub, he leaned back in his chair, exhausted. The torch flickered steadily beside him, casting long shadows that seemed to dance at the edges of his vision. The scent of old paper mixed with the subtle aroma of the burning torch, an almost haunting atmosphere, as if something was watching him from the shadows.

The book was proving nearly impossible to understand, even with the centuries of knowledge passed down through his family. He’d spent countless hours studying texts that spanned generations, but none of it was enough. The origins of the book were too obscure, too complex for him to fully grasp.

The headaches made it even worse, all he could think of was the author's name written on the front page of the book. He hadn't even made up his mind yet whether it was a thesis or a novel. But one thing was clear. The book wasn’t meant for storytelling. It was more like an appraisal of reality, written with the precision of an alchemist meticulously listing their formulas.

And then there was the concept of technology—something Lionel had only seen briefly mentioned in the dusty old tomes from his family’s library. It was a term foreign to the magic-driven world he knew. He’d even delved into sorcerers' writings, hoping to find some clue. But as far as sorcerers were concerned, their entire worldview was rooted in mana and life force. None had ever considered something as far-reaching as this—something that could exist outside the influence of magic.

There was a truth he never let cross his mind, for he understood the world in a way others didn't. It felt different, as if the world functioned in a separate dimension, governed by principles unfamiliar to most. To him, the world had an essence, unclouded by twisted perception.

It's what he had been taught, the legacy brought upon his family history.

The Argentine family had a saying.

For it to be a fact, integrity is necessary.

Most of us tread the mysteries of the unknown, but rarely can discern the purity of an essence that governs every form of life.

They reject it.

They reject it.

For what they do understand—is that they taint everything in every way possible.

They turn away from its embrace, shunning the essence that sustains its existence. It is a deliberate rejection, an act of defiance against the ripples that brought its creation. In their rejection, they seek to distort, contaminate, and defile the spirit that goes through with life. Their fickleness is driven by the desire to corrupt, ruining the beauty that life brought to them.

The futility against everything is what sets it apart from the endless darkness. It's this futility that nourishes hope, while at the same time, maddens them.

Once confronted by its illusion, a question lingers in your mind.

Does it truly matter?

So convinced, in the absence of hope, you are compelled to believe, till the end, no one knows what is right.

Is the good weak? Or is it just us?

Hope, what is hope?

His thoughts spiraled, dragging him deeper into a strange, uneasy obsession. For centuries, his family had been accused of bearing a curse. But how could the pursuit of knowledge be a curse? Knowledge was their sanctuary, their only refuge in a world they couldn’t control. To strip them of it would be like handing them a death sentence.

"So be it," he muttered, a voice echoing in his mind like a mad chorus. "If this knowledge is cursed, I’ll accept it."

The voices continued, as memories came like a tide.

“Are you crying again? Why are you always putting yourself in danger?” his father’s voice echoed. “Yesterday, you were on a cliff. Today, you’re petting a lion?”

"Your mom keeps telling you how crucial your survival instinct is. Not all the time that your thinking does all the work. Your mom didn't just train you with all that swordsmanship and exercises for no reason."

"If you keep indulging in your room reading your books, you can never fulfill your dream as an adventurer."

"Dad?" Lionel blurted out as if he was reaching out to a distant dream. In a brief moment, a darker part of him spoke, hidden at the depths of his soul. He couldn't tell whether it was inside of him all along, or the voice was something he made up to escape from his reality.

"The seers, uncle always spoke it to me. It's all in my heritage. Is this what I've been warned about?" Lionel thought.

"The awakening. Yes, it's almost similar to what I experienced. It must be that curse they were talking about." Lionel mindlessly uttered.

The ceremony spoke of a past that appeared in a dream. The dream often describes a symbol that signifies an element, objects, past identities, or their own future. It was called a pre-awakening, sometimes called remembrance. Once the pre-awakening is done, a tincture, or an object, manifests in their wake. The object was said to guide them for their journey, but as magic progressed, it was now used to register their aura similar to a fingerprint.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Lionel stared at his hands, waiting for an object to appear. But all he could see was the slime still stuck to his fingers earlier from his experiments. Sighing, he wiped his hands on his pants, unable to conceal his disappointment. For some reason, he felt an urge to find out more about this awakening, a desire to satiate his need for power. The desire was odd. It was nothing like him at all.

Such an experience happened to him before, his dad and his family acquaintances were there to witness it. He was unsure, but something told him it was a common practice. While doing his chores, a stigma appeared on his shoulder out of nowhere. The stigma had the face of a lion, but it had a scorpion body and a tail that dangled with a poison tip at its end. He winced at the pain as the mark burned into his skin. He recognized the mark, a drawing that is commonly spread around, said to describe a man whose pride lashes when stung with words.

Curious about the mark, he bothered his dad for days. He wondered where it came from, but seeing from his reaction, he knew that he had to wait for the right time to ask. Regardless, deep down, he already knew what it was, it was a curse that have since stayed in their blood long time ago.

He had found it from a book, a passing mention, but he couldn't recall the details. The book told of countless families who participated at the dawn of time, when gods were still yet to appear, and when anima was still at its early stage of understanding. In short mentions, the Argentine family was told to have given birth to descendants with immense intellect beyond their time. The pioneers, the alchemists, and the scholars were each recognized for their feat, and not long after, their legacy finally earned a seat in the halls of history.

