Set Stage

As the day's energy quieted into a serene evening calm, the rural hum of the village softened to a gentle murmur. The sky began to transform, signaling the arrival of the night. The once vibrant blue sky began to fade, yielding to a warm, mesmerizing melange of orange and pink hues as the radiant sun dipped below the horizon.

"I'll be off then," Osric offered his parting words to the librarian, stepping out of the library's dimly lit hallowed halls.

With an insatiable, unquenchable hunger for wisdom, he had been voraciously consuming every tantalizing morsel of information the library had to offer—his appetite for learning ravenous. The buffet of knowledge still not enough.

His stay in the library had been undisturbed. Like a vigilant mandrillhawk, his eyes were ever watchful, keenly observant. The suspicious gazes he had expected were nowhere to be seen. For now, it seemed, he was in the clear. No soul suspected that one soul was amiss.

Now he could afford to be more proactive in the village.

His foremost objective was to prepare for his awakening. Every year, those who turned 16 were gathered for a joint ceremony, which the entire village celebrated with fervor. As the awakening required considerable resources, it was more practical and efficient to conduct them all at once, which was both practical and communal.

Osric had undergone his first awakening at the tender age of thirteen, an event etched vividly in his memory. However, now living his youth once again, the timeline of awakening seemed to have changed. His nodes would now awaken at 16.

Such changes had happened before.

In ancient tales he had been privy to, there were even accounts of human awakenings at much younger ages, such as 12 or even 11.

The timing of these awakenings varied across eras and races. Even among the variant humans, there were vastly noticeable differences in their ages of awakening.

No one really knew why. The reasons behind such variations remained a mystery.

Yet, one of the most widely accepted theories proposed that these changes were part of a balancing act performed by the world. It sought to ensure no single race grew excessively dominant and thereby disrupt the balance of power.

Should one race tip the scales of power, the world's will intervened, slowing their progress.

Earlier awakenings led to a quicker accumulation of power, enabling individuals and their races to advance more rapidly.

Osric had even encountered rare species whose awakenings occurred exceptionally late, at around 200 years of age.

According to the books, after the Golden Renaissance Era, humans stopped awakening at 15 and transitioned to the age of 16, signifying an impressive increase in the overall strength of humanity.

"Oi, where ya headin'? Ya look lost," jeered a gruff, roughened voice, interrupting Osric's train of thought and rudely blocking his way forward.

The boy stood still. He was wearing a tunic of rough-spun wool that hung loosely from his broad shoulders, with a leather belt cinched tightly around his waist. His breeches were worn and frayed, and his boots were scuffed and muddy. His short blond hair was tousled and unkempt, giving him an air of a rabid dog.

Osric appraised the boy silently, his eyes slightly narrowed. Although he had a strong, nagging intuition about the boy's identity, there was no need for him to be proactive when it wasn't necessary.

"Forgot how to speak? You were a dimwit before, but now you seem even worse. I might have really hit you hard. Don't worry, I'll do a better job this time, so you'll remember my name," the boy named Finn taunted, his knuckles popping ominously in the silence. "A craftsman ought to sign his finest pieces," he gloated, his smirk curling into a chilling grin.

Osric returned his menacing gaze with a brief, nonchalant glance. He had no time for petty squabbles; his priority was to optimize his time, and engaging in such fruitless disputes would only be counterproductive. Without further ado, he sidestepped the boy and continued on his path.

"Oh, running away, are you? What a coward! Fight like a real man, you weakling!" he taunted, his voice brimming with contempt.

Osric simply continued walking, not responding to the provocations.

Finn's smirk broadened into a ghastly grin as his taunts fell on deaf ears. "Oh, I see, running away just like your parents did. I'm glad you're following in their cowardly footsteps. They were so good at running away that they even ran away from you," he sneered, his voice echoing through the silent street.

Osric's steps faltered, the wheels of his internal struggle churning visibly in his head. Every slander thrown his way could slide off, but insults thrown against his parents—those were fighting words. He could not care less about his body's original family ties; in fact, he was relieved to be free of them.

He might have even sabotaged them if they doubted his story or found something suspicious. Their absence was a boon he had welcomed with open arms.

Nevertheless, the original body wouldn't let it go.

It contradicted the psychological profile he had built for Osric.

Assuming this identity wasn't a mere change of name, it was akin to slipping on a second skin, a superficial overhaul of his psyche.

His true desires bubbling beneath the surface. His actions, thoughts, and emotions carefully crafted to fit the mold of the man he was masquerading as. A meticulously crafted persona that was indistinguishable from the man he was pretending to be, a framework of thoughts he could slip inside.

Through his actions, thoughts, and emotions, he expertly mimicked, walking the tightrope between his true self and his façade. For him, the key to his success lay in the delicate balance he struck between these two selves.

For when he truly believed that he was Osric, no one else could discern the difference.

He understood that the original Osric had once fought Finn due to a similar slight against his parents, and so, he had no choice, he could not deviate from the established narrative.

"What did you say? Say that again," Osric growled, his fists balling at his sides, teeth grinding in a show of barely repressed anger.

