Silence still hung in the air after James's disappearance. Rand stood motionless before the two imposing doors, now radiating a subtle glow around their handles — as if they had been awakened by everything he had just heard.
He took a deep breath. His mind swirled in confused spirals, trying to digest an avalanche of revelations: he was the living legacy of James, carrying within himself an ancient inheritance, adorned — and now, he had a choice to make.
"I choose."He thought. He felt. He declared to himself.
Rand turned to the first door. As he touched the handle, a wave of energy coursed through his arm like a living serpent. But unlike the previous time, the handle turned. Slowly. Heavily. As if the door itself was reading his soul, his essence, his truth.
With a deep, heavy creak, the door opened.
On the other side, there was no hallway, no staircase, no light. There was a vast field, covered in thick silver mist. In the distance, shadows moved between twisted trees and crumbling structures, as if time itself had forgotten that place. The air was dense, filled with echoes — not of voices, but of memories. Memories that didn't just appear — they lived.
Rand took a step.
And then, the ground disappeared.
He fell — without pain, without fear. He simply fell, as if being pulled into himself.
When he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.
It was a mansion. Luxurious. Silent. Almost sacred. And he… he was now only two years old. He felt the weight of a small body, fragile hands, an innocent curiosity burning in his eyes. An instinctive voice whispered in his mind:
"These are the memories of your previous self."
The years passed like centuries.
Rand grew up as a prodigy in an ancestral house of Potter and Black, where magic was not merely taught — it was forged through pain, molded with cruel discipline. His learning was harsh, relentless, unforgiving. Each day brought a new test. Each night, a new experiment that tore mind and body apart.
He learned to manipulate the essence of reality, to create spells never written in grimoires. His mentors admired him… and feared him.
But Rand soon realized: the knowledge of Grambritain, though vast, was just a fraction of the whole.
So he left.
And then began his journey. He crossed deserts, jungles that sang under moonlight, mountains. He met people who spoke to the elements, danced with the winds, and summoned spirits through the blood of the earth. He learned from reclusive elves, feral shamans, alchemists who dreamed impossible formulas.
He acquired artifacts lost for ages. Some held knowledge. Others had specific functions. Some… whispered forbidden promises. He studied each with obsessive dedication. Recreated them. Fused them into his magic. Created living grimoires, weapons that thought, scrolls that wrote themselves.
But there was a price. There always is.
Rand discovered that his magical lineage wasn't just rare — it was forbidden.
At first, he thought it was exaggeration. An ancient superstition. But truth always asserts itself. With each spell cast, something died: a flower, an insect, a bird… a piece of himself. His magic fed on vital essence. He channeled the very energy of life and death.
He named his craft The Art of Life and Death.
A magic capable of rewriting reality — or disintegrating it completely. It obeyed no laws of the world. Only the heart of its wielder.
And then… came the ritual.
Rand, aware of the end of the cycle, infused his soul into the essence of that forbidden art. He knew he wouldn't be reborn just with power, but with weight. A burden of lives, memories, and choices.
His body began to dissolve. Slowly. Like magical dust returning to the ether. His final vision was of himself fading into time — not with fear, but with acceptance.
He had fulfilled his purpose. For now.
Rand opened his eyes. He was back in the room.
The two doors were gone. Only one remained.
And beside it, as if he had never left, was James. Smiling. Calm.
But Rand was no longer the same.
His eyes now held depths beyond comprehension. He was no longer just a young man — he was the vessel of past lives, forgotten powers, hidden truths now stirring beneath his skin.
James stepped forward. His presence now felt more solid. More... real.
— "Do you remember now?" — he asked, with a soft glow in his eyes.
Rand nodded. His voice came out deep, steady:
— "Yes… I remember everything."
James smiled. This time, there was something more — pride.
— "Then you're ready to return.Inside the trunk you carry, there's something that belongs to you. It always has. A suitcase. It's not just an object. It's a key… to the next step."
He paused, and his voice grew firmer:
— "You're skilled, Rand. But you care too much about what others think of you.You used a magic that consumed you, when there were other paths.You could've reached your goal through gentler means. But you did it your way. And that's okay."
James placed a hand gently on Rand's shoulder.
— "What you have, no one can take from you. Not even time. Not even death.Now go. Use it wisely.
And when the moment comes…I'll be waiting to open the next door."
Rand tried to say something, but the world began to spin.
The room twisted. The walls vanished. Time shattered like glass.
And he agreed.