During a deep introspection, Joel began to re-examine the nature of his dreams. Most of them were like a journey into the body of a different person, where the experiences, while real and meaningful, represented value to him due to the information and lessons learned. However, there are a few dreams that have come to define Joel in a more profound way.

  The first was with Hoshinobu, that old samurai warrior with a tempered gaze and unbreakable spirit. The dream related to him occurred when Joel was still a child, yet he was able to transcend it later and take control of the young man's body when he began to level up as a magician. From him, Joel inherited not only a sword, but a precise and lethal technique, which he now mastered as if it had always been his own. In the end, it wasn't a simple dream learning: it was a transfer and a true legacy.

  And then, the sculptor. That man who dedicated his entire life to stone, who worked until he had polished his art to inhuman levels. The passion, the discipline, the almost divine artistic vision… All of this had been embodied in Joel without him even noticing. Only when the house was completed, when the statue opened its eyes and looked at him, did he understand the true scope of what was happening. It wasn't an inspiration, but a transformation.

  Joel sat one afternoon by the stream, far from the house, while the children collected large leaves for their games. The water flowed serenely, oblivious to his thoughts.

  "What am I, really?”. "What do these lives imposed on me in my dreams want from me?"

  For the first time, the possibility that something else was guiding his entire destiny truly troubled him. Until now, every life he dreamed had proved useful, even life-saving. But if someone—or something—had the power to alter his essence, to shape him at will, what if their purpose wasn't always noble?

  The thought troubled him. "What if some of those souls carry poison within them? What if not all of them seek to help me?"

  He wondered if, eventually, he would dream of a murderer, a tyrant, or someone whose worldview was rotten to the core. And if that happened, would he be able to resist it? Could he separate what was his from what wasn't?

  Once again, he feared falling asleep. But as he looked back at his house—the stone, the wood, the lovingly carved details, and Nana's motionless figure at its center—he felt a spark of comfort.

  "Even if it's all a manipulation... what I built is mine."

  Joel's consolation in all this, the only certainty that calmed his fears about the origin of his gifts and the hidden purpose of his dreams, was that the house he had built with so much effort had become a truly magical refuge for the children. They both said naturally: "It looks like a place straight out of a fairy tale." And for Joel, that was enough to keep him going.

  Ariel, especially, seemed to love the house in every detail: the walls with reliefs of animals and leaves, the windows that mimicked wings, the living stone surrounding the fireplace. But above all, his fascination was centered on Nana, the iron statue with feminine features that stood on the large table in the living room.

  What was disturbing, however, was how comfortable Ariel seemed with her. She spoke to her every day, telling her what she had done, what she planned to do, and what she had dreamed about. Sometimes she would even scold her or laugh out loud at conversations that seemed completely one-sided… except for one small detail: the atmosphere of the place responded.

  Joel noticed it, felt it, just like when he communicated with Nana. A faint vibration in the air, like an emotion that permeated the walls and responded wordlessly. A subtle and disturbing synergy, especially seen from the outside. Ariel, unknowingly, was communicating with a consciousness that even Joel didn't fully understand.

  Liam's case was different, being more sober, reserved, and focused. Ever since Joel allowed him to observe and then attempt to carve his first pieces of wood, the boy had become immersed in a silent passion for the art of sculpture. What began as simple imitation soon became an obsession. Joel, who had lived the lives of masters, recognized the gestures, the focus, the stubbornness: the boy had talent, but also a fire within.

  Sometimes Liam would spend hours in silence, without playing, without speaking, just sculpting small figures with a small knife. At first they were clumsy, but over time they began to take shape, grace, and even intention.

  "I want to do something like Nana," he said once, his eyes shining.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Joel simply smiled. He couldn't tell him the truth. That Nana wasn't just a sculpture and that there was something more there, something alive or close to it. But he also didn't want to rob the boy of his inspiration, or extinguish that fire that seemed to grow with each day.

  "Perhaps art is also a form of magic," he thought. And if it was, then Liam was already on the right path.

  Finally finishing the house had left Joel with an unexpected feeling of emptiness. For months, his mind had been absorbed in constant creation, in the compulsive need to shape wood, stone, and metal. But now, with every corner finished, every detail perfected, the outside world once again knocked on the door of his consciousness. And with it, also came the realization that he hadn't gone as unnoticed as he would have liked.

  More than seven months had passed since his arrival in those remote lands, and although his home was isolated, Joel had not been invisible. His numerous trips to the village—to buy tools, materials, supplies, etc.—his imposing physique, his reclusive silence, and especially the amount of money he spent without showing much interest in haggling, left an impression on the locals.

  People began to whisper theories about his origins. Everyone began referring to him as “the magic sculptor.” Someone famous who came from some distant city, who left everything behind to find inspiration among the trees and mountains. From Joel's perspective, a story not so far from the truth… but very far from it at the same time.

