Infancy, I quickly learned, was a slow grind. Days blurred together, a mix of crying (to seem normal), sleeping (because my baby body demanded it), and observing (because what else could I do?). My world was limited to the warm confines of my family’s home and the faces of my parents.
My mother, Eliana Valda-Ashdock, was a kind, nurturing woman with calloused hands from years of weaving. My father, Tharn Valda-Ashdock, was the village’s guard captain, his imposing presence softened only when he spoke to me or my older brother, Halrik. I watched them tirelessly, committing their faces, their voices, their mannerisms to memory.
But outside my family’s love and warmth, there were mysteries that demanded my attention. Chief among them was the sky.
From the first time I managed to roll over and crane my neck toward the heavens, the sight of the World Nexus captivated me. I could spend hours gazing up at it, watching as the planets above drifted in their celestial dance, connected by those impossibly long, glowing strands.
“What are those?” I asked Hexa one night during a rare moment of silence in my mental landscape.
“Analyzing… Insufficient data. The strands appear to be physical constructs, possibly artificial. Their composition and purpose are unknown.”
“It’s like something out of an MMO. You sure we’re not in some sort of VR simulation?”
“Negative. This reality is authentic. Simulations do not exhibit the metaphysical characteristics detected here.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
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By the time I hit six months, I’d developed something of a routine.
Mornings were for watching my mother at her loom, her hands moving with a rhythm that was both mesmerizing and hypnotic. She hummed as she worked, the melodies soothing in a way that reminded me of simpler times on Earth.
Afternoons were for Halrik, my older brother. At eight years old, he was a bundle of energy, often tasked with entertaining me while my parents worked. Halrik was, for lack of a better word, normal. He had no idea his baby brother housed the consciousness of a grown man and a cutting-edge AI. To him, I was just a squishy little thing to poke and prod.
“Wolfhart, you’re going to be a strong fighter like Father one day,” he declared one afternoon, holding up a wooden sword. “But you’ll have to get big first.”
I responded with a coo, hiding the smirk that would’ve given me away.
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It was during one of these afternoons, as Halrik played by the hearth and I stared out the window, that I noticed something strange.
The air shimmered. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a subtle, rippling distortion.
“Hexa,” I called mentally. “Are you seeing this?”
“Affirmative. The phenomenon appears to be related to mana.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Mana. The word was familiar from my MMO days, but hearing it in this context felt surreal.
“What’s it doing?”
“Analysis indicates it is an ambient energy field. The density fluctuates in this area.”
“Can I use it?”
“Negative. Your current physical and developmental state does not permit mana manipulation.”
Figures. Still, I made a note of it. The shimmering became a daily occurrence, a reminder that this world wasn’t Earth and that I wasn’t here to live a simple life.
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By the time I turned one, I was beginning to piece together the basics of the world around me.
The village of Valda-Ashdock was a floating settlement built on sturdy wooden platforms that creaked and groaned with every wave. The lake it rested on was massive, its waters dark and foreboding. I’d heard whispers of creatures lurking beneath the surface—things my father and his guards were tasked with keeping at bay.
The village itself was small but vibrant, a patchwork of homes, workshops, and market stalls. People here lived simply but seemed content, their lives revolving around the rhythms of the lake and the occasional festival.
Information about the wider world was harder to come by. My parents didn’t speak much about the outside, and when they did, it was always in hushed tones. From what I could gather, the Kingdom of Ash was just one piece of a larger empire, a collection of city-states united under a single ruler.
And then there was the Nexus.
Stories of the World Nexus were woven into every aspect of life here. It was in the lullabies my mother sang, the prayers my father muttered before meals, and the tales the villagers told around fires.
“The god’s web,” they called it. A divine creation, meant to connect all worlds and all life.
“Hexa,” I asked one night as I lay in my crib, staring at the strands above. “What’s the likelihood that those are actually god-made?”
“Probability indeterminate. However, the technological and architectural complexity suggests advanced design.”
“So… not gods?”
“Insufficient data.”
Hexa was frustratingly vague, but I couldn’t blame it. This world defied logic at every turn.
One day, while my mother was tending to me and Halrik was off playing with friends, I heard something that made my blood run cold.
“They say the raids have been deadly again,” a neighbor whispered to my father as they stood by the door. “We lost two guards in the last attack. How much longer can we hold out?”
Raiders. The word conjured images of bandits and looters, but the tone in the man’s voice suggested something far worse.
“We’ll manage,” my father replied, his voice steady but grim. “We always do.”
“Raids” Hexa chimed in “from accumulated knowledge findings Raids are a weekly occurrence where local wildlife attacks the walls of our village. This seems to be the primary focus of your father's profession.”
That night, as the village slept, I lay awake, staring at the shadows dancing on the walls.
“Hexa,” I whispered mentally. “What are the chances I’ll make it to adulthood in this world?”
“Unknown. Survival depends on multiple variables, including environmental threats, physical development, and social integration.”
“Not helpful.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.
“Johnathan,” Hexa finally said, its voice uncharacteristically soft. “We were given a second chance. Use it wisely.” As my first year came to a close, the village held a small celebration. It was tradition, my parents explained, to mark a child’s survival through their first year—a milestone not every family could celebrate.
Candles were lit, prayers were offered, and my name was spoken with pride: Wolfhart Valda-Ashdock.
But even as the villagers laughed and danced, a sense of unease lingered in the air. The raiders were coming, and no amount of celebration could erase that fact.
For now, I was safe. But as I watched the flames flicker in the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my journey—my real journey—was only just beginning.
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