John witnessed his younger self at the age of seven, and then six as the memories traveled further back, struggling to survive in the harsh environment of Cloudroot. He saw himself laboring for the villagers, doing whatever work he could find to earn shelter and a meager portion of food. Those days were marked by relentless hardship, a time when every small victory meant survival amid the cold indifference of the world around him.
Amid the relentless hardships, brighter moments gently surfaced. John saw the monk who had tended to him during earlier days in Cloudroot once again. His heart clenched as he witnessed the monk’s slow, inevitable decline and eventual death. Tears welled unbidden in his eyes—this humble man had cared for him when he was powerless, offering kindness and solace in a world that had shown him so little mercy afterwards. The memory was a bittersweet beacon amid the cascade of struggles. John’s ethereal almost 13 year old form was crying together with his six year old self, in front of the bed of the monk.
As far into his early childhood as John could remember, a gentle light had guided him—a churchless monk who became a quiet guardian in his life. The monk, with kind eyes and weathered hands, would find him shivering by a frozen stream one cold morning, offering a worn cloak and a piece of hard bread. On other days, when John had stumbled and scraped his knees or hands while wandering the woods, the monk was there, carefully cleaning his wounds and applying salves with a tenderness that made the pain more bearable. He listened without judgment to the lonely child's fragile hopes and fears, speaking softly words of encouragement that wove a fragile thread of hope into John's heart. Those moments, small and seemingly ordinary, became a sanctuary in the storm of his later early years—a reminder that kindness could exist even in the most unforgiving places. This monk was the person who had forged John’s altruistic personality the most. He did not have any special powers, was unawakened but in a world where epic battles were fought, he helped the weakest ones, with little things, unnoticed by the mighty of this world. John would be eternally thankful to this monk.
After enveloping him with memories of tenderness and solace in Cloudroot, the vision drew him even further back in time—beyond the reach of John's conscious recollection. He witnessed the monk, battered and bleeding, cradling a tiny toddler version of John while trudging along a lonely road beneath a raging storm. Darkness pressed close, rain and wind lashing as the monk shielded the child with his own frail body, each painful step fueled by devotion and an unspoken promise to keep John safe no matter the cost. The night seemed endless, but in that moment, shelter was found in the arms of someone who cared, forging a bond stronger than memory itself.
A wave of confusion swept over John as he watched the unfamiliar scene unfold. This desolate stretch of road was nowhere near Cloudroot—he could sense the distance in the landscape and the unfamiliar shadows. Questions swirled in his mind, sharp and urgent: Where had the monk and he come from, and what had happened to cause such injuries? Why was the monk hurt, bleeding and stumbling through the storm, carrying him away from some unknown danger?
The vision recoiled further into the past, growing in intensity and desperation. John’s ghostly form hovered above an unfamiliar village, engulfed in flames and chaos. Screams pierced the night as infernos devoured rooftops. In the hellish glow, a woman—her body crushed beneath the smoldering wreckage of a collapsed building—clung desperately to a toddler. With trembling resolve and the last reserves of her strength, she reached out, arms extended through fire and agony. The monk, bloodied and weary, knelt and received the child from her embrace, her sacrifice etched into his soul as he turned to flee the devastation, the fate of one life entrusted to another in the burning abyss.
John had never known anything about this harrowing moment. As the truth dawned on him, a single, fragile word escaped his lips—“mom?” His voice trembled in the emptiness, and a small tear slipped down his right cheek. Grief and wonder mingled within him as the power of this lost memory pierced the veil of his ethereal silence.
John hovered silently above the devastation, watching in helpless sorrow as the woman who had cradled him slipped away beneath the burning wreckage, her final act a sacrifice for her child. The monk, burdened by loss but resolute, fled into the night with John in his arms. Was that woman truly his mother? The monk had never spoken of this tragedy, and the answers seemed forever lost in the shadows of the past—John had been too young to remember and perhaps the monk’s silence was born of pain or of the knowledge that John was too small to hear about such calamities.
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As John strained to understand, his ethereal gaze swept over the chaos. Shadows flickered, and he saw a black-scaled lizardman mercilessly strike down a man with a spear in the midst of the inferno. The realization struck him—his birthplace had been under attack, torn apart by violence and fire. The monk and he had been outsiders in Cloudroot, refugees from shattered lives, their origins forever bound to a night of terror and mystery.
