"Dad, I want to ask you to make sure that the coach who led our fencing class today never comes near children again."
"Son, I'm afraid he won't be able to do that."
"Thank you, Father."
"Richie, this has nothing to do with me," Gerald said, shaking his head.
"I understand. That's not something you say out loud."
"No, Richie, I'm serious. What's the last thing you remember?"
"Mr. Vince beat me. I couldn't get up anymore, I shouted something at him, and then everything went dark."
"Well then, Richie. When you lost consciousness, something unfortunate happened to Mr. Vince. He dropped his épée, slipped on it, and fell. As he went down, he knocked over a support column, and the ceiling in the training hall collapsed. Fortunately, none of the children were injured, but Mr. Vince was pinned beneath a concrete slab. The doctors say he was badly twisted. His bones will heal incorrectly, and for certain medical reasons, there's nothing that can be done about it. Mr. Vince has become disabled and will never be able to hold a sword again. The ceiling collapse was investigated by the police. The other children told them how Mr. Vince treated you. So once he's discharged from the hospital, a trial awaits him."
"What a curious coincidence…" Richard drawled.
"What do you mean, son?"
"Oh, nothing. Just nonsense creeping into my head. You know, Dad, I'm not going back to that club. Either hire me a proper personal trainer, or find another club—one that doesn't employ lunatics as coaches and where ceilings don't collapse!"
"Richie, I'd already been thinking about that myself and wanted to tell you that you won't be returning to that club."
The transmigrator didn't spend much time in the hospital. By the afternoon of the next day, he was discharged. The attending physician marveled at how quickly the boy's injuries were healing, muttering something about remarkable heredity and an unusually high rate of regeneration.
There was nothing to do in a hospital, even if it was the Royal Children's Hospital. Time flowed like molasses. The only thing left for Richard was to think about what had happened.
In the end, the transmigrator came to the conclusion that he was a mutant. Moreover, the inconsistencies in historical events could no longer be blamed on faulty memories from his past life. The only reasonable conclusion was that he hadn't ended up in the past at all, but in a parallel world whose timeline lagged behind that of his former universe.
And here was the real question: was he the only one like this—a mutant with unusual abilities—or were there many of them?
Richie had no doubt that what happened to Coach Vince was his fault. Just as he had wished, Mr. Vince had been smashed, squashed, and twisted. But since this was the first time something like this had happened since his transmigration, Richard assumed that his supernatural abilities only activated at an emotional peak. Those same abilities likely included enhanced regeneration and even his excellent memory.
Still, the transmigrator doubted that this had been the first manifestation of Richard's supernatural powers. The facts were enough to draw conclusions. First, some time ago, the main estate had been shaken as if by a powerful explosion. Second, after that, the mind of an adult transmigrator appeared in Richie's body. Third, it was known that the boy had been experiencing intense negative emotions before that: his school peers' unwillingness to associate with him, their constant ignoring, an academic workload excessive for a child, a cold relationship with his father, a mother who had run away, and a single friend he saw only once a week. All of this was more than enough for a child—if not to drive him mad, then at least to make him feel deeply uncomfortable and to wish for death.
If the transmigrator understood correctly, then activating a mutant ability required not only intense emotions but also a clearly defined intent—a conscious wish. The incident with the coach was an example. If that was the case, then the original Richie might have wished to disappear or to trade places with someone else. And if so, the theory of a scientific experiment involving the transfer of consciousness into the past could be considered invalid.
Could I have ended up in a world described by cinema, comics, or literature? Richard thought. After all, many fantasy stories about transmigrators describe the hero arriving in a fictional universe familiar to him. There was even a kind of scientific explanation for it—supposedly, information knows no boundaries, and some people can connect their consciousness to the infosphere and read data about parallel universes. But if that's true, how do I figure out which world I'm in? And even if I do, how can I tell which version of that universe it is?
Over the past two centuries in his former world, authors and screenwriters had created so many branches of fictional universes that it made one's head spin. There were hundreds—if not thousands—of versions of the Marvel universe alone. But since mutants weren't talked about on television, that universe could probably be crossed off the list. Or could it? Hard to say—after all, there had been film adaptations of Marvel worlds in which mutants concealed their existence from ordinary people. And as for movies and holo-films about wizards, mages, psionics, and other beings with supernatural abilities, so many had been made that a single human lifetime wouldn't be enough to watch them all.
Right away, Richie could recall the holo-film The Sorcerer's Apprentice, whose events took place in a similar version of the past.
Ugh. Reboots, sequels, prequels, standalone stories—it's all so complicated, the transmigrator thought gloomily. Why couldn't people just write one book, make one film, set in a single universe? It would be so much easier to navigate.
(End of Chapter)
Hey! Don't forget, your support is very important.
Please donate power stones, write reviews, and leave comments. It will be a huge help!
🎁 Bonus chapter at 50 power stones!