The spacious birthing chamber was filled with a graceful yet heavy atmosphere. The walls were clad in pale golden-toned marble panels adorned with delicate carvings; the intricate designs bore the marks of an ancient art, mesmerizing in their curling forms. Above, a crystal chandelier sparkled softly, its warm glow reflecting off the polished black stone floor, casting the room into a dim but welcoming light. The air was scented faintly with sandalwood and exotic herbs; wisps of smoke curled up from an incense burner in the corner, deepening the room's mystical ambiance.
At the center of the room lay a wide birthing bed draped in silk sheets, where a white-haired woman rested. Her hair cascaded like silver, shimmering threads down her shoulders, each strand seemingly borrowed from the night sky. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful: high cheekbones, a graceful jawline, and pale, almost porcelain skin. Her emerald green eyes glowed with determination and deep exhaustion. But in that moment, her beauty was shadowed by pain. Beads of sweat dotted her brow, her lips were cracked from thirst, and her breath came in ragged gasps. Her face twisted with each push, but in her eyes burned the unwavering will of a mother.
Beside the bed stood two small children clinging to its edge. One, a seven-year-old girl, had chestnut hair that had slipped from its braids, strands falling messily across her face. Her emerald eyes were locked on her mother's, and her tiny hands clutched her mother's hand tightly. The other, a boy of four or five, had lashes wet with tears, yet he cried in silence, as though afraid any sound might hurt his mother. Fear and love intermingled on their young faces; their small bodies trembled under the weight of the moment.
Between contractions, the woman cast fleeting glances at the door. Her eyes lit briefly with hope, only to darken again. It was as if someone — a husband, perhaps, or a dream — might walk through at any moment. But the heavy wooden door remained shut, unmoved and cold.
The healers moved like shadows in silk robes, gliding around the room. The chief healer, a middle-aged woman with deep lines on her forehead, barked orders with calm authority."Qi backlash! Summon the manipulators now! Balance the blood flow and Qi circulation!"Beside her, a young assistant with trembling hands prepared trays of glowing liquids in glass bottles and bundles of healing herbs. His eyes flicked nervously to the bed, his whole body shaking with fear and helplessness.
With one final push, the woman summoned all her strength. Her breath escaped like a storm; every muscle in her body strained, as if she had compressed her entire life into that single moment.
Then — silence.A boy had been born. Small, delicate… but silent.He did not cry.
The entire room froze. The healers exchanged glances. The young assistant nearly dropped the glass bottle he was holding. The newborn's tiny chest wasn't moving.
The chief healer rushed over, took the baby in her arms, and gently rubbed his chest."Check breathing!" she barked, panic crackling beneath the command.The assistant leaned close, breathed softly into the baby's face, and gently pressed his chest.
At last, the baby inhaled — but he did not cry.His eyes, an unnaturally deep shade of crimson, bore little resemblance to his mother's. His expression was blank, pure, eerily watchful. It was as if he did not understand the world, only observed it.
The healers exchanged subtle glances; something about this child wasn't right.
But attention quickly shifted back to the mother. Her condition was deteriorating. Her already pale skin had turned nearly translucent. The silk sheets beneath her were soaked in blood — it flowed from her limbs, her mouth, even her eyes. A fountain of crimson no technique could halt.
The chief healer shouted, "We're losing her! Two liters, now!" Her voice echoed off the stone walls.
The children clung to their mother, sobbing."Mom… please," the little girl whispered, refusing to let go of her hand.The boy buried his face in her arm, weeping silently.
But the woman was already gone. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, blank and unseeing. Blood poured out relentlessly, painting the stone floor in a horrifying tableau.
Then — the silence was broken by the groaning creak of the heavy wooden door.
A young man stepped inside. He looked to be in his late twenties, with sharp features and tousled black hair. His eyes brimmed with grief. He wore a silk robe, frayed at the edges, as though he'd traveled a long way. In his arms, he held the newborn gently — but his gaze locked on the woman in the bed.
She lay lifeless. The face that once held unmatched beauty was now a ruin. Her eyes were caked with dried blood; her skin gray and sunken, as if life had drained away in minutes. Her body had already begun to decay with unnatural speed — her skin flaking, peeling, as though nature itself was reclaiming her.
