Daniel Edgar was a monument. Not one made of marble or bronze, but of ambition, cunning, and an iron will forged in the cold boardrooms of London and the volatile markets of the world. His empire, built brick by financial brick over seven decades, was a sprawling conglomerate that touched everything from natural resources to the latest artificial intelligence software. His money wasn't counted in mere billions, but in high billions, a sum so astronomical it had become an abstraction, a scoreboard for a game that only he seemed to fully understand.
He was the archetype of the self-made man, yet one who had sculpted himself with an almost glacial coldness. Love, in its many forms, had always seemed to him an irrational variable, an unnecessary risk in a perfectly balanced equation of gain and power. Wives were considered briefly and discarded for being "costly distractions." Biological heirs... well, it was a thought that had come too late, and when it did, it was met with a philosophical shrug. He did not drown in regrets. His life was his work, and it was magnificent and solitary. He observed the world from the penthouse of his London skyscraper, a king without an heir on a throne of steel and glass.
Until that night.
Until that sound. It wasn't the cry of a baby that found him; it was the sound of life itself insisting, fighting against the world's obscene indifference. The sight of the small being, covered in mud and rain, so fragile and yet so fiercely clinging to existence, was the most intriguing paradox he had ever encountered. It wasn't pity, a sentiment he considered banal. It was curiosity. It was like finding a rare and resilient specimen sprouting through the concrete of a sidewalk. How had it survived? What kind of life force pulsed in that small body?
He, who had bought islands and corporations, made the most impulsive and, paradoxically, the most calculated decision of his life. He took the child.
The bureaucratic process of registering the child was handled with a single phone call to a very well-paid contact in the Home Office. The chosen name was no accident: Noah Edgar. "Noah," the survivor of the flood, the one who carries the future in an ancient world. "Edgar," his own lineage, a name that carried weight, history, and an incalculable fortune. It was a declaration. The boy would not be an adopted son; he would be his grandson. Legal, legitimate, and sole heir to everything.
And then, the true intrigue began.
Noah Edgar wasn't just intelligent; he was an anomaly. Before he turned two, he wasn't just babbling words but deciphering letters on packaging and newspapers, his curious eyes absorbing symbols like sponges. By three, he was reading children's books with the fluency of an elementary school student. By five, he was discussing—with a startlingly precise vocabulary—the nuances of the nature documentaries he watched on the library's flat-screen TV.
Daniel, a man accustomed to excellence (and to demanding it), found himself constantly amazed. He provided his grandson with tutors from the best universities, and Noah didn't just absorb the knowledge: he devoured it, asking questions that left PhDs hesitating, connecting concepts from mathematics, history, and science in ways that were, frankly, disconcerting. He excelled at everything he set his mind to, from chess to equestrianism, as if a divine spark touched him.
Daniel, proud and possessive, considered him a genius. A unique prodigy, the final and most perfect jewel in his crown of achievements. He saw Noah as his last and greatest acquisition, the masterpiece his biological lineage had never been able to produce.
However, in the discreet whispers of the household staff, among the tutors who gathered for tea after lessons, and in the silent corridors of the mansion, Noah carried another title, a name given not with admiration, but with reverential fear and a hint of superstition.
They called him "The Living Mystery."
....
Identity is a skin we wear. For me, it had been torn off and discarded, and a new one, immaculate and luxurious, had been carefully stitched into place. Ethan White was a distant echo, a whisper from a nightmare I had awoken from. Noah Edgar, however, was tangible. It was the smell of freshly washed Egyptian cotton, the taste of perfectly seasoned organic food, the silent weight of billion-dollar expectations. With a new life came a new identity, and with it, a curiosity that was both a blessing and a curse.
My previous memory was like a book damaged by water. Some pages were perfectly preserved, sharp and terrifyingly clear: the Gray Mist, the door of writhing larvae, the cocoons of slumbering souls. I remembered the result of my ritual—the transmigration, the rebirth into this infant body. I remembered the intention, the desperate desire for escape. But the crucial details, the mechanisms, the whispered words or the drawn symbols... those had evaporated. It was a convenient and deeply suspicious amnesia.
Was it an inherent protection of the process? A way to ensure I would never repeat such a catastrophic act? Or, a more intriguing possibility, was it simply no longer necessary? Perhaps the ritual wasn't a set of instructions to be memorized, but a state of being, a key that, once used, dissolves. The curiosity itched at the back of my mind, an intellectual itch I knew was dangerous to scratch.
