Chereads / Memoir of an Acolyte / Chapter 2 - Descent and Discovery

Chapter 2 - Descent and Discovery

I suppose I should start at the beginning, before I'd unlocked my class. I had a happy childhood, all things considered. Heir to the Mordane family, born to wealth and power, with the city practically at my feet. Two doting parents, more than willing to spoil me, and a future carved in polished marble. I had it all. But happiness is a brittle thing, especially in a world where greed has sharper teeth than morals.

Everything I knew, everything my family built, shattered the year my grandfather and father died. An accident in the mines, they said, straight-faced and solemn. A lie so transparent I could see right through it, even as a child. And why? Because the vultures were already circling before they'd even bothered with the funeral rites. The ink hadn't dried on the death notices before our "friends" and "allies" began dismantling what should have been mine, bartering away my birthright in hushed rooms, signing it off with a lie and a handshake.

I was nine. A child, soft from comfort, powerless against the hungry beasts that tore into my legacy with smiles on their faces. My mother? She tried. Called in favors from every supposed friend she'd once lifted a glass with. They all smiled, assured her they'd "do everything they could"—then watched as the world collapsed around us, not lifting a finger to help.

I learned quickly that "friend" is just a word people use to make you lower your guard. They'll shake your hand, slap you on the back, all while they're counting down the minutes until you're too weak to fight back.

I lost everything but my mother and a handful of trinkets, mementos of a life that was no longer mine. We were cast out of the upper district, tossed from opulence into the sludge of the lower quarter—a cesspit of filth and desperation, where survival meant discarding any pretense of dignity. For me, the transition was like falling into ice-cold water, every breath a struggle. But my mother? She adapted as if she'd been born to it. "When in Amara, act as an Amarai," she'd say with a smirk, the old city motto twisted into something sharp, almost mocking. She knew exactly what it meant to fight, I glimpsed a side of her I'd never known existed.

Before she'd become the respectable lady I'd known, she'd been a dungeon explorer—a mercenary, cutting through dark depths for wealth, power, and any unclaimed glory. Now, stripped of all pretenses, that side of her resurfaced: hard-edged, gleaming like steel honed in the fire. She was an Awakened—a warrior, strong, graceful, and as elegant as a blade in motion.

Within days, she'd found us a cramped room in a tenement where the walls bled mold every time it rained. One bed, a chipped table, rough linens—hardly luxury, but there was food on the table. And somehow, even that shabby, damp little hole felt like a home. A small one, maybe. But a win was a win, and in our new world, I learned to measure success by inches rather than miles.

The lower quarter was a different breed of hell—where the stench clung to everything, thick as the cobblestones, and cruelty wasn't an exception; it was currency. And me? I was nothing but fresh meat, a weak, privileged mark with no survival instincts. My mother, of course, seemed oblivious of that fact. She'd throw me out into the streets to run errands; Pick up a parcel, get water from the well and other odd jobs.

the first time I met Warren and his friends, I was out on one of these errands, clutching an apple I'd bought to bring home to her, thinking it would make her smile.

Then, out of nowhere—a stone struck me in the side of the head. Pain exploded in my skull, sharp and hot, and I staggered, barely able to process what had happened before I hit the ground. Sharp gravel dug into my palms as I fell, but my hands stayed locked around that apple, cradling it like it was my last possession, my last shred of pride. Even as they surrounded me, laughing, kicking at my ribs, I wouldn't let it go. Stupid, really. In the end my grip gave and they took it.

I dragged myself home, bruised and beaten, to find Mother waiting as always. She took one look, didn't say a word, just set down her cup and helped clean me up as I choked back the sting in my eyes. It wasn't the pain that did it. No, what burned was that I'd lost her apple, and I'd lost it to them.

For months, it was like that. I'd come home battered, my pride as bruised as my body, and Mother would tend to me in silence, and I'd sit there, stewing in shame, unable to meet her eyes. I knew what I looked like to her—a helpless child in a world that chewed up the soft and spat them out.

But the day Warren and his gang cornered me again, it was different. This time, one of them held a knife. I didn't even see it flash before I felt the sting above my brow, warm blood trickling down into my eye. When I stumbled home, clutching my face, I found her by the window, puffing on her pipe as if she'd been waiting. She didn't flinch. She just set her pipe aside and cleaned the wound, same as always. But this time, I didn't look away. I didn't cry. "Mother," I said, voice rough, breathless, and burning with something darker than shame. "You have to kill them"

She shook her head, not even a hint of sympathy in her eyes. "I can't fight your battles for you, Llyris."

