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Three days ago, I was happy, overjoyed that I was finally about to learn how to use more complicated magic. Three days ago, and the day before that, was my 14th birthday; that was also the day my dad told me the news I had been waiting for since I was still eating my boogers—I still do it regardless, but that’s not the point. If only I were patient, if only I had listened. Past me, if you can hear me right now, I wish nothing more than to punch you until your nose bleeds.
On that fateful day, my father and I stood in a clearing, the crimson forest surrounding us—the same place where my brothers and I would train. And as always, the silence was calming. From what was left of my intact memories, before I became accustomed to the silence of the land I now call home, the silence scared me greatly. I was eight? Five? Maybe six? I don’t quite know, and you'll find out soon why I don’t remember. Sure, you could chalk it up to me being too young to remember at the time, and you might be right, but also wrong.
The silence always unnerved me back then—how the world seemed to have halted or lost its ability to make noise, leaving deafening and ominous silence. It was maddening, to the point I could almost hear my own thoughts just from the sheer silence. My heartbeat sounded like jackhammers in my ears, my breathing uneven, loud. I feared it. But later in life, I would come to miss that silence. It was peaceful, calming, and tranquil. I think my ears became too accustomed to the island’s silence, and I got used to speaking in a whisper. That’s how quiet it was there—mere whispering would sound like a normal volume of the voice, and speaking in a normal volume is equivalent to yelling. I miss it still, slowly getting used to using my normal volume of voice.
Going off the rail here, sorry. Anyway, back to me telling you of the fateful day of how I messed up my mental archive and memory. But first, let's go to the beginning—not the very, very beginning, since my memories are too fragmented and distorted. I mean the day of my first training.
I stared at my father, probably with stars in my eyes, as I just couldn’t wait to learn my first-ever spell. I was 12 at that time, if I remember correctly. The day was perfect, the sun was shining, and the trees created a calming ambience with their leaves against the wind. He taught me the basics—the core elements, the properties of the magic, and how to properly utilize them. I was a fast learner, my father told me, someone with great potential. Looking back, I can see why—a kid at that age, so young, would probably have a headache and fall asleep just from listening to the different lists of the elements and their uses.
Then, the learning of spells and abilities. I learned how to engulf myself in flame—and had to jump into the lake because I couldn’t put the fire out on command—learned how to become invisible, learned how to enhance my body, and my favorite, teleporting. You’d think from the many medias you watch and read with teleporting in it, you would assume it would be complicated, but no. Just think of the place you want to be, make sure you have a good image in your head, and ‘boom’ you're there. No smoke or mist covering you up, no grand light, no incantation, just think of where you want to go, and in the blink of an eye, you're there. Of course, whenever I did teleport, I made sure that I’m always covered in dark mist, just to add some mystical flare to it, and not just me popping in and out of existence.
Of course, since I was learning fast, I wanted to learn more; the basic stuff was just too easy for me. I was stubborn, persistent, and no matter how much my father kept telling me I wasn’t ready, I didn’t listen. For once—and even I was surprised I was able to come up with a very good argument on why I should learn the more complicated magic. While also guilt-tripping him, but it works. This decision I would come to regret, and I really, really want to punch my past self every time I remember this, since this was some of the few memories that didn’t get tampered with by that spell.
That day, I was able to learn all of them, used them proficiently, with some difficulties. These magic, are reality magic, my father told me that these are very dangerous when used unwisely, but young me thought I would never use them recklessly. But that all changes when I learned these two spells: Integration and Immersion. I’m pretty sure I already explained this in a previous chapter, so, if you don’t want to be kept in the dark, go back, and read it.
Back to the story, these two specific abilities caught my interest. They're basically like cheat codes, I thought back then. I thought, all I had to do is use them to learn everything, and I wouldn’t have to train anymore. And I did, and I regretted it.
There I was, standing in the field; my father just told me how to use Integration, showed me how to use it, then Immersion. My mind went to all sorts of possibilities, all the knowledge, all the skills I could know and learn, with just a snap of a finger. Ecstatic about the idea, I didn’t hesitate to use it; I wanted to learn all, I wanted to know, to understand everything. Only for it to backfire, as I laid on the ground, clutching my head as my brain felt like it was about to explode. Images, information, and voices surged through my head like someone driving a screwdriver through my skull. My body surged with pain, my muscles adjusting and adapting to the skills that I forced myself to learn. It hurt, which was an understatement—it was agony. I think I begged my father, Dagger, or Crimson to end my suffering; I think I even told them to kill me. Soon, I couldn’t handle it anymore and passed out.