While my past remained nebulous, my present was of an almost painful clarity. My capacity for memorization had been elevated to levels that bordered on the absurd. It wasn't just a "good memory." It was perfect recall. Every book I read—from dense tomes of philosophy to technical manuals—imprinted itself on my mind not as concepts, but as a textual photograph. I could, at will, "turn the pages" mentally, reading word for word, comma for comma, as if accessing an internal database. I'd read about savants, about famous mnemonists, but nothing compared to this. It was impossible, illogical. It was, like my own being, another mystery to be deciphered.
And for mysteries, there is only one temple: the library.
The library of the Edgar mansion wasn't a room; it was a territory. Two walls were made of bulletproof glass, offering a stunning view of the meticulously landscaped gardens. The other two were of dark oak, climbing three stories high, filled with thousands of volumes organized with museum-like precision. The smell was intoxicating: aged leather, old paper, and a faint scent of beeswax used for preservation. It was my sanctuary, the place where I felt most at home, for it was the supreme realm of the mind.
But on that day, my path was intercepted.
"Noah," my grandfather Daniel Edgar's voice echoed in the spacious hallway, his natural authority filling the space. "Where do you think you're going? The quarterly report on our stake in Asia-Pacific Holdings has arrived. Your analyses on their market fluctuations have been... perceptive. We shall review it together."
He stood under the frame of an imposing doorway, dressed in a dark silk robe. His face tried to maintain a business-like expression, but his eyes betrayed a different need. We had already dissected that report the day before. I had already internalized every number, every projection. He didn't want my analysis; he wanted my company. It was strange and, in a way, touching. This titan of capitalism, this man who commanded empires with a nod of his head, was inventing transparent excuses to spend time with his four-year-old grandson. He was, clearly, becoming attached. And I, the eternal loner Ethan White, found that I didn't mind. The idea of being something more than an heir, of being a beloved grandson, was a new and strangely pleasant warmth.
I smiled inwardly. 'This man.' I thought, 'urgently needs a wife or a hobby more demanding than the stock market.'
"Grandfather," I said, my childish voice sounding strangely measured in that gigantic corridor. "I just need to quickly confirm something in the library. A small detail from a book on natural history. It'll take five minutes. Then I'll join you in the garden for tea. I promise."
The mention of the garden was crucial. It was his favorite place for long conversations. I saw the immediate change in his eyes. The business stiffness dissolved, replaced by a genuine spark of joy and anticipation. It was the look of a man who, after a lifetime of accumulating things, had discovered that what he truly desired was to share his afternoons with someone.
"Don't be long," he said, trying to maintain firmness, but the corner of his mouth curled into a near-smile. "The cook made those lemon scones you like."
My stomach rumbled softly, a protesting reminder of the lemon scones awaiting me in the garden. Hunger was a new and insistent sensation in this young body, a biological demand that Ethan White had learned to ignore, but which Noah Edgar was still learning to manage. Still, curiosity was a stronger impulse. I left the abdominal rumble unanswered and stepped into the vast silence of the library.
The task of finding the specific book was absurdly simple, thanks to my grandfather's obsessive meticulousness. Daniel Edgar did not trust digital cataloging systems for his precious collection. He organized each new volume himself, his firm hands labeling and positioning each book with a reverence that bordered on religious. The shelves were a map of his mind: logical, ordered, and deeply predictable. 'I mentally thank you, Grandfather.' I thought, not for the first time, as I went directly to a specific section on a high shelf, near the window overlooking the rose garden.
The book I sought was not like the others. While its neighbors boasted richly tooled leather spines with titles in gold leaf, this one was discreet, almost furtive. Its cover was of a dark, worn fabric, the color of ancient soot, and there was no visible title or author. It seemed to absorb the light around it. As I reached out, a strange sensation ran up my arm—it wasn't electrical, but more like plunging my hand into still, inexplicably cold water. My eyes, for a brief moment, seemed to catch something: a faint mist, the color of damp ashes, hovering around the book like a dying breath. It was... intensely curious. It wasn't frightening; it was an invitation.
Sitting in a heavy leather armchair that smelled of varnish and history, I opened the volume. The pages were yellowed and thin, the texture of the paper irregular, handmade. The handwriting was elegant, yet hurried, as if the author were transcribing knowledge under great pressure.
