The acrid tang of burnt sulfur was the first thing to greet Curtis in this new life. It clawed at his throat, a rude awakening from a slumber that felt deeper than sleep, heavier than death. He coughed, eyes stinging, and cracked open lids that felt crusted shut with sleep dust.
The room was dim, lit only by flickering candlelight spilling from a rickety clay lamp perched precariously on a rickety wooden table. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and something vaguely organic, almost like… wet fur? His gaze, blurry at first, adjusted to the gloom, taking in the cramped, cluttered space. It was an alchemist's den, no doubt about it. Glass vials of swirling liquids lined dusty shelves, bubbling concoctions simmered over open flames in grimy pots, and strange symbols adorned faded tapestries hanging on damp, peeling walls.
And then, there was him. A hunched figure, skeletal thin, garbed in robes the color of faded mud, stirring a murky brew with a gnarled wooden spoon. Curtis recognized him instantly, even through the haze of confusion that still clung to his mind. This was Jomo, his father, the low-tier alchemist who toiled night and day in the bowels of the Jade District, brewing concoctions for a pittance in a city that chewed up men like him and spat out their bones.
"Father?" His voice, when it emerged, was a rusty rasp, unused and alien. Jomo's head snapped up, his eyes, dark and sunken beneath bushy brows, widening in what could almost be called surprise.
"Curtis? By the Jade Emperor, boy, is that truly you?" He shuffled closer, his robes whispering against the rough-hewn floorboards. "You look… different. Older, somehow."
Different? Older? Curtis tried to piece together the fragments of his memories, a kaleidoscope of swirling colors and disjointed images. Then it hit him – the blinding white light, the searing heat, the agonizing scream ripped from his lungs as the world around him imploded… a car accident, the paramedics, the doctor's grim pronouncement… and then? Darkness. Oblivion. And now, this.
He sat up, wincing as his joints protested. His body felt wrong, alien, almost too thin to hold his soul. He ran a hand through his hair, expecting the familiar short afro, but finding instead coarse, wiry dreadlocks that felt like woven straw.
"What… what happened to me?" His voice, still rough, held a tremor of fear he couldn't quite suppress.
Jomo placed a bony hand on his shoulder, his touch surprisingly warm. "The Jade Weaver works in mysterious ways, son. You were… stricken. A fever, they said. But the healers, they could do naught. We all thought…" his voice hitched, then firmed. "But the Jade Emperor is merciful. He has returned you to us."
Returned? To this life of drudgery and poverty, to the suffocating confines of the Jade District, a slum clinging to the underbelly of the opulent Jade City like a festering wound? No, something was different. He could feel it, a hum beneath his skin, a faint echo of something… else.
He reached out, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, towards a vial filled with a swirling emerald liquid on the table. It pulsed with an inner light, beckoning, whispering secrets in a language he somehow understood. He picked it up, the cool glass comforting against his trembling fingers.
And then, something extraordinary happened. The world shimmered, blurred at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something else through the emerald liquid. He saw himself, not in this grimy alchemist's den, but in a sterile white room, surrounded by machines that beeped and blinked in an alien rhythm. He saw the doctors, their faces etched with concern, and felt the cold sting of needles in his arm.
Then, just as quickly, the vision faded, the world snapping back into its familiar squalor. But the echo remained, a phantom limb of a life he no longer fully remembered. He looked at his hand, still clutching the vial, and saw, superimposed on his own, another hand, calloused but nimble, typing on a glowing keyboard.
"What was that?" Jomo's voice broke through his reverie. Curtis looked up, the vial clutched tight in his hand.
"I… I don't know," he stammered, the truth heavy on his tongue. But even as he spoke, a seed of an idea, audacious and terrifying, took root in his mind. Could this… this ability, this echo of his past life, be the key to changing his fate, his family's fate, in this new world?
The seed of possibility, fragile as a newborn jade sprout, took root in Curtis's mind. He stared at the swirling emerald liquid in the vial, a silent question hanging heavy in the air. Jomo, his brow furrowed in concern, followed his gaze.
"What troubles you, son?" His voice, raspy with age and the ever-present smoke of the alchemical furnace, held a familiar warmth.
Curtis hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How could he explain the impossible? "Father," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper, "I… I think I can understand it."
Jomo blinked, his sunken eyes widening in surprise. "Understand what, boy?"
Curtis pointed to the vial, the emerald liquid catching the flickering candlelight like trapped stars. "This. The concoction. Its… formula."
Jomo's skepticism was etched on his weathered face. "You? A mere boy, barely recovered from your illness, claiming to understand the work of an alchemist? Don't be foolish, Curtis."
But Curtis felt a stubborn resolve rise within him. The echo of his past life, the phantom keystrokes and glowing screens, pulsed faintly in his mind, urging him forward. He couldn't explain it, not yet, but he knew, somehow, that he could decipher the secrets held within the swirling liquid.
He reached out, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, tracing the symbols etched on the vial's neck with his index finger. The touch sent a tingling sensation through his hand, a faint hum resonating in his bones. And then, it happened.
The world around him blurred, the alchemist's den fading into a swirling vortex of emerald light. In its place, vivid images flooded his mind – not memories, not exactly, but a tapestry of knowledge, intricate symbols dancing in a rhythm both alien and familiar. It was the formula, laid bare, its components and their interactions painted in strokes of light and understanding.
He saw the jade root, pulsing with earthy energy, the quicksilver shimmering with mercurial volatility, the venom sac of the fire viper, its essence a potent spark. He saw them not as ingredients, but as actors in a grand play, their movements dictated by an unseen script, a symphony of creation and destruction.
The vision ebbed, the alchemist's den solidifying around him. He blinked, the echo of the formula still ringing in his mind like a half-remembered song. His hand trembled, still tingling from the phantom touch of knowledge.
Jomo stared at him, his mouth agape. "By the Jade Emperor…" he breathed, awe replacing skepticism in his eyes. "You… you saw it, didn't you? The formula?"
Curtis nodded, his throat dry. "Yes, Father. I…" he faltered, searching for the right words. "I think I can recreate it."
Jomo's eyes, usually dull with the drudgery of their existence, ignited with a spark of hope. He stepped closer, his bony hand gripping Curtis's shoulder. "If you can truly do this, son…" he began, his voice thick with emotion, "if you can master this formula, it could change everything. Not just for us, but for the whole district."
The weight of Jomo's words settled on Curtis like a physical burden. He had glimpsed a possibility, a path out of the suffocating confines of the Jade District, but the journey ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. Could he truly master this alien knowledge, this echo of his past life, and forge a new destiny for himself and his family?
He looked at the vial, the emerald liquid glinting in the candlelight, and a quiet determination settled in his gut. He wouldn't know until he tried. And so, with a deep breath and a trembling hand, Curtis embarked on a journey unlike any he could have imagined, a journey powered by the whispers of another world and the faint echoes of a life he barely remembered. He was Curtis, the alchemist's son, reborn with a secret weapon clutched in his palm – the ability to copy and paste not just potions, but perhaps even fate itself.