image [https://s3.ca-central-1.amazonaws.com/sypathetic.com/Cam/images/chaptercovers/chapter36cover.jpg]
The baby was born, and the entire gruesome spectacle had unfolded before the white-haired boy's eyes, no mystery left undiscovered. He hadn't asked for this—hadn't wanted that kind of blood and chaos branded into his memory, but his friends had forced him. There could be no doctor, no witnesses, for the child's existence had to remain a secret. And so, despite every instinct to flee, he was here, unwillingly part of a moment he could never forget.
The birth had taken place in Scrimp's dilapidated bedroom. The place was a rotten heap, mushrooms home to the wall, mites neighbours in the roof. The structural boards were so warped that their status as an interior was often questioned. It was more a home emotionally than by any practical definition. Unideal for the birth of a child, perhaps, but Scrimp was the only friend they trusted enough. He was also the only friend who lived somewhere where the events taking place would never be noticed. A place where shadowed figures sneaking in the night and agonized shrieks splitting the skies parsed not as uncommon.
The white-haired boy was not a doctor. He had never delivered a child. He knew not of procedure or how to tend to a mother-to-be. His training had been focused on combat, his expertise in destruction, not creation. There were at least a few supportive magics that, with some creative use, could be used to bolster the birthing girl's strength, clear her mind, and suppress her pain. This was a mother fit for war.
The three people in the room were frozen, paralyzed by the sudden presence of a fourth—a life now existing, distinctly and separately, where moments prior it had not. Scrimp stood outside, his ear pressed to the door, straining to catch any sound, desperate to uncover the hidden results within. No one dared move as their minds struggled to process all that had happened—and what would need to happen: then it cried.
The still moment screaming to life, a writhing form once an inside turned outside and looking every bit as such. A minuscule form slathered in clumps of waxy white goo, rough red skin; Its face all scrunched up in a rictus of overstimulated terror, eyes wide with the shock of being. Completing the nightmare was a thick, twisted white cord, solid and slimy, partly transparent to reveal two thick black threads coiled within. The tube was binding, shackled on one end by a tiny smooth stomach and trailing into... The white-haired boy snapped from his stupor with panic. "What do I do!?"
The other boy in the room, a taller and broader boy sitting next to the girl, hands trapped in her murderous grip, quickly replied. "Cut it!"
The girl interrupted in the same confused shouting as the rest of the group. "No, clean it first!"
The white-haired boy turned to look at the bloody thing in front of him. The concoction of fluids and stuffs was so much more varied and detailed than he ever thought it would be. Its head lolled over, and eyes dragged to his. He had been avoiding making direct eye contact, but it really did instill a horrendous discomfort within him. Suddenly, thing turned to baby, to a human. There was a human, and its eyes mirrored the hysteria of his mind, its throat shrieking enough for the both of them. The white-haired boy had been trained to operate through panic. His mind was stalled, but his body acted, casting a series of spells that purified the babe of all foreign substances, leaving it impeccably clean.
The girl cried out, panic reeling out her voice. "Not that clean!"
"You told me to clean it!" he snapped, his voice shaking with alarm.
"It needs to be a little dirty! To build immunity!" She was practically pleading now, her hands trembling.
The broader boy turned to her, his face twisted in confusion and worry. "Does it?"
The white-haired boy looked to her too, eyes wide, waiting for something solid to hold onto. The questioning gazes destroyed any certainty she once had "… I-I think?"
Everyone then turned to face the white-haired boy, who in turn looked down at the pristine baby. The white-haired boy felt like there had never been any living organism as perfectly clean as this baby currently was in all of history. He looked back up to his two friends and spoke. "It will be fine."
"IT WON'T BE FINE!" The girl screeched so loudly that the white-haired boy thought he could hear her voice tearing.
The white-haired boy turned back to the baby, heart racing. An idea formed and he knew what he was about to do was forbidden—he wasn't supposed to take such risks. But those rules were meant for those less skilled than him, and these were... extenuating circumstances. His hands trembled as he reached for the baby, his breath shallow.
With a deep, steadying breath, he cradled the baby, pressing its infantile form firmly into his chest. He could feel the warmth of its skin, the faint pulse of life beneath that. He then immersed the baby's logoic body with his. Still tied to the mother by the umbilical cord, he could feel her too, drained and weak and scared. He ignored her.
He took hold of a small portion of the child's essential framework and used it as the medium to trace an intricate arcane rune directly onto the baby's heart. He had never worked with such delicate 'material' before—never applied his rune craft so precisely. The patterns he etched had to be absolutely flawless. He didn't know what would happen if he made a mistake, but images of combusting parchments from his youthful training flared in his mind, and his stress redoubled.