  Apparently, the rumors had spread like moss on stone. Many villagers, especially those who gathered fruits or mushrooms at the edges of the forest, had seen his house from afar. And, of course, it was no ordinary sight: an elegant, organic structure, laden with details impossible to achieve by ordinary human hands.

  The village children, they said, called it the House of the Spirits. Some even claimed to have seen lights in the windows before dawn, or heard soft voices, like chanting or whispering, as the wind passed through the clearing.

  For Joel, all of this was… uncomfortable. Not dangerous, at least not yet, but not ideal either. He wasn't looking for attention, or fame, or to become a local legend. But maybe—just maybe—it was too late for that.

  Perhaps it was time, or the simple fact that the rumors had already taken root, but Joel decided to embrace, at least in part, the identity of a magical sculptor that the village had assigned him. There was no longer any point in fighting a reputation that, though unsought, could become useful if handled carefully.

  He made a deal with the village shopkeeper, the same one who had told him much of the rumors. Joel gave him several pieces of finely crafted furniture and a pair of wooden statues that seemed about to come to life. The agreement was simple: if he managed to sell them—whether to local residents, wandering merchants, or some curious traveler—he would earn a hefty share of the profits. The merchant happily agreed, as having the "magic sculptor's" works in his shop was practically a tourist attraction.

  Joel wasn't running out of money yet. He had been careful with his resources, even during the months of intense construction. But he knew time was a luxury he couldn't waste, and that his contact with the cult—if he ever managed to make it—was still a long way off. He needed a direct source of income, and his own hands were his best bet.

  It was in the midst of this practical planning that a new concern struck him with renewed force: the children. Ariel and Liam were, in many ways, his priority, though also his greatest risk. No matter how far they hid, how far they were from the center of the empire, or how much they mingled among peasants and villagers. The power they both harbored couldn't be disguised forever. All it took was for an experienced mage, or even a magical detection specialist, to pass close enough to them and pay attention, and the secret would crumble.

  Moving freely throughout the empire was a luxury they couldn't afford. For now, the strategy had to be total anonymity, controlled isolation. Perhaps, if things went well, they could spend a few more years in hiding, until Joel found a safer way to cross the lines of power.

  One of the few realistic alternatives was simply to wait for the children to grow up. In this world, a young adult with magical power could go unnoticed under the right conditions, but a child with that same power was a magnet for trouble. So if they managed to reach adulthood undiscovered, perhaps they could live with a little more freedom, without raising so much suspicion or attracting unwanted eyes. Joel didn't know if this was a viable strategy... but for now, it was the only one he had.

  And so, time began to slip by with the serenity of a warm breeze, imperceptible but constant. Joel, for the first time in a long time, allowed his life to assume a routine unmarked by urgency or danger. He divided his days between physical labor, art, instruction, and silent surveillance of his surroundings.

  Sculptures remained an essential part of his life. Through work in wood, stone, and occasionally metal, Joel not only maintained a steady income by selling pieces to the village shopkeeper, but also found a way to release some of the inner pressure his mind carried. It was as if each sculpture was an outlet, a way to give physical form to ideas he didn't know he was carrying inside. However, he never again managed to approach the mental state necessary to achieve a work like the house and the iron statue.

  Liam, with a discipline surprising for his age, enthusiastically joined the sword training sessions. Joel carefully adapted the exercises, transmitting the basics with the patience and focus that once belonged to one of his dream selves, the master who taught without raising his voice but left deep scars on the souls of his disciples. He did this not with the intention of turning him into a warrior, but to forge within him the structure and resilience that would allow him to withstand the world around them.

  But the true treasure of their time together was education. Joel, with centuries of knowledge woven into his mind from the many lives he had lived in his dreams, decided to give the children a gift no wealth could buy: wisdom. He taught them to read and write with improvised, handmade texts he made himself from paper and parchment. Mathematics, true and complex, which for most peasants was reduced to adding and subtracting, became a game between them, a powerful tool that made them feel capable of understanding the world through different eyes.

  He did everything knowing that, at some point, the anonymity they now enjoyed would disappear. The children couldn't stay young forever. The magic bubbling inside them hadn't yet manifested itself openly, but Joel sensed that, once they came of age, it would be easier to go unnoticed. They would no longer be seen as prodigies to be watched, but as adults who had simply gotten lucky or had a quiet talent. Therefore, the safest option for now was to wait patiently, prepare the ground in every way, and turn this time into an investment for the future.

  There was a fragile but real peace in that routine. They weren't free from the world, but for the first time, Joel felt he had achieved something resembling a refuge. The living house he built, the children growing strong and wise, and his own soul finding space to breathe. It was barely a pause in the violent pace of life... but it was his.