The temple was dedicated to Demeter, the Goddess of the harvest, fertility, and the earth. Red brick, rare and costly, spoke of wealth and divine favour. In Lundun, only temples, important city buildings, and noble estates dared such opulence. Common homes wore the muted colours of sandstone and timber, pulled from local quarries and nearby forests. Their only embellishments were exposed copper and brass aether conduits connecting the property to the grid.
The wood carvings on the temple doors depicted Demeter with a smile on her carved lips. The Goddess was amid fields of golden wheat and apples tumbling from overflowing baskets.
Jack’s gaze drifted to the Goddess’ chest, where two ripe watermelons were cupped in her arms. He blinked, then snorted. “Demeter must have a sense of humour. Or the craftsman had a death wish… and a thing for melons.”
He stood before the beautifully carved doors while considering whether the temple of Nemesis would be more fitting. Vengeance, retribution, and balance felt closer to his truth than fertility and grain. In his old life, he’d prayed to Nemesis more times than he could count. Begged her for justice and revenge, but the Goddess never answered. The Viscount survived, and Jack died.
In truth, it didn’t matter which temple he visited; they all had a Choosing Stone, and he’d only be there for a few minutes.
As he stepped inside the temple, the divine presence of Demeter washed over him like a warm autumn breeze, filling him with a comforting vitality. Jack paused, closed his eyes and took a moment to bask in Demeter’s embrace; he felt more alive than ever. The scent of ripe apples and grain filled the air. High above, songbirds flitted through the rafters, their delicate melodies forming a sacred chorus that echoed through the vaulted space.
All sixteen-year-olds would choose their first class, which would start at level 0, Novice. After reaching the level 25 milestone, they’d get to choose either an upgrade to apprentice or a new level 0 novice class. Depending on the class and the individual, this could take anywhere from a few years to over a decade.
Jack recalled with a smile, how before he’d even had breakfast, he’d rushed to one of Hermes’ temples and shoved his palm against the Choosing Stone. He chose Novice Scribe and ran home to celebrate.
He paused in front of the Choosing Stone and took a deep breath before placing his hand on it. Like the first time he did this, it glowed blue, and he was presented with a list of classes to choose from. His eyes widened.
When he was sixteen, he’d been presented with sixteen options: Administrator, Artist, Cartographer, Cook, Draughtsman, Historian, Housekeeper, Librarian, Linguist, Mage, Maid, Mathematician, Researcher, Scholar, Student… and, of course, Scribe.
All predictable, given his background and studies. Even at nineteen, after reaching level 25, he’d only been offered a handful of new Novice choices: Bard, Dancer, Jeweller, and Poet.
As a teenager, Jack had never touched a weapon in that lifetime—letter openers didn’t count—so no combat classes were offered. Now, however, the list was extensive. He could choose from over fifty classes. He’d never heard of any sixteen-year-old having so many options.
[Class Selection Screen-Internal View]
Available classes: Student, Maid, Artist, Housekeeper, Researcher, Cook, Administrator,
Not only was the list extensive, but scribe was stricken out. His affinities had also shifted.
[Affinities Screen-Internal View]
Fate 71%
Time 62%
Void 55%
Divine 44%
Arcane 43%
Chaos 37%
Death 34%
Light 32%
Earth 25%
Darkness 25%
Sound 21%
Healing 21%
Psychic 20%
Blood 18%
Fire 16%
Metal 15%
Space 15%
Ice 14%
Air 13%
Luck 13%
Water 11%
Poison 10%
Lightning 9%
Nature 8%
Gravity 3%
His breath caught. “No. That can’t be right… By the Gods, what’s happening?” Jack was in shock. For a moment, he considered if the System was broken but dismissed the idea. No… the System couldn’t be wrong. It was made by the Gods; wasn’t it perfect?
Jack’s heart skipped a beat when he realised he couldn’t select scribe. “Why? But… I…” He took a deep breath to calm his rising panic. Why have my affinities changed so much? There are so many classes; I’ve not trained for any… The realisation hit mid-thought. He had trained for many of these classes in his first life, but it was after he’d chosen Apprentice Scribe at level 25.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He’d begged for food when his body was still broken from the fire. Worked as a labourer on a farm for a few months to earn coin. Brewed beer. Mended clothing. Practised with a bow, a sword, and a spear. Repaired tools. Inscribed mage spells onto scrolls… leading him to study various schools of magic. He’d scouted and tracked people and animals…
The list of classes was a roadmap to Jack’s past life. Classes were listed in the order they were unlocked, and some of the earlier entries linked back to his time with Jasmin. Dancer, jeweller, poet, and bard; all related to his efforts courting her.
He flushed bright red at the memory of crafting her a silver earring for her birthday; the gift was paired with a cheesy poem about her smile. She’d loved it, but the workmanship was so poor it snapped in half within weeks.