The man knelt beside her. Pain and love twisted across his face. He leaned down and pressed a final kiss to her cold forehead; his lips trembled as they touched her. Then, he looked at the baby in his arms. The child's crimson eyes stared back with that same strange, blank expression.
For a fleeting moment, the man's face contorted in disgust. His teeth clenched.His voice, cold and sharp, cut through the room like a blade:
"Go… and never return."
The dusty attic of the orphanage was gently illuminated by the first light of dawn. Slender beams of sunlight filtered through the roof, dancing between the old wooden beams, turning the dust motes on the floor into a sparkling carpet. The air was heavy with the scent of damp wood; musty, yet somehow peaceful.
In the attic, I was sitting on a patchwork blanket, my back leaning against a crooked beam. In my hands was a worn-out book; its pages yellowed and edges curled, but the text was still legible. My eyes were lost in its lines. This was me. Antonio. Or at least, I used to be Antonio. Now, my name was different — but my story… was like a novel. Or rather, a miracle. Maybe even a curse. Who knew?
Below, the anxious voice of Sister Maria echoed through the narrow stone corridors of the orphanage."Lior! Where are you, you naughty boy?"Her voice cracked with worry and irritation, every word carrying the weight of years of exhaustion.
This was our usual game. I had disappeared again. While the other children played ball in the courtyard or lined up for meals, I slipped away to the attic — my refuge. A place out of reach from Sister Maria's shouts, the other children's noise, and the suffocating rules of the orphanage.
But the book in my hands wasn't ordinary. Its title was The Rock and Mountain Absorption Method. Yes, it sounded strange, I know. Spiritual energy, meridians, cycles… It was as if it spoke the language of another world. No one in the orphanage, or even the village, had ever talked about things like this.
How I found the book was a story of its own. One day, when I had "escaped" from the orphanage — okay, let's call it running away — I had sat beneath an old oak tree by the forest's edge. Just as I was about to relax, something pricked my backside. Angry, I dug at the ground and found the book wrapped in a dusty cloth at the roots. Its pages felt heavy, like it held an ancient secret.
Reading was forbidden at the orphanage, especially for anyone under fifteen. Sister Maria used to say, "Books are the devil's whispers," clutching her rosary. But this book was fascinating, and well… let's say curiosity got the better of me. So every day, I snuck away to the attic to read these pages in secret. I couldn't tell anyone — no sisters, no other children. It was a sin.
Downstairs, Sister Maria was still shouting."Antonio, hot soup is ready! Don't freeze, come now!"Her voice sounded almost pleading, but I wasn't fooled.
The orphanage was small; its gray stone walls, narrow windows, and a leaky roof barely sheltered fifteen children. But I was afraid to help. Last year, a boy had died from tetanus. When I suggested amputating his arm, the sisters and other children looked at me like I was a heretic who knew forbidden things. Those stares still chilled me to the bone. So I stopped acting like a child.
How I fell into this world — I had no idea. All I remembered was that I was born like any other child. But whenever I tried to recall more, my mind would fog and a pounding headache would strike. It was as if a veil of mist covered my past. The only certainty was that somehow, miraculously, I had been reborn into this world as a baby.
My past life was like a pale dream; laboratories, papers, knives… But this world had given me a second chance. Although, if you called it luck, it was fragile at best. In my first life, everything was taken from me. My score with God was even — one to one. But this time, I wouldn't waste the chance. I wouldn't do the things I hated.I would fulfill my desires, commit all the great sins I had once denied.I would no longer hold myself back. No longer work for general good, but for my own.
Memories of my past life kept anger burning inside me. Until I was six, I kept asking myself why I had worked so hard, whether what I did was truly honorable — but was that really what I wanted?
This time, I wouldn't regret what I did.
Just then, Sister Maria's voice drew nearer. I quickly hid the book under an unused cupboard and, unaware that a curious eye was watching me from a small mouse hole, peered down.
Sister Maria walked slowly along the corridors, searching for me with a furious expression. But it was almost funny because whenever she turned to the other children, her anger softened, and she smiled. Yet the moment they were out of sight, the anger returned.
When Sister Maria moved away, I slipped down from the attic and out the door, unaware that I was being watched…