The work plunged directly into methods of the Divine Art of Divination and Practices of Ritualistic Magic. I read about Taromancy, not as a parlor card trick, but as a complex geometry of archetypal symbols that, if read correctly, could map the currents of fate. There were detailed sections on the use of a Spiritual Pendulum to locate energies or answer deep questions, and on the Dowsing Rod, an instrument for sensing hidden currents. It was fascinating, less superstition and more an esoteric science, a physics of the invisible if you will.
Then, my reading stopped at a section that made my heart race. The heading simply said: Spiritual Sight.
The dark ink seemed to pulse on the page. The text explained:
Spiritual Sight is a fundamental ability that most Seers can, with dedication, learn. It allows the practitioner a direct glimpse into the non-physical aspects of a being. When a Seer activates their Spiritual Sight, their perception transcends the veil of the physical. They can observe the auras emanated by the Etheric Body – the energetic double of all living matter – or even discern the Etheric Body itself. This expanded vision allows them to discover the presence of any entity that possesses a Spiritual Body. Furthermore, from the intensity, brightness, and color of this emanation, the Seer can deduce with impressive clarity the vital health, emotional balance, and even the magical potential of the observed being.
Seeing the health of another being not through symptoms, but through the very luminous essence of their life... the idea was revolutionary. It was an absolute diagnosis. I continued, thirsty for more.
Theoretically, as a Seer, as long as your own spirituality is continuously enhanced and refined, abilities such as Spiritual Sight, divination, and ritualistic magic are within your reach. However, in practice, the differences between the various paths and lineages are quite obvious and profound. For example, Dove Seers are a rare lineage, known not for their brute strength, but for their exceptionally high and pure spirituality, which grants them insights and a connection to the invisible that other schools envy but rarely achieve.
The page ended there, leaving a vacuum of questions.
Dove Seers?
The term sounded strange, almost humble, but the description suggested a formidable power.
The next page of the ancient book delved even deeper into this taxonomy, detailing how Seers were categorized. The reading became even more fascinating.
According to the text, a medium's powers were not random. They sprouted directly from the soil of their soul, shaped by their disposition and personality. The core of who they were determined the lens through which they saw the invisible. And this lens divided Seers into two archetypal birds: the Dove and the Raven.
The Dove was described as a positive soul, of gentle and optimistic disposition. Their visions, consequently, tended toward positive outcomes, omens of hope, healing, and good fortune. But their greatest strength was quantitative: Doves possessed a greater volume of innate spirituality. This did not necessarily make them more powerful in terms of brute force, but rather more clairvoyant. Their visions were like a high-precision telescope: they reached further along the river of time and were of an impressive clarity, almost uncontaminated by emotional static.
The Raven, in contrast, was the shadow. A personality more weary of life, skeptical, one who saw the world through its flaws and darkness. This shadowy lens was not a weakness, but a powerful filter. A Raven's visions were intense, potent, and viscerally raw. They did not see omens; they witnessed crimes. Their premonitions were of people being attacked, betrayed, murdered. They were glimpses of the worst of human nature, delivered with the force of a punch to the gut. The text gave a severe warning: without proper mental and spiritual training, a Raven could easily be driven to madness by the incessant weight of so much anticipated horror.
'I see...' I thought, closing my eyes for a moment. This is profoundly interesting. It was a system that made sense. Perception was not neutral; it was tinted by the essence of the perceiver. What you are determines what you see. The question that remained, hovering like the mist around the book, was: which one would I be? My memories of Ethan White were of loneliness and a desperate act of escape – echoes of a Raven. But Noah Edgar's life was one of privilege, care, and growing affection – the fertile soil for a Dove. Who was I, deep down?
The curiosity burned brighter. I flipped through the pages with fingers that almost trembled with anticipation, until my gaze caught on the new chapter heading: Ritualistic Magic.
The first page was a declaration of principles:
Ritualistic Magic encompasses a wide variety of long, elaborate, and deeply complex rituals. Its works are characterized by meticulous ceremonies and numerous specific accessories, necessary to focus the will and aid the practitioner. It is not a domain for amateurs or the impulsive. It demands the precise selection of astrologically auspicious dates and times, the immaculate preparation of corresponding materials (herbs, metals, candles, symbols), and rigorous adherence to an unvarying format and process. It is often used in formal prayers and invocations; its purpose is to achieve a specific and powerful supernatural effect through the ritual's precise structure.
The text then drew a clear line between laypeople and initiates. Ordinary people, devoid of innate gift, who dared to attempt such rites, were condemned to rigidly follow manuals and astromancy results, hoping to increase their chance of success by fractions of a percentage. But for Seers, it was different. Their sharpened spiritual sight and their potent Astral Projections were the essential tools that transformed ritual mimicry into true conjuration. They didn't just follow instructions; they saw the energy currents, felt the points of power, and navigated the involved astral planes.
