More than a year had passed since I first slipped away to the old man's house. I'd since learned his name Francis. Strange fellow, really. Obsessed with the book he'd written decades ago, yet oddly enthusiastic to read it aloud to a baby, like he'd been waiting for someone anyone to care as much as he did. I used to crawl away while pretending to nap, always timing my return just before Mom came home. She spent most days nursing Dad back to health and never noticed I'd gone missing.
From then on, sneaking out became part of my routine. I faked sleep, snuck through the streets, and buried myself in books far beyond my age. Once I started speaking, my learning exploded. Communicating with Francis changed everything. And now that I could walk run, even I could use both hands to cast spells.
"And my goal," I declared, standing proudly, "is to master all six elements. Even the accessory spells."
Francis chuckled from across the room. He was rummaging through his cluttered cupboards, pacing barefoot across the creaky wood floor. "Is that so, little Liam?" he asked, raising a brow. "I haven't even learned every spell in the past two hundred years, and I was considered a prodigy in my youth. What makes you think you can manage it?"
I sat on the floor, the massive tome open in front of me, both hands raised toward the ceiling, channeling concentration through my fingertips. "By trying real hard," I said, voice steady, "and learning more than even you've written down."
Suddenly, a spray of sparklers shot from my fingers crackling bursts of flame erupting in tiny fireworks, lighting up the room.
Francis glanced over, completely unfazed. He grinned, then returned to digging through the pantry. "Ooh! I like the sparkle effect."
"Thank you!" I replied, proudly. That particular flourish had taken me weeks to refine it was the fourth fire-element spell I'd managed to cast. The control was getting better. Cleaner. Brighter.
Then, curiosity got the better of me. "How are you over two hundred years old?" I asked, the question slipping out like a sudden breeze.
He froze for a moment, then chuckled under his breath. "Ah. That old question."
With a theatrical sigh, he closed the cupboard door and leaned on it like it owed him money. "A mix of curses like yours and runes. Stupid, risky runes." His voice carried the weight of both wisdom and regret. "Extended my life, yes. Prolonged it far beyond what's natural, that too. But at a cost."
He waved a hand as if brushing away cobwebs, and then launched into what could only be described as a magical rant.
I listened and learned.
Turns out, there are very few beings in this world more dangerous to offend than an elder dragon. Their grudges span centuries, and their magic makes sure you regret ever existing.
Runing yourself? A nightmare. It constantly drains your Triadic Core the neutrons, protons, and quarks until your body gives out. If the rune isn't precise, it won't just fail… it'll unravel you.
And never eat anything handed to you by a forgotten god. That, he said, almost with a shiver, never ends well.
He kept going, tracing his fingers along faint glowing lines etched into his forearms marks I'd always thought were tattoos until now.
"And so," he said, wrapping it all up, "I've lived two hundred and some change, will probably make it another two hundred, and finally die at the ripe, wise, and dusty old age of dust."
He laughed loud and long, the kind of laugh that shook the windows and probably startled a bird or two outside. But the laughter soon collapsed into wheezing. A cough rattled through his chest as he doubled over, bracing one hand on the counter for support.
"Are you alright?" I asked, concern breaking through my playful grin.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he rasped, swiping a tear from his eye. "Old lungs don't like joy. That's all." He sniffed once, then straightened with a creaky stretch. "Anyway… how would you like to try some cookies?"
From a lower shelf, he pulled out a tray of freshly baked cookies soft, golden-brown, and still steaming slightly. The aroma hit me like a spell: warm, rich, and devastatingly good.
"Ooh, cookies…" I whispered, eyes wide. "You tempt me too much, old man." A single tear slid down my cheek. "I can't wait for them to cool down."
Francis chuckled, setting the tray near the window. "Neither can I. I could use a wind spell to cool them quickly, but..." He paused, folding his arms as he stared out the window. "There's something special about waiting. Letting the breeze do its work. I like the feeling I get when they cool naturally on the sill."
He smiled faintly, as if remembering some distant, simpler time.
I nodded quietly, wiping the tear from my face.
We stood there an old mage and a young soul in a child's body waiting for cookies to cool in the fading afternoon light.
The silence stretched for a while, soft and warm. Then the question slipped from me, gentle but firm, echoing something he'd said earlier.
"You mentioned I was cursed… What do you believe I'm cursed with? And how do you know?"
