A blighted soul...

* * *

I attempt to sit up in the bed, but find myself atrophied of any strength. Even though I'm a child, I expected a little more resilience in my new body. This lack of strength must be thanks to that blight situation...

"Mom..." I say, the words coming out soft and quiet. My throat feels ragged and torn, as if it's being destroyed from the inside. This can't be right, there's no way I got a second life only to have a chronic illness! Suddenly, my life feels like a grey tinged with a pale and sickly yellow.

The woman who I presume is my mother clears her own throat, looking down at her knees and then back up at me. A look flashes across her face, one that resembles resigned sadness as if she knows tragedy is bound to occur. Suffering hidden under a glossy, reflective surface... a look I remember from my past life. A sound is heard from downstairs, a door opening and closing... footsteps up the stairs and a knock on the bedroom door. A voice is heard from the other side of the door, a strong and somber voice.

"Sandra? You in there?" He asks, seeming to want to be quiet in the case that she isn't.

The woman, who I now know as Sandra, responds shortly after.

"Yes, Thomas... Arthur has finally woken up again," Sandra says, looking away from me and going to the door.

When she opens it, I witness the man that I assume to be my father standing in the doorway. He looks shocked, as if a miracle had occurred. He's quite tall, bearing brown hair and green eyes that I seem to have missed out on. His eyes are unlike poison, rather resembling a green that makes me think of open fields and sunny days. Thomas hugs Sandra, closing his eyes as if to shield any tears from spilling out. He releases the hug and walks over to the bedside alongside Sandra, holding her hand while they go.

He looks upon me as if I'm an anomaly, albeit a welcome one. I suppose disbelief would be the best descriptor. He sits upon my bedside like Sandra had before, yet this time I feel the bed sink a bit more than before. They both look happy yet stunned, as if I shouldn't be breathing here before them.

"Son..." He pauses, his breath shaking as if he's holding back happy tears, yet continues speaking on nonetheless. "The priest had said that yesterday would've been your last... we've been given more time..."

He hugs me, keeping my small self close to his large self in what can only be described in a very fatherly hug whilst making sure not to harm my frail body. I suppose this is the part where I should feel happy to be alive, yet I find myself devoid of any remarkable emotion. Sure, I feel happy for them, but I lack any prior emotional connection to either of these people that are my new parents.

* * *

A few days have passed since my first morning in this world, yet I have not been allowed out of my room... and for good reason. I've attempted to walk multiple times in these 4 days, but have only managed to walk for around 8 seconds before falling. It's warm outside, although a little windy. Most of my time is spent looking out of my window, but I've taken a while to examine my surroundings more in depth.

My room contains a bed, dresser, mirror, bookshelf, desk and desk set. Most of the furniture I've seen thus far have been a wood similar to a larch wood, but strangely distant... not that I'm an expert on wood or anything. I had first inspected the bookshelf, thinking it would provide some much needed exposition on my new world only to be met with minimal results. I looked into the mirror to examine how I looked, aged around 15 with white hair and orange eyes. What really gave me the most information was the desk and the writing associated with it.

I found a journal belonging to one Arthur Ishviel, who I can infer to be myself. Based on what I found, this new world is called Tyria and I am currently in the kingdom of Istantetzia. The journal writes of the Blight, a disease that first spread from mutated plants to humans. The Blight is usually fatal and chronic, eating at the body for many years until nothing remains. In other words, I have magic-cancer.

I stand up from my bed, clutching the bed frame in an effort to walk to my desk. Every step is difficult and painful, as if I'm walking on nails. It feels like I'm some sort of walking corpse, only able to move off willpower alone. I'm hoping that it becomes bearable soon or, at the very least, less painful. My new parents check in on me often, bringing me food or drink, but they can't seem to stay more than a few minutes. I suspect that if I don't do anything about it, I will succumb to the Blight.

But that makes me think, why am I even fighting death? I definitely wanted to die a few days ago, but why do I want to resist so bad now? It's like the blue in my soul has been replaced with a vibrant and rebellious red that's desperate to shine through. Where did this will come from? Is it even my will to begin with? I finally finish the walk to my desk, barely making it before my legs give out. I take the journal out of the second drawer and set it down in front of me. A black journal with a grey latch, although the latch looks like it's not seen any use.

Opening the journal, I flip to where I had left off reading last time. The page is stained with a small blood splotch at the bottom left, presumably from when the real Arthur coughed black blood onto the page.

'Journal entry, first of August. Today, I had a coughing fit whilst in town today... they hurled rocks at me, as if I was a rat off the street. None of them had very good aim, although I feel sad that they wasted their efforts.'

From this journal, I've come to realize a few things about the original Arthur. Arthur thought very little of himself, to the point that he sometimes wrote as if it was better if he died. He had empathy and kindness even when others shunned him... perhaps he felt they were right in their actions due to being infected with Blight. I can see both sides of the argument, but I can't find it inside myself to justify throwing rocks at a child.

I skip around in the journal a bit, going back to July's entries. This was one of the particular saddest one's that I can remember, although all of the entries make me feel a bit bad for the original Arthur.

'Journal entry, twentieth of July. It's my birthday today. I went into town to talk with Marie, but she didn't want to talk with me at all. Everyone in town was glaring at me, although I couldn't tell if it was anger or pity. I don't think anyone really likes me except for mom and dad... and even they keep their distance sometimes, as if they're sparing themselves from watching me slowly die...'

There are dry stains on the page, mostly concentrated at the bottom of the page, likely where teardrops had landed. The poor kid must've felt so isolated, having all that goodness in his heart yet getting next to nothing back.

In the earlier years of entries, Arthur wrote about some kind of academy he wanted to go to, but he basically never wrote about it after he got infected with Blight, as if he knew his dream was no longer achievable.

I sigh and close the book, putting it back in the second drawer. I'm not even sure what to do in this life, directionless and back into the gray. I'm not wealthy or super intelligent, nor do I have a magical system like my last world. I don't have a cheat skill or even a teacher to teach me anything... at least I have parents, I guess.