The task took every ounce of focus he could muster, working every fibre of his brain, pushing his concentration and skill to its utmost limit as he carved the complex design into the vulnerable flesh of a being. His countless forays in violence and unmaking, trivial efforts, in comparison to the beautifully finessed work of life. By the time he was finished he was drenched in sweat, as much from the physical exertion as from the unbearable stress.
"There, he will never be sick again."
"He!?" His friends blurted in unison, their voices a mix of surprise and jubilation.
The girl's eyes widened with frantic urgency. She began gesturing toward the white-haired boy, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Quick, quick, let me see him!"
The white-haired boy hesitated, awkwardly lifting the baby, ready to bring it to them—but he was immediately interrupted, "Cut it first!"
"IT!?" The white-haired boy's eyes bulged in shock, his gaze dropping below the baby's waist, and his heart ached with pity.
"THE CORD!" she swiftly barked in terror.
The white-haired boy was no doctor; he had never seen a birth before, he hadn't even seen a baby before today. How was he supposed to cut the cord? Where was he supposed to cut the cord? His hands trembled as he grabbed the umbilical cord with one hand, the rubbery string surprisingly tough with a slight squish beneath his grip. He could feel a thick, gelatinous fluid shifting inside the tube. The unexpected sensation made him shudder, an icy chill creeping down his spine.
His heart raced, and his mind spun. He just needed to finish this—to get it over with. Guided by panic more than confidence, he cast his spell, and the very fabric of reality wobbled and rippled around his grasp. Then, with a sudden jolt, the cord fell out of existence.
Where the cord had been, there was a thin strip carving into space, reality itself pinched and peeled away. For a moment, everything held still, then the gap slowly began to heal, reality twisting back into existence, and the space returned to normal.
"That is not a cut!"
"I didn't know where to cut!"
"So, you obliterated me!? Do you know what that feels like? That was partly inside of me!"
The broader boy, his voice rising above the others, cut through the bickering. "Does it even matter? It's gone now. Just bring the baby over to us."
The broader boy's anxiety was palpable, his eyes fixed on the small child. As soon as the white-haired boy was within reach, both teens nearly yanked the baby from his arms and hovered over it. The instant the baby was cradled in the arms of its parents, the cries abruptly ceased.
The white-haired boy had honestly grown used to the incessant crying. But now, with the sudden silence, the absence of sound felt like a weight lifting off his shoulders. He exhaled deeply, a wave of relief washing over him. His gaze shifted to his two friends, who were already deep in an animated argument over what to name the little human now cradled in their arms.
It had been months, and that debate still wasn't settled; they were truly hopeless. His eyes lifted from the baby to rest on his friends' faces. They were hopeless, but they were so happy. The white-haired boy watched the ephemeral serenity of the family, a pang of unease settling in his chest.
He couldn't help but worry. His mind flooded with the trials and tribulations that the future held for them—and, by extension, for him. The white-haired boy already had enough problems to deal with; he wanted to protect their happiness, but doubt gnawed at him. He wasn't sure if he could handle even more complications.
"I hope you don't regret this." The words hung in the air, unanswered. He doubted they even heard him at all. It didn't matter; his role here was finished. He had to leave soon—before his absence was noticed. If he stayed too long, the whole point of keeping this event a secret would be wasted.
The white-haired boy turned to leave when his friends called out to him. "Thank you, Wish."
"No problem." Wish's words were polite, but they didn't match the grim expression on his face or the exhaustion in his tone. He didn't mind helping out his friends through thick and thin, but what he'd witnessed in that room... That was something else. The dungeon of Ingress didn't even hold a candle to that horror show. And they were his friends—his friends—which made the whole situation so much more disturbing.
Wish left the room and was immediately accosted by Scrimp's querying gaze trying to pierce through him and into the room behind. "You should probably give them some time to themselves"
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Scrimp's disappointment was obvious. He'd been waiting for hours, his patience stretched thin, only able to hear the distant cries, shouts, and other panicked noises from behind the door, with no way to understand what was truly happening. Wish, however, wasn't in the mood for lingering. He was ready to leave.
"... Also don't let them leave this place until I get back. We need to go over some things before they go anywhere, and I've got some updates for them."
Scrimp tried to sneak out what information he could before his friend left. "What kind of updates?".
Wish wasn't so forthcoming and responded dismissively as he cinched his sword and scabbard to his belt. "I've got to go, Scrimp. I need my schedule to stay intact, or this'll have all been for nothing." Wish opened the door, already preparing to leave.
Scrimp jogged over to his friend. "Well, if I can't go in and say hi to the baby, then I'll walk home with you. We can talk, right?"