It felt like betrayal—cold, bitter, lodged right next to the bruise over my eye. But I held onto that feeling, let it burn. It was better than the helplessness. "Then make me stronger," I said, a growl slipping into my voice. "Teach me. I want to be strong enough to kill them if I want to."

She looked at me for a long moment, her face unreadable, like she was measuring something inside me. Then, just a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Good," she murmured. "About time."

And that was it, wasn't it? If I wanted power, I'd have to take it. No friends, no mercy, no one riding in to save me. Just strength, built from every scar, every bloody bruise. If that was the cost, then so be it. I'd pay it a thousand times over.

"I can teach you," she said, her voice as hard as iron, like she was casting a verdict. "But it will hurt more than anything you've endured so far, and there'll be no going back once we begin. Are you certain this is what you want?"

I clenched my fists, feeling the sting in my brow where Warren's knife had cut me, teeth gritted so hard I could've cracked them. "I don't care. If I'm the one dishing out the pain, it'll be worth it."

Her gaze turned steely, sizing me up like a butcher eyeing a slab of meat. "We'll begin when you've healed. Llyris Don't regret this."

And so, that night, the privileged boy I'd been was gone, beaten out of me without ceremony. What took his place was a raw, gnawing desire to be something else entirely—something ruthless. Rage was just fuel now, an ember in my gut that fanned into something darker and hotter with every day of training.

The regimen she put me through was brutal, worlds worse than anything Warren and his friends had ever dared try. She drilled me in combat until my muscles screamed, in survival until I could track a mouse through mud, in herbology until I could list every poison by taste. She was relentless, a taskmaster with no patience for mercy or weakness. And I absorbed it all, every lesson, every bruise, every ounce of skill she beat into me.

Gone were the days of bedtime stories and soft comforts. They'd been replaced by hard hands and a voice that could freeze blood in your veins. Sometimes, late at night, I'd wonder if she'd ever truly loved me at all. But then, I'd feel the ache in my bruises, the sting in my cuts, and I'd know this was her love. A ruthless,tough love forged by our circumstances. Perhaps she'd always been this way and wore a mask of an gentle parent, regardless of what it was.To me, it was the only kind of love worth anything.

Weeks bled into months, a relentless grind of sweat, bruises, and grit. Each night I'd collapse, muscles on fire, and each morning I'd drag myself up to do it all over again. And with each beating, each drill, I could feel the difference—the strength creeping in, replacing my former softness with something lean, sharp, and dangerous. But the rage inside didn't fade; it was an inferno that fueled every step, every punch, every bruising lesson. And each night, I'd close my eyes with a single thought echoing in my mind: One day, Warren and his gang would pay.

That day came faster than expected. I was on my way back from one of Mother's errands, arms loaded with supplies, when Warren and two of his goons cornered me in an alley. I felt a flicker of amusement—Really? Here? This was practically a gift.

I didn't wait. Didn't think. Just moved.

My fist connected with the nearest face, and the crunch of bone was like music—a symphony of pain. His scream filled the alley, the coppery scent of blood mingling with the stench of fear. For once, it wasn't my blood. For once, I was the one toying with them. I'd waited so long to see the look that flickered across their faces now—fear, disbelief, a dawning realization that they'd bitten off more than they could chew.

Before his brain could catch up, my knee came up hard, shattering whatever was left of his dignity and his nose. His scream turned into a choked gurgle, the tough-guy sneer replaced by soft, broken groans.

Warren watched, his eyes widening as he fumbled for a knife, desperation contorting his face. "You bastard!" he snarled, the words more of a plea than a threat, but I could see his hands trembling. His last friend tried to back him up, drawing his own blade, but there was no courage left in either of them—just two dogs clinging to whatever pride they could still scavenge.

"Come on, then," I taunted, adrenaline thrumming through me, sharper than any blade they could pull. "You don't scare me ."

They looked rattled, but the friend finally mustered enough grit to make the first move. He lunged, clumsy and obvious, aiming straight for my chest. Amateurs. I sidestepped, caught his wrist mid-swing, and, with a sharp twist, yanked him off balance, slamming him hard onto the ground. Before he could even cry out, I had his knife in my hand.

"Let's make sure you won't be trying that again." I sliced across his wrist, severing tendons with brutal precision. He howled, the knife clattering uselessly to the ground. Blood spilled from his arm, a dark, ugly reminder that he'd chosen the wrong target.