They said I started convulsing after passing out, my body trembling and jittering insanely, blood pouring out of my ears, eyes, and nose, my mouth foaming. My father was trying his best to make sure I didn’t die, even if it was the merciful thing to do at that moment. At least I think so. Father carried me back to the house and placed me in bed; I started muttering incoherently. They put a warm, wet towel over my head as my body kept changing temperature like a reptile. How I was not dead yet, even I don’t know, but I think it was due to my father. They said I was like that for two days, until I just stopped. They thought I died, but father saw I was still breathing.
When I awoke, my head was throbbing like hell. My brothers were in the room with me; when Gambit saw I was okay, they all hugged me as if I would pass out again if they didn’t. They had a vice-like grip on me. They told me that I’d been passed out for three days, and that father watched over me every night while they slept. They informed dad about the news of my awakening, and he gave me a bone-crushing hug. I had to tap him a couple of times to express my discomfort, but he didn’t let go. After father let go of me, he started asking me questions like, “How do you feel?”, “Do you know your name?”, “What do you remember?”, and other questions. I answered them all without difficulty, but then my head throbbed.

Memories, scattered, fragmented, and distorted. I didn’t know which of these memories were true and which ones were caused by the spell, but all of them felt so real. In one memory, I was raised by bandits; in another, I was a noble’s son, and then there was this one memory where I lived on a farm. In every one of them, I always had a different personality, different character—energetic and carefree, closed off and cold, or even a very emo kid trying too hard. All of them felt so real that it was hard to tell which one was me and which one was tampered with. This distraught me greatly as I didn’t know. Who was my mother, or which one was my real mother? Which of these are me and which are from my previous home? Did I have a sibling? What if I have someone important to me, and now I didn’t know who they are or which.
I cried hard on the bed, feeling angry and frustrated at myself. What if there was someone out there that I made a promise to? But now I couldn’t fulfill it because I couldn’t remember who or which! I didn’t sleep in our shared sleeping chambers for a while; I slept next to my dad.
I had dreams or visions of me standing on water in a dark void, surrounded by people who are, probably, important to me in one or two lifetimes, but I knew those aren’t my actual life—they were created by the Integration. But they all felt so real that it almost convinced me that they were my past lives. They all stared at me; some were sad, some were confused, some were even angry. All saying the same word: who are you? They had that look, like someone was staring at a stranger that scarily looked similar to a person they knew. I would reply with; Yami. Then they’d give me a look of confusion like; this can't be this person, sure he looks like him, but…
Who was I before the island?

Description

Three days ago, I was happy, overjoyed that I was finally about to learn how to use more complicated magic. Three days ago, and the day before that, was my 14th birthday; that was also the day my dad told me the news I had been waiting for since I was still eating my boogers—I still do it regardless, but that’s not the point. If only I were patient, if only I had listened. Past me, if you can hear me right now, I wish nothing more than to punch you until your nose bleeds.
On that fateful day, my father and I stood in a clearing, the crimson forest surrounding us—the same place where my brothers and I would train. And as always, the silence was calming. From what was left of my intact memories, before I became accustomed to the silence of the land I now call home, the silence scared me greatly. I was eight? Five? Maybe six? I don’t quite know, and you'll find out soon why I don’t remember. Sure, you could chalk it up to me being too young to remember at the time, and you might be right, but also wrong.
The silence always unnerved me back then—how the world seemed to have halted or lost its ability to make noise, leaving deafening and ominous silence. It was maddening, to the point I could almost hear my own thoughts just from the sheer silence. My heartbeat sounded like jackhammers in my ears, my breathing uneven, loud. I feared it. But later in life, I would come to miss that silence. It was peaceful, calming, and tranquil. I think my ears became too accustomed to the island’s silence, and I got used to speaking in a whisper. That’s how quiet it was there—mere whispering would sound like a normal volume of the voice, and speaking in a normal volume is equivalent to yelling. I miss it still, slowly getting used to using my normal volume of voice.
Going off the rail here, sorry. Anyway, back to me telling you of the fateful day of how I messed up my mental archive and memory. But first, let's go to the beginning—not the very, very beginning, since my memories are too fragmented and distorted. I mean the day of my first training.
I stared at my father, probably with stars in my eyes, as I just couldn’t wait to learn my first-ever spell. I was 12 at that time, if I remember correctly. The day was perfect, the sun was shining, and the trees created a calming ambience with their leaves against the wind. He taught me the basics—the core elements, the properties of the magic, and how to properly utilize them. I was a fast learner, my father told me, someone with great potential. Looking back, I can see why—a kid at that age, so young, would probably have a headache and fall asleep just from listening to the different lists of the elements and their uses.