Wish glanced down at his shorter friend, his gaze sharp with suspicion. "Alright, but we'll have to separate when we leave the district."
Scrimp shrugged with a half-smirk. "Yeah, yeah. Can't be seen with some dirty slum rat."
Wish's expression softened, his tone tinged with reluctant sympathy. "You know I don't—"
"I know, I know," Scrimp cut him off, waving it away. "It's not your fault."
The two friends left the decrepit building, stepping out into the neglected streets of the poorest part of town. The surroundings were grim—thin, sickly figures wandered the alleys, their hollow eyes glazed from wanton abuse. Mangy children fought over rotten scraps, while adults lurked in the shadows, eyes sharp for any unsuspecting passerby.
Neither of the two paid much attention to the familiar scene. Scrimp moved with practiced ease, his steps deliberate as he navigated the twisted maze of filth and danger. He'd learned long ago how to make his way through these parts such to minimize any run-ins with trouble. Wish, though, walked in silence beside him, his thoughts far removed from the chaos around them.
Scrimp finally chanced to break his reverie. "So, when you first arrived at my place, I noticed there was some blood on your sheath."
Wish's hand shot to his sword sheath, fumbling nervously as he scanned it for any trace of grime. But before he could panic, Scrimp placed a calming hand over his, stopping the frantic search. "I cleaned it," he said, his tone steady. "While you were... busy with the others. So you don't need to worry about that anymore. But does that blood have something to do with the update you mentioned?"
"I had a little run in with some assassins on my way over."
"Again?" Scrimp's voice carried a note of disbelief. "I know you don't want to, but shouldn't you tell your dad about them now? This is getting out of hand."
Wish shook his head dismissively, his expression hardening. "No, this time they weren't for me."
Scrimp blinked, confusion crossing his face. "What? Then who were they after?"
"The baby."
Scrimp stumbled over his steps, eyes bugged in shock. "How did they find out? Do they know where I live? Should we have just left them alone back there? What if there's another group?"
"Calm down, Scrimp." Wish spoke, his voice steady, "I didn't want to say anything because you all had enough on your minds, but this isn't anything new. This was actually the third group just this month."
Scrimp froze, exterior totally still, but inside, his heart was pounding. "How long have they known!? Who even are they?"
"That's why I didn't want to tell you guys." Wish replied with a sigh, his gaze distant. "I wanted to find out who and how."
"And?"
"Well, there's good news and bad news. I can explain more when we're somewhere less public, but you should be safe for a few more weeks. I've got the culprit tied up at the moment, but they'll be pretty tough to deal with."
"Tied up!?"
"Not literally. Don't worry about it."
Scrimp exclaimed with frustration, "I just found out that people have been trying to murder my friends for months! And those friends are in hiding at my house! I don't know if you've noticed, Wish, but my place isn't exactly defensible."
"I'll make sure that everything works out; I always do. Just so long as they don't leave your house until I return. I can't be seen with you from here on out, so how about you head back and lock them down? I'll see you later tonight."
Scrimp needed a little more convincing, but eventually, Wish managed to calm him down, urging him to take care of things until he returned.
Without wasting a moment, Wish set off for the grand mansion at the heart of town. The difference in homes was like night and day. As he walked, the contrast between their worlds grew clearer with each step. Scrimp's house—if it could even be called that—was little more than a crumbling structure tucked away in the slums, barely hanging on. Wish's estate, on the other hand, stood like a gleaming fortress, an architectural marvel that could fit Scrimp's home hundreds—maybe even thousands—of times over within its walls. The disparity was staggering.
Wish entered the mansion's grand entrance hall. Two spiralling staircases ascended to opposite wings, their polished banisters gleaming in the dim light. Between them, a majestic grandfather clock stood, its pendulum swinging in a mesmerizing rhythm, the ostentatious ornament proudly displaying the time. The time!
Panic surged through Wish as he realized how late he was. He dashed through the mansion in a frenzy, racing from his room to the bath, barely pausing to acknowledge the flustered servants trailing behind him. As he tore at his clothes and struggled into his finest noble attire, he desperately hoped he'd get to supper on time.
He had been in such a hurry he nearly forgot his hat. he quickly shoved the large wool tuque over his head.
To his surprise, Wish arrived at the grand dining hall with a few moments to spare. The enormous table stretched out before him, its length seemingly endless. It could easily seat a hundred guests, yet the sheer scale of the room only heightened the sense of isolation. It took him nearly a full minute to reach the far end, where the only two other people in the room sat. The whole journey was accompanied by his steps echoing off the high walls, the distant bickering stilled as his parents awaited his approach.
