Chapter 5 - Past Life

Chapter 5 - Past Life

"W hat kind of demi-human are you?"

That is what I was met with the first time we relocated to this new province. I was just seven or eight at the time, being an ordinary elementary schooler, Paul, who was trying to figure out my surroundings.

The local children circled around me and examined me with their eyes. They pulled back my tangled brown hair to examine my temples to check if there were any scales on them. They scrutinized my head for the little tufts of animal ears while checking behind me to see if I had a tail stuck into my shorts. But there was nothing.

"I... I'm not a demi-human," I stammered, my voice shrinking under their heavy stares. "I guess I'm just a regular human?"

"A human?" The kids exchanged blank, bewildered looks. Then, one of them shrugged. "So... like a downgrade?"

Downgrade, downgrade, downgrade, downgrade....

That seemingly pure and simple word formed the basis of my childhood.

If there existed a society where fantasy creatures lived among humans in modern times, then humans were no longer the crown of creation. Humans were now the basic level or the afterthought. Kids of demi-humans had natural gifts due to evolution that I didn't have. The bull demi-human kid had three times my muscle without doing any kind of exercise. The crow demi-human had a razor-sharp cognitive processing speed, where all grown-up ideas would seem to be child's play.

Being a demi-human was the standard of society, and being a human meant you were a subspecies.

That was how it had always been for us. Historically, many wars were caused by humanity due to misunderstanding, conquest, or pure racist motives. I'm not saying that other races didn't cause any wars in the past; it's just that, historically, humans initiated more wars than any other species due to conquest.

That is something we learned in elementary school; how humanity caused the extinction of certain species. Well then, it only makes sense that being in a society where other species rule, they never quite get over the bitter taste in their mouth because of humanity’s actions. Eventually, a few hundreds of years before my birth, all the civilizations of the human kind were wiped out completely, and what was left were humans surviving in countries run by other races like elves or demi-humans.

And on the part of the bullying; it wasn’t even physical. It was mostly being left out. And then the knowledge, at an early age, that I was physically and biologically inferior to them. Year by year, the feeling of neglect took its toll on my confidence and suppressed my voice into nothing but a whisper in my mind.

***

By the time I started high school, I had mastered the art of making myself invisible. I had grown my brown hair long enough to hang over my face as a screen for the outside world not to see me. I was the silent human boy seated at the far end of the room, the one everyone felt comfortable ignoring.

That is until the day the results of our final exams were announced in the hall.

"Wow, Paul! A hundred percent on the exams?! That's completely crazy!"

A green lizard man suddenly wrapped his thick, scaly arm around my shoulder while laughing heartily.

The hall was crammed with students from different grades gathered around the gigantic bulletin board to find out how well they did. It was a scene full of relief and desperation:

An owl demi-human moaned audibly, hitting his feathery palm on his face because he had such a horrible score of thirty-two percent.

A centaur with big glasses smiled quietly in approval, touching his glasses again after seeing his grade of eighty-five percent.

An elf with shiny golden hair smiled arrogantly, but then widened his eyes in surprise because he saw something even higher than his grade of ninety-nine percent.

1st Place: Paul Gapor - 100%

Everything went quiet in that hall almost immediately as numerous reptilian, avian, and elvish eyes gazed upon me.

Being someone who had lived his whole life trying not to be seen, this newfound spotlight was a nightmare for me. My peers who had for years been indifferent to my presence were now looking at me in wonderment because of something trivial such as success in academics, which had never before existed in their eyes.

I did try hard to get used to this new situation, made a couple of friends, believing that my intellectual capacities had finally helped bridge that distance between us, but it was only an illusion.

Whenever it came to the weekend, and my new "friends" were meeting up to make plans for their party, it was strange how there would be silence in the air whenever I would come around. They would give me long stares, looking at me as a result of not having any animal characteristics in me.

"Sorry, Paul, our slots are totally full. My orc friends grabbed the last spots, sorry, friend."

"Sorry, Paul, my mother doesn't really like humans all that much... it would be weird if you came."

"Invited? Oh, you weren't invited, pal. Sorry. The party is only for..."

...

