Jack was startled awake by a freezing cold sensation rushing over his entire body. Wrapped in a wet and cold… thing. A cold so deep his very soul shivered. He jumped and fell to the floor with a damp thud. He was so afraid he squeezed his eyes shut and panted in panic.

  He was breathing hard and his heart pounded so loud that he thought it would burst from his chest… “I… I can feel my heart. How is…” Disorientated, he took a deep breath. “The poison. What’s… I’m dead? I must be dead.” Still draped in the cold, wet darkness, he tentatively felt his stomach for stab wounds. He found nothing but more confusion.

  In his mind, he went to the worst-case scenario. The Gods of the Underworld had already claimed his worthless soul, and he’d woken in Tartarus wrapped in a damp death shroud. “Is-is this the Underworld?”

  “Where am I?” He prayed to the Gods he wasn’t in Tartarus. Fear crept up his spine as he shivered from the coldness. Anywhere but Tartarus. His throat tightened at the thought.

  Tartarus, the deepest pit of the Underworld. Reserved for the damned, the wicked, and the unforgiven. Surely his failed attempt to kill Viscount Greaves wasn’t enough to damn his soul? That had been justice. Hadn’t it?

  As dread coiled tighter, a familiar female voice broke through.

  “Were you having a bad dream, Jack?”

  Jack froze and his breath caught in his throat at the sound of that voice. No. It couldn’t be.

  His eyes opened wide, and with caution, he removed the wet shroud covering his face, half expecting to find himself before the bronze gates of Tartarus.

  Calling on what little courage remained, he squinted against the light and saw a small, square room of timber walls and brass piping. A faint tick-tick-tick came from the cog-driven wall clock above a bed; seven forty-five in the morning. Spent blue aether-steam hissed from the vent in the corner. And in front of him stood a teenage girl with long, dark, curly hair, wearing a sensible navy dress and the smug grin of someone pleased with themselves.

  Jack’s jaw fell open. Disorientated and confused, he stared at the smiling teenager. “Polly?” he whispered as if her name might vanish like smoke if spoken too loud.

  It was her! His younger sister was alive, young, and mischievous. Not the charred body he’d failed to bury in his memory.

  His eyes scanned the room. It was the same childhood bedroom he’d once called his own. To the right, the narrow wooden bed now soaked through. To the left was his old desk, a mess of ink bottles, pens, and dusty tomes he’d once treasured. Manuals on runes and magical classification, magic spells scrolls to memorise for when young Jack would be capable of inscribing his own.

  Even the scent of parchment and spent aether-steam from the desk lamp lingered in the air. He recalled the wonderful smell of old scrolls and the call to sit at his desk with his head buried deep in research.

  “I’m-I’m home,” he whispered. This was his home, not how he remembered it as the fire destroyed his life two decades earlier, but how it should be. This was before everything went wrong in his life; four years before the fire, when his family was still alive and he was whole and happy. He could almost hear his mother’s voice from the kitchen calling him to breakfast.

  With reluctance, he pulled his eyes away from the old study area. Jack stared in shock at his sister, who looked much younger than he remembered. “By the Gods, how is this possible?”

  Polly beamed. “Well,” she said with confidence, patting down her long dress, “first, I filled a bucket with cold water and balanced it above your huge, fat head.” With a giggle, she pointed to the small shelf above the bed and the wooden bucket on the floor. “Then I tied it to your wrist and waited for you to move. Simple engineering, really.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.

  Jack followed the soaked rope back to his own arm and recognition dawned. The prank on his sixteenth birthday, his annoying fourteen-year-old sister had done this. She tossed his books onto the floor, soaked his mattress, and almost froze him solid. He’d been furious at the time. All his bedding was drenched, and his precious books were dumped on the floor like rubbish. He remembered sleeping on the hard wooden boards of his bed until his mattress dried out.

  Jack smiled at the pleasant memory. Am I still dying? Is this my life flashing before me? Before I’m judged by the Gods?

  As he contemplated the situation, he realised he hadn’t felt this good in decades. His skin was no longer tight from the burn scars. Other than the cold, his skin felt… normal. The constant itch of scar tissue was gone.

  The fire that consumed his family had caused significant damage to his body, the sight in his right eye was compromised. I can see normally. The extensive burn damage to his right side caused pain and tightness in the scarred skin. My right arm feels… fine.