Ritualistic magic, the book explained, could be divided into three fundamental parts:
The Sacrifice: An offering of value (not necessarily bloody, it could be of energy, intention, or a personal object) to awaken the interest of a higher existence or force corresponding to the desire.
The Enchantments: Words of power, secret names, or specific narratives that described and summoned the existence in question precisely, making clear who was being called and why.
The Formatting: The use of symbols (such as protective circles), gestures, and the very structure of the ritual to clearly convey the request and, crucially, contain and direct the invoked force.
And then came the passage most revolutionary to me:
Ritualistic magic can also be used to pray to oneself. Drawing power purely from one's own accumulated spirituality, without resorting to an external god or entity. The benefit of this type of magic is that it avoids the inherent dangers of invoking a god—debts, whims, restrictions—depending purely on a person's inner power. It achieves various magical effects without the limitations imposed by a deity's specialized domain. The problem, however, lies entirely in individual spiritual strength. A weak result for the weak and a strong result for the strong.
The revelation was not a simple intellectual understanding; it was a seismic tremor that ran through the foundation of my being. I was utterly paralyzed, my fingers still pressed against the yellowed page, as if the knowledge contained within it could flow directly into my bloodstream. That was the missing piece, the key that unlocked the deepest enigma of my existence: my own rebirth.
The ritual I, Ethan White, performed on that desperate night... was not a plea to external forces. Now I understood. I had not invoked some ancient god or cosmic entity, begging for mercy or power. Nor had I supplicated to any lesser deity or guardian spirit.
My approach had been far more brute, far more dangerous, and in a way, far more arrogant. I had connected to the vast and chaotic unknown without any target or filter, like a radio tuned to all frequencies at once, screaming my will into the void.
The result was not an elegant answer or a negotiated pact; it was an explosion. An uncontrolled chain reaction that used my own spirituality as fuel for a violent transmutation, generating this chaotic and amnesiac outcome: me, Noah Edgar, a billionaire child with the fractal memories of a shattered man.
The need to understand more, to master what had mastered me, was now a compulsion. I turned a few more pages with a feverish urgency, the sound of the paper rustling echoing like a drum in the sepulchral silence of the library. And then, my gaze was captured by a new subtitle, a word that seemed to pulse with silent potential: Cogitation.
The book explained:
Cogitation, also called Meditation, is not mere relaxation or emptying the mind. It is the deliberate state and act of intense spiritual concentration on a specific target—be it an object, a scene, or the essence of a being—with the purpose of centralizing all scattered thoughts and maintaining a rational, impenetrable focus. It is the cornerstone upon which the edifice of mysticism is built, often used in conjunction with Spiritual Sight. Its primary function is to awaken or enhance the latent occult powers within Seers, functioning as a muscle-building exercise for the soul.
The initial steps, according to the text, were deceptively simple. And they were, intriguingly, even more so for Ravens, whose minds focused on darkness might find an anchor point more easily than a Dove, whose thoughts might fly freely. For a novice, the instruction was clear: the Seer must choose a mental object, something common, simple, and easy to visualize—a key, an apple, a candle flame. Total focus must be placed on this object, repeating its shape, color, and texture in the mind, while mentally creating its contours with increasing precision.
The first step of Cogitation was not to empty, but to fill the mind with a single thing, thereby diverting conscious attention and opening a channel for the controlled infiltration of spiritual energy into one's own being. After this "entry" into the altered state, one could begin to develop the sight of ethereal colors, which represented the awakening of Spiritual Sight. The practice, the book warned, must be daily. Only through incessant repetition could a Seer, especially Ravens, comprehend the overwhelming power of their visions, dig deep into the mysteries they hid, and, most crucially, learn to remove their unpleasant and potentially insane effects.
Awaken occult powers? It echoed in my mind, a question laden with skepticism and a spark of voracious hope. Perhaps... perhaps I could use this another way. I was not, by nature, a person who accepted things on faith. But I could dedicate myself fiercely to something, with relentless discipline, if it was proven worthwhile. And what could be more worthwhile than understanding the force that remade me?
I closed the book gently but left it open to the page on Cogitation. I walked to the heavy leather armchair that faced the empty shelves, away from the distraction of the window. I sat down, sinking slightly into the seat that smelled of history and varnish. The mansion was silent, the outside world had vanished.
