Overwhelming Existence

Emerging from the boundless abyss, a radiant speck of gold drew closer to Jamie. Gradually, it unveiled its true form—a colossal hand, resplendent in its golden sheen. Its fingers, sinuous and pointed like the sharpest of blades, bore the appearance of instruments capable of piercing planets with ease. In its presence, an irresistible compulsion to kneel washed over him.

'A deity,' Jamie mused, awestruck by the sheer magnitude of the being before him. Only a god possessed such an overwhelming presence, commanding reverence beyond mortal comprehension.

Powerless, he bore witness as the colossal hand inexorably closed in, shrouding his vision in a luminescent gold. The radiant hue seared through his very soul, permeating his very essence. Then, in an instant, his existence underwent a profound metamorphosis, and the vibrant gold transformed into a subdued, pale orange.

Once more, he found himself in proximity to a crackling fire. Its warm embrace caressed his form, yet the memory of his face pressed against the searing flames, the excruciating agony, and the acrid scent of burning flesh surged back into his consciousness. His heart raced, and with a desperate surge of willpower, he thrust his body away from the fire's edge, scrambling back in frantic retreat.

The realization struck him only when his back collided with an unyielding wall, emphasizing the startling unfamiliarity of his own body. His movements were cumbersome, as though he were navigating uncharted terrain. Casting his gaze around, he found himself encased within damp, moss-covered brick walls, the ceiling curving overhead. A flaccid stream cleaved the room in two. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and he murmured, "Sewers." It was a place he'd frequented in the past, a refuge where he'd hidden and scurried like a rat. Yet, the question echoed persistently within him: "Why am I back in the sewers? Did Bella bring me here? But why?"

Then, the memory of the golden hand resurfaced, and he comprehended. "Ah," he whispered, his gaze drifting downward toward his own form. He was diminutive and frail, draped in a motley assortment of grimy rags haphazardly stitched together—so poorly that they clung to mere threads of cohesion. A tattered garment, resembling a skirt, clung to his waist, its fabric mired in shades of brown and green. His legs, exposed through the skirt's frayed holes, appeared emaciated and bony, while his hands seemed skeletal and feeble.

A prickling sensation on his forehead drew his attention to his hair, which now struck him with its pallid whiteness. His locks felt dry and rigid, reminiscent of brittle strands of spaghetti.

A searing pain throbbed within his skull, accompanied by a dull ache on his cheek. He could sense the swelling on his lips, and the unmistakable tang of iron lingered upon his tongue.

"It appears," he mused with a hint of wryness, "that the mysterious hand has sent me to another world. And in the wretched form of a beggar, no less. Must I endure the fate of a pauper, a lowly rat, throughout eternity?"

Determination surged within him, a fierce resolve that emanated from the depths of his being. "No," he declared with a growl, his heart resonating with unwavering conviction. "The golden hand did not send me here merely to continue this cycle. It chose me for a reason."

Abruptly, a faint noise reached his ears, and the bulky iron door, situated on the far end of the room, emitted an eerie click and a grating screech as it swung open. Into the room strolled a man, his long wavy brown hair cascading down the center of his forehead like parted curtains. His countenance bore the rugged patina of hard living, marred by the presence of grime. A sharp nose adorned his face, where a scar etched a path across his right cheek, adding an air of toughness to his demeanor. Dark, snug-fitting attire clung to his form, accentuating the contours of his well-defined muscles, while a billowing cloak trailed behind him.

The door groaned shut in his wake, sealing the room once more.

"Still alive, eh, White?" he chortled, his mirth tangible as he proceeded to unbuckle a belt from his waist. Dangling from the belt was a sheath of dagger-like proportions. He deftly unfastened his cloak, allowing it to tumble to the floor in a graceful cascade, followed by the belt, which he nonchalantly discarded. Finally, he settled himself down beside White.

"Who are you?" White regarded the sheath warily, a sense of vulnerability washing over him. If this man harbored ill intentions, he realized he'd be utterly powerless to prevent any harm. He had positioned himself between White and the knife.

A hearty chuckle escaped the man's lips. "Haha, no recollection, eh? Well, it's understandable, considering the thrashing you received. What possessed you to try stealing from Malik's crew, I wonder?" He spoke with an air of curiosity.

White regarded him with a blank expression, still grappling with the fragments of his memory.

"Very well, it seems you've lost your memory. Long story short, you attempted to snatch a bag of coins from a vendor who happens to be in the employ of Malik Thorne. His lackeys pursued you, delivered a thorough beating, and left you to die, bleeding in the streets. That's where I came in—I saved you and brought you here to my humble abode. Name's Conrad, by the way," he offered with a warm smile. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

A faint memory teased the edges of his consciousness, an elusive wisp that slipped through his grasp.

"Yeah," White replied, his tone tinged with skepticism. "I can't imagine you did this out of the goodness of your heart."

Conrad locked eyes with him, his gaze unwavering. "A child, no older than fifteen, already acquainted with the harshness of reality. You've endured a life filled with misery and suffering."

White's gaze shifted toward the crackling fire, the flames igniting memories from his past.

"But, you're not wrong," Conrad conceded with a sigh. "I do have a purpose for saving you. It appears we now share a common enemy—Malik Thorne. I have no doubt that he's discovered you're still alive and that I played a part in it. His men will be relentless in their pursuit to finish the job. For the time being, you'll find sanctuary here."

Conrad's eyes left White's and settled on the fire's flickering dance. "Our paths have converged, two souls wronged by Malik Thorne. It feels like destiny, doesn't it? I've saved your life, and in return, I ask for your assistance in my quest for vengeance. I can teach you things. I am nothing but a patient man."

White's mind wandered back to the encounter with the Golden Hand, contemplating the possibilities that lay before him. "Could this be my opportunity to seize control of my own destiny?" he mused, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. "Or perhaps not. Yet, remaining in this desolate place offers me nothing, and survival itself is a daunting task, it will be easier with someone by my side."

"Very well," he declared with determination, pushing himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. "I'll lend you my assistance. In exchange, I request that you tell me everything you know about this world." As he struggled to maintain his balance, a world on the brink of fading, he felt a steadying force enveloping him, keeping him standing. "We have a deal, Conrad," they affirmed, exchanging smiles.

Conrad carefully lowered White to the ground and produced a crinkled paper bag from one of his pockets. "First, let's get those legs back in working order, shall we?" He extended the bag to White, who eagerly opened it to reveal a couple of sticks of jerky. White wasted no time in selecting one and taking a bite. The flavor exploded on his palate, akin to savoring the juiciest steak imaginable. He couldn't help but emit a satisfied moan.

Curiosity sparked within him as he asked, "By the way, why do you refer to me as 'White'? My name is Jamie."

Conrad pointed to his head " 'White' has a certain ring to it, rolls off the tongue, don't you think? How about it, White? New beginnings and all."