I leaned close, letting him see the sneer on my face. "Now you'll never use that hand to hit anyone again," I said, the satisfaction thick in my voice. For the first time in this rotten, stinking city, I felt strong.

Warren's eyes darted from his fallen friend to me, panic spreading across his face. He dropped his knife, his hands raised. "Please, stop!" he stammered, his voice a pathetic whimper. "We didn't want to do this. We were…we were paid to bully you. My mother, she…she has the pox! We needed the money!"

Stunned, I felt the sting of fresh betrayal layered atop old wounds. Paid? By whom? The question twisted in my gut 

'Who paid you?' I demanded my voice calm.

'A woman. tall, bronze skin with a burn scar on her hand,' he stammered. 'She paid us to pick on you,to bully you gave us more if we used weapons'

My heart sank, cold and heavy. Mother. She'd set this in motion—planned it. Fury and confusion wrestled in my chest, a part of me wanting to deny it, but after experiencing her training, I knew her cruelty all too well.

Warren's voice shook. 'This is over between us. We'll never bother you again.'

But forgiveness was the last thing on my mind. I strode up to him, reversed the knife, and brought the hilt down hard against his nose. Warren crumpled, clutching his face, a strangled cry escaping as he hit the ground. I didn't stop there. I kicked him in the ribs, again and again, until his screams turned to pitiful, shuddering gasps.

When I finally stepped back, a hollow ache settled in my chest. Something had shifted, soured inside me, too fast, too violent. Perhaps it was whatever was left of my innocence? Trampled in the mud along with Warren's bloody nose. 

Just like The way a maiden's blood stains white sheets on her wedding night—a necessary stain. A permanent one.

When I got home and saw my mother, I felt hollowed out. My own mother—the orchestrator of my misery. Rage seethed within me, sharp and relentless.

'You came back in one piece. I knew you would,' she said, a glimmer of pride in her eye.

'You paid them,' I hissed, fists clenched. 'Why?'

'Remember this rage,' she replied calmly. 'Use it to fuel your training.'

'Why!' I shouted, voice breaking.

She looked at me, unflinching, her gaze almost tender. 'A mother knows her son,' she murmured. 'How long would it have been before you came to me, ready to change? Your father and I kept you safe and coddled, and that was fine when we had the luxury of safety. But here?' She shook her head.

'Why didn't you just train me?' I demanded, desperation thick in my voice.

Her expression softened, but her eyes stayed hard. 'Do you think you would have endured the training if you didn't have your rage as fuel? Would you have pushed yourself to the limit if this wasn't your choice? This was the only way for you to understand what you needed to become.'

Her words settled over me like a shroud, hollowing me out while sharpening something dark within. A treacherous thought surfaced, one I tried to snuff out as soon as it formed. I wouldn't believe it—couldn't believe it. Was it all… Mother? Had she orchestrated our fall, made it easy for the vultures to pick us clean, all to get me to this point? No. I forced the thought away, grounding myself in the present.

She was right, as always. I'd clutched that apple to my chest back then, weak and helpless. Now? I had a goal and a taste for power. I could hate her, resent her, but in the end, I saw the logic in her madness. Her ruthlessness was mine now, branded as deep as any bruise. What mattered was strength—and one day, vengeance.

"This is only the beginning," she continued, her tone like steel wrapped in silk. "You still have much to learn. Today, you bested your demons, but he was only a boy. Six years remain until you awaken your class, and we don't have the means we once did to see you grow stronger."

Once more, she was right. Here I was, a boy barely formed, in a world teeming with creatures stronger, faster, more ruthless than I was—monsters, elves, dwarves, and the Awakened, each a walking legend in their own right. There was only so much my small hands could accomplish and against them? It wasn't much.

I needed her to teach me, to finish what she started. But it wasn't just needed anymore—it was want, a hunger to become something beyond what I'd lost. Whatever her methods, I'd endure them.

"Alright then," I said, voice steady. "I want to learn everything you have to teach."

Mother's smile sharpened, a glint of pride in her eye. For the first time since living in the lower district, I felt I understood her, a matching smile tugging at my lips.

The next five years were a relentless cycle of training. It wasn't just physical; she drilled me in money management, business, people skills—tools for a future beyond survival. By then, we were on the way up again, running a small but profitable venture that allowed us to leave the mold-ridden studio behind for a modest two-bedroom house, where the walls were only slightly damp.

We were preparing for my fifteenth birthday, the day I would unlock my class. But those plans shattered when the Zahlani army besieged the city.