Questions, questions. That's how it started, though there was never an answer.
When I was young, I asked too many questions. The kind that made adults pause, made them squirm, and made them wonder if I had seen too much for my age. Maybe I had.
It was a bitter cold Biseria Winter morning when my mother grabbed my hand and hurried me out of our small, crumbling apartment. She wrapped me in layers of mismatched clothing, their faded colors a testament to the years they'd seen. Her breath hung in the cold air, each exhale trembling with urgency.
We weren't like the "clean" people who lived in the gated communities with their polished lives and pristine laws. No, we lived where the city cracked and bled—where drunken brawls on New Year's Eve were the norm, where even toddlers like me bore witness to fights, wounds, and scars. But my parents, bless them, were trying. They were reforming, as the government liked to call it. Redemption for the poor, they promised. A lie.
I tugged on her hand, my small voice breaking the silence. "Mama, where are we going?"
"Not now, Wyren," she replied, her voice tight. She didn't even look down at me. I wanted to ask more. Why were we rushing? Why was she so scared? But something in her tone silenced me.
We hailed a taxi, its interior reeking of stale smoke and cheap alcohol. The driver didn't bother with pleasantries, just nodded and sped off. We barely got five blocks before the car screeched to a halt.
A group of men in black uniforms surrounded the vehicle. Their boots crunched on the frost-covered asphalt, and their faces were stone. "Identification," one of them barked, his voice cold as the winter air.
Mother fumbled in her pocket, her hands trembling. But it didn't matter. The cuffs came out before she could produce anything. They didn't even ask twice. Within minutes, both of us were being herded into the back of a van.
"Why?" I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Mama, why are they taking us?"
"Quiet, Wyren," she hissed, pulling me close. Her hands covered my ears, as if that would shield me from what was happening.
That was my first time in prison. They didn't care that I was just a toddler, that I didn't understand what was happening. They threw us into a cell like we were nothing. That day, I learned my first lesson: knowledge is the enemy of a tyrant. Questions? Questions could get you killed.
So, I stopped asking—for a while.
Years passed. The scars from that day never faded, but they shaped me. The government didn't just rule; it suffocated. Laws weren't designed for justice but for obedience. Yet even as I grew, I couldn't stay silent forever. The questions returned, sharper and more dangerous.
Why did the government fear us? Why did they silence voices like mine and my parents'? Why did they crush every glimmer of hope?
Eventually, I found my answers—not in books or classrooms, but in whispers in the shadows. The Liberationaries, they called themselves. Rebels. Traitors. Heroes. They taught me what the government feared: magic. Real magic, not the sanitized, state-approved parlor tricks. Magic that could bend reality, tear down walls, and ignite revolutions.
And now, here I was. Planting a bomb in the heart of the state that had stolen so much from me. The bomb wasn't just mine, though. It was ours—mine and Emma's. My sweet Emma, the only person who had stood by me through everything. She was brilliant, her mind a whirlwind of calculations and creativity. She had designed this bomb, every wire and mechanism a testament to her genius.
"This is it," she said, her voice steady. She was crouched beside me, her brown hair falling in loose waves around her face. Despite the tension, she looked calm. Serene, even.
"You're not scared?" I asked, my hands trembling as I secured the final piece.
She smiled, a soft, wistful thing. "Of course I am. But fear doesn't matter, does it? What matters is what we leave behind."
I swallowed hard, nodding. "We'll be remembered, right?"
"More than that," she said, placing a hand over mine. "We'll be the spark."
We finished setting the bomb in silence. The government office was almost empty, the dim lights casting long shadows across the room. It was closing hours, the perfect time. No innocent lives, just the cold machinery of oppression.
"Ready?" she asked, standing.
I took a deep breath. "Ready."
Together, we stepped back, our hands clasped. As we activated the timer, we shouted in unison, our voices echoing through the empty halls: "Death to the state! Death to the tyrant!"
The explosion was instantaneous. A brilliant flash of light, a deafening roar, and then—nothing.
[System initializing…]
[Strong inclinations toward freedom detected…]
[Manifesting exclusive system…]
[Freedom System created. Welcome, Wyren.]
I awoke to darkness. Not the cold, suffocating kind of the prison cells I had known, but a vast, infinite void. My body felt weightless, and yet… I was here. I was alive.
"Wyren," a voice whispered. It was soft, almost melodic.
"Emma?" I called out, panic rising in my chest.
"No. I am the Freedom System," the voice replied. "Your actions have been recognized. Your desire for liberation has been acknowledged."
I blinked, trying to make sense of the words. "What… what are you talking about?"
"You have been chosen," the voice continued. "Your spirit, unyielding and relentless, has earned you a second chance. You will be reincarnated in a new world. Your memories, your will, and the Liberation System will accompany you."
"Reincarnated?" I echoed. "In a random universe?"
"Yes."
For a moment, I said nothing. My mind raced. I thought of Emma, of the bomb, of the lives we had tried to save. "And Emma?" I asked finally.
The voice hesitated. "Her journey is her own. You must focus on yours."
I clenched my fists, anger and sorrow swirling within me. But then I thought of what Emma would say. She would want me to go on, to fight, to be that spark she believed in.
"What do I need to do?" I asked.
"Liberate," the system replied. "Wherever you go, whatever form you take, you will find yourself under powers you may not yet understand, you are to live as free as you can, and this System will help you tremendously."
A faint light began to glow in the distance, growing brighter with each passing second.
"Your new life begins now, Wyren," the voice said. "Carry the flame of freedom with you."
The light engulfed me, and the void disappeared.
When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer in Biseria, no longer in the shadow of the tyrant's regime. The world around me was vibrant, alive with magic. But even here, I could feel it—the chains, the oppression.
The Liberation System's voice echoed in my mind: "Welcome to your new world. Let the revolution begin."
And so, it did.