64 Chapter 1

So I haven't been there for a long time, so I want to apologize for this and explain myself, I'm sick, I have a severe fever, I can't even go out and smoke and go for a walk with a girl, so get into my position and I want to remind you that there are 3 new chapters on my patreon now and there is one small question, you love me and if so, how much?

***

"Description:

I got what I wanted...

And even though I died in the process...

I've been reborn...

The world beyond...

Was very bad..."

Part 1. Prologue.

"I don't understand why you can't manage it," a man in his early to mid-thirties said, pressing his palm against his forehead as he looked at a little boy who was cheerfully devouring his sixth sandwich, prepared by his mother. "You see spirits, right?"

"I do, Dad," the boy confirmed, finishing his sandwich and washing it down with tea from a thermos.

"And you have more than enough strength! That's clear even to the naked eye!" the man, who was the child's father, began to ponder again.

"Enough," the boy nodded and stood up, walked around, and, extending his hands in front of him, slowly started to fall forward until he collapsed onto his hands, immediately lying chest down on the ground, bending his arms at the elbows, and then started to push himself up with his hands, straightening his arms.

In other words, he started doing push-ups, realizing that he was not getting through to his father right now.

"So why won't the spirits contact you!?" the boy's father, with closely cropped hair, nearly shouted into the sky as the boy moved from push-ups to jumping up from the lying position.

"Are they scared?" the boy asked, leaping up with his arms raised.

"I've understood that for a long time, but why!? They usually - on the contrary - like communicating with children! And even they can't say what the reason is!"

"Who knows," said the boy, whose hair was only half an inch long and naturally dyed a dark sandy color. "Dad, let's go home - it's late, Mom will be angry if we miss dinner."

"Huh?" The man turned around, looking at his son, who was red-faced from the small but intense physical exercise. "Why are you all red? Oh, right, you're correct, it's time to go home... let's go. We'll continue tomorrow."

The man got up from his knees, where he had been kneeling on the grass, and, taking his son by the hand, walked home.

"Dad, have you prepared Mom's gift yet?" Menno asked his father as they walked to the car, which had brought them to this meadow, far from the city.

"What? Wait, Emily's birthday is still... over three months away."

"So what?" the boy asked, looking at his father. "And besides, I'm not talking about a birthday gift. This Sunday is Mother's Day, and Emily is my mom! So, you should also give her a gift!"

"Ah, Mother's Day, right... sorry, Menno, I completely forgot. I can't seem to get used to it. It's been eleven years since I had someone to give a gift to, and the thought just doesn't stick in my head. Good thing you reminded me, we'll definitely have to pick out a gift for Emily tomorrow."

Father and son continued their journey, sometimes talking about various little things, and sometimes in silence. Tall grass grew around the road, making it seem like the road went through a sea of green, bordered by distant trees. There were few clouds in the sky, and those that were there were small, so the sunlight easily reached the plants and the ground. It was hot, even though it was only the first third of May.

"Should we stop by Frau Hitzven's on the way? They should be selling their baked goods cheaper by now, it's clearly past eight o'clock."

"What do you want to get?" the father asked his son.

"A chicken and mushroom pie. Or one with beef and pork. They make them really tasty. And Mom likes them too."

"Alright, we'll stop by. Aren't you worried about your figure? You might get fat and stop being attractive to girls."

"The last thing I'm worried about is my figure. On the contrary - I need to eat a lot! Otherwise, I won't grow at all!" Menno said.

"You're already taller than all the boys. When you go out to play, I look at you, and your head sticks out in that sea of kids."

"But that's not bad. Just growing faster."

"Yeah, right. Just growing faster. I'm more concerned that you still haven't been able to communicate with a single spirit. You're a descendant of a line of shamans... but you can't be a shaman if you can't even communicate with spirits. It would be one thing if you didn't have the power - but you have more than enough. They're just scared to come near you! And they can't even explain why!"

"Dad! Stop it! I'm trying! I really am trying, and I do want to communicate with some of the spirits, but as soon as I get close, they run away, flashing their heels. Even simple ghosts are afraid of me. Ghosts of people!"

