I don't remember when it all started, I only know that I woke up in dense shadows, trapped in a sticky darkness, a cold that penetrated me to the bone. My body felt small, vulnerable, unable to move a single muscle, out of breath, with nothing but a constant pressure pressing on my chest.
It was but a fragment of existence, enveloped in a tunnel of silence broken only by a distant sound: the loud, desperate beating of a heart, perhaps mine, perhaps someone else's. I struggled to open my eyes, to breathe, to escape from that abyss that contained me.
A brutal impulse forced me to move forward, to break the invisible barrier that enclosed me. It was a primitive and painful endeavor, a battle against darkness and death. And then, suddenly, the light.
A new world blinded me. I opened my eyes and everything was chaos: intense colors, unknown smells, discordant sounds. A high-pitched scream escaped my lips before I could understand what was happening.
They lifted me up with strong, rough hands, covered in scars and tattoos that glowed faintly with ancient symbols. Skin as hard as stone, eyes that reflected the harshness of a world that does not forgive.
"Nakhúr," a harsh voice muttered, as a woman with twisted horns and red eyes stared at me without a hint of tenderness. The marking.
I felt like just another object, something to be used or discarded, in the midst of an oni tribe that lived between wild magic and ancient traditions.
They took me to the village, a place built of carved rock and bones, under a strange sky with two moons that I had never seen. The earth vibrated beneath my feet, and the air smelled of ash and salt.
There was no home or affection, only a destiny marked by the rune that burned in my chest, a seal that bound me to this harsh and brutal land.
As I closed my eyes to try to sleep, a spark grew inside me. It wasn't fear that I felt, but a mute promise: I would survive. And I would fight.
***
I could remember everything clearly, except for the exact moment I was born. By the time I was two years old, I was aware of the world around me, although I couldn't walk fluently. My body seemed heavy, as if each step required a titanic effort that my legs were not yet prepared to bear.
The village in which he lived was small and austere, a collection of huts built of straw and wood, but what made them truly unsettling were the roofs. They were reinforced with bones of what appeared to be human, bones that told silent stories of ancient conflicts and sacrifices.
The air smelled of smoke, wet earth and a metallic hue that I did not know if it was blood or magic. The villagers—my tribe—were oni, towering figures, with skin of all kinds of colors, vivid tattoos snaking down their arms, and horns that seemed to be carved by nature itself.
Life here was not easy. From a young age I was taught that you should fight for every breath, that the weakest was simply expendable.
I was able to learn some of the language in a very short time; After all, I already had a foundation of my past life, albeit a blurry and painful one. Every time those memories came to me, a stinging chill ran through my body, as if tiny invisible needles were piercing me again and again. Ten times, without fail, every time I thought about what had happened. It was not easy to avoid it, and sometimes I was paralyzed by that invisible pain.
My mother's name was Asha. Before she was the woman who now watched over the hut and its few inhabitants, she was a feared and respected warrior in our tribe. She had fought fiercely to defend our town, but time and wounds had relegated her to another role: that of caretaker, silent protector of a home that was barely standing.
Asha cooked with an almost magical dexterity. His hands seemed to conjure up aromas and flavors that carried with them the strength of our land, the fire of our traditions and the consolation that few here could afford. It was that mixture of strength and tenderness that made it possible for him to find something like peace in this life of constant struggle.
I had to admit that I was quite beautiful. Her hair, a dull pink that seemed to merge with the gloom of the hut, fell in soft locks that framed her face. Its horns, sharp as needles, gave it an air wild and delicate at the same time, a contrast that never ceased to fascinate me.
Asha was affectionate, yes, but also too carefree and trusting. She never paid much attention to me, not because she didn't want to, but because I was sure, with an almost naïve faith, that nothing bad could happen to me when she wasn't around.
That confidence, however, did not protect me from the loneliness or fear that sometimes invaded me in the darkness of the night.
I crawled through the hut until I reached an area covered by a pair of leather blankets that functioned as curtains. It was a small square, resembling a makeshift room, with enough space to set up a kind of rudimentary office. There he was: my father, Toran.
This lad was imposing, even by oni standards. Tall, with marked muscles and a presence that filled the room before he even said a word. His horns were larger and more twisted than my mother's, and his gaze, always intense, seemed capable of piercing any lie or weakness.
Toran was not only a full-fledged warrior, but also the leader of the oni army, a position he held with pride and a toughness that was sometimes unbearable. His voice was deep and firm, and every order he gave echoed like thunder throughout the village.
But beneath that façade of strength, I felt something else: a weight, a contained rage that seemed to consume him from within. And I, small and clumsy, was part of that silent burden.