Although he'd counseled Cain to let the matter lie and downplayed the incident as much as he could, now he found himself compelled to mimic the same behavior.

"Oh, so you did hear me. But sure, why not?" Finn replied, his voice dipping into a sinister whisper. "Everyone is glad they're gone. Especially them, having to bear the burden of you."

A guttural roar tore from Osric's throat, a resounding echo of his fury. His fist surged towards Finn's taunting smile, only for Finn to dodge it skillfully, retaliating with a sharp punch of his own.

Rolling with the momentum of the blow, Osric minimized the impact, but he was taken aback by Finn's lack of strength. To his surprise, Finn's punch lacked strength. Merely a show, a well-rehearsed dance of deception.

Cleverly, Osric feigned a stagger from the punch before he lunged again, aiming another strike at Finn's face. Finn prepared to evade again. However, the punch was a feint, and his arm swiftly transformed into a sharp, unexpected elbow.

The objective of this duel was to lose convincingly while appearing to fight earnestly. Osric needed to convincingly masquerade as a fallen opponent, making it seem as though he was giving it his all—a mask of defeat under the illusion of a valiant struggle.

The sharp crack of fists colliding with flesh reverberated through the street, drawing a growing crowd of spectators enthralled by the raw spectacle of the chaotic brawl unfolding before them.

Finn answered with a powerful kick aimed at Osric's abdomen, but once again, the strength behind it seemed lacking. Osric couldn't help but find this development peculiar.

"Shouldn't we intervene?" a concerned voice in the crowd muttered.

"You want to do something? Why don't you try? That's Elder Markus's son," another voice responded, laced with a note of sarcasm and a warning. "I wouldn't meddle if I were you."

With Finn's identity revealed, any semblance of intended intervention from the onlookers quickly dissipated.

"Someone should report this to the guards. With any luck, they'll arrive soon and break up the fight." a hopeful voice called out.

Throughout the skirmish, Osric expertly maintained the upper hand, absorbing blows while minimizing any actual harm.

He delivered a clumsy hook into Finn's chest, making a show of the effort he put into the blow. Finn stumbled back, feigning shock from the hit.

Yet again, Finn's exaggerated reaction to Osric's attacks raised suspicion.

The fight waged on, Osric landing blow after blow on Finn, who seemed to grow more battered by the moment.

"The lad's got spirit! Just look at the ferocity of his strikes. Finn's starting to bleed!" an excited voice cried out from amongst the spectators.

Finn panted heavily, a smear of crimson running down his face. Despite his apparent deterioration, his lips curled into a triumphant smirk. This brawl was not only odd but also pointless; yet, Osric had a role to act out, a façade to maintain.

Finn stumbled back, his expression contorted with pain. His body now displayed an array of bruises and injuries. His left eye had begun to swell, the discoloration setting in, and various cuts and scrapes marred his forehead and cheeks.

"There's no way he should be bleeding. Is it an ointment causing the discoloration? I can smell a faint medicinal aroma clinging to his face. His skin was also already tender before the fight," Osric's mind raced, trying to piece together the reasons behind the staged encounter. "This was pre-planned. What is the purpose? To make me look like a violent brute? What could they possibly stand to gain from this?"

Although outwardly, Osric appeared to be the victor, internally, he felt a sting of defeat. He had been played unwittingly and turned into a puppet dancing to the other party's tempo. He was lacking in information and power, so he could only play along for now.

"Why are the guards not here yet? The poor lad could get seriously injured!" one onlooker lamented, their concern growing more palpable with each passing moment.

"That other boy is ruthless. Look at how badly Finn is injured." another spectator observed, their tone filled with alarm.

Despite the crowd's nervous murmurings, no one stepped forward.

Barely holding his ground, Finn managed to drawl out in a voice strained by pain, "You've no right to slander my mother. I understand your pain, but it doesn't warrant slandering her."

The crowd hung on to every word, drawn into the melodrama unfolding before them.

"HOW DARE YOU TALK ILL OF MY MOTHER!" Finn roared, his eyes burning with righteous anger.

Osric looked utterly bewildered, unable to comprehend why this drama was being played out in front of the gathered crowd.

"No wonder Finn's fighting; the kid has the audacity to insult his mother." one bystander muttered in disbelief.

"I heard she passed away last spring. A tragic loss." another filled in, adding fuel to the growing fire of public sympathy for Finn.

The exchange of fists and hits continued for a while before Finn was completely socked in injuries, his body battered. Finally, he crumbled to the cold, unyielding ground, his body quivering under the weight of pain and exhaustion. He labored to rise, but gravity was an unforgiving foe.

Mustering one final, defiant glare at Osric through his swollen, bruised eyes, Finn managed to rasp out, "I'll be back. You better be ready."

The crowd parted, allowing Finn a narrow path to limp away, his battered pride the only thing keeping him upright.

Osric watched Finn's hunched figure retreat, his brow furrowed in deep thought. This had been nothing more than a performance, a well-orchestrated spectacle with Finn and him as the lead actors. But only one of them was left questioning the motives behind it.

Having extricated himself from the crowd, Osric wasted no time and hurriedly made his way home.

Osric knew he had become the target of a scheme, which was never a comforting realization.