The cold light of a dying sun caught the gleam of steel—a stark, brutal glint against the bruised sky. Two figures stood poised on a bluff overlooking a ravaged valley, shrouded in shadow and the dust of their conflict. One wielded a longsword, its edge chipped and worn from a hundred clashes. The other gripped a heavy, twin-headed axe.
The swordsman moved first, a blur of motion. He didn't just fight—he danced, each parry and thrust a fluid extension of his will. Metal sang against metal as he drove his opponent back with a storm of precise, focused strikes. But the axeman was a wall, an unyielding force of raw power.
He met every blow with a shuddering crash, his movements less art and more primal force. Each thunderous swing sought to end the duel with a single, crushing blow, forcing the swordsman to exhaust himself on defense.
The battle raged on. The earth beneath their feet became scored and broken, a testament to their destructive power. The swordsman, for all his grace, was beginning to tire. The relentless assault was a storm he couldn't outlast.
In a moment of desperation, he feinted a lunge, drawing his opponent's guard to the right, then pivoted. His sword flashed toward the axeman's leg—a perfect strike, a move that should have ended the fight.
But the axeman was ready. He shifted his stance, using his axe-head as a brutal counterweight that knocked the blade aside. With a feral roar, he brought the butt-end of his weapon down in a swift, brutal strike.
The crack echoed across the silent battlefield.
The swordsman crumpled, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He tried to rise, but the pain consumed him, leaving him immobile and helpless.
The axeman stood over him, breathing heavily. He didn't offer a final, merciful blow. Instead, he simply looked at the defeated man, then turned and walked away, leaving him to his fate.
Hours passed. The sun disappeared, and darkness cloaked the valley. The defeated warrior lay there, his sword just out of reach, his body trembling with pain and the bitter sting of defeat.
It wasn't the wound that killed him in the end. It was the humiliation—the memory of his foe's careless, dismissive departure. The shame of being left to rot, as if he were nothing more than a broken tool, was a poison that seeped into his very soul.
He had lived by the blade. Now he was dying by its absence.
In the silent, unforgiving cold, his last breath left his body.
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4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
The cupboard under the stairs was more a glorified closet than a room. A thin, lumpy mattress lay on the floor—its only furnishing. This was a space meant for forgotten things: old coats, dusty boxes of Christmas decorations, a broken vacuum cleaner. Not a living, breathing child.
The air was heavy and stale, thick with the scent of old wood and must. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting sickly yellow light that only deepened the shadows.
This was his world. This was home.
The boy had lain there for days, his small body burning with fever. The sickness was a raging storm inside him—a maelstrom of fire and ice that held him captive.
Then, suddenly, profound stillness settled over him.
The fire in his veins began to recede, replaced by a cool, almost otherworldly clarity. The constant pain in his joints and muscles faded to a dull ache. He took a deep, shuddering breath—the first in what felt like forever—and pushed himself up.
His head throbbed, but it was a familiar pain, one he knew well from his past life.
He was no longer just a frail, feverish boy.
He was a warrior reborn.
As he opened his eyes, the world seemed sharper, more vivid. The patterns in the wood grain of the stairs above him, the faint scent of old dust and mildew—everything registered with new, almost overwhelming clarity.
He remembered. He was the man who had died on that battlefield of broken honor. The memory of the duel flooded back—the dance of steel, the thunderous power of the axe, the final, humiliating defeat. He could still feel the phantom ache in his shattered knee, the bitter taste of shame.
But the grief and humiliation that had ended his previous life were now embers of a new fire—a cold, burning resolve to never again be so helpless.
The throbbing in his head began to subside, replaced by a torrent of disjointed images. New memories—not his own, yet somehow they were. They rushed through him like a breaking dam: a decade of life as a boy named Alister.
He saw it all in flashes. The taunts of his cousin Dudley, a hulking boy whose favorite pastime was hunting him through the garden. The sneers of Aunt Petunia, her thin lips twisted into a perpetual scowl. The lazy cruelty of Uncle Vernon, who saw him as an inconvenience at best, an abomination at worst.
He remembered the endless chores, the cupboard under the stairs, the gnawing hunger. The broken toys, the cast-off clothes, the loneliness.
And then there was another face—a small, timid face with wide, fearful eyes. His little sister, Astra.
