Chapter 8
War beckons
Screaming in agony, IAM smacked his head on his bed frame and collapsed, writhing like a dying frog, clutching his head.
"Argh, what the fuck... This hurts so bad."
The pain was like someone holding a heated needle and stabbing it into every single pore. It was simply unbearable.
In that instant, IAM understood that forming an avien wasn't about talent—it was about willpower. The ability to withstand that horrible, piercing pain without losing control.
He also realized the average two-week time wasn't due to natural skill, but the time it usually took for a person to get accustomed to the intense suffering and learn to endure it.
Gritting his teeth, he tried again. And again. And again.
Four hours later, IAM lay on the cold floor, soaked with sweat and tears. He could hardly believe it—he hadn't expected to have superhuman mental strength, but he never imagined that after all this effort, he could barely hold the state of drawing mana for more than six seconds.
According to the book, he needed to sustain that state for at least ten minutes to guide the flow and increase his chances of forming an avien. At this rate, it might take him a month—or two.
Slowly rising, IAM took off his shirt, searching through his wardrobe for the 'cleanest' option, then made his way to the river.
Once again, IAM was forced to walk through what he had come to call the graveyard of the living—a place where laughter had long since died, and hope came only to be buried.
Small children sat motionless, not playing as they should. Their eyes were distant, their bodies frail. They stared at nothing, their minds dulled by hunger and thirst, dying for just a taste of what should have been a birthright: food, water, life.
Fathers. Mothers. Even grandparents.
All of them stood by helplessly, their faces etched with quiet despair as they watched their precious children waste away before them. Eyes once bright with dreams now only reflected shadows. No one wept anymore. The tears had run dry long ago.
The sight made IAM's stomach twist, the weight of the scene pressing down on his chest like stone. The image burned itself into him, carving a mark in the deepest corners of his mind. He knew—this was something he would never, could never, forget.
Yet this time, something was different.
As he walked through the gloom, a few of the mothers turned to him. Their eyes still hollow—but something flickered there. Recognition. Maybe even hope. A few offered small, tired smiles as he passed by. A gesture not of joy, but of thanks, or perhaps faith in something he hadn't yet become.
He didn't wave. He couldn't.
But he nodded, once.
Then kept walking.
He eventually reached the river. Away from everyone else, he washed himself, rinsing off the sweat and grime.
Afterward, he climbed back onto the yellow weeds and grabbed his plain brown shirt and trousers.
He put on his faded black shoes—thin and worn, almost like socks—and headed back toward the dreary slums.
Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw a man in his twenties, about 5'8" tall. Because IAM was 6'1", he had to look down slightly. The man was white, with green eyes and black hair. He smiled lightly up at IAM.
IAM recognized him—he was one of the other volunteers who had signed up for the war, though IAM hadn't caught his name yet.
Smiling sheepishly, he pointed to his slightly red face and said, "Remember me from that library? I'm part of the people that enlisted. The name's Ryan."
IAM nodded in agreement and enquired what he needed.
"Um… I don't know about you but I'm pretty nervous about this whole war thing. I want to get to the meeting point as early as possible, and I didn't want to go alone. Plus, you're the closest person to my age so I thought…"
IAM understood what he was putting down and nodded his head. They made plans to meet up in two days after packing up.
Two days later, after selling the house for a silver and buying some new clothes and essentials, carrying a heavy bag, he made his way to the front of the slums with 83 bc change after all the purchases.
It was also change after putting some money together with Ryan who split it 9-1 to him, claiming, "Since I suggested it, I should pay at least this much," to pay for a carriage to the meeting point.
Before leaving, IAM asked around if anyone had seen anything suspicious or different about 'himself' before he had taken over 'his' body. Strangely enough, everyone claimed they had not seen 'him' for the two days before the takeover… Very strange.
Sighing in exasperation, he hopped aboard the wooden carriage that would be pulled along by two brown horses. Ryan followed. They settled themselves with their baggage in their 'seats'—which was the cold hard floor—amongst the food supplies and goods that belonged to the driver, who wished to sell them to potential customers.
Two days before, the man did not know he would be delivering an extra 'package'—and to a war zone of all places. But the extra money was nice, and their destination was along the route he usually took.
IAM looked back towards his 'home' and closed his eyes, remembering his sweet memories of this place and unsure whether he would ever make it back at all… The shit smells… the shit houses… The shit food… The shit… Actually, he just might not come back regardless.
Shaking his head, he began to embark on the whole new world waiting for him.
A new story of fresh beginnings… or perhaps just a prologue to the end.
.......
Ella watched from the windowsill on the top floor of Jonah's restaurant, which was situated close to the entrance of the slums. A quiet solemnity settled over her as she took in the sight of IAM disappearing into the distance—gone so quickly, almost without a trace.
No one had come to see them off. No voices called out, no hands waved farewell. Just silence.
She lifted her gaze to the sky, where the dark clouds that had hung heavily over the slums for days were finally beginning to break apart. Rays of sunlight timidly peeked through the gaps, casting a gentle glow over the worn rooftops and dusty streets.
The light once again graced Hope's End, bathing the place in a fragile promise of something better.
But as she watched the fading figure, a quiet thought stirred in her mind—war is beckoning.