The King Recalls His Past

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(A/N: Every chapter which begins with a * will be in first person perspective).

I held the little figure of Charlie gently and went with her to her room. Holding her in my arms brought up memories in my mind that killed my hopes. My mind couldn't help but cause me to see a glimpse of a dead child in my arms which caused me to almost stagger as I walked.

I entered her room which, as my memories served, was the only one in the house with a new wallpaper with a simplistic design of golden butterflies that had glittered wings on its dull yellow background. Denva had helped Charlie plaster the glitter on the wings in the past.

Her bed was covered by a plain but fuzzy red blanket which I drew back as I lay her on the bed. I then covered her body and sat by the bed.

She was already asleep.

Denva's dying memories ran in my head. His thoughts of seeing Charlie wind up sad without a brother, his parents left to mourn their loss. I knew that worse things were happening even at this moment across multiple worlds but I was glad I prevented this particular one from happening. In a way, I did at least.

I caressed the little girl's hair before turning off the light and walking out of the room.

As I passed the kitchen, Synthina voiced out.

"Have a good night sleep dear," she said.

"Yes mother," I said with a smile as I walked into my room. I turned on the light and saw the plain layout. A single bed covered by a cream coloured blanket, the same cement floor with traces of small holes, a wardrobe to the side, the worn out ceiling above and the same beige wallpaper could be seen on the walls.

I sat on the bed without minding the state of the room. I covered his face and tried to keep it together. I was a hardboiled warrior who had faced the most tragic of circumstances. Wars, coups, assassinations, kidnappings. However, this kind of a loss was something that I had never experienced.

As I faced the end of my strength and all I had built for so long, my mind brought up memories of where I started from.

On a small World called Samara.

I was born in the slums of a small country. Help never came. The prestigious movements by political leaders to gain the favour of the masses did not extend to us. No food or health aid. It almost seemed like we lived in our own decrepit world where desperation lead people to partake in 'social evils' to make ends meet.

It started out as a means of survival. A woman would gladly let her body be ravaged if she could feed her children at home afterwards. Home being a shelter that could barely be called a shack.

Underground cartels that specialised in drug production and 'human handling' of all sorts were set up to better the living standards.

Drugs started as a way to make individuals forget their troubles. However, as time went on, they became daily bread. Blatant assassins emerged as a genuine occupation with a respective connotation to it.

As far as I can remember, my birth was celebrated but for a different reason. Perhaps it was because my parents were too deep in a society where ethics and morals barely mattered but I was seen as a resource. Input for production.

I joined the system at five years of age. I had been pumped with nutrients for half a decade so that I could spend my entire life making a profit for the family.

My mother was a prostitute. In the local rankings, she was among the top five. Strange as it may seem, the occupation wasn't exactly shameful. It had become an art for which she was respected for.

My father was an executive within a drug cartel. I was given the option to be trained as a male prostitute, which was a lesser profession in the society or to be assimilated into the drug cartel, which I chose without hesitation.

A full year of learning the ropes stood before me. Learning of every single drug, its effect, the duration of effect per a certain amount and its counter. The business was vast, connecting with other retails across other countries which I travelled to as I grew up.

I met all kinds of psychos in my journey, becoming a hardened member of the cartel who had dropped his fair share of bodies.

Things were going well until, after a scuffle with another branch, someone gave away the location and activities that our organisation carried out, as well as its scale.

All I remember from that day is the raid by the police which was done in quite the stellar fashion as we were completely unprepared. I guess that's the point of betrayal.

We fought back, guns blazing.

Many died on both sides, but the sheer number and preparedness of the police got us. They ransacked the factories, captured members and shot those that resisted. Sadly, my father was one of them.

I and a few others managed to escape, leaving everything behind. Truth be told, a sense of camaraderie between people in the cartel was pretty thin as long as keeping your life was involved.

I didn't mourn my father. We had a professional relationship after all. He grew up teaching me of the 'no strings attached' policy. I rarely saw him during work and at home we were simply people living under the same roof to share benefits.

I tried to join another underground organisation, but they rejected me, saying that there was a large influx of members from the disbanded organisation which they did want to get affiliated with.

In frustration, I tried to create my own organisation, which rose after a few years only for the exact same thing that happened last time to occur again.

Betrayal.

Someone ratted us out and I was imprisoned for many years. I spent the rest of my life there, wallowing in the same thought of why my existence had amounted to nothing in the end.

Was this really how was I supposed to go?

Rotting in jail, being punished by the same people who caused us to be this way?

It was unfair.

Many do not know this, but extended years in solitude are about just as dangerous as any other experience in the world. You start to create dangerous philosophies that stem on how wronged you feel yourself to be.

How the whole world is messed up and yet you are the only righteous one.

Yet... I couldn't go anywhere.

My life was destined to end in a prison along with other men and women seen as monsters in society.

That was until one day..

I had my first encounter with an Ordinal Hunter. One of the many experts under the Ordinals.

Beings that assisted those they deemed worthy to ascend. My soul was taken by this being and the next thing I knew, I was in the body of a new-born baby while retaining my memories.

My life began again.

I was born in a world with Essence. Finally, I learnt that existence was a broader term than I imagined.

Among the Worlds in the Mortis, there were only two classifications. Lower and Higher.

Lower Worlds had little to no essence like Earth where I was born. While Higher Worlds had an abundance of it.

Essence produced by Worlds was called World Essence, which was used by the inhabitants of the world to consolidate themselves.

Given another chance at life, I did not waste it. I rose from the bottom to the top the only way I knew how.

Reaching out to those that were left behind. This time, I wasn't going to entertain betrayals. So I built the harshest system to weed out any suspects discreetly whether they were innocent or otherwise.

I was ruthless. A second chance at life was but an impossibility in my mind, and I would make sure that nothing held me down.

And so began my rise. A second chapter in my life where a fashioned myself to be unbeatable.

A knock on the door shook me from my thoughts.

"Denva, are you awake?" a masculine voice reached my ear from behind the door.

"Um..yes," I replied.

The door swung open and a tall man with short dark hair and deep set, hazel coloured eyes walked in. He had sunken cheeks and almost sagging dark bags under his eyes. He walked over to me with his slim figure and sat down beside me.

It was my father. Benedan Balkor.