Eight years have passed since I was reincarnated into this world. Life has been wonderful, life has been— who am I kidding, life has been as great as my late years in school.

  Thanks to Demiurge branding me a “heretic”, others would look at me with disdain. They called me a “black-crossed”, because of the black cross birthmark on my forehead. I felt like I became like that one famous wizard from the book series back on earth, but my literal birth brought my family naught but ruin.

  My dad, a renowned merchant, had lost all his customers. Of course, he tried to cover news of my birthmark, but word got out regardless. No one wanted to buy from him or do any business anymore.

  His wife, my birth mother, left to her family after things got rough. I haven’t seen her since, and frankly, I do not want to.

  I’m sorry, being young again fills my head with a multitude of new emotions. It’s hard to stay level headed and not become all emotional on the fact my family is now destitute and my father in absolute despair.

  All because I decided not to take Demiurge’s gift and become one of his followers.

  There was only one god for me. And I wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise—

  “Hey, black-crossed!” a nearby girl laughed. “You coming to the Communion today, or are you afraid to burn up inside the church?”

  The other children laughed, and I touched my forehead. My hand felt sticky with blood. This was my life, afterall. A heretic who gets shunned by society. My head hurt.

  Trudging over the dusty and sandy road of my home, I walked alongside the shade to avoid the beating sun. The village was built near a desert, like most villages, but with limited sources of water.

  Demiurge was the only reason we survived. His protection granted the villages mercy to thrive. A dome of blue light that shielded us from the dangers outside. I am grateful for his protection, like most of us, but I wished he wouldn’t take out his anger on me on others.

  I stopped around the corner, lurking. My father had set up shop this morning on the edge of the village. It was right on the border where people were allowed to sell, but it mattered little.

  Near the stone houses, there was our shop under the torn scarlet drapery. Father’s shop was thrashed, the wood torn apart and burned to ash, and the walls vandalised with black crosses. The sign of a heretic, me.

  “Face it, Guilherme,” a man in brown robes spoke by the fountain, surrounded by other men. “You and your son are not welcome. Leave, or by God you will regret not killing your babe and throwing him to the desert.”

  I inched closer but kept my distance, remembering what happened last time when I tried to intervene. Father lay down in the broken fountain, which was green and moldy. His clothes were soaked and his lips were bleeding.

  He spat into the waters, blood mingling with the rest before leaving the fountain. “My wife told me the same,” he said. “God hath forsaken us, after all.”

  A twinge caught my heart, and my hand gripped tightly at my chest.

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  “But he’s my son,” Guilherme stood up to the man leading. His eyes were bloodshot red, and his head shaved to show the black cross scar marked on him. “As his father, I’ll discipline as I see fit, Antios.”

  He bumped with his shoulder against them as he left. Antios turned around. “Who cares for discipline when that child is forsaken, anyway? See what God brought upon you. If you left him, maybe God would have forgiven you.”

  Antios wore a wicked grin and crossed his arms. “And maybe that cur of a wife would have stayed—”

  My eyes transfixed on the sight of my father throwing the first punch, throwing Antios into the fountain. Both men fought in the dirty waters.

  “Say that again about my wife!”

  I covered my eyes and ran back home.

  Dad came back home late. His robes were tattered, body bruised and one of his eyes swollen. He slung his bag from his shoulders and threw himself down on the couch, the last good thing he got out of our old house before it was… best not go there.

  Throwing his arm over his face, he sighed deeply. “Francis, you home?”

  I covered my small hands over my mouth, repressing a small sound that I was there.

  “You do know I can smell the hummus, right?”

  Gripping my apron in my hands, I stepped forward over the threshold. My dad had sat up again, judging me with tired eyes.

  “Come over here.” I reluctantly stepped forward, and flinched when he raised his hand. My eyes closed instinctively, but all he did was rustle my dirty black hair. “Stay still, son.”

  A flood of cold water washed over the place I was hit. Dad used his magic to heal me. Magic he had received by God and not yet lost.

  “How did this happen?” he asked. “Was it Svea?”

  “She hates me,” I replied.

  “May she cast the first stone,” he said and then pulled my head up to look at him. “And may you cast the second. Let’s eat, son.”

  At the dinner table, we sat down on the poor excuse of a table from what we were used to. The plates were made out of wood, and the hummus barely had any sustenance. Money was tied.

  A scorching breeze wafted into our home through the cracks and open stone windows.

  Father lay his hands down on the table and inclined his head in prayer. I followed suit, mimicking the way he did it before sending my own prayer to god.

  We ate in silence. There was not much to share between us. Maybe the fact I brought ruin to our family. How his first and only son destroyed his successful career. Or how we still put a plate down for mom in the hopes she would come back.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  Ok, maybe there was one thing.

  I put down my spoon. “I don’t want to go,” I said.

  Dad growled, “Francis Julianus Appolis, as a faithful servant of God, you will go to your first communion, you hear?”

  “But I am not—”

  Dad slammed his fist on the table, splintering it. His face contorted. “Do not argue with me, son. You go to the communion.”

  “Why does it matter?” I argued. “I won’t receive any blessings anyway.”

  The First Communion in this world was part of a magic blessing. Children of eight years of age receive their blessings by Demiurge by eating something similar to Eucharist. It would grant the child the ability to fulfill the deeds of God in greater capacity.

  My shoulders slumped. Knowing my branding as a heretic, the communion would hold nothing for me.

  Dad sighed, cradling his head. “Son, you need to go there. Show them you are faithful to God. Do not forsaken him because of our misery. If you embrace him, you may yet walk in his light.”

  Dad stood up and knelt before me. I turned to him, he embraced me like that God never would. “I worry for you, my son. If you do not receive his blessing, I do not know what your future will hold. My time is limited. I won’t be here to protect you forever.”

  A laugh echoed from the empty seat. Demiurge sat there, enjoying the hummus I made in place of mother. He was only visible to me. Always has been.

  “Listen to your father, Francis,” he laughed, stuffing his mouth. “I may forgive you still. That is,” his grimace darkened. The food began to rot. “If you forsake your old God. He cannot protect you. So, what will it be? Your family's good fortunes lie at the mercy of your own hands. Choose, Francis. Choose well.”