Don't get me wrong, Toran was a good father, much better than... the previous one. But, of course, it had its small flaws. And by the way, do you know why he was the undisputed leader of the oni army? It wasn't just because of his musculature or his skill in hand-to-hand combat. No, it was more because of the mastery he had over dark magic.
Yes, in this world there was magic. Not only the dark one, but many other kinds, though I still knew little of them. But Toran... Toran was feared throughout the country. In his battles, he recited spells with terrifying ease; Often, without even finishing the words, he would already unleash attacks with a supernatural power that made his enemies tremble.
Of course, age is unforgiving, and both her body and her powers had begun to suffer over the years. Today, their main task was to avoid unwanted wars with other tribes and religions, maintaining a fragile balance in a world constantly on the brink of chaos.
"Hey, Nakhúr, don't bother your father, will you?" Asha said, appearing behind me as if by magic.
I couldn't vocalize in any way, my vocal cords weren't ready for it yet. In addition, since he did not yet master the language perfectly, he preferred not to try to speak until he was clear about how the language worked. Luckily, I understood what they were saying, and that was already a small triumph.
Asha carefully held me and led me to the area where the dining table was. He sat me down on the rough wood and gently ran both thumbs across my cheek in an affectionate gesture that, though simple, made me feel a little less alone in that harsh world.
"Don't be in a hurry, little one," he whispered. Everything will come in time.
His eyes, tired but full of tenderness, were fixed on mine, and for a moment, I felt that this place could be a refuge, even if it was fragile and ephemeral.
Because of my little obsession with "watching" my new father, everyone who saw me thought that my goal was to be like him, or even better. Something that never crossed my mind in any way.
Asha held a plate of strange pottery, pottery that was not like conventional pottery. It was transparent, with a cloudy shine that took away all the desire to eat, but believe me, when you tasted it, it was wonderful.
"Come on, open the vocaaa," he said as he approached me with something that looked like a spoon in his mouth.
The food sank into my mouth and my taste buds began to do their work.
"God, but what a damn wonder," he thought every time he tasted his food.
Toran should be proud to have a woman like her.
***
He was already six years old. He knew how to read and speak perfectly, although sometimes he faked some mistakes so as not to look like a prodigy. I didn't want them to start seeing me as a useful tool or a special child who had to be entrusted with things... things I didn't want to do.
He preferred to remain "the curious son of Asha and Toran," not the "miracle child of the tribe."
Taking advantage of the fact that I already understood the language, both oral and written, I decided to do something that I had been postponing for a long time: ask my parents about this world. I was intrigued to know where exactly we were and what kind of things existed beyond what I could see.
I was outside the hut, sitting on a makeshift wooden bench, watching Asha place plants near the entrance. They didn't look decorative; rather, they gave the impression of being future ingredients for one of his wonderful recipes.
"Mom," I murmured, still with some uncertainty.
She didn't respond immediately. He didn't even turn his head. For a few seconds I thought he hadn't heard me, but then, in a soft, absent tone, he said:
—Dime, Nakhúr.
I felt a slight tension take over my body. I didn't understand why, but asking my "mother" direct questions made me nervous. As if something inside me fears the answer.
"What's on the outskirts of the village?" I finally asked.
Asha stopped in her tracks. His hands were frozen on the damp earth. It was not fear that I saw on his face, nor surprise. It was something else. Something colder... disgust?, rejection?, resignation?
"Nothing important, son," he replied after a few seconds, resuming his task with a mechanical gesture.
And that was the end of the conversation.
It closed like a heavy door that no one wants to open again. But for me, that door had been left ajar... and whatever was on the other side, had already piqued my curiosity.
he continued with his business. "There are only dangers that we cannot face.
At home we had no books, no maps, no object that would help me understand the world in which I had reincarnated. Nothing that talked about history, politics, geography or even myths. There was only one book, as thin as a sheet of bark and battered by the years. It was a small illustrated dictionary.
Just a few dozen pages with rough drawings and words written in the local language, accompanied by their pronunciation. Everyday objects, body parts, names of plants and animals... Little else.
"By the way, Nakhúr, in a few hours you have the Dra'kor ritual," Asha said as she rose, shaking the dirt from her hands against her clothes without worrying too much about staining them.
"Oh... "Okay," I replied with feigned interest, although the reluctance was noticeable even in my tone.
Here, birthdays did not exist as such. Instead, the so-called Dra'kor ritual was held every year. It took place on the very day—or a few days after—of your birth, and brought the whole tribe together in a ceremony where, it was said, my power and intelligence were amplified, and a kind of rune that I had worn on my chest since I was born was stabilized.