He had seen his family, each and every one of them had their own quirks and peculiarities, traits that seemed to follow in their family as long as he remembers. He could still remember his cousin Jason, whose uncanny ability to predict the weather with extraordinary accuracy. And there was Aunt Eliza, who could calculate the trajectory of a lightning bolt with remarkable precision.

Was it really a curse, or something else? The stigma has already shown its appearance, but what if it wasn't a stigma? The awakening he felt wasn't exactly something that came from an intervention of the gods. It felt more like a chain shackled around his head, one which came from a place of birth rather than a curse.

***

The tent was already set, and Choppy was almost asleep. The clothes here were baggy, and the bed would often squeak. To make matters worse, an idiot would occasionally drop by, sitting on his bed just to chit-chat and share pointless stories about his day. He didn't like it when his bed crumpled as soon as he laid on it. If there were magic to help him neatly arrange it, he would have already done it. Unfortunately, the camp was strict about the distribution of the scrolls, even an access to their library would require a rank.

There was much to be desired in this place. If it weren't for the laboratory offered by the camp, to which he had already grown attached, he might have already left long ago. The soldier's life, the tent life, the uncomfortable beds, and the constant chatter were not to his liking. In fact, he spent most of his days at the lab, where his problems would leave him alone. If anyone asked him about his weird habits, asking if he was used to being alone, he would answer with a simple nod.

He knew how boring it was for others, but he couldn't do anything about what others think. Books were the only thing he knew, where he could freely roam and explore the depths of his imagination. But at the same time, he also knew, that it was merely a lie. He kept telling himself of his adventures, goals, and ambitions, but in the end, it only took a reprieve of comfort to distract him from the choices he needed to make. Nothing else was more excruciating to question your decisions and confront the possibility of failure. Worst of it, all of it boils down to a single truth. He was afraid.

He wasn't too young or too old to understand; he had a room full of knowledge and wisdom from his family to teach him what was appropriate and what was not. But who would have thought it would be different from what he expected? The pain, the experiences, it was all suffocating him.

"Is this what a child tantrum looks like?" Lionel spoke without a thought. To think his mom was right all along. He showed less emotion since he was a child. But why would he? The world was his oyster, or so he thought.

He was never nagged, never pushed to confront his fears until now. But all of that was not because he was spoiled, but he had done what a child should do. He kept his head straight, and not a sponge of emotion betrayed his sense of clarity.

The world was his oyster, after all.

Imagine if everyone shares his story and his difficulties. That would be a joke. It might even earn scorn and mockery from those who perceive his struggles as trivial compared to their own. It would seem superficial, petty, and beneath compared to the real struggles others faced. He could almost hear the distant scoffs and jeers. "What is he complaining about? He has it easy compared to the rest of us!"

Lionel stared at the gurgling substances spewing out from his failed experiment. There, he stood for a while, unaware of the time passing around him. This was new, a taste that he had yet to fully understand. It was progress, even if it was a little bit uncomfortable to swallow.

"I should probably clean this up," Lionel muttered, breaking the silence with a resigned sigh. The slime snuck into every crevice of the table.

Once he was done, a glimpse of a bottle of wine caught his eyes. At the end of the aisle were large twenty-gallon casks. Most were labeled as water, but a few were marked as rum or whiskey. He looked at the doorway. It was closed. He reached out his hand to the aisle but hesitated. A sip of wine, just a sip, to ease the stress spiraling in his chest.

But once he saw his hand that looked like a baby reaching out for his milk. He laughed, thinking that it was probably not the best idea to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Shaking his head, his dad came into his mind, an image of him still drinking milk beside his desk.

Lionel remembered what his father said back then, "It's good for the memory!"

Now that he thought about it. It might not be so bad to actually carry something out once in a while. He grabbed a satchel and a few more things, a scroll of parchment coupled with runestones, small vials of ink and quills, a bag of apples, and a large bag of candied nuts to snack on.

"Anything else?" Lionel smiled, feeling lighter than a feather. "How about milk? Milk is expensive, if I remember. There shouldn't be a need for that."

"I should probably learn how to brew milk, maybe wine..." Lionel pondered. "But where can I find cows? I could make one out of wood, perhaps? No, that wouldn't do," he laughed. "I'm just grasping straws here."

Having nothing else to add to his satchel, he left the lab, and quickly strolled his way back to the tent. Lionel hummed with delight as if a boulder had been lifted off his shoulders. As he walked, he couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of reaching out for the bottle of wine. Perhaps his father's fondness for milk was not such a bad thing after all.

He was sure that his father at least took a glass once in his life, perhaps even entertained the thought of indulging in something much stronger. To ease the loneliness, nothing else could beat a good wine. It's the simple pleasures in life that often bring the most joy, he realized.

"I wonder if my dad kept the information in this pair of glasses," he grabbed his trusted [Rugues New Glasses] and slipped them through his nose. It sat comfortably, and he could feel the soft cotton settled against his temples. Unfortunately, it could only reveal information related to the brand of the wine. He already knew what caused such reaction, and he already expected the outcome. Indeed, there was a limit to what the glasses could reveal. The function of the glasses was dependent on the information acquired from its previous wearers, and it seemed his father hadn't gathered any specific details encoded regarding the wine. Regardless, he already had what he needed. The ingredients were more than enough. He removed the glasses and carefully placed them back in his backpack.

Lionel brought the ledger to the dim light of his tent and began to list the ingredients he would need for his next experiment. "For now, I'm going to stick with the milk, maybe wine if I grew up," he smiled.