NOVEL NEXT WORLD Chapter 2: A Seed of Purpose
Do you know how sad it is to be happy that you died alone? It wasn't a fleeting moment of despair or even the dramatic melancholy that storytellers often adorned death with. No, it was quieter, crueler. The kind of sadness that had no climax—just a slow, relentless erosion.
It wasn't relief or peace—it was resignation. A hollow gratitude, as if loneliness could somehow be a gift in death. No burdens left behind, no tearful goodbyes. The silence, once unbearable, had become a cocoon, its suffocation strangely comforting. He had clung to it, not out of choice, but because it was all he had left.
It revealed so much of what his life had been. The isolation he had once convinced himself was self-imposed, a shield against the chaos of the world, had calcified into something inescapable. He turned the idea over and over in his mind, examining it from every angle. Was it guilt? Guilt for never opening himself to the world? Or was it fear—that even in death, he might have been a nuisance? The concept of burden clung to him, a ghostly tether refusing to sever. What did it say about him, about his life, that he had valued his absence more than his presence?
The laughter he once shared with others had been carefully rationed, doled out in moments he could afford to be vulnerable. The connections he'd made had been perfunctory at best.
As his days in this body passed, the echoes of that final thought refused to soften. He didn't cry, not because this form couldn't, but because it felt too indulgent. Instead, he analyzed, overanalyzed, and picked apart every shred of meaning.
Was it possible he had mistaken his intelligence for wisdom? Had he confused self-sufficiency with strength? The realization was bitter, heavy, and yet... liberating. His mind, as brilliant as it was, had betrayed him.
Seven days of seeing the world through a veil of infantile haze, of hearing voices he didn't understand, of feeling the touch of hands he couldn't yet recognize. This was a clean slate, wasn't it? A chance to dismantle those walls brick by brick. Yet the thought terrified him. What if he built them again, only higher this time? What if he couldn't change?
The silence, once a cocoon, was now a cage, and the realization hit him with a cold clarity. It wasn't merely the absence of joy that gnawed at him—it was the absence of meaning. Yet, as cruel as the silence was, it couldn't fully extinguish a flicker of something deep within him. Not quite hope—it was far too faint for that—but something adjacent. 'I will try.'
The estate that surrounded him seemed to stretch endlessly, a harmonious blend of natural beauty and technological splendor. From his position cradled in his father's arms, Orion absorbed the details. The cobblestone paths beneath them glinted faintly under the light of twin suns, leading toward the crystalline manor. Its walls shimmered like glass, refracting the sunlight into cascading prisms of color that danced across the grounds.
Bioluminescent vines twisted elegantly along the structure, their soft glow pulsing in tandem with the faint hum of unseen energy coursing through the estate.
Statues lined the paths, towering and stoic, their stone faces immortalizing ancestors whose legacies seemed etched not only in marble but in the very fabric of the Reyes lineage. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and oppressive, reminders of the greatness expected from those who bore the family name.
Cassian Reyes moved with the commanding grace of a man accustomed to reverence. His platinum hair caught the sunlight, shimmering like strands of silver thread, while his amethyst eyes exuded an air of calculated authority. Yet, as he glanced down at the infant in his arms, his gaze softened, betraying a warmth that seemed reserved for his son alone. That warmth, so unguarded and genuine, was an alien sensation to Orion.
Inside the manor, the atmosphere shifted to one of intimacy. Warm, golden light illuminated hallways adorned with murals depicting constellations foreign to Orion's memories. The artwork told stories he did not yet know, of a universe vast and perilous, a stage upon which the Reyes family played a central role.
When Cassian carried him into his mother's room, the ambiance changed again. It became a haven, a place where the grandeur of the estate gave way to a gentler opulence. Valeria Reyes rose from her seat, her sapphire eyes brimming with affection as she reached for her son.
Her movements were deliberate yet tender. Her voice, soft and melodic, sung lullabies into the air—songs that resonated with emotions Orion could feel but not fully comprehend. Her embrace, warm and fragrant with lavender, brought an unfamiliar comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, suffocating solitude he had known after his mother and grandmother died.
His sister, a spirited girl with platinum hair as radiant as their mother's, flitted about the room with boundless energy. She giggled as she placed toys around her baby brother, her laughter an infectious melody that filled the space. She delighted in his every reaction, her joy untainted by the complexities of life that Orion had left behind.
In the quiet moments, as Valeria sang softly or his sister's laughter subsided into the gentle rhythm of the household, Orion's thoughts turned inward. He dissected the language spoken around him, noting its structure and cadence. There were traces of the familiar Russian and Spanish but its syntax was unlike Slavic nor Latin languages.
Valeria's cheers at his first successful grasp of a rattle broke his concentration. His sister clapped enthusiastically, proclaiming his triumph with a sing-song announcement: "Orion did it!" Their unbridled joy seemed disproportionate to the simplicity of the act, yet it stirred something within him—a flicker of pride, faint but undeniable. The irony of it all was not lost on him..
At night, when silence blanketed the manor, his mind wandered to the life he had left behind. Faces, names, and achievements drifted like specters, their edges blurred by the passage of time. He felt the ache of loss and the weight of unanswered questions. Why was he here? What purpose could this new life serve? The answers eluded him, and the unknown pressed heavily upon his young, fragile existence.
By the time Orion reached a month old, the world around him began to take on sharper focus. The estate, with its crystalline towers and sprawling gardens, stood at the threshold of a city teeming with life. Sleek vehicles moved through the skies in perfect synchronicity, their forms streamlined for both function and elegance. The metropolis itself was a symphony of light and motion, its towering spires reflecting the brilliance of the twin suns. But what captivated Orion most were the mechas.
He first glimpsed them from his father's study—massive constructs that patrolled the city's perimeter like vigilant guardians. Their size was as imposing as their movements were graceful, each step a blend of mechanical precision and almost human-like fluidity. Cassian must have noticed his son's fixation, for one evening he carried him to the balcony.
Orion's blue eyes reflected the glint of the mechas in the distance. Though his body was small and weak, the spark of determination in his gaze was unmistakable. Somewhere within him, the seed of purpose began to take root.