I never knew for sure what it was for. At first I wanted to ask, but over the years, the fear of the answer made me remain silent. At this point, admitting that I didn't understand it seemed almost dangerous to me... as if questioning it could break something important.
Suddenly, my father came out of the hut and looked at my "mother" and me in an unusual way. But, this time, it was not a harsh or inquisitive look.
He was smiling.
A frank, almost youthful smile that was nothing like the stern expression he used to wear. His arms were akimbo, resting firmly on his hips, as if he were contemplating a scene that filled him with pride... or perhaps of a certain disguised tenderness.
Asha turned at his presence and raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"What are you looking at now, Toran?"
He didn't respond immediately. He just tilted his head a little, as if assessing the scene with a mixture of satisfaction and contained amusement.
"Nothing. Alone... this. You two. Like this.
Asha chuckled and shook her head. I stood still, watching him. For an instant, that giant of muscles, magic, and scars looked less like a warrior... and even more so a father.
A real one.
"I heard that Nakhúr will do the ritual in a few hours, am I wrong?" Toran's voice boomed before he saw him appear from between the leather curtains. He approached without pause, with that overflowing energy that always accompanied him, and without warning, he gave me a direct push to the chest.
I fell to the ground on my back, with a sharp blow that took the air out of me.
"B-but what are you doing?!" I exclaimed, without thinking, without even controlling my words.
Toran paused for a second. Then he smiled.
"Come on, don't be so lazy. Come, get up and fight your father.
He said it in jest. Or so it seemed. His words were loaded with that warrior enthusiasm that characterized him so much, as if even a game had to be a battle. But for me, the word "struggle" didn't have the same lightness as it did for him.
And then it happened.
My body stood completely still. Like frozen. The muscles were unresponsive. My thoughts died down for an instant, and all I could see was Toran striking a fighting pose, his fists raised and the shadow of a smile crossing his face.
It was a playful gesture for him.
For me, it was a nightmare dressed in a different face.
My vision was distorted.
Everything around me became murky, as if the edges of the world were melting into shadows. In Toran's hand, something formed. A dark, pulsating mass that twisted like smoke trapped in water.
And then it took shape.
A knife. Not a real one, but something even worse: a perfect silhouette made of pure shadow, with the edge so sharp that it hurt just to look at it. My breathing ragged, my throat burned, and a stabbing chill pierced my stomach.
That knife... it was not his. It was mine.
It didn't make sense. But he recognized it. That sharp shadow was shaped like the kitchen knife that ended my life. The same crooked blade, the same handle worn by the years. Every inch was identical to the gun my previous father used when...
My body reacted before my mind did.
A scream tore me inside, one that didn't come out of my mouth. It just accumulated in my gut and came out as something else. I felt a high-pitched buzz, like a distorted heartbeat, and the air around me became dense.
The lights—if I could call them that—shook. The shadow of the knife melted as if it had never been there. And Toran... Toran took a step back.
My body was shaking. Not because of the cold, but because of something deeper, older.
Something that had died with me and was now coming back.
Toran was still in that strange pose, the smile on his face beginning to fade. Maybe it wasn't a game for him anymore. Perhaps, for a moment, he perceived what I saw. What I remembered.
"Dad... please... Don't do it," I whispered, my voice breaking, the trembling words pouring out of my mouth before I could stop them.
The same phrase.
The same words.
Like an echo trapped in time, accurately replicating the exact moment I tried to beg for my life.
Toran frowned. He was no longer joking. Something in my tone froze him. He looked at me as if he didn't recognize me. As if instead of her child, she was seeing a stranger.
And in a way, it was.
Because I wasn't just Nakhúr.
"Nakhúr, what's wrong with you?" Asha asked, worried, as she approached with a restrained step.
Toran was still there, silent, looking at me as if trying to figure something out. His face said it all: he was worried... but also bewildered. As if I had seen a part of me that did not fit with what I knew.
"B-sorry," I murmured, lowering my head, embarrassed by what I had just done.
The tension in the air was so thick that it could be cut with a knife.
I could feel the looks. Some villagers passing by had stopped, whispering to each other. No wonder: the son of the leader of the oni army, afraid of his own father? That would not be easily forgotten. In a culture where pride and strength were everything, that scene was a crack that, if opened wider, could swallow my reputation before it was even built.
"I'm sorry, Dad," I apologized.
My father hugged the back of his neck, still confused but not goat. Thank goodness.
"Don't worry, Nakhúr. I won't do it again. He said