The excuses always trailed off. And I could easily read the underlying sentiment; they were ashamed to be seen with a human. I was good for copying homework and explaining complex math formulas, but when the books closed, I was still just a downgrade.

By the time graduation arrived, I walked across the stage without saying a single goodbye. I cut ties with every single one of them.

***

I fled to university, placing all my remaining hope into the one thing that had never betrayed me: science.

I spent my days buried in advanced chemistry textbooks, finding comfort in the logical, unyielding laws of molecular structures. Chemistry didn't care about your bloodline or your lifespan. It was just.. pure math that never pities, lies, or belittles you.

I promised myself I would earn my degree, secure a high-paying job, and make my parents proud. I wanted to prove that a human family could succeed, even in a world stacked against us.

But reality had other plans.

Just a semester into my university studies, a devastating phone call arrived from my phone. My mother had suffered a severe, late-stage miscarriage. The baby, a little girl who was supposed to be my younger sister, had failed to develop properly in the womb, a tragic failure tore our family apart. The grief that followed was a poison. Within a few months, the strain was too much, and my parents divorced.

I buried myself deeper into my studies to escape the pain. I made no friends, spoke to no classmates, and spent my evenings in empty laboratories. My only social interactions were with my chemistry professors, kindly old academics who took pity on the brilliant, silent human boy and offered gentle life advice over cold coffee.

Graduation day was... a lonely affair.

There were no cheering crowds of friends for me. The only person standing in the audience was my mother. As I walked down the steps with my degree in hand, my chest tightened painfully at the sight of her. Running through her neatly kept brown hair were distinct, prominent silver lines.

She was getting old, and she was doing it entirely alone. The realization struck me; time was running out, and I had to succeed. For her sake.

***

For my first official job interview, I spared no effort. I bought a crisp, black corporate tuxedo, polished my shoes, and neatly combed my long hair back, finally exposing my dark red eyes to the world. I wanted to look professional, capable, and confident.

"Mr. Gapor, you've got excellent academic scores. Valedictorian? Very interesting..."

The HR manager, a tall, impeccably dressed Lycan, was casually flipping through my portfolio.

"I see you completed your advanced internship with Chemicals Incorporated," the Lycan noted, his sharp, yellow eyes locking onto mine. "How many hours did you log there?"

"One thousand four hundred hours, sir," I answered gently, keeping my posture straight and my voice steady.

The Lycan hummed, tapping his clawed finger against the desk. "Fourteen hundred hours. You did exceptionally well during your time there. Even the senior supervisors praised your analytical skills and chemical calculations."

"Thank you, sir."

"But... unfortunately, we don't have any open slots for you at this time." He let out a soft, theatrical sigh, looking mildly disappointed.

My smile froze. "What...?"

"You see, we just hired an elf who applied for the position," the Lycan explained, offering a polite, empty smile. "His resume shows one hundred and twenty years of active experience in the chemical field. I'm sure you understand. We simply cannot pass up that level of longevity."

"Oh..."

"Fret not, Mr. Gapor. I have plenty of connections in the industry," he said, handing my resume back to me. "I'll gladly recommend you to them when they have openings."

"T-that's okay. I understand."

He shook my hand, and I clung to that tiny thread of hope. I followed every lead, traveling across provinces using the meager savings my father had left behind. I applied to every company I had ever interned with, desperate to prove my worth.

"Six hundred hours of internship with us? That is very impressive, Paul. But unfortunately, our slots are full."

"A masterful grasp of organic chemistry! Truly. But we've decided to go with a dwarf applicant. Their natural chemistry for metallurgy and earthen compounds is a better fit."

Months turned into a year, and then another year. Every single door slammed shut in my face, always with the same polite, patronizing smile.

Two years. It took me two years to find a job suited for my level.

My father had moved out of the country to Australia, eventually marrying a dwarven woman. We barely spoke. My mother lived with her new husband, a demi-human rabbit who tolerated my presence but clearly viewed me as a burden. She would occasionally slip me money, her gentle words of encouragement only making me feel like a pathetic, parasitic failure.

The weight of constant, systematic rejection began to crush me.

***

The rain was pouring in relentless sheets the night I finally.. gave up.