  While Jack was lost in his thoughts, Polly continued explaining the practical joke. “You took too long to move, so I tickled your stinky feet.” She started laughing again, causing her cheeks to go bright red. “Worked much better than I expected. You look like a drowned rat, Jack… Jack the rat as wet as a… cat?” She frowned. She never was very good at rhyming. “No, wait, that’s not quite…”

  Despite believing he was experiencing a last gasp at life, Jack jumped up and pulled his startled sister into a damp hug; the bucket attached to his wrist clattered on the wooden floor. “I’ve missed you so much,” his voice cracked with emotion. Tears streamed down his face as he recalled how she died, screaming in the fire.

  Polly squirmed and tried to push him away. “Get off, you’re all wet and stinky. By the Gods, when did you last wash?” She tried to lift her nose away from his chest, but Jack was half a foot taller and pulled her in closer like she’d vanish if he loosened the hold. “Stop moving,” she complained, “You’re making it worse. You’re wafting your nasty stink in my face.” She made fake vomiting noises. “Boys are disgusting.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  In the original memory, Jack had been so annoyed at being wet that he’d chased Polly down. When she complained at the smell, he’d rubbed her face in his sweaty armpit. This time, Jack ignored her complaints and gave her a big kiss on the forehead before jumping up and down with her while laughing.

  I’ve missed this so much. If only this were real and would never end.

  With all her strength, Polly pushed him away. Jack laughed again… his laugh was wild and joyful.

  “What are you doing, you lunatic.” She wiped her forehead like a stray dog had taken a dump on it. “Urrr. What sort of brother kisses their sister on the head?”

  Jack felt alive. More alive than he’d felt in over twenty years.

  “What are you two up to at this early hour?”

  Jack froze as the familiar voice of his mother drew closer to his bedroom door.

  A moment later, their mom burst into the room. Upon seeing the soaked bedding and her dripping, wet son, she transformed from a curious parent into a fuming, mad mom. “Pollyanna!” she thundered. “What have I told you about taking your pranks too far?” She gestured at the drenched sheets and her sodden firstborn. Spent aether-steam hissed from the radiator pipes behind her as the brass vents clicked and expanded with the morning heat.

  Before she could say more, Jack ran to her—dragging the clattering bucket along the floor—with his arms spread wide for a hug. “Mom. Mom, I missed you,” he choked, wrapping her in his arms like he’d not seen her in twenty years. Which, for him, was the unbearable truth.

  She smelled of home… lavender soap, warm bread, and safety.

  His mother recoiled from the damp embrace. “You saw me last night,” she said. “Did the bucket hit you in the head?” She glared at Polly. “You know how heavy those things are! You could’ve brained the poor boy.”

  His mom tugged Jack’s damp hair aside to inspect his scalp for signs of bumps and cuts. Glaring at Polly while gesticulating, she said, “Did you forget about your poor old Great Aunt Elsie?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Hit on the head with a bucket. Dead the next morning.” She shook her head, her eyes flashing with disappointment.

  His sister rolled her eyes. “I think he had a bad dream, Mom,” she remarked, attempting to sound helpful. “He should be grateful I woke him,” she added with a playful grin. “They say if you die in a nightmare, you’ll wake up dead. So… I’m a hero, saving poor Jack from waking up dead.” Though Polly tried to maintain a straight face, she couldn’t help but burst into laughter at her own terrible joke.

  Their mother groaned and Jack couldn’t stop smiling. His mother was there, with her beautiful green eyes and a happy smile. Well, she wasn’t smiling or happy right now, but she was there. Overwhelmed by emotions, tears poured down his face. Soon, he was sobbing like a toddler who had lost his mother in a scary crowd, only to find her again.

  “I… I missed you so much, Mom.” Jack felt his mother’s hug. He’d missed this feeling more than anything else he’d lost. Don’t end… Please don’t end. I can’t lose her again.

  “It’s alright, Jack.” His mother comforted him, stroking his back with care. “Did you have a bad nightmare?” She cooed and patted his wet back. “You’re safe now.”

  Jack didn’t want to ruin the moment; still sobbing, he nodded. While absorbing the loving warmth of his mother’s hug, he closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods he’d get enough time. Please, whoever’s controlling this, please give me time to say goodbye. Please, I’ll, I’ll do anything.

