Magic Adventure: Story About Julius

I never thought I'd sleep peacefully again.

But on the fourth day after that old man found me, I woke not to scream, not to the smell of ash, not to my own gasping breath—but simply to light pouring in through the window. It was strange. Unfamiliar. Almost unfair. As if I didn't deserve peace while everything else still lay in ruins.

And yet I got up. I stretched. And I didn't cry.

The old man and I never spoke about what had happened. We didn't mention names. We didn't try to make sense of why he'd done what he did—we simply lived side by side. He gave me food, warmth, and silence. I accepted it. No questions. No attempts to run. There was nowhere left to run, anyway.

He lived on the outskirts of a small village. No one really knew who he had been in the past. But people respected him—or feared him, maybe. He never walked into the village center, and when he did, people stepped aside.

The villagers accepted me without fanfare. No hugs. No questions. Just… as I was. As if no one here asked where you came from or what you'd lost. Maybe because everyone here had lost something.

I started helping. First around the house—wood, water, cleaning. Then with small tasks in the village, like delivering bread to the market. People watched me cautiously, but no one turned me away. One day, an old woman with hands like wrinkled leather gave me an apple—just like that. I still remember how sweet it tasted.

It was all new. Everything was new.

I didn't know who I was supposed to be anymore. I didn't know what kind of fire I was meant to carry. But at least I had a roof again. I had food. And I had breath—shaky but steady.

That's how my second life began. No grand vows. No dramatic turning point. Just morning. Just bread. And a silence where I no longer needed to be rescued.

Seven years. Seven full years since the day the sky turned red, since my mother faded in my arms, since ash swallowed everything I knew and loved.

At first, I counted the days.

Each morning felt like a tally mark. Each night was proof that I was still here — that I hadn't broken.

Eventually, I stopped.

Not because I forgot, but because I began to live. Not for something — but despite everything.

This village became my new home, even though I never said it out loud. I did what I could: carried water, chopped wood, fixed fences, helped during festivals, quietly stood aside when others laughed and learned how to smile again — not through pain, but for real. I learned to bake bread in the local ovens. Not the same as ours, but still warm. It didn't smell like Avrorum… but it smelled like something close to home.

I grew.

My body got stronger. My voice — deeper. My eyes — steadier.

The people here got used to me. Some even respected me. I never asked why. Maybe because I stayed quiet. Maybe because my hands were always ready to help. Or maybe because I knew how not to ask questions no one wanted to answer.

I learned many things.

But there was one thing I never unlearned. I still remember who ruined my life. I still remember his power. His roar. His eyes, full of madness. I still heard, in my mind, the cries of those who were no longer alive. I still tasted the ash in my mouth when I thought of that day.

Acnologia. That name was like a splinter under my skin. It didn't hurt — but it never let me forget. I didn't fantasize about revenge every day. I ate, worked, slept, even laughed sometimes.

But deep inside — beneath all the layers of bread, salt, and daily chores — there lived a fire.

It never died. It waited.

There were nights I would walk out to the hill, far from the village, and stare at the sky. Sometimes I could almost smell our burned home again. Sometimes — I thought I could hear my mother's voice.

And each time, I whispered to the wind:

"I remember you, Acnologia. I'm still here. I didn't burn. And one day, you'll know it."

I didn't know how. I didn't know when.

But I knew that day would come.

Until then… I kept living. Breathing. Growing stronger. Not for myself. Not for glory.

But so that when the moment comes, I can stand before him — not as a boy made of ash, but as a flame, he couldn't extinguish.

The Day of Awakening. I'd been waiting for it since I first heard the word magic. Everyone in the village knew—when the time came, we climbed the tower in the center and used the crystal spheres to discover our magical level. I woke up before dawn, stared at the ceiling, didn't eat or speak. I couldn't afford a low result. Not me. I didn't just want magic—I needed it. For justice. For revenge. For Acnologia.

Inside the tower, it was cold, gray, and filled with more than two dozen people. Some whispered nervously, others stood frozen. I barely listened as the elder spoke about how each level doubled the strength of the one below it. My mind was locked on one thought: Please not Level One.

The spheres were smooth, clear, and icy cold. I watched others take theirs. Two... three... one... two. Then it was my turn. I held mine tight, closed my eyes, focused. I thought of my family. The fire. Her voice. The scream. The pain. The sphere trembled in my hands. I opened my eyes.

1.

Just... one.

My fingers slipped. I placed it back on the table and walked away without a word. Something inside me was pounding—not fear, not sadness. Something heavier. Something like shame. Down the stairs, I kept hearing it in my head: One. One. One.

I don't know how I got home. I just sat down, back against the wall, hands trembling. Level One. The lowest possible. Not a spark of hope. Just a label that said I was weak. I didn't cry. I didn't shout. I just sat there, staring at nothing, and realizing the truth: like this, I had no chance of stopping him.