Hospital

"Be careful brushing your teeth," a young nurse says, applying some ointment to my cheek to reduce the swelling. "Or your stitches could come loose."

"Why are there stitches on my teeth?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I don't feel any pain. In fact, I don't feel my face at all, as if it didn't belong to me. Well, it's is true: I've only been in this body for two weeks. I carefully touch my bloated cheek and the bandage on my nose.

"Not on your teeth, they're on your lip, silly," she laughs. "And don't scratch your right eye."

"More stitches?" I say as I squint suspiciously.

"Yep," she replies, smiling.

"Right on the eye?" I'm startled.

"On the eyelid! Now," she says in a playful tone, "Mr. Demont, stop making faces. Stay still. I'll take care of your bruises."

Obediently freezing, I take a moment to admire her slender figure in a white uniform. My nasty teenage hormones seem to be raging. When was the last time I felt like this? A decade ago? Even at sixteen, I was far from living a peaceful life: the world was burning, and humanity was dying. Finding a way to defeat the Demon Generals, not flirting with attractive nurses, was all I dreamed about. But this world knows nothing of the Dreadful Invasion. Now I can relax and enjoy the simple pleasures of life, like pretty girls.

Noticing my gaze, the nurse blushes.

"Mr. Demont!"

"What? I'm just looking." I say, staring into her big eyes.

She tries to keep her professional demeanor but fails and laughs.

"Get well soon, you little imp!" she says, turning away. "Although it looks like you're already as healthy as a horse."

"A stud horse?" I shoot back, winking at her.

"You little imp!" She gives me a light slap on the back of the head.

The nickname grates on my ears, but I remain silent. What a childish nickname it is! I'm Arthur Demont! Although in the 'old' world I was a Hellhunter known as Thunderer, here, I'm a schoolboy in a hospital, and almost everyone calls me 'little imp'! A damn schoolboy. Well, I just have to bear with it, as there's nothing else I can do.

"So, when are you springing me from the hospital?" I ask, grinning. "Or have I won you over so much that you're plotting to keep me?"

Her hand gives another light slap on the back of my head, but this time, it lingers for a moment in my disheveled hair.

"The doctor said you were recovering well from the accident. You should be out of here soon enough. You'll see your classmates in no time."

The nurse leaves the room, clicking her heels. I lean back on the pillow, which smells of something fresh and sweet, and think. My eyes catch my reflection in the window. The face is mine, only much younger and with stitches all over it. However, I've seen worse in the Terrifying World. Thanks to the fractals of the High Demons, there weren't even any scars left; everything healed in an instant.

This world is different: it's kind and beautiful. There's no war against demons here, but there is chocolate paste! Aristocrats still rule the land. Not only the world, but even I am different here, though my name and face remain the same. And, most importantly, my family is alive and well here. Isn't it heaven? Moreover, the Terrifying World is saved, the Lord of the Covey is dead, as well as my other self from that world. I've earned it after all those years of slaughter.

What do I remember about the Terrifying World? The memory brings tears to my eyes. My friends sacrificed themselves, plunging into the jaws of the Tyrannazes, just so I could go on, for a slim chance of saving the world. And I lived up to their foolish faith. I killed Citygrave and threw its massive stinking carcass into the hissing magma of Erazin. The roar of the raging volcano still echoes in my ears. Then there was only darkness. I wonder – were my injuries fatal? They shouldn't have been. A severed arm and a sharp piece of granite piercing my side were mere trifles. I survived worse. Once, the fractal of the Fourth General, Escalope, had rebuilt my entire body from scratch — only my blood-splattered head survived, having rolled into a crevice while the screeching harpies were feasting on the rest.

Perhaps I was poisoned, as I remember Lord's long claws glowing with phosphorescence in the darkness. Or maybe I just lost my footing and fell into the magma. What a heroic death for Thunderer the Hellhunter — I defeated the Demon Generals, overcame Citygrave, but couldn't stand on my own two feet! Although, as I remember from my history lessons, great men often died of mundane causes: Peter the Great, for example, died of a cold. Still, it's small consolation.