Then, the learning of spells and abilities. I learned how to engulf myself in flame—and had to jump into the lake because I couldn’t put the fire out on command—learned how to become invisible, learned how to enhance my body, and my favorite, teleporting. You’d think from the many medias you watch and read with teleporting in it, you would assume it would be complicated, but no. Just think of the place you want to be, make sure you have a good image in your head, and ‘boom’ you're there. No smoke or mist covering you up, no grand light, no incantation, just think of where you want to go, and in the blink of an eye, you're there. Of course, whenever I did teleport, I made sure that I’m always covered in dark mist, just to add some mystical flare to it, and not just me popping in and out of existence.
Of course, since I was learning fast, I wanted to learn more; the basic stuff was just too easy for me. I was stubborn, persistent, and no matter how much my father kept telling me I wasn’t ready, I didn’t listen. For once—and even I was surprised I was able to come up with a very good argument on why I should learn the more complicated magic. While also guilt-tripping him, but it works. This decision I would come to regret, and I really, really want to punch my past self every time I remember this, since this was some of the few memories that didn’t get tampered with by that spell.
That day, I was able to learn all of them, used them proficiently, with some difficulties. These magic, are reality magic, my father told me that these are very dangerous when used unwisely, but young me thought I would never use them recklessly. But that all changes when I learned these two spells: Integration and Immersion. I’m pretty sure I already explained this in a previous chapter, so, if you don’t want to be kept in the dark, go back, and read it.
Back to the story, these two specific abilities caught my interest. They're basically like cheat codes, I thought back then. I thought, all I had to do is use them to learn everything, and I wouldn’t have to train anymore. And I did, and I regretted it.
There I was, standing in the field; my father just told me how to use Integration, showed me how to use it, then Immersion. My mind went to all sorts of possibilities, all the knowledge, all the skills I could know and learn, with just a snap of a finger. Ecstatic about the idea, I didn’t hesitate to use it; I wanted to learn all, I wanted to know, to understand everything. Only for it to backfire, as I laid on the ground, clutching my head as my brain felt like it was about to explode. Images, information, and voices surged through my head like someone driving a screwdriver through my skull. My body surged with pain, my muscles adjusting and adapting to the skills that I forced myself to learn. It hurt, which was an understatement—it was agony. I think I begged my father, Dagger, or Crimson to end my suffering; I think I even told them to kill me. Soon, I couldn’t handle it anymore and passed out.
They said I started convulsing after passing out, my body trembling and jittering insanely, blood pouring out of my ears, eyes, and nose, my mouth foaming. My father was trying his best to make sure I didn’t die, even if it was the merciful thing to do at that moment. At least I think so. Father carried me back to the house and placed me in bed; I started muttering incoherently. They put a warm, wet towel over my head as my body kept changing temperature like a reptile. How I was not dead yet, even I don’t know, but I think it was due to my father. They said I was like that for two days, until I just stopped. They thought I died, but father saw I was still breathing.
When I awoke, my head was throbbing like hell. My brothers were in the room with me; when Gambit saw I was okay, they all hugged me as if I would pass out again if they didn’t. They had a vice-like grip on me. They told me that I’d been passed out for three days, and that father watched over me every night while they slept. They informed dad about the news of my awakening, and he gave me a bone-crushing hug. I had to tap him a couple of times to express my discomfort, but he didn’t let go. After father let go of me, he started asking me questions like, “How do you feel?”, “Do you know your name?”, “What do you remember?”, and other questions. I answered them all without difficulty, but then my head throbbed.

Memories, scattered, fragmented, and distorted. I didn’t know which of these memories were true and which ones were caused by the spell, but all of them felt so real. In one memory, I was raised by bandits; in another, I was a noble’s son, and then there was this one memory where I lived on a farm. In every one of them, I always had a different personality, different character—energetic and carefree, closed off and cold, or even a very emo kid trying too hard. All of them felt so real that it was hard to tell which one was me and which one was tampered with. This distraught me greatly as I didn’t know. Who was my mother, or which one was my real mother? Which of these are me and which are from my previous home? Did I have a sibling? What if I have someone important to me, and now I didn’t know who they are or which.
I cried hard on the bed, feeling angry and frustrated at myself. What if there was someone out there that I made a promise to? But now I couldn’t fulfill it because I couldn’t remember who or which! I didn’t sleep in our shared sleeping chambers for a while; I slept next to my dad.
I had dreams or visions of me standing on water in a dark void, surrounded by people who are, probably, important to me in one or two lifetimes, but I knew those aren’t my actual life—they were created by the Integration. But they all felt so real that it almost convinced me that they were my past lives. They all stared at me; some were sad, some were confused, some were even angry. All saying the same word: who are you? They had that look, like someone was staring at a stranger that scarily looked similar to a person they knew. I would reply with; Yami. Then they’d give me a look of confusion like; this can't be this person, sure he looks like him, but…
Who was I before the island?