"Ah, sorry, Menno, it's not your fault, and I'm putting too much pressure on you. You're doing great for not giving up. And you're even greater for trying so hard."

"Thank you," Menno replied.

The boy looked out the window at the passing landscapes as they approached the city, when his father spoke again, not taking his eyes off the road.

"How are your dreams?" he asked.

The boy shuddered as the question reached his consciousness and evoked associations in his head, reminding him of his recent dreams.

"Every time they're brighter and brighter. I remember more, see better in the dream, get more... accustomed."

"Did you have them again last night?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me?"

Menno was silent. His mood fell, and even his favorite pies didn't seem as appealing anymore.

"Blood. A lot of blood. People in strange clothes, with weapons or sometimes without them, they attacked me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Or I don't remember. There was a lot of fire. I remember feeling hot, wanting to drink, wanting to cry, but I couldn't make even a single tear flow - it would have evaporated immediately. I remember my arm hurting, everything hurting. And the people... those people in strange clothes... with weapons, or without... they died. They fell apart into pieces. Exploded. Dried up, turning into crumbling mummies... I dreamed of screams of pain... dreamed... how people died... and last night, at the very end of the dream... I remember light.

"Light? Did it help you?"

"No. It wasn't just any light. A bright light came from some person. And I fought with them."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. I woke up. But if this continues... then I'll find out today. Or tomorrow."

"Maybe the dreams will end when you understand something? I've heard about such... mediums, who worked in a different area. They also saw dreams. Prophetic dreams that show the future, the present, or the past. Maybe it's the same with you? Try looking in books, if not ours, then in the city library for anything you saw in your dream."

"I'll try."

Soon, the car arrived in the city, following a route familiar to both occupants. Before long, the vehicle stopped.

"Wait here for me, I'll buy everything and come back quickly. Okay?" the father asked the boy.

"Sure. I'll wait."

Menno's father wasn't gone long and returned with the purchases.

"So, ready to go home?" the man asked the eleven-year-old boy.

"Yes, let's go."

They arrived home when the sun was no longer visible behind the houses and hills, but the sky was still light.

The family lived in a small two-story house on the corner of the street, indistinguishable from most homes in a provincial German town.

Upon arriving home, everyone made it in time for dinner, so no one received a scolding from the only woman in the house. After a hearty meal, Menno went to bed. He sleeps on the first floor, having asked his parents for this arrangement five years ago when they moved to this place. His parents sleep on the second floor.

For the last year and a half, Menno has disliked going to sleep. It was a year and a half ago that he started having those dreams he talked about with his father. Initially, he remembered nothing about them, only the feelings lingered in the morning: horror, fear, disgust... anger. But gradually, he began to remember some details, one after another, again and again. This process was relentless, unstoppable. Menno and his parents tried very hard to cope.

Gradually, he began to remember vague images, then in the morning colors, and then he started to accurately remember the scenes he had witnessed. Only the brightest and most emotional moments. Unfortunately, these dreams seemed to provoke no positive emotions at all. Thus, the images were correspondingly grim. Blood. Corpses. Death. Battles.

Over time, Menno began to understand what he was seeing. He realized he was seeing everything from the perspective of one person. And this person was cruel. Very cruel. Wherever he went, he left behind corpses, blood, and death. He was stopped, defeated, he even seemed to be in some kind of cage... but one way or another... each time... this person escaped, became stronger, and spread even more corpses, deaths, and blood.

"I hope at least that Light can deal with this terrible person forever. And I will stop seeing these dreams..." Menno thought drowsily before falling asleep.

However, this time there was no dream. There was only a dark room, completely empty, with a floor made of black and white tiles arranged in a chessboard pattern. And silence...

Or was it?

Standing in complete silence, Menno realized he heard something. Thinking it over and listening carefully, he understood it was breathing. Quiet, steady, like his parents' when they were asleep. But no matter how hard Menno strained his eyes in the darkness around him, he saw nothing and no one, yet the sound of breathing was everywhere.

However, his stay in this place was interrupted as suddenly as he had arrived. He opened his eyes, not understanding what had woken him up. Something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what. Then, on the second floor, something fell to the floor, then another sharp noise, and a scream.

