Chapter 2: Revelations by Firelight
Night descended on Eastward Hope like a heavy blanket, bringing with it a silence broken only by the chirping of unfamiliar insects and the occasional howl from the distant forest.
Jack—or Tarkhan, as he must now think of himself—sat across from Anya at their small hearth, the dancing flames casting long shadows across her weathered face.
She had waited until the village bell had rung the midnight hour before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper despite their solitude.
"What I tell you tonight must never leave this room," she began, her fingers working methodically at a piece of embroidery—a habit, Tarkhan's memories supplied, that helped steady her nerves.
"Your parents didn't die from winter fever as I've always told you."
Jack felt Tarkhan's body tense. "What happened to them?"
Anya's needle paused mid-stitch. "They were executed. Your father was discovered attempting to teach forbidden cultivation techniques to your mother." The firelight caught the tears welling in her eyes.
"In the capital, it's death to practice any method not sanctioned by the Celestial Conclave."
The revelation struck like a physical blow. Images flashed through his mind—memories not his own, yet somehow belonging to him now: a tall, broad-shouldered man with Tarkhan's amber eyes, whispering instructions as his hands guided small fingers through cultivation movements.
A woman with midnight hair flowing to her waist, her laughter like wind chimes as she corrected her son's stance.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"To protect you." Anya set her embroidery aside.
"Your father was onto something—a discovery about cultivation that frightened the Conclave enough to make an example of him. I hoped that if you never knew, you might avoid his fate."
She stood and moved to a loose floorboard near her bed, prying it up with practiced ease. From the hollow beneath, she withdrew a bundle wrapped in oilcloth.
"These belonged to your father. I've kept them hidden since we were forced to the outlands." She placed the bundle in his hands, her own trembling slightly.
"I always planned to burn them if the fever took you. Without you, there would be no point in keeping such dangerous treasures."
Jack unwrapped the bundle carefully. Inside lay a thin book bound in what appeared to be scaled leather and a pendant—a simple crystal that seemed to capture and refract the firelight in impossible ways.
"Your father's cultivation journal and his focus crystal," Anya explained.
"He was a scholar in the Academy of Celestial Arts before falling from favor. These contain his life's work—his theories on what he called 'Harmonious Cultivation.'"
Jack opened the journal, running his fingers over the dense script that filled its pages. Diagrams of the human body with meridian lines crisscrossed the margins, annotated with symbols he didn't yet understand.
"Conventional wisdom teaches that cultivation is a solitary path," Anya continued.
"Practitioners may form associations for mutual protection or benefit, but each walks their own road to power. Your father believed differently."
"He theorized that certain individuals could form cultivation bonds—spiritual connections that amplified each other's power through a harmonic resonance."
Jack looked up from the journal. "Like a network?"
Anya tilted her head, unfamiliar with the term. "He called it a cultivation matrix. Most importantly, he discovered that those deemed 'flawed' or 'incompatible' with traditional methods often possessed unique energetic signatures that, when properly connected, created something greater than the sum of their parts."
She took the crystal pendant and placed it around his neck. "This will help you sense potential matrix members. It was attuned to your father's energy, but blood ties should allow you to use it as well."
"Why tell me this now?" Jack asked, though he suspected the answer.
"Because today you did what should be impossible. You opened multiple meridians simultaneously, without training." Anya's gaze was piercing.
"Something has changed in you, Tarkhan. The fever transformed you somehow. And Diviner Wei—a man who has sent dozens of promising youths to the capital—chose to protect you instead."
Jack closed the journal, weighing his options. Anya deserved the truth, or as much of it as he could explain without sounding completely mad.
"I'm not exactly the Tarkhan you knew," he said carefully.
"When the fever broke, I awoke with... another consciousness inside me. Another life's worth of memories."
To his surprise, Anya didn't look shocked. "The Ancient Transmigration," she whispered. "It's real."
"Ancient Transmigration?"
"A legend among old cultivation families. It's said that occasionally, when a person dies in one world, their spirit crosses the void to inhabit a body in another."
She studied him with newfound wonder. "The texts claim such individuals bring unique perspectives that allow them to advance cultivation in ways natives cannot imagine. The Conclave declares such tales heresy, of course."