  “It’s alright. It was only a dream.” She kissed the top of his damp head before pushing him away by the shoulders to look into his eyes. Concerned, she asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Jack nodded.

  “That’s good,” his mom said. “Now, you need to get cleaned up before breakfast.” She was still looking at him with worry and asked, “You do remember what today is? That it’s your sixteenth, and you get to choose your class today? Right?”

  He nodded again.

  She spoke to him like he was a vulnerable infant. “It’s not anything to be worried about. With all your hard work, you’re bound to be offered scribe… just like your father.” She smiled in that way parents did when trying to reassure a child too nervous to sleep the night before a big exam.

  Jack stared, tears still glistening in his eyes. Just like Dad…

  In this world, choosing a class at sixteen was a sacred rite. Your dedication determined what classes the Choosing Stone revealed. Want to be a swordsman? Train with a sword. Dream of being an archer? Practise with a bow. But if you studied history, copied scrolls, and translated old languages… then you might be chosen as a scribe.

  A few hours from now, during his first life, he’d headed to a temple, placed his hands on a Choosing Stone, and selected Novice Scribe. Choosing a class granted him access to the Gods gifted System and the Scribe Skills, Copy Text (0), Translate Text (0), Draughtsmanship (0), and Perfect Recall (0).

  For Jack, that had once been everything. A good, honourable class that would mean a good, safe life for him and his future family. His few friends had wanted to be flashy knights or monster hunters, but he’d loved sitting at his desk by aether light, ink-stained fingers scribbling into journals or inscribing spells on scrolls.

  His father had been an Expert Scribe. His grandfather, a prodigy, had reached Master Scribe by seventy-seven. An exceptional achievement, given that levelling slowed with age. At sixteen, Jack had believed he’d level even faster; the signs were there. He’d believed in the future, but life had betrayed that belief.

  Jack thought about his father and sobbed even deeper at the thought of seeing his dad again. If this memory held true, he wouldn’t see him until the evening. He was working at the Royal Library under Baron Greaves. The thought of his father being near the murderous Baron made him shiver with both fear and rage.

  Would the death dream even last long enough for him to see his dad again?

  “Come on, Jack. You’re shivering from the cold. Go get cleaned up. You smell worse than a wet dog,” his mom said.

  Polly gave Jack a mocking, toothy grin. “That’s what I said, Mom. He stinks worse than an old dog that bathed with a dead skunk in sour milk.” She smiled even wider at the high-quality insult.

  Jack chuckled through his tears. He did stink, and he’d missed her insults. He’d stayed up half the night working by the soft, blue glow of his aether lamp, practising calligraphy to ensure he was offered the scribe class. His shirt was stained with sweat and ink, his skin sticky with nervous anticipation.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself before releasing the bear hug he’d been giving his mother. “S-sorry, Mom…” He took another deep breath to get the sobbing under control. “It-it was a really bad nightmare… and I love you.” He forced a smile. Please don’t end while I’m bathing. Please.

  His mother pulled him in for another hug. “I know. I love you too, Son.” After a dozen seconds, she released the hug. “Go get cleaned up,” she ordered, “and I’ll get breakfast ready.”

  Jack nodded.

  Their mother gave Polly a look of righteous vengeance. “And you, young lady. You’ll be cleaning everything you soaked.” She pointed at the wet bedclothes. “Everything. Then we’ll have another long conversation about boundaries and why murder-by-bucket is not a valid prank.”

  Jack smiled at this part of the memory. He knew what was coming next. As a punishment, Polly had to do all the washing for an entire month, so he’d made sure to get his clothes filthy. He recalled sitting and kneeling in mud, so his sister had a harder time cleaning his clothes. Good times.

  Polly moaned, “But, Mom, it was only a joke.” She saw Jack smiling as he left the room. “See Mom.” She pointed towards Jack. “He’s smiling, he’s not even annoyed. Look! He’s happy.”

  Jack popped his head back around the door. “I don’t need to get annoyed, Polly. I have a mom who can do that for me.” His laughter bounded off the walls as he headed to the bathroom with the clattering bucket still attached.

  Blood Mage Assassin where Jack began his journey as a level 49 Apprentice Scribe.

  Max-Level Paladin of the Fallen Gods.