"Mom!" Menno shouted and ran out of his room, to the stairs, and then up them. He heard noise. Constant, loud... like from a fire, those clicks, that sound... the sound of burning... the sound of fire. And light was visible under his parents' door. The bright light of a strong fire.

Rushing and opening the door, Menno immediately closed his eyes, his breath hitched, and he stepped back a few paces. Not used to the bright light after the darkness of the night, it hurt to look forward, it hurt to breathe in the hot air that came from the room... completely engulfed in flames.

"Mom!?" the boy cried, struggling to open his eyes, from which tears sprang, to moisten and protect them from the high temperature at least a little.

The boy saw someone. Someone stood in the middle of the fire, completely ignoring it. The silhouette was blurry, so Menno blinked actively and wiped away tears to see anything at all.

Closing his eyes again, the boy opened them now clear enough to see...

...an unknown, large creature, a spirit, seemingly made of fire, holding his parents by their necks, and in front of them stood a boy, about his height, Japanese or Chinese, with long hair and something like a sheet instead of clothes. He was saying something to the parents, and they were looking at me. Tears in the eyes of mom and dad, which didn't have time to roll down. They wanted to say something... wanted to scream something to their son, but at that moment, the spirit threw both parents, mother and father, into its maw.

Time seemed to stand still. The sounds vanished. Even the sensation of heat disappeared. The image slowly blurred from the tears welling up in the boy's eyes.

"Papa. Mama..." Menno whispered softly as the spirit took the Asian boy into its hands and they flew away through a hole in the ceiling.

The fire blazed.

"Papa... mama..." the boy barely audible repeated.

He stared at the spot where his parents were killed, not moving an inch. The fire didn't concern him. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all.

Suddenly, it seemed to Menno that the scene blinked. Now he saw the fire, and now a place where someone was burned. More precisely... someone was burned alive. The corpse of a woman, burned alive...

Some woman?... No! This woman was my mother.

But my mother and father died here...

The scene changed again... and again... and again...

Fire... corpses... death...

A vast number of senseless killings, which I saw in my dreams, started appearing before my eyes in reality...

Senseless?... No... revenge... it all started with revenge... and then... what came after?...

The images changed, a multitude of feelings, smells, tastes, images, sensations...

To exact revenge, one needs strength. And to not need revenge, one needs an immense amount of strength. Enough to fear revenge...

Who am I?

I am Menno...

...

Yes, exactly, I am Menno...

Or... F... NO! I am Menno! I am not... not...

The dreams... all those dreams... they were not dreams... something else... someone else's...

"No, it's my Freo..."

Freo? Who is that?

Freo is... me? Am I Freo? Am I the one who caused all that I saw? It's all me...

Who am I?

I am Freo?...

...

Yes, exactly, I am Freo...

Or... M... NO! I am Freo! I am not... not Menno...

My name is Freo. And whoever you are, I will find you... and then kill you!

******

In a quiet town in Germany, residents were jolted from their beds this night, hearing a loud explosion. Firefighters arriving at the scene... surprisingly found no fire where the house had been destroyed. Undoubtedly, it had burned. Undoubtedly, the explosion had occurred here, but there was no fire, and the wood that had burned was wet.

Among the ruins, firefighters found only one person. He was completely healthy, with no injuries, just bruises and contusions, nothing more. Neighbors helped identify the boy; it turned out to be the son of a couple, Menno. Following their lead, they started looking for the boy's parents or at least their bodies, but they found nothing.

The boy was unconscious and soon taken to the hospital. Many sympathized with him, as he now faced a difficult life - an orphan without parents.

However, the boy himself, though now only identifiable by his appearance, would have spat in the face of all those sympathizing. His mind was changing, his personality was being reconstructed. His past was surfacing from the depths of his soul, displacing, and then consuming the personality of the displaced. The personality resisted its past... but was no match for one who had managed to withstand the will of nearly two hundred of the strongest mages for some time.

Thus... the one who dared everything to reclaim what was taken from him, succeeded in the end. He died, but did not disappear...