While on one side of the city, David and Anora are already done with making possible predictions toward his possible future; the wheels of destiny are moving and converging to open a new path for Kevin in his life.
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Inside an alley of 'Walesin City,' Austavise country;
Kevin's POV:
There are many things I carry with me, lessons etched into the fabric of who I am—lessons my mother left for me in her letters. Those letters, sparse and pragmatic, became the sole connection I had to her as she lay confined to a hospital bed. For as long as I can remember, her presence was shadowed by silence, her body unmoving except for the steady rhythm of her breath.
I was four years old when my mother fell ill, her life reduced to a cycle of unconsciousness and brief awakenings.
The doctors called it an unidentifiable disease—a cruel and unyielding affliction that kept her vegetative for nearly forty-eight hours at a time, with no more than twenty-five to thirty fleeting minutes of consciousness in between.
Even as a child, I wasn't like others my age. While most kids threw tantrums over things they couldn't understand or possess, I sought answers. That yearning to comprehend the world around me was something my father,' Robin Ashcroft, noticed early on, though his reaction wasn't one of celebration.
He was a hardened man, shaped by years as a military officer—detached, stoic, and accustomed to life's cruelties. I could sense his unease at having a son who questioned everything, a mind that mirrored his own in ways he hadn't anticipated, as if, despite being only 5 years old, I had the intelligence and mentality of a 12-year-old.
His presence was constant but distant, a quiet force in my life that neither smothered nor nurtured me. He accepted who I was, but in a way that felt more like resignation than encouragement. He gave me space, but not warmth. For a long time, that was enough.
And yet, no matter how curious, intelligent, or understanding I thought I was, I was still a child. And like any child, I craved my mother's love—her care, her voice. But the cruel reality of her illness left me grasping at straws.
Every attempt to understand her condition, every effort to meet her during those rare awakenings, ended in failure. It felt as though the world itself was conspiring to keep her from me.
I remember the day that yearning turned to anger. I was seven years old, standing by her hospital bed. Frustration boiled over inside me, erupting in shouts that echoed through the room.
"Why won't you talk to me?" I cried, tears streaking my face. "At least let me know you're still here in my life!"
Those words were raw, the representation of a deep wound—the ache of a child who yearned for something he could never have.
But then, something unexpected happened.
From that week onward, I began receiving letters. At first, they came through the hospital staff, handed to me with quiet smiles. Later, my father delivered them, his expression unreadable as he passed them into my eager hands.
The letters were nothing like what I had imagined. They weren't filled with warmth or sentimentality but with measured, pragmatic advice that focused on life.
"Look at every situation with clarity," she wrote. "Build confidence from within. Set yourself apart through discipline and control."
There were no declarations of love, no comforting reassurances. Her words felt distant, almost detached. They weren't the nurturing guidance I had longed for—so I took them as something else entirely: a challenge.
I took those words as her way of saying. "If you do this, I will talk to you."
Through those letters, my mother pushed me to strive for the best version of myself, both in composure and physical capability. She taught me to endure, to persevere, and to push beyond the limits others might impose.
When she passed away three years later, just after my tenth birthday, I didn't cry. I couldn't. By then, grief had become something abstract, something I had learned to bury deep within myself. What I felt wasn't sorrow—it was a quiet ache, the sense of losing a guide in my life, not a mother.
Her letters had taught me more than I ever realized. They had shown me how to thrive in adversity, how to see challenges as opportunities, and how to stand tall even in the face of uncertainty.
It was her illness that first sparked my interest in genetics and surgery—the doctors had explained that her condition stemmed from a rare, spontaneous mutation. I wanted to understand it, to grasp the mechanisms behind her disease.
That spark evolved into a passion, and now, years later, I've established myself as one of the youngest and best in the field of integrative medical genomics in his country—a pursuit born from the very condition that took her life.
There were times I doubted her letters. I wondered if they were truly hers. Her words felt so cold, so unlike the mothers I had read about in books or seen among my classmates. If I had to describe her, I would say she was "practical"—detached, focused, and logical.
My doubts lingered until the day I compared her handwriting to the research papers my father had kept—a collection of scientific studies she had authored before her illness. The match was undeniable. The letters were hers, every word a reflection of her sharp mind and unyielding spirit.
It was during that time I stopped wishing for her to be like other mothers. Her letters weren't emotional. They didn't comfort me, but they shaped me. And though she was gone, her words remained—a legacy of wisdom and strength that continues to guide me even now.
Not much time had passed since she passed away—less than a month—when one day, a letter arrived. But this time, it wasn't for me. It was addressed to my father.
I remember watching him as he read it, his expression unreadable. I tried to gauge his thoughts, to understand what the letter might mean, but he gave me nothing. When I asked, he refused to respond, his silence impenetrable. Frustrated, I pushed the matter to the back of my mind, deciding it wasn't worth the effort.
Two days later, he left. He didn't tell me where he was going or why, but before he did, he made every preparation to ensure my well-being. He even hired a woman in her fifties—someone I'd never seen before, from God knows where—to take care of me.
For the week he was gone, I stuck to my routine. I exercised daily, completed my schoolwork, devoured books on human and animal anatomy, and played games to sharpen my mind. The games were laughably easy, but I kept at them, hoping the higher levels would offer more of a challenge. And, of course, I kept a close eye on the caretaker, making sure she didn't steal anything from the house.
When my father finally returned, I noticed something different about him. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but not to me. There was a shift in his demeanor, a faint crack in the stoic facade he always wore. He didn't say anything about it, and I didn't ask. His silence was a wall I had learned not to climb.
Then, one morning, he woke me up earlier than usual. Without explanation, he led me to the gym on the terrace where I normally exercised. Standing there, he declared, "From today onward, I'll be training you."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Training me? For what?"
His voice softened, the weight of his words sinking in. "If you don't want this, or if you don't believe me, then let it be. I won't force you. But time has a way of shaping us, Kevin. It will make you see the truth, whether you want to or not."
His words left me in deep contemplation. I cannot understand why he is doing this. As I wrestled with the weight of it, my mother's words echoed in my mind: Be the best version of yourself.
"Will your training make me the best version of myself physically?" I asked at last, my tone quieter but tinged with determination.
My father understood my intentions.
He gave me a knowing smile—a gesture that carried more meaning than any answer.
From that moment, our training began. It was grueling, relentless—a regimen designed not just to teach me survival and adaptation but to forge dominance. Every day, as my body and mind grew. Another emotion began to rise within me: pride.
At first, it was subtle—a quiet confidence instilled by the lessons my father gave me and the words my mother had left behind. But as I pushed through every challenge, as I sharpened my skills and embraced the struggles before me, that pride took root. It wasn't the kind of arrogance that blinds you to something you watch in shows or read in books—it was a flame, steady and unyielding, driving me to keep going, to never stop until I reached my goals.
It was like a constant echo, repeating in my mind with every step forward. 'Choose the best.'
So I trained and ground every part of who I was. I began to understand that being the best wasn't just about physical prowess or dominance—it was about resilience, composure, and unwavering focus.
Those sessions with my father were transformative. in it, I found not only strength but purpose—a purpose that demanded nothing less than my very best.