Jack stared in disbelief at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Staring back was a teenage boy with wide, cobalt-blue eyes and a full head of dark, curly, dishevelled hair. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. “I’m sixteen again.”

  His right eye was no longer clouded, no longer dulled by damage. The pale, angry burn scars that had once stretched across half his face, disfiguring him for two decades, were gone. Erased, as though they had never existed.

  His breath caught in his throat as he raised a trembling hand to the side of his face. The skin beneath his fingertips was smooth and unbroken. “The scarring… It’s all gone,” he whispered.

  Tears welled in his eyes and began to roll down his cheeks. “I look so young…” His fingers explored further, brushing through thick curls where once there had been brittle tufts and bald patches. He pressed his palm to his temple, to the place where the fire had seared his skin, where pain and shame had lived for so long.

  “I-I’m whole again…” Emotion gripped him with a fierce intensity, and he clutched the edge of the sink for support. His legs felt weak. A lifetime of hiding beneath hoods, flinching from stares and pitying glances, all gone.

  He wiped the tears with the sleeve of his damp nightshirt, his breath shuddering as he forced himself to focus. “Pull yourself together, Jack,” he muttered. “This death thing could end at any moment…”

  His gaze drifted to the bathtub. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s the old one.” Stepping closer, he gave the rounded brass side of the clawfoot bath a fond pat, like greeting an old friend. It donged like a brass bell, he couldn’t help but smile at the familiar sound.

  A small rechargeable aether capsule, its polished copper casing etched with delicate runes, pulsed with blue light and hummed. Inside, refined aether crystals shimmered like bottled lightning. This was the bath’s dedicated power source.

  “I always preferred this one to the new model,” he whispered, sliding the plug into place and turning the hot water valve. As it hissed open, the aether capsule emitted a soft hum, resonating like a cat’s purr as spent aether curled into the air in gentle plumes.

  He remembered his dad proudly having the latest aether-powered system installed throughout the house. It was a few months before Jack’s sixteenth birthday. It started with hooking up the kitchen to the mains aether supply, followed by the radiators and then the bathroom.

  “I think it’s next month we get the new bath,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. The upgraded model would draw power directly from the city’s main aether grid via slender copper piping. More efficient and no more flat aether capsule halfway through a bath. Self-regulating temperature runes.

  A sleek and impressive design, but this one, this older, clunkier tub, felt more substantial. The water was deeper. The heat was more intense and the hum of the aether capsule was like a comforting lullaby. It wasn’t as good as the new one, yet it was somehow better.

  Jack peeled off his nightshirt and stepped into the steaming water, sinking down slowly. As the heated bath enveloped him, he examined his arms, chest, and shoulders. Skin, once warped and twisted, was now pale and smooth. Every scar from that terrible night had vanished. He flexed his fingers and there was no pain. He rolled his shoulders; no stiffness. He breathed in deep and there wasn’t even a hint of a rasp. His once scorched and frail lungs now drew in the air like the bellows of a forge, steady, strong, and healthy.

  Jack sank further into the water until only his eyes and nose remained above the surface. The warmth wrapped around him like a mother’s embrace. Memories of laughter, of family breakfasts, of firelit evenings returned unbidden, and with them came the tears.

  Silent, wrenching sobs shook his chest. Years of grief, guilt, and self-loathing poured out in a flood of disbelief and raw gratitude. He didn’t care how foolish he looked. The Gods, or whoever had gifted him this miracle, had given him something he thought forever lost.

  A chance to be himself.

  When the bath was done and his tears had run dry, Jack stood again before the mirror. He turned the small brass knob at its side, activating the heat rune. The fog cleared, revealing the boy staring back at him… a boy he never thought he’d see again.

  Jack smiled. A single happy tear rolled down his cheek and fell, soundless, to the tiled floor.

  ***

  The scent of frying butter and warm bread greeted him as he stepped into the kitchen. It was homely, bright, and filled with the soothing clatter of breakfast. He paused, savouring the moment, the smells, the warmth, the comfort of it all.

  He caught the end of something Polly was saying.

  “…this evening.”

  Their mother replied, “Don’t be too late. I don’t want you out after dark.”

  Polly sat at the kitchen table, attacking a stack of pancakes with childlike determination. “I won’t be late.” She stuffed a forkful of pancakes in her mouth and mumbled something unrecognisable and, “…rehearsing with my friends.”