Jack felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "You believe me?"
"I've watched you since you woke. You move differently. Speak differently. Yet you still have Tarkhan's memories." She reached for his hand.
"Who were you, before?"
"My name was Jack Morrison. I came from a world without cultivation, but with technology beyond anything here."
"I was... a kind of scholar, I suppose. I created thinking systems—tools that could find patterns in vast amounts of information."
"A pattern-finder," Anya mused.
"Yes, that explains how you intuited cultivation movements without training. Your mind is suited to discovering underlying structures." She squeezed his hand.
"Perhaps the Celestials guided your spirit here for a purpose."
Jack wasn't sure about celestial intervention, but he couldn't deny the strange synchronicity between his analytical skills and Tarkhan's father's unfinished work.
A network of complementary energies—it wasn't so different from the interconnected systems he'd designed in his previous life.
"There's more you should know," Anya said, her voice dropping even lower.
"The Transmigration Initiative—the program that relocated us to this settlement—it isn't what the Crown claims."
"What do you mean?"
"These outland settlements aren't just about expanding the kingdom's borders or relieving overcrowding in the capital."
"They're... experiments. Testing grounds." Her expression darkened.
"Every three months, the Overseer's men collect 'tribute'—not just grain and textiles, but blood samples from every settler. They claim it's to check for diseases, but your father discovered otherwise."
She leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the firelight. "They're testing for cultivation compatibility. This settlement isn't random—everyone relocated here had some marginal cultivation potential, but not enough to be useful to the academies."
"Your father believed they're using us to study how cultivation develops in harsh environments, with limited resources."
Jack processed this information, connecting it with the odd behavior of the diviner earlier that day. "And Diviner Wei? Why would he protect me?"
"That, I cannot explain," Anya admitted. "Unless..." She trailed off, her gaze distant.
"Unless what?"
"There have always been whispers of resistance within the Conclave itself. Scholars who disagreed with the strict control of cultivation knowledge." She shook her head.
"But that's mere speculation. What matters now is keeping you safe while you explore these new abilities."
A log cracked in the fire, sending sparks dancing upwards. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling through the gaps in the thatched roof.
"Tomorrow is the Spring Festival," Anya said, changing subjects.
"All settlers must attend. It would raise suspicion if you remained in bed after your 'fever' broke so dramatically."
"The festival," Jack murmured, pulling the relevant memories from Tarkhan's mind.
An annual celebration marking the end of winter, with games, dancing, and most importantly, the arrival of traders from neighboring settlements.
"Yes. And this year, Overseer Darius himself will attend." Anya's expression was grim.
"He rarely leaves his manor unless something important is happening."
Jack touched the crystal pendant now hanging against his chest. It felt warm, pulsing gently in rhythm with his heartbeat. "Will there be many outsiders at the festival?"
"Traders, entertainers, perhaps even a martial demonstration from the Overseer's guards." She narrowed her eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"If my father was right about cultivation matrices, then I need to find compatible partners." Jack ran his fingers across the journal's cover.
"The crystal might help me identify potential candidates among the visitors."
Anya's face paled. "You mean to continue his work? Tarkhan—Jack—whatever name you choose—that path led to your parents' execution."
"I'm not my father," Jack replied softly.
"I have knowledge he didn't—from another world, another way of thinking. And more importantly, I have his research as a starting point."
He grasped her weathered hands in his. "You protected these secrets for years, waiting for the right moment."
"That moment is now. I don't believe it's coincidence that my consciousness arrived in this body, with this legacy waiting for me."
Anya searched his face for a long moment before sighing deeply. "You have his determination. And perhaps your... unique circumstance provides an advantage the Conclave won't anticipate."
She withdrew her hands and resumed her embroidery, a signal that their dangerous conversation was concluding. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, observe everything at the festival, but draw no attention to yourself."
Jack nodded, rising to his feet. The journal and pendant he tucked carefully under his sleeping mat. As he prepared for bed, the crystal pulsed once more against his skin, stronger this time.
For a moment, he felt something—a fleeting connection, like a distant echo answering his call. Somewhere nearby, someone's energy had resonated with his own.
The first thread of his matrix had been revealed.
Tomorrow, at the Spring Festival, he would begin to weave it into something more.