His father sat at the far end of the table, looking impossibly young for his years. To anyone unaware of his father's condition, the two might have been mistaken for brothers, as the man appeared scarcely older than Wish himself. By contrast, his mother looked her age, but she wore it gracefully—her royal blood evident in every refined feature. While time had touched her, she was still a woman of unparalleled beauty, or so people wouldn't stop telling her.
Before Wish had even reached them, his mother spoke without breaking her glare from his father. "Your hair is showing."
A wave of panic washed over him. In an instant, he scrambled to tuck his white hair back into his hat, ensuring not a single strand was visible. "I humbly apologize, Mother," Wish responded slightly, failing to keep the calm elegance he was trained to perfect.
Wish made his way over to the chair across from his mother and patiently waited. His father spoke. "You may sit, Wish. And Iatric, I am not joking, I will kill that white witch and end her curse." Wish apathetically took his seat and readied himself for another traditional Heirisson family gathering.
His mother, Iatric, kept a completely monotone expression on her face. "Sometimes I wonder if your mind has also stopped maturing, Doyen. You can't kill all of your problems away."
A flush of anger crept onto Doyen's face. "Don't treat me like I'm the villain here; I didn't want this to happen either. Sorry if you're disappointed that I didn't die back then!"
The sharpness of his words finally broke through Iatric's stoic facade. "You know I would never think that."
"I know you too well to be fooled by your noble insincerity."
Iatric scoffed at Doyen's pathetic response but quickly regained her emotionless composure. "How long will you cling to your inferiority complex?" she asked, her voice cold. "You're a noble too, now. Or is being a Duke not enough for you? You just can't be satisfied unless you're the best at everything." Irritable taunting seeped past the facade of regality. "Would you like to kill my father and become king? Would that satisfy you? At least a fight for the crown might entertain your bloodlust a little longer."
Wish found himself absentmindedly counting the jewels on the chandelier, doing his best to distance his mind from the frenzied exchange. He hardly spared a glance at his parents, looking more like a child fighting a tantrum against a scolding mother. Instead, his gaze wandered down the hall, catching sight of a servant standing just inside the entrance, holding a platter of food. The servant seemed hesitant to step into the room with its oppressive atmosphere. Bringing the food in would be the perfect distraction, a way to at least temporarily stopper any argument. Why was the servant leaving Wish to suffer through this alone?
He silently cheered on the man to brave the tension and save them all. He didn't hold much hope. When his parents would get agitated enough, they'd start to emit an essential pressure so strong that it would suffocate any normal human.
Doyen slammed his fist onto the table with a deafening crack. "It is not my fault our child is a monster!"
The words cut through the air, yanking Wish unwillingly back into the conversation. In moments like this, Wish noted that there were at least some things for which he was grateful to his mother. His ability to hide all emotion, chief among them. Thanks to that, he didn't so much as flinch at his father's venomous indictment. His face remained a mask of calm, the storm of his father's anger sliding off him like water.
His mother snapped back, not missing a beat. "Yes, it is!"
Why did they have to eat supper together? His father turned to face Wish without even acknowledging his wife's retort and ready to start an entirely new conversation. It was a very Doyen thing to do. "How has your training been going recently?"
"Magic and swordsmanship have been going quite smoothly with the help of the tutors, but integrating the two on my own is continuing to prove difficult."
With the conversation shifting, the servant seized the opportunity to bring in the meal. Too little, too late, Wish thought bitterly. Traitor. As the servant stepped forward, others followed, each bearing a dish as the family's meal was finally served. The ritualistic pomp and suffocating etiquette of it all blurred together in Wish's mind, his thoughts distant as he mechanically went through the motions, lost in a daze. He nearly found himself missing the chaos at Scrimp's, nearly. Then, with that image reconjured, he lost all appetite.
The rest of their supper was uneventful; Doyen and Iatric would occasionally exchange political discourse and stratagem, their words more like those of cold business partners than a married couple. Wish managed to force his meal down, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, he was given permission to leave the table.
When Wish stood up to leave, Doyen called out to him. "I have faith that you will find a way to integrate the two styles. I believe in you."
"I will do my best, Father." That didn't seem to be the response his father was looking for, but Wish left before any more could be said. On his way to his chambers, Wish stopped at a massive oil painting many times his size. An enormous mural depicting the battle of New Heirisson, and at the center, displayed in irritating grandiosity, was his father, Doyen, the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest. He was tempted to drive his blade through the mural and tear it to shreds, but he was interrupted by the ring of two bells. One of the bells echoed from down the hall, coming from the dining hall he just left; the other came from right in front of him.
In front of Wish there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Wish holding a glowing parchment: It read.
You have been invited to The Tournament You are The Chosen