I took a deep breath, the library air feeling colder and more charged now. And then, I closed my eyes.
....
Seated in a rattan chair on the terrace overlooking the immaculate gardens, he brought the fine porcelain to his lips, the aroma of Earl Grey mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass. The afternoon sun warmed his wrinkled face.
It was then that the predictability cracked.
A nearly imperceptible tremor, a strange buzzing that didn't come from his ears but from his bones, preceded the event. The cup in his hand trembled softly, causing the amber liquid to form concentric ripples. Before his brain could process the phenomenon, the cup simply... floated. It left his hand, hovering in the air as if held by invisible wires, the tea inside it forming a perfect, shimmering bubble that defied gravity.
Daniel Edgar froze. The confusion was instant and total. His world was one of cold logic and financial leverage, not of... this. He looked down at his empty hands, then at the suspended cup, his rational mind fighting furiously against the evidence of his senses. And then came the shiver. It wasn't a common chill. It was a visceral sensation, as if someone had blown a deep, icy, and intentionally threatening breath on the nape of his neck. It was a primal warning, a feeling he had only experienced once before, decades ago, in a meeting with an enigmatic woman whose eyes seemed to see through him.
"This is..." he whispered into the still air, and the memory of that woman, of that identical sensation of raw, inexplicable power, struck him like lightning.
Noah.
The thought was an electric shock. Daniel stood up so fast that the rattan chair fell backward with a crack. He didn't think; he acted. His heart, old but strong, beat with an anxious fury against his ribs. He ran. His footsteps, usually measured and heavy, echoed through the marble corridors of the mansion like gunshots. And with each step, the sensation intensified. The shiver transformed into a constant pressure, a spiritual humidity that weighed on his shoulders, penetrated his clothes, and reached his skin. It was like plunging into an icy, invisible lake. The source was unmistakable, a beacon of anomaly pulling him magnetically: the library.
Upon reaching the heavy oak doors of the library, the scene that unfolded made his blood run cold. Chaos reigned. Books weren't simply falling from the shelves; they were floating, dancing slowly in the air like leaves in a phantom wind. The central reading table trembled, its legs knocking against the wooden floor in an arrhythmic, anxious beat. The air itself felt dense, charged with an invisible pressure that was both cold as snow and damp as a catacomb. It was an electrifying and oppressive sensation, like being at the epicenter of a storm about to break, with silent thunder and lightning that could only be felt, not seen.
"What immense and intense Spirituality!" Daniel's voice came out as a whisper of pure astonishment, stolen by the weight of the supernatural air. He wasn't a complete layman; his vast travels and encounters had given him a taste of the occult world, but this... this was of a different magnitude. It was primordial.
Instinctively, he raised his arms, not to protect himself from a physical blow, but from the hostile atmosphere itself. And, to his own astonishment, the nearest floating objects—a globe, a silver candelabra—were pushed away from him, moved by a force of will he didn't know he possessed, an invisible barrier generated by his pure desire to protect and be protected.
"Noah!" His voice, now, was a shout, a command hurled against the silent hurricane.
He didn't climb the spiral staircase leading to the mezzanine. He... floated. His feet left the ground, carried by a current of the invisible influence he controlled, but to which his own presence seemed to respond. The ascent was a lucid dream of terror. And then, on the mezzanine, he saw him.
"Noah..."
The boy was sitting in the same leather armchair, motionless, his eyes tightly closed. His expression was one of deep peace, a concentration so absolute it made him an island of calm at the center of the chaos. Nothing happening around him—the flying books, the distorted air, the trembling—seemed to affect him. But the opposite was not true. Noah was the source. He was the epicenter.
His spirituality, raw and unrestrained, didn't just affect the physical world; it distorted it. The space around him seemed to ripple, like air over asphalt on a hot day, but here the distortion sucked in light and sound. Daniel felt that time was also wrong, speeding up and slowing down in irregular pulses, making him nauseous. Worse still was the sensation that the false became real. Shadows in the corners of his eyes coalesced into near-solid forms, whispers without source brushed against his ears, promises and threats from a plane of existence that should not overlap with our own.
Daniel Edgar, the magnate who defied governments and moved markets, felt an emotion he hadn't experienced in a long time: pure, primordial fear. Not for his own safety, but for the boy. For what he was becoming. For the power that could consume him.
And then, with all the strength of his lungs and a terrified soul, he shouted, trying to reach the boy through the veil he himself had woven:
"NOAH!"