I walked into a small, dimly lit local bar in my hometown, my tuxedo soaked through and clinging to my shivering frame. My hair had fallen back down, a wet, messy curtain that completely veiled my eyes. In my hand, my leather briefcase was dripping wet, protecting a stack of useless resumes, medical certificates, and academic honors that apparently weren't worth the paper they were printed on.

I slumped onto a stool at the empty bar. I had never tasted alcohol in my life, but tonight, the crushing weight in my chest demanded a distraction. Perhaps I was curious about why people look to the bottom of a bottle for the cure to whatever pain they are experiencing.

I checked the menu of the bar, and nodded.

"A Tequila Sunrise," I muttered to the bartender. "And... a Shirley Temple."

I used the money of my father to pay. I sipped slowly from the mixed drink that I ordered, hating the sharp and biting sting from the alcohol but finding solace in the sweetness of the grenadine in the Shirley Temple.

The bell on the door of the pub clanged, indicating another customer. I did not turn around as I bent my head down and gazed at my drink.

"Oh! Paul?! Is that actually you?"

I stiffened, slowly turning my head.

Sitting down on the stool right next to me was a well-dressed, affluent-looking man. My eyes widened slightly as the dim tavern lights caught his features. It was the green lizard-man from high school; the very same kid who used to corner me in the library, begging me to do his homework so he wouldn't fail out of school.

"Hey, man! How has it been?" he laughed heartily, clapping his large, scaly hands together.

I stared at him. He looked incredibly successful. He wore a tailored, expensive coat, and a thick, polished gold ring gleamed on his middle finger.

"Oh. It's you," I murmured, my voice flat.

I have forgotten his name.

He didn't notice my misery. He happily launched into a story about his life, boasting about the three successful hotels he now owned and managed across Japan, and how his wife was currently pregnant with their twelfth child.

I sat there, listening to the classmate who had barely scraped by with a passing grade talk about his empire, while I, the valedictorian with a master's degree in chemistry, sat in a soaked suit with a wet briefcase full of rejections.

My pride, bruised and battered as it was, flared with a sudden, agonizing heat. I couldn't stand the look in his eyes. I couldn't listen to another word of his perfect success..

"Sorry, friend," I lied, pretending to check my cheap, water-damaged watch. "It looks like I have to run. I have an early meeting tomorrow."

"Oh, I see," the lizard-man paused, his expression softening into a warm smile. "Well, it was great seeing you, Paul. Take care of yourself, alright?"

"Yeah. You too."

I grabbed my briefcase and walked out of the bar, stepping directly into the freezing, torrential rain. The cold water washed over my face, blending with the bitter tears I refused to let anyone see.

That was the night the light behind my eyes finally went out. I went home, locked the door to my room, and decided to never step foot into the outside world again.

***

Twenty-two years had passed, slipping away like water through clenched fingers.

These constant rejections have really put out my blazing passion and turned me into a degenerate.

During those decades of self-imposed exile, I spent my days sitting in front of a glowing computer screen, mindlessly playing gacha games. I chased after digital, pixelated characters, pouring my limited energy into virtual worlds because they were the only things in existence that couldn't reject me. I watched seasonal anime, letting the fictional lives of cartoon characters dictate my calendar, as morning, noon, and night blended into one endless, gray haze.

Although I do have a job, it doesn't pay well. I translate manga into English. The amount the clients give me for freelance work is so little, it's only enough for a single meal.

At some point, I thought about finding a regular job again, but my brain was already so ruined by overdosing on dopamine that basic human communication felt too difficult.

My only forays outside my room were to manga conventions, and even those infrequent trips were exercises in pure agony. The train stations were so full of people, a sea of eyes passing by, that it would cause such panic in my chest that I would find myself regularly leaning against cold tiled pillars, clutching my chest, nearly passing out from hyperventilating.

I drove the heel of my palm into my temple, desperate to blunt the noise in my head.

"This is stupid," I whispered.

I had become a useless, skinny-middle-aged shut-in, locked away in the safety of my mother's home.

I remained under the same roof as my mother and her new husband, a demi-human rabbit. My stepfather was a complete prick. He loved to put on a fake, performative show of being a caring, authoritative figure whenever my mother was within earshot, but the moment her back was turned, his demeanor shifted. When we were alone, he was significantly harsher, his eyes made it abundantly clear that he viewed a grown, unemployed human stepson as a pathetic burden.

