Shawn closed his eyes—not that it made any difference, really. Feela's so-called gift had robbed him of his sight, and closing his eyes now was more a reflex than anything useful. But somehow, in the stillness behind shut lids, it helped him focus. Helped him think. The world was dark anyway, but this kind of darkness was intentional—his own choice—and in a strange way, that made it comforting.
Inside his mind, something new was happening. His thoughts were clearer than they'd ever been, as if someone had polished the edges of his awareness. Information flowed smoothly, not like the jumbled mess of memories after a concussion or a fever dream, but crisp and orderly. It was like watching files being pulled from a drawer and stacked side by side: his own memories on one side, familiar and solid… and on the other, the life of the boy whose body he now called home.
"Thinking about it…" he murmured inwardly, letting his thoughts unspool, "is memory stored in the soul, or in the brain? I mean, when I died, I was just a soul floating around. No brain, no body—and I still remembered everything. Faces, names, pain... all of it stayed with me."
His brows furrowed slightly, though his face barely moved. "But then again, when I was in the Soul Realm, every other soul I ran into said they'd forget everything once they reincarnated. Unless they, what was it… cultivated to some high enough realm and managed to tap into their soul directly. That was the trick, wasn't it? So… if those souls forgot because they were weak, but I remembered, then… that must mean memories are soul-stored."
He paused, chewing on the thought.
"But then how come I can access this kid's memories if his soul's gone? Shouldn't those have disappeared with him?"
The silence offered no reply. Only the quiet creak of the wooden boards below him, and the steady rhythm of the ocean's sway.
"Unless... he still has a soul. That'd explain it. Maybe he's not entirely gone. Maybe he's just… sleeping. Trapped somewhere deep inside."
A chill ran through him at the thought.
"If he did have a soul, wouldn't he have kicked me out by now? Taken his body back?"
He sighed.
"Great. Something else to add to my list of existential questions. I really need to figure out how to, I don't know, look inside myself someday. Step one in soul-science: Find the soul. See if there's company in here."
He let the thoughts drift for now, pushing them gently aside, and turned his focus to the boy's memories. They were scattered, faint in some places, vivid in others. But as he sifted through them, a clearer picture began to form.
"Well, this kid had it pretty decent," he muttered to himself. "Food on the table, people who cared about him, decent education. Not bad."
But then he hit a wall.
"Wait… his name was Three?" Shawn blinked—or tried to. "Seriously? His parents really just… numbered their kids? Did they just give up on names halfway through? Like, 'Alright, we're tired. First one's One, next is Two, this one's Three, and that's the whole set. Done and dusted.'"
He snorted under his breath.
"Maybe that's how names work here. Practical. Efficient. No time for poetry—just line 'em up and count."
But the amusement faded quickly as the memories deepened, pulling him into more sobering moments. Flashes of velvet halls, the weight of responsibility, and whispers in dark corners. This wasn't just any child—he was born to a ruler. Grandson to a figure so feared and respected that people barely dared to speak his name aloud.
Shawn's smile thinned.
"Right. Feela did say I'd reincarnate as the son of an emperor," he muttered, his tone bitter. "Jade Sky Empire, no less. I remember her exact words. Grand destiny. Royal bloodline. All that nonsense."
His lips curled into a dry, humorless grin.
"And yet, here I am. Blind. Broke. Floating on some pirate ship like spare cargo. Kidnapped and tossed into a body with more issues than a therapy journal. What a deal. I should've read the fine print before signing up for reincarnation."
He shook his head, the memory of Feela's smirking face flickering in his mind.
"She probably planned this. Wouldn't surprise me. And she's definitely listening right now. She knows I'm cursing her."
He cleared his throat and added, "Note to self: stop insulting cosmic entities. Especially the smug ones."
He returned to the memories, letting them play out like a silent film behind his closed eyes. At age twelve, the boy—Three—had gone through something called a Vitral ceremony. It was a moment of pride, a rite of passage. The memory shimmered with light and promise… until it suddenly cracked.
He had failed.
No powers awakened. No flames, no lightning, no divine roar echoing through the skies. Just pain. Terrible, suffocating pain. The ceremony had almost killed him.
"What a bummer," Shawn muttered, deflating. "I really thought I'd inherit something flashy. A fire dragon. Cosmic lightning fists. Maybe a sword of pure void energy. But nope. I get a broken body with a faulty upgrade system."
He sighed.
"Thanks, kid. Really."
But the memories weren't done yet. They pulled him further into the past. An old man—Lucas—stood tall in Three's memory, proud and commanding. His grandfather. The man had spoken of enemies, of betrayal, and of his decision to leave the world behind in pursuit of a higher realm of cultivation. The memory was bittersweet, and as it dimmed, something cold settled in Shawn's chest.
Then came the chaos.
The attack. The Starborn Clan. Screams tearing through the air like blades. Fire raining from the skies. Buildings collapsed into ash. And in the middle of it all, a woman stood defiant. Three's mother. Her arms raised, shielding her son, as wave after wave of enemies came crashing down. She had fought them off, buying time. Giving her life.
Shawn felt something stir in his chest. A knot of emotion that wasn't quite his, yet wasn't entirely foreign either.
"She really died for him," he whispered, voice tight. "And all he could do… was watch."
The final memory hit like a falling star. Blinding. Brief. Final.
Three, bleeding and weak, watching his father rip open the very fabric of space in a desperate counterattack. And then the backlash—raw, chaotic energy pulling the boy into the rift, swallowing him whole. The pain. The terror. The regret. All of it fading into cold seawater.
The last words, soft as breath, echoed in the darkness:
Why was I so weak?
Shawn tried to open his eyes again, but the blackness remained. He exhaled slowly, pressing his head back against the wooden boards.
"So that's how it was," he said softly. "Guess I won't be meeting the family anytime soon. They're either gone… or scattered. And if that old grandpa ever does come back from wherever cultivators go when they want to play god, he's definitely going to notice I'm not exactly his grandson."
He chuckled dryly.
"Note to self: if Lucas ever shows up, pretend to be mute. Or maybe allergic to dramatic family reunions."
His fingers drifted to the ring on his hand. He could feel its shape—simple, slightly rough, and cool against his skin. Dull, unremarkable. But there was something about it that tugged at his instincts.
"Looks useless," he muttered, turning it slowly, "but something tells me it's not. Maybe a storage artifact? Or some kind of ancient heirloom?"
He squinted—or tried to.
"Or, knowing my luck, a tracking device. Yeah, that feels right."
He concentrated, trying to reach out with his thoughts, to interact with it the way he remembered cultivators doing in the stories. But nothing happened. The ring remained stubbornly silent.
"Of course," he sighed. "Locked behind some magical energy paywall. Figures. I'll deal with you later. Maybe find a way to hack you. I am still a scientist… technically."
He folded his hands behind his head and lay back, letting the sway of the ship cradle him.
"A destroyed clan. A blind body. A bunch of pirates who probably snore louder than thunderclouds. And a mystery ring I can't open."
He closed his sightless eyes again.
"What a fantastic start to my second life."
Despite the sarcasm, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Not forced—just faint. Real.
"Still," he whispered, "I'll live for this kid. I don't know who he would've grown into, but I'm here now. And maybe—just maybe—I'll make sure his story doesn't end as pitifully as it began