  Their mother stood at the aether-powered stove, a wooden spoon in hand. “Don’t forget your sketchpad this time.” The stove’s brass control dials glowed with imbued runes, and the heat was regulated by enchanted runes set into the base.

  Polly nodded and looked up at Jack with narrowed eyes. “You took long enough…” She jabbed an empty fork at him. “You better not have drained the crystal!”

  Jack smirked and ignored her grumbling as he sat at the table. She had some nerve complaining. Usually, it was Miss I Spend Three Hours In The Bathroom who drained the aether capsule flat, leaving everyone else to have a cold bath.

  Their mother turned, placing a fresh stack of golden, steaming pancakes before him. They smelled of vanilla, cinnamon, and safety; they smelled of home.

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  She ruffled his damp curls with a warm smile. “There’s honey if you want it. Best grab it before Miss Greedy Guts empties the pot.” She gave her daughter a warning glance and received a cheeky pancake grin in return.

  Jack sat at that moment, overwhelmed by the simple joy of being there, being whole, being home. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime… he allowed himself to feel happy.

  After adding a generous dollop of honey, he sank his teeth into a thick, golden pancake. The crisp edge gave a satisfying crunch before melting into a soft, cloud-like centre. “Hmm…” he sighed with contentment, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks, Mom. These are the best pancakes I’ve ever tasted.”

  And he meant it. They tasted even better than he remembered. No one’s cooking could touch his mom’s. It wasn’t just the taste; it was the love in every bite.

  His mother gave him an appreciative smile. “It’s nice to have at least one grateful child in the family,” she said, tossing a glance at Polly.

  Polly, too busy shovelling another bite into her mouth, remained oblivious.

  Jack couldn’t stop smiling. His family was alive, safe, and together. His body, healed and youthful. He felt a miracle had taken root in the quiet corners of his life, and for the first time in years, he was tasting peace.

  As he devoured the last of his pancake stack, a sharp cry echoed through the house. It was high-pitched and indignant, with the unmistakable demands of a baby. For once, it wasn’t Polly. Jack froze, fork halfway to his mouth. A smile spread, widening until it lit his whole expression. The clatter of cutlery hitting porcelain broke the silence.

  My baby brother. Of course. It had to be his little brother. At this point, he would be a few months old.

  Behind him, his mother let out a resigned sigh and lowered the spatula. “Every time,” she muttered under her breath. “Can’t even eat one hot breakfast…” Her shoulders dropped in resignation at not getting to eat hot pancakes… again.

  Jack pushed his chair back with a screech across the tiled floor and stood up so fast that Polly stopped mid-bite. “I-I’ll get him,” he said, already moving. “You relax, Mom. Eat your breakfast while it’s hot.”

  His mom and sister blinked at his unexpected enthusiasm. His mother turned from the stove, her brow lifting in surprise. Polly, fork suspended in midair, glanced sideways at her mother, mirroring the look of confusion.

  “He’s never volunteered before,” Polly said, waving a fork full of pancakes in the air. “You think the bucket knocked something loose?” she asked, but her smirk betrayed her true motives. “I’m sure the bucket didn’t hit him that hard.”

  Trying not to laugh, their mother pressed her lips together. “Are you sure?” She looked at Jack, though her eyes drifted with hope back to the sizzling pancakes.

  Jack’s smile was broad, warm, and real. “He’s my little brother,” he said with conviction. “Of course, I’ll help.” He stuffed the last piece of pancake in his mouth and strode out of the kitchen towards the sound of tiny demands and a chance he thought he’d never have.

  As he walked down the hallway, the baby’s cries grew louder, insistent, and warbling. But Jack didn’t feel anxious or annoyed. No, he felt giddy. The kind of joy that built behind your ribs and made your steps lighter. He was about to see his baby brother again.

  In his old life, he’d had little time for the boy. He was too busy working as a scribe and living his own life. This time, he’d do better, he’d be a real big brother.

  Opening the door, he stepped into the soft-lit room. The morning sunlight filtered through pale curtains, casting golden rays over the cradle. The crying intensified the moment Jack approached.

  He looked down at the crying baby in the temperature-controlled cradle. The aether-powered readout displayed 21°C – Optimal Infant Comfort, glowing in elegant calligraphy. Toothless gums dominated his baby brother’s bright red, wrinkled face, framed by wisps of dark hair and fists raised like a tiny warrior ready for battle. Tears clung to the creases of his screwed-up eyes as he screamed his little lungs out.