What was that black lizardman, wielding violence with cold resolve amid the burning ruins? The sight ignited something deep within John—a feeling he had never truly known before. A surge of fierce emotion overcame him; his heart hammered with the yearning for retribution. The unfamiliar desire for revenge blazed through him, raw and powerful as the fires tearing his past apart.
If only he had been there—unbound by the enslaving collar that suppressed his power—he could have changed everything. The version of himself forged in battle, the one who had fought and defeated countless monsters, could have torn the lizardman apart in an afterthought. But he was not there; or rather, he had been present only as a defenseless toddler, powerless and unaware of the threat unfolding around him. Now, even in his spirit form, hampered by that same collar, John felt as helpless as he had been in his earliest years—restricted, unable to intervene, the sting of impotence sharper than ever.
The vision drifted further into the distant past, and John found himself as a fragile baby in a humble farmhouse. The dwelling was simple but warm—a single-story structure of roughly hewn wooden beams and stone, with a thatched roof that bore the marks of many seasons. A crackling hearth cast a soft orange glow, illuminating a worn wooden table cluttered with handmade tools and earthen pots. Straw mats lay scattered on the cool floor, alongside a cradle fashioned from twisted vines and cloth scraps. The scent of fresh hay and baked bread mingled in the air, an echo of home and safety.
Near him stood the same woman from the torched village, now alive and vibrant in memory. She wore the plain yet sturdy garb of a villager—a linen dress dyed a soft earthy brown, cinched with a leather belt and worn boots scarred from work. Her long, well-kept, fiery red hair spilled freely down her back, catching the light in waves. Her face was striking and beautiful, framed by gentle features and high cheekbones, with clear, sparkling blue eyes that held warmth and fierce love.
Beside her was a man who radiated kindness and calm. His black hair contrasted sharply with his bright white linen shirt, which hung loose but clean on his frame. His brown leather trousers were practical and supple, suited for labor yet durable. His eyes, like the woman’s, were a vivid blue, serene and watchful, reflecting a strong commitment to the life they shared.
John witnessed tender moments from this long-past life: the couple playing with the baby with laughter and lightness filling the room. Sometimes the woman lifted John onto her strong shoulders as they moved through the farmyard, her laughter echoing in the open air. Other times, they gently bathed him in a wooden tub warmed by the fire, carefully washing away the day’s dust and grime. These small but precious scenes breathed a new life into a world of love and care, distant yet profoundly anchoring in John's spirit.
John felt a profound warmth welling within him—a revelation that he had been truly loved. Not only had the gentle monk cared for him in times of weakness, but these visions revealed the tender love of his parents, their devotion woven into every smile and touch. After a life marked by hardship, loneliness, and struggle, this glimpse into his earliest days brought a deep soothing to his heart, a balm of comfort that cut through the shadows and wrapped around his spirit with quiet, enduring tenderness.
The vision drifted back once more, carrying John to the very beginning—a newborn swaddled in a simple baby basket placed quietly before a wooden door. The fragile image lingered only for a fleeting moment, the weight of a lifetime compressed into a blink. Then, a blinding light engulfed everything, searing away the scene, and finally, profound nothingness embraced him. The silence and void marked the closing of a chapter, leaving John suspended between memory and oblivion.
John slowly awoke from the vivid, stirring vision, found himself on the cold floor of his hotel room. Darkness cloaked the space around him, and a sense of relief washed over him as he felt the solidity of his corporeal body once more. The empty vial lay beside him, an unspoken reminder of the strange journey he had just experienced.
His mind lingered on the vision—specifically, the image of himself as a tiny baby in a basket, placed before a door. What could it mean? Was it a memory lost to time, a symbol of beginnings, or perhaps something more profound? The scene seemed heavy with significance, a hint of origins he had yet to understand. His heart pondered its message—what secrets did that small, fragile moment hold?
John had gleaned precious insights into his past, fragments of his true beginnings and the love that had once surrounded him. Yet despite the depth of these revelations, his present remained far from ideal. The collar still bound him tightly, a relentless shackle that cut off his access to the system—the very source of his strength and potential. The freedom to wield his powers, to alter his fate, seemed as distant as ever, the weight of his constraints pressing heavily upon his spirit.
John forced himself to stand, but his body ached in every muscle and joint as if he had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Each movement sent sharp reminders of exhaustion and pain coursing through him. With great effort, he dragged himself across the room to his bed. He collapsed onto the soft mattress, the toll of his spirit journey heavy upon him. Soon, his weary body surrendered to sleep, pulling him into a deep, restorative rest.