I've gotten into the body of a kid who survived a car crash. The bus driver swerved into the oncoming traffic, thus causing the accident. I have no idea where the original Arthur the Imp is now. It all happened in the midst of graduation and entrance exams, forcing Arthur to miss all of them. But thanks to a sports scholarship, I've still got a place at one of the top academies. Arthur Demont isn't just anybody but the champion of the MWS for secondary school students, kind of a local star. I've even given autographs to a few nurses.

There is a knock at the door, and my little sister Helen looks in.

"Brother, are you awake?"

"I am," I reply and sit up immediately.

In the Terrifying World, Helen died right at the beginning of the Dreadful Invasion. I was the one who closed her burnt eyelids. Next to her lifeless body, I killed my first demon-xinus. That's how I became a hellhunter.

The 14-year-old girl walks up to me, and my heart sinks. She has the same blue eyes, the same short blonde hair. I must leave this bed — someone might hurt my little sister again while I'm here. 

"Look who I got, brother."

Five broad-shouldered boys burst into the room, each with hair of a different color.

"Hey, bro!" the blond one rasps. Is something wrong with his throat?

"Is our imp resting? I can't believe it!" The brunet with long eyelashes grins. Helen gives him a long look. I see sparks dancing in her eyes and barely stop myself from throwing the guy out of the window.

"Stop lollygagging, Arthur. The Autumn Games won't wait for us," the redhead exclaims.

"Yeah, we can't play without our captain!" the silver-haired guy snorts. Is his hair really dyed? Like a girl's?

"Our training falls apart without you, even though Coach Chrome works us to the bone," the green-haired one says. 

Great, I've got a whole rainbow team here. They are like a Korean pop group. It's strange that I don't have yellow hair to complete the set. They slap me playfully on the back, push me, make jokes. Helen is standing aside and smiling. She's happy that her big brother has loyal friends. And I'm glad my sister is alive.

"Guys, sorry, but I won't take part in the Games anymore," I say.

Everyone falls silent. I even can hear the birds chirping outside.

"Just explain, Arthur," the brunet pleads. "Why, all of a sudden? You're the best!"

"Things change, boys. And so have I," I say.

"What about the school? The students have to join either sports or music clubs," the green-haired one exclaims, waving his hands.

"Then I guess I'll have to take up the saxophone," I reply sarcastically.

"Nobody's going to let you do that. You've got a sports scholarship," the redhead exclaims.

I sigh. They're insistent, but with good reason: they're my friends. I think I must tell them the truth. Not the whole truth, of course.

"Guys, I just don't feel Prana anymore. In MWS, I would lose to a baby now."

This time, the silence is longer. They're obviously astonished. Only Helen is calm, as she and my parents have already heard the news.

"What do you mean, you don't feel Prana? Since when?" The blond with the raspy voice asks.

"Since the accident," I reply.

As soon as I woke up, I noticed that almost everyone around me used some kind of magic. Magic here is like martial arts: keep training and practicing, and you won't have to get up to get a spoon, as it will come to you by itself.

There are numerous techniques for manipulating spiritual energy, and a variety of styles as well. In Japan, they master Aikijujitsu, in India, Shiva-Ranga. Here, in the Eastern Empire, Warway thrives, or as it's known now, MWS — Mental Weaponry Self-Defense. There are plenty of competitions, not just martial duels. In the Empire, Tactical Military Games are particularly popular — a team sport where simply knowing how to fight isn't enough, and the participants have to think strategically as well.

For me, mastering Prana is a struggle, as even simple manipulations elude me. It seems that the fractals of the slain High Demons have burnt along with my old body in the maw of Erazin volcano, or I wouldn't have stitches on my face. So, it's a new start. Perhaps, that's for the best.