He was the one who had practically forced me to attend my high school reunion.

"It will be incredibly good for your social health, Paul," he had said, flashing that tight, insincere smile of his.

But it wasn't good for me. It was a complete, unmitigated nightmare.

Every single person from my old graduating class had accomplished something tangible. They arrived wearing expensive coats, sporting bright, confident smiles, and talking endlessly about their thriving corporate careers. They passed around printed photos of their beautiful children, boasting about having three or four kids with proud, glowing eyes.

And then, inevitably, the conversation had turned to me.

I vividly remembered sitting at that crowded table, my hands sweating as I gripped my glass. When they asked what I was up to, I had stammered through my words, my voice shaking as I quietly admitted that I had never landed that specialized chemistry job. The exact, prestigious position I had passionately sworn to everyone I would chase until the very end.

The sudden silence that suffocated the table afterward was deafening. No one knew what to say. I could feel their eyes drifting away from my face, looking down at their drinks or scanning the room for any excuse to change the subject. But worse than the silence were the lingering, toxic stares they shot me when they thought I wasn't paying attention.

I saw the pity, the deep confusion, and the distinct twinge of embarrassment in their eyes.

They were embarrassed for my failure, and in that crowded room, I felt like an object that had completely stopped moving while the rest of the universe rushed past.

That reunion cemented my retreat. I returned home, locked the bedroom door, and decided I would never try again.

My mother never gave up on me, though. For twenty-two years, she brought meals to my door, left the television on in the living room just to give me background noise, and spoke gently to me through the wood, even when I didn't possess the strength to reply. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, my chest would tighten at the sight of her aging face, the gray lines in her brown hair multiplying year after year.

One day, my father called from Australia.

His voice over the line sounded incredibly tired, worn thin by the years, but there was no anger in his tone nor any disappointment. He just said he missed me, and that he wanted to see his son. To my surprise, my mother didn't stop me. She just looked at me with those loving eyes and nodded.

"You're still his son," she said softly. "Go."

For the first time in decades, I packed a bag. As my fingers zipped the suitcase, a tiny, fragile spark of hope flickered in my chest. I was forty-seven years old, but maybe, just maybe, this trip was my chance to start over. Maybe I could finally step out of the shadows.

But fate, as always, enjoyed the cruelest jokes.

BANG!

***

I gasped as I opened my eyes. I was in the living room, lying on the indoor bench next to the front door while Father tended to my right arm. I had passed out from the pain when I fell, grabbed by that lunatic sister of mine.

I groaned, feeling the pain flare up once again. From where I lay, I could see the window; the sky was gradually fading into evening, casting orange streaks across the room.

"Ugh..." I inhaled sharply. "Dad...?"

"This is worse than I expected," Thorskil muttered.

"W-what..?" My stomach dropped, "What do you mean—"

He then carried me again, lifting me up effortlessly.

"Hold your arm carefully," He ordered me, "I'll get it fixed."

We entered into the warm kitchen, setting me down on a heavy wooden stool beside the open stone hearth.

He struck a piece of flint against steel, catching a spark on a dry leaf, then blew gently until a small flame caught the firewood. The orange firelight filled the rustic room.

"Don't move," Thorskil said quietly. He unbuckled a thick strip of leather from his belt and handed it to me. "Bite down on this."

He moved a cloth onto my mouth, and I bit onto it. I turned to my right arm, and it was broken, and I mean really broken. Like, bent-in-a-way-arms-shouldn't kind of broken. The pain was throbbing, radiating all the way to my fingertips.

Thorskil, my father looked at my arm. His face was focused but I could tell by the twitch in his brow he was worried.

"You ready?" He grunted.

I gave a weak thumbs up with my left hand.

Thorskil didn't know any healing magic. None of us did. Our family line was about as magical as a brick. He was a regular farmer, a former warrior trained in blades, fists, and techniques. My mother, Reyna, was from a barbarian tribe where solving problems involved more muscles and less magic. And Lyra... well, she was about to get disowned.