Francis didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted to the window, then to the tray of cookies, then back to me. His face had grown serious older, in a way that had nothing to do with wrinkles.
"Your aura," he said quietly. "It's strong. And wrong."
I frowned. "Wrong?"
"You see," he began, folding his arms as if giving a lecture, "your average person has no aura nothing visible, at least. Your average mage, warrior, or support class? They've got a faint white glow, like candlelight. It outlines them when they use mana. Advanced mages and seasoned warriors those who've been through war and walked away have an aura that surrounds them completely. Still white. Still stable. Like a full moon."
He took a breath.
"Then you've got your Grand-class. The top of the top. Their auras? They burn white, head to toe. Not just visible they're blinding. They radiate so much power the air bends around them."
I waited, heartbeat steady but uncertain.
"And then…" he said, voice growing quiet, almost reverent. "Then there's everything past Grand-class. The gods. The lost beings. The things that should not exist. Their auras aren't white. They shine like the sun. Gold, celestial, untouchable."
He looked at me, eyes sharp now.
"Yours is black."
The room suddenly felt colder. I didn't speak. I didn't move.
"Not gray. Not red. Not cracked or corrupted. Pure black. That's not something you see on accident. That's the mark of the Demon Monarch."
His words hit like thunder quiet, but unmistakably heavy.
"There's nothing wrong with you," he added quickly, holding up a hand. "I've had a similar mark. Minor, though just a sliver. Picked it up during a ritual, removed it a hundred-some years ago. Took me three years of purification, but I managed."
He gave a little smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"But your mark? It's not a sliver. It's embedded. Like a brand."
I finally found my voice. "So… what does that mean?"
Francis looked back at the cookies, as if they could offer an answer.
"It means… something chose you. Or cursed you. Or maybe," he said, eyes narrowing, "you chose it."
His voice dipped, the warmth gone. "Whatever the case, you carry the Monarch's shadow. And that's not something the world forgets easily."
He leaned against the counter, gaze distant.
"When I had the mark… nothing happened at first. But eventually, it gave me a direct line to the Demon Monarch. Anything he commanded, anything he whispered to his army or followers I heard it. Sometimes it came as a whisper in the back of my skull, other times like a roar that made me want to rip my ear off."
His words trailed, heavy with memory.
"Do you hear anything?" he asked.
I hesitated. The truth pressed against my teeth like a blade.
Should I tell him?
That I'd heard something when I first arrived in this world?
That a voice demonic, ancient had spoken to me?
That some beast had torn my head from my shoulders, ripped me from my world, and rebuilt me in this one?
Could I really say that out loud?
He's old. Wise. Maybe telling him would help.
Or maybe
"Stop."
My thoughts swarmed too fast, tangled and loud. I forced them back.
"I have," I said, voice quiet. "Heard something. But only once. It was… before I was born." I met his eyes, searching for a reaction. "I'm not originally from this world."
Francis barely blinked. "Checks out."
I stared at him. "That's it?"
He shrugged. "People show up from other worlds every hundred years or so. Usually after death. They're summoned as heroes, sometimes forcibly, sometimes by contract. You're no different just came here through a more personal route."
I opened my mouth again, still stunned. "That's all you have to say? I'm a talking baby who can cast spells and comprehend every complex word you throw at me!"
He scratched his beard. "Exactly. You're not subtle. You've clearly been through something big, and if your body didn't scream anomaly already, your aura certainly does. The rest is just… catching up."
I paused, then sighed.
"I made a deal," I said at last. "With… something. In my head. Right before I died. I asked it to give me another chance. Not for revenge, not for power just… for a girl."
Francis tilted his head. "A girl?"
"She doesn't even know me. Not yet. But she will. And I'll fight my way to become the man she needs… even if I have to burn the world to do it."
There was a long pause.
Francis exhaled slowly. "Really? That's all?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
He snorted, then smiled. "Well, it'll get better. I can certainly promise you one thing: you won't stay a baby forever."
He gave me a playful wink. "Though I have to admit, watching you cast spells with chubby fingers is kind of adorable."
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched upward.
"Anyway," he said, stretching his back with a loud pop, "it's been a minute. Let's eat these cookies before the animals get to them."
He moved toward the windowsill, and I followed, the tension between us melting away like heat from a fresh batch of baked dough. The world was still full of curses, marks, and shadows…
But for now, we had cookies.