  He’d never seen such a beautiful baby or heard such a melodious sound. “Hey, little dragon slayer. It’s me, Jack.” He bent forward, then paused. How do you pick a baby up again?

  It had been almost twenty-five years since he’d held a baby. Most of his adult life had been spent planning revenge or staring into the bottom of an empty ale tankard, not handling infants. He tried to recall what he’d seen before… support the neck, always support the neck.

  Scooping up the little dragon slayer—Richard—he cradled him in his arms like the baby was the most precious treasure he’d ever held. The weight was so light, so fragile, it made his heart ache. Jack’s eyes started to tear up again.

  Keep it under control. This could end at any moment. Enjoy spending time with your family. He tried to be logical to control his emotions. It didn’t help. Tears started to drip down his face. Damn it, Jack. You’re a grown man.

  Taking a deep breath, he rocked the baby, mimicking what he’d seen his mother do countless times. It didn’t work. In fact, Richard’s cries somehow grew louder. “Could something be wrong?” Panic surged. “I can’t lose him again,” he whispered, pacing the room holding the crying baby, not knowing what to do.

  “Wait. Richard didn’t get sick as a baby. I’ll ask Mom. She’ll know. Mom always knows.” He wiped his tears on his sleeve and rushed to the kitchen, cradling the shrieking infant like a ticking time bomb of screams and snot.

  His mother looked up from her breakfast. One glance at Jack’s panicked expression, and she chuckled.

  “He’s due a feed. Put a dab of yoghurt on your little finger and pop it in his mouth. Then rock him while I eat.” She had just sat down to her pancakes, and come hell or high water, she wasn’t getting up until they were finished.

  Jack did as instructed. His brother squirmed for a moment, then settled against Jack’s chest with a soft sigh. Thank the Gods. He was only hungry. Relief poured through him as the panic receded. He paced the kitchen with measured steps, rocking Richard.

  Polly laughed. “You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day, Jackie. I’ll be your bridesmaid…” She fluttered her lashes. “I’ll make your wedding dress extra pretty.” She had dreams of becoming a renowned tailor to the Royals and other nobles.

  Their mother chuckled.

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Jack replied. “Maybe you should become a Court Jester… or better yet, the Town Fool when it’s time to choose your class.” Both were real classes, though no one ever chose Town Fool. Maybe Polly would be the first.

  Their mother laughed so hard she spat pancake across the kitchen table, which set all three of them off.

  Jack smiled. I missed them so much. He took a deep breath and focused on rocking little Richard so he wouldn’t start crying again. He held him close, resting his cheek against the warm, downy head; the scent of milk and talcum powder was oddly soothing, grounding him in the present.

  “I missed you,” he murmured, his voice cracking. For a long moment, he stood there rocking, not because the baby needed it, but because he did.

  A few minutes later, Richard began to fuss again. The yogurt was long gone, and he’d realised there was no milk coming from Jack’s finger. Like she’d planned it, their mother finished her pancakes and took the baby to feed him before the tears restarted.

  Jack enjoyed the quiet comfort of his mother’s company, the cheerful presence of his sister, and baby brother. The kitchen buzzed with the low hum of idle conversation, the sort that filled a home with warmth and made the morning feel soft around the edges. Cups clinked as tea was poured, Jack laughed at one of Polly’s insults, and baby Richard gnawed on his fist, letting out a wet, slobbery glorp.

  Knock-knock-knock. The sudden rapping at the front door cut through the gentle rhythm of the morning.

  “Jack, could you get that?” his mom asked, her hands were sunk deep into a mound of bread dough.

  “Sure, Mom,” Jack replied as he stood, brushing crumbs from his lap.

  He opened the door and froze. A man and a woman stood outside, both middle-aged, both dressed in the crisp, dark robes of the Inquisition. They carried daggers at their side and expensive looking wands hung from their belts. Behind them were a half dozen beastkin guards who looked ready for action.

  Jack’s breath caught in his throat and his stomach lurched in horror. The Inquisition did not make friendly house calls.

  Fuck. What do they want?

  Blood Mage Assassin where Jack began his journey as a level 49 Apprentice Scribe.

  Max-Level Paladin of the Fallen Gods.