I should become a Novice Jeweller and make her a proper earring. Jack smiled at the silly notion and all the options before him… until his eyes widened again. Maybe I can still get revenge… not as a scribe, but something more lethal.
The assassin option shimmered as if calling to him as his hand drifted to rest on the assassin’s blade at his side. He imagined gutting the ruthless Baron as a trained assassin. It would take years of practice, but I’d get my revenge.
The Choosing Stone pulsed beneath his palm, recognising his deliberation. More doubts that he was experiencing a death dream crept into his confused mind. Could this all be real? Why would the Gods give me a second chance? I’m a nobody. A failure.
His shoulders slumped under the weight of the memory of his pathetic life. He slumped onto one of the wooden pews in Demeter’s temple and buried his face in his hands. He had a lot to consider.
“Choosing your class, dear?”
The voice startled him. A kind-eyed old lady now sat beside him, as if she’d always been there. He hadn’t noticed her arrive.
Jack replied without thinking. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” he muttered. “It’s not like it matters.”
The old lady smiled and laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder. It was warm and comforting, and the birdsong from above somehow sounded more… harmonious.
“All choices matter in the eyes of the Gods, Jack. Yours more than most.” She groaned as she rose, pushing against his shoulder for balance and leverage. “Old knees,” she complained while chuckling, “too many hours toiling in the fields.” She gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Look for the signs and choose wisely, child. Growth comes from fertile soil… even if that soil has known fire.” Her gaze drifted to the assassin’s blade at his hip, and her smile deepened. “The Fates await to guide you on your chosen path.”
A small songbird fluttered down and perched on her shoulder, chirping. The old lady smiled and offered it a handful of seeds from her palm.
Jack felt comforted by her words and returned a warm smile. It felt like he’d been transported back into one of his favourite memories. A happy tear rolled down his cheek.
He was five or six years old, the sun warm on his face, golden and low in a cloudless autumn sky. The air had that crisp, earthy scent of fallen leaves and fresh-cut grain. All of Lundun had gathered in the wide meadow beyond the city’s outer walls to celebrate the end of harvest. A jubilant buzz filled the air… laughter, song, the strumming of lutes and the beat of copper-framed drums carried on the breeze.
Gleaming brass kite rigs soared overhead, trailing ribbons of aether-steam and coloured smoke. Six-year-old Jack and his little sister chased clockwork dragonflies through the knee-high grass, their wings clinking as they darted and zipped in erratic loops. A local tinkerer had brought his prize creation. The miniature automaton jester, no taller than a wine bottle, tumbled and capered to the delighted applause of the children, its joints ticking in rhythm with its cheery tune.
Catching his breath from the run, Jack watched his mom spread out a red-and-white chequered blanket over the grass beneath a tall elm, its leaves turning amber and rust. The cloth fluttered in the breeze, and his mother smoothed it down with the palms of her hands while humming to herself. His mom had packed a picnic basket with a feast fit for the Gods. She laid out the crusty bread, thick with butter and homemade jam, and roasted chicken seasoned with thyme. Hand pies bursting with spiced apples and a wedge of blue-veined cheese that made his dad pull a face and claim, “That smells like a troll’s armpit.”
Jack and his sister laughed while their mom shook her head. Polly, just a toddler, crawled onto his lap, giggling with every wobble. She pointed at food and declared it hers with a triumphant squeal. She stole all the best bits. His chicken leg, the sugared plum from his dessert, even the last slice of honey cake. Her sticky fingers left smudges on his clothes, but he didn’t care. The feel of her soft curls tickled his chin as she leaned against him made him smile. His dad tossed her high into the air, nearly as high as one of the floating aether-balloons, making her shriek with laughter, while Mom shook her head and warned, “Not so high, or she’ll fly off like a kite.”
Everything felt safe, whole, and unbroken. The world was simple and full of possibility.
That perfect moment, soaked in golden sunlight, wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket. For just a breath, he was there again, cheeks sticky with plum juice, arms around Polly, his belly full and his heart even fuller.
And then the warmth of the memory began to fade, and Jack was back in the temple with a tear trickling down his cheek. As his mind cleared, he caught a glimpse of the old lady, her eyes the colour of ripe wheat, scurrying behind the statue of Demeter. She moved faster than her age would suggest.
A blood-red rose now rested where she’d been sitting, and for just a moment, the rose petals appeared to glow. Jack’s pulse raced as he grabbed the rose and chased after her. “Excuse me, ma’am…” He rounded the statue and stopped. “You’ve left your ro…?” The old lady had vanished.
Jack frowned and checked behind the marble statue of the Goddess, but no one was there, and there was nowhere the old lady could’ve hidden. He scratched his head. “Where did she go?” After a quick search of the surrounding area, he returned to the pew, confused, with the rose still clutched in his hand.
Jack glanced at the rose, then back at the Choosing Stone. His heart still ached, but his hands no longer trembled. Maybe he didn’t have to be a scribe to write a new story.