The memories of her shone bright against the surrounding misery. He remembered holding her hand on the rare occasions they were allowed out, sneaking her a piece of toast or a discarded cookie—small acts of defiance against the Dursleys' cruelty. He remembered her small smiles, the way her tiny hand would squeeze his in the dark.
She was his anchor in a sea of neglect, a shared secret between two children who had no one else.
The warrior's cold resolve and the boy's fierce love merged. The pride that had died on the battlefield now had a new purpose beyond power: to keep his sister safe. Two lives were now one, the swordsman's iron will and the boy's loving heart forged together in the crucible of rebirth.
Alister looked down at his small hands. They were not the calloused, scarred hands of a warrior, but the soft, pale hands of a child. He balled them into fists.
He may be weak now, but that would change.
A knock on the door shattered his thoughts. "Boy, get up! There are chores to be done, and your freakishness isn't going to clean itself!" Uncle Vernon's voice—a growl of impatient rage—came from the other side.
Alister's gaze went to the door. "Coming, Uncle Vernon," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. The words were automatic, a response ingrained from a decade of subservience. But this time, they were spoken with quiet, steely resolve.
________________________________________________
"Boy, get your lazy arse out here! Now!"
Vernon Dursley's voice boomed through the house—a sound Alister had heard a thousand times but now registered with the cold, calculating mind of a strategist. He pushed himself off the thin mattress and crawled out of the cupboard, his small body feeling foreign and fragile.
The Dursleys were in the kitchen. Petunia worked at the sink, her movements sharp and agitated. Dudley stuffed his face with cake. Astra stood near the table, her small hands wringing a tea towel, her eyes wide and fearful.
Alister began his chores, his movements fluid and efficient despite his unfamiliar body. His hands, once so familiar with the weight of a sword, now busied themselves washing dishes. As he worked, he watched the Dursleys with new eyes.
They were no longer people to him. They were obstacles—obstacles to his peace, obstacles to his sister's safety. The rage that had been his constant companion in his past life simmered just below the surface.
The clatter of shattering ceramic made everyone jump.
Astra had been trying to put a clean plate on the rack, but her small, trembling hands had lost their grip. The ugly plate with its chipped flower pattern now lay in a dozen sharp pieces on the linoleum.
Alister's head snapped up.
"Astra! You clumsy, useless girl!" Petunia screeched, her face twisted with furious indignation. "Do you think we have money to waste on your carelessness? Go to your room! Now!"
Astra's eyes filled with tears as she cowered, shoulders hunched.
The sight ignited something primal in Alister. The warrior surfaced—his senses sharpening, his body tensing, ready for battle. His gaze fixed on the Dursleys, filled with chilling, murderous intent.
Vernon froze mid-bite. Petunia stopped speaking entirely.
They both felt it—a cold, predatory aura. An impossible feeling, a primal dread that no human should inspire.
It was the gaze of a killer.
Alister's eyes, normally a gentle green, were now cold, piercing emerald—devoid of warmth. He stepped forward, his feet silent on the floor. The Dursleys could only stare back, their faces pale.
"She's sick," Alister said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And she's tired. We're going to our room."
Petunia opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat. The weight of his stare was too much—like looking into the eyes of a monster. Vernon just stared, cake crumbs forgotten.
Alister didn't wait for a response. He walked to Astra, gently took her hand, and led her out of the kitchen. Their silence was a stark contrast to the Dursleys' flustered terror.
Alister led Astra back to the cupboard. Once inside, he knelt and looked at her. Her body still trembled, and a single tear traced a path down her dusty cheek. He gently wiped it away with his thumb.
"It's okay now," he said softly, the dangerous edge completely gone. "I'm here."
Astra sniffled and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shirt. Alister hugged her back, his arms feeling strong and purposeful for the first time in this life. The small, frail body in his embrace felt more precious than any treasure. He had failed himself in his past life, but he would not fail her.
"You're not clumsy," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You just need rest. I'll take care of you."
Astra clung to him, and Alister held her tightly, the warmth of her small body chasing away the cold memory of his death.
He held her for a long time, rocking her gently. Her breathing became slow and even, her body growing lax against his. He carefully laid her back on the mattress, pulling the thin, scratchy blanket up to her chin. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, his touch gentle as a whisper.
With firm resolve to protect Astra burning in his heart, he closed his eyes and drifted into a sleep more peaceful than any he had known in this life or the last.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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