That's when I heard voices.
"What should we name him?"
"Should we ask the oracle?"
"That is not the oracle's job," a woman replied, her tone lightly chiding but affectionate.
The sound of footsteps approached, and soon a woman—my mother, I realized—appeared in my line of sight. She leaned down, her expression glowing with warmth as she scooped me up into her arms. Her touch was gentle but sure, and the faint scent of flowers clung to her.
"This pretty boy will be a lady-killer, just like you," she teased, glancing over her shoulder. "I think Venzel is a fine name."
"If you say so, dear," another voice responded.
I squirmed slightly, and my gaze shifted, allowing me to see them both clearly for the first time.
My father stepped into view, tall and lean, with a wiry strength that didn't detract from his annoyingly handsome features. His delicate bone structure and refined appearance made him look more like a prince from a storybook than a traditional idea of masculinity.
My mother, on the other hand, was a vision of elegance. She exuded confidence, her sharp eyes sparkling with pride and mischief. She was, without a doubt, a diva—a woman whose mere presence could command attention.
I had to admit it: my parents were breathtaking. And if I inherited even half of their traits, this world wouldn't know what hit it.
Not that I was admiring them or anything—I was analyzing. Survival was my priority, and knowing my assets was part of the game.
As my mother cradled me, she adjusted her gown, preparing to nurse me. Hunger struck like a primal force, and instinct overrode every rational thought. Without hesitation, I latched on, resigning myself to the awkward necessity of it all.
Ahem, I thought to myself. Don't get the wrong idea—I'm no pervert. This is survival. I have to live.
As I fed, my mind churned with possibilities. My father had mentioned consulting an oracle, and my mother spoke of me as though I were destined for something greater. The glowing runes on the walls, the hum of energy in the air—this wasn't a normal world.
Whatever this new life held, I was determined to live my life to the fullest. I'm not going to follow some strange system laid out by other people who don't follow it themselves.
And if the smug voice I'd heard earlier was watching, well, they'd better be ready.
This world wasn't prepared for Venzel Kaelith!
As I grew older, my days became a routine of quiet exploration and endless curiosity. The old nanny was a constant presence in my life, tending to my needs and keeping me out of trouble—or at least trying to. By the time I turned five, I was finally given access to the family library, a treasure trove of knowledge.
But books, fascinating as they were, couldn't hold my attention for long. What truly captivated me was my mother's mysterious work in her alchemy room.
The scents of herbs, the glow of strange concoctions, and the occasional soft explosions drew me in like a moth to a flame. Alchemy wasn't just cooking with flair—it was magic made practical. Watching my mother transform mundane ingredients into shimmering potions and glowing powders made my heart race in a way nothing else had.
My parents, however, weren't much of a presence in my life anymore. After the first two years, they seemed content to leave my upbringing to the old nanny. I suppose they trusted her and thought I'd turned out fine enough to not need constant attention.
Not that I blamed them. They had their own lives to live, and I wasn't exactly a needy child. I rarely cried, never threw tantrums, and generally made the nanny's job easy. Maybe too easy, which is why my parents probably felt comfortable being more… hands-off.
Still, couldn't they have hired a younger nanny? Someone I could admire or—dare I say—befriend?
Not that I hated the old woman. She was patient, kind, and reliable, but… well, you know what I mean. Or maybe you don't. Ah, forget it.
The books in the library revealed much about this world, particularly its hierarchy of magic. It was divided into grades, from Grade 1 to the almost mythical Grade 5.
Grade 1 magic was basic—little more than parlor tricks. Grade 2 and 3 had practical applications, from lighting homes to enhancing tools. Grade 4 could shape the world itself, like calling storms or summoning creatures of legend.
And Grade 5? That was the realm of gods and monsters. It could create mountains, level kingdoms, and reshape the course of history. Few ever reached it, and those who did were either revered as heroes or feared as tyrants.
With that knowledge, my goal became clear: I'd reach Grade 5.
And then…
I stopped, staring at the sky.
What then?
I didn't know. I'd never been someone with a grand purpose. In my last life, people always told me, "You'll figure it out along the way." Maybe they were right. Maybe I didn't need a clear goal just yet.
Ignoring everything around me, I opened my favorite book, An Alchemist's Passion for Spark! written by none other than Pyro, the legendary mage.
Rumor has it he was a Grade 4 mage in his prime, a towering figure in the magical community. They say he died trying to reach Grade 5, his ambitions literally blowing up in his face. But honestly? I couldn't care less about how he died. His books, his experiments, and the knowledge he shared with the world—that's what mattered.
Pyro wasn't just any alchemist; he was an artist, a master of controlled chaos. His moniker, "The Explosion Emperor," or simply E², spoke volumes about his expertise. He turned explosions into an art form, blending science, magic, and raw creativity. To me, he wasn't just a mage—he was a visionary.
Today's chapter was:
"Making Explosions That Make Flowers Bloom."
Only Pyro could take something as destructive as an explosion and turn it into something so poetic. The idea of detonating a carefully crafted magical potion and watching vibrant flowers bloom in its wake? That was the kind of genius that set him apart from everyone else.
"Controlled beauty in chaos," he wrote in his preface. "An explosion is not destruction—it's creation waiting to happen."
My fingers traced the intricate diagrams on the page, my excitement growing with every line I read. This wasn't just alchemy; it was passion. Pyro's passion. My passion.
I couldn't help but smile. Pyro wasn't just my idol—he was my inspiration.
And one day, I'd surpass him.