Thorskil took a firm grip on my wrist and elbow. "Breathe through your nose."

He pulled.

CRACK-SNAP.

"MMMMMMFFGHHH!"

Tears burst into my eyes as I bit down on the belt so hard my jaw creaked. White heat exploded behind my eyelids, making my knees shake uncontrollably.

He carefully aligned my broken arm, then wrapped a pair of stripped branches along the forearm like a brace, securing them with cloth soaked in boiled herbs. I winced with every shift, sweat trickling down my cheeks as I moved my head from time to time while biting hard onto the cloth he gave me.

"D-dad..?"

"You're doing good." He reassured me, "Sit tight, now. It's almost done."

Then came the clay. He scooped a chunk of it from a bowl beside the fire, still warm and soft, and began packing it around the brace. The clay would dry and harden by morning, forming a solid cast to keep everything in place.

While Thorskil worked, Reyna's voice echoed from upstairs.

"YOU WHAT?!"

Lyra's muffled response came somewhere between a defensive whine and a nervous laugh.

"It was just a little fall..."

"A LITTLE FALL? From the SECOND FLOOR?! Lyra, you absolute rock-headed-WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"

Down in the kitchen, Thorskil paused, shaking his head with a slow, amused sigh. "What on earth possessed your sister to drag you off a sill?"

"She..." I pulled the leather strap from my mouth, panting heavily as I wiped sweat from my eyes. "...She wanted to help me awaken my Aura."

Thorskil's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Well... if sheer panic and pain really are the triggers, you might have actually unlocked it. Feel anything strange in your chest?"

"Feel anything...?" I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. I concentrated on my chest, searching for a spark, a warmth, a flow—anything.

"Rrrrrgh..." I strained, my face turning red. "RRRRGHHHH!"

Nothing. Just a bruised body and a very sore arm.

I let out a long, defeated sigh. "Nope. Absolutely nothing."

Thorskil chuckled softly, resting a heavy, warm hand on my head. "Don't sweat it, Kyro. You're four years old. It'll come when it comes."

"Right... eventually."

From the other room, more shouting could be heard.

"You're grounded!"

"BUT MOM!"

"And don't you 'but Mom' me, young lady! Next time you want to help your brother with something, TRY NOT TO COMMIT MANSLAUGHTER!"

I chuckled weakly when I heard that despite the throbbing in my arm.

Thorskil adjusted the final layer of cloth over the drying clay, admiring his handiwork. "That'll hold you together for now. I'll ride into town tomorrow morning to fetch an actual village healer. Until then, stay away from open windows."

"Duly noted," I groaned.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the wooden staircase, and Reyna burst into the kitchen. Her usual tight golden braid was loose and messy, her emerald eyes wild with worry as she rushed straight to my stool.

"Oh, Kyro... my poor baby boy," she whispered, dropping to her knees so we were eye-to-level, her large hands hovering anxiously around my cast. "Are you okay? Do you need water? Soup? A wooden bat to hit your sister with?"

"I'm okay, Mom," I managed a small smile. "Just... stings a bit."

"I bet it does. Don't worry, we'll take care of you. You're tougher than you look, though." she murmured, brushing wet white hair out of my eyes. "Just like your father." She paused, throwing a glaring look up toward the ceiling beams. "UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE."

"I SAID I WAS SORRY!" Lyra yelled from her bedroom, followed by the loud slam of a door.

Reyna rubbed her temples, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. "She is so lucky you're alive. If you had broken your neck, I would have dragged her soul to the underworld myself just to ground her for eternity."

Yeesh, scary.

I glanced down at my arm, wrapped in bark, hardened with clay, and tied together with a rough cloth. Then I stared up at the wooden ceiling above me.

Magic... I really wanted to do magic. Even when I say the spells, I couldn't actually perform any of it. There might be more than just saying the spell that I'm missing... or the path of magic isn't for me.

I sighed. Then I looked at my free hand.

And then there was Aura. It was certainly my first time encountering such a concept—a similar, yet fundamentally different form of magic. Although it still relied on mana, the specific veins mentioned in the book only allowed that mana to be used to form a barrier around the body.

I hummed, I do wonder why that is the case..

[End]