Chapitre 1: Lindisfarne
Crying echoed through Lindisfarne, where a baby swaddled in a small cloth lay on the beach of the holy island. Amidst the thunder and lightning, the infant's cries pierced the tumultuous night.
In Kattegat, a man gazed skyward he saw, a single eye reflecting wonder as it met the gaze of the crying child. The seer, too, found himself perplexed, his normally inscrutable expression contorted by fear of losing control.
Meanwhile, the young Athelstan, poised for a journey of self-discovery, listened to the cries from the beach while waiting for the storm to pass. A blank expression gave way to enlightenment as he descended to the shore, cradling the wailing baby in his arms, soothing the infant's cries with a newfound spark in his eyes.
Athelstan hurried back to Lindisfarne, escaping the rain, and laid the baby on his bed in his small shack. His initial impulse was to pray, but as the baby gradually drifted into slumber, his eyes lost their earlier radiance and closed gently.
The following morning:
I awoke with a jolt, the burdens I was about to face as newly turned 18-year-old. The lost, carefree days of youth and dwindling friendships weighed heavily on my mind.
As I contemplated these changes, the realization of my birthday forced my eyes open with great effort. To my astonishment, the strength I had once possessed had vanished, replaced by a profound weakness.
With my eyes barely discerning my tiny hands, panic engulfed me. The concept of reincarnation, while familiar, was disconcerting at this juncture of my life.
Just as I began to hyperventilate, the door burst open, revealing a boy no older than my previous self, accompanied by a group of solemn elderly men. Their professional attire clashed with their bewildered and disrupted expressions, a stark contrast to the wise and composed religious figures they usually portrayed.
The boy fervently addressed his companions, who appeared dubious. I couldn't help but chuckle at their spectacle.
Clearly, I had been reincarnated into the past, although the circumstances of my death remained a mystery. As I was on the cusp of adulthood, my life experiences were limited, but my passion for history provided some comfort. The prospect of living in this era and potentially altering its course mitigated my earlier panic.
Lost in thought, I failed to notice the circle of monks that had gathered around me in awe. To them, a baby with folded hands appeared to be deep in prayer, unaware that it was a subconscious habit taken from Andrew Tate, that I had copied over the years.
The monks erupted in excited shouts, their old English barely intelligible to me.
"This... Jesus..."
"... God... reward..."
Their fervent debate interrupted my thoughts, and the close proximity of their faces made me, regrettably affected by my infant state, burst into tears. This cry seemed to be the scariest thing this group of monks had ever encountered and each casted blame on the other.
The boy, displaying an air of holiness, scooped me up into his arms, instantly calming my fears. This unfamiliar world, while still daunting, appeared less menacing. My passion for history also reminded me of the hardened world that I had been reincarnated in.
With the room now tranquil, the monks deliberated on what to do with me. They wished to protect the child they believed to be the reincarnation of Jesus but pondered the risks telling others of the birth of such a child in a world fraught with danger.
In the end, the monks decided to raise the child,keeping him a secret and imparting their knowledge of the world and religion, hoping he would spread God's word to the heathens, all while the baby, now named David, slumbered in the arms of Athelstan, his future sealed by their well-intentioned but misguided beliefs.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone