Once again, Percy found himself standing on the frigid wastelands of Huehue’s dark side, his – or rather, Micky’s – feet buried a few inches deep in the snow. The only source of light were the cyan lines glowing on his skin, faintly illuminating his immediate surroundings, and no more than that. He was breathing hard; his lungs numb from the cold. But all four of his tiny fists were clenched tightly, the boy stubbornly keeping the boosting art going.

‘He’s even younger than the last time!’ Percy realized. ‘Is this the day he first managed to activate the spell? But who’s teaching him?’

Percy knew from the previous memory that neither Micky’s mother nor his sister were fighters. The two hadn’t even made any effort to protect themselves when Mixcoatl attacked them.

“That’s enough for now, son,” a man spoke, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ll get better at it with practice.”

Micky had never mentioned his father, and Percy hadn’t seen him with them last time either. They’d clearly lost him years before the rest of them got captured.

“I can… keep going…!” Micky chirped between pants, his child-like voice surprising Percy.

He couldn’t have been older than seven. At what age did these people even awaken their cores? Learning a Refined spell so young, and in such a short time was quite impressive, even with a proper instructor.

The man walked up to the boy, evident by the rhythmic crunches of the snow beneath his feet. By the time he was close enough for Micky to see him, the boy had to crane his head up, barely reaching the man’s waist. His father patted him on the head, his warm hand ruffling the fluff there for a couple seconds.

“A wise warrior understands when it’s time to fight and when it’s time to rest, Mic. Listen to your body when it tells you to take a break. Sometimes, our world can be even crueller than our enemies.”

Micky nodded, begrudgingly letting go of the spell. The excess mana spilled out of his pores as a wave of weakness overcame him. His knees buckled, but the man grabbed him before he fell, embracing him with his lower pair of arms. The boy hugged him back – about as tightly as he could manage, his tiny arms failing to fully wrap around his father’s broad chest. He was already shivering from the cold, even his Yellow core doing little to help him right now.

“I’m proud of you, Mic. I think you’re ready to get your tattoos… After we all get some sleep and some food, of course.”

“Shouldn’t we wait a couple more years for that?” a woman suddenly asked, approaching the two.

Percy recognized her as Micky’s mother. It had been years since he experienced the previous memory, but the feeling of familiarity she gave the boy couldn’t have been mistaken. That said, she looked a little taller to his pipsqueak friend this time.

She was currently holding a child too – a girl a little older than Micky. Though she was clearly doing a worse job keeping his sister warm, their Orange cores leaving both of them vulnerable to the elements. Their faces were pale, their chattering beaks barely audible amidst the howling winds. Pulling them both closer, the man embraced his whole family, trying to warm everyone up.

“I was about his age when my father gave me my tattoos…” he whispered, before gazing down at Percy. “What do you think, Mic? I won’t force you, if you’d rather wait a little longer.”

Smushed between his parents and sister, Micky looked up. He balled his fists once more, returning the man’s gaze with a resolute one of his own.

“I’ll do it! I’m ready for it!”

***

Percy watched as Micky’s father squeezed the carcass of a small critter, extracting a dark ink-like substance from its beak into a hole in the snow. Its round body and long neck reminded him of a duck, but it clearly wasn’t a bird. It was covered in fur – not feathers – and it didn’t have any wings either. Instead, it had a bunch of short, stubby legs, all six of them ending in paws. Percy hadn’t seen the man kill the small animal, having found himself in this memory fragment mere moments ago.

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The boy’s mother was currently squatting a few metres away, spinning a cyan rod against a couple pieces of firewood, trying to start a fire as Micky’s sister watched her. The family was inside a cave this time, the stone walls shielding them from the wind somewhat.

“Can’t we just eat it raw? It’s too bitter when it’s burnt!” the girl complained.

Taking a break from her work, Micky’s mother pulled her into her arms, flashing her what Percy guessed was a smile.

“Atzi, you know it’s safer this way. You’re less likely to get a disease from it. We would be doing it more often if it wasn’t this hard to bring wood to the dark side. Besides, it’s your brother’s big moment. Don’t you want us to celebrate with him?”

The girl nodded back reluctantly, not saying anything more.

Micky’s father suddenly stood up, drawing Percy’s attention. He was probably done extracting the ink from the creature. Walking over to his wife, he passed her the carcass, before returning by Micky’s side.

‘I guess that’s what we’re eating then…’

The woman manifested another construct, rubbing it against the wood once more. But Micky wasn’t looking at her, his attention having shifted to his father. The man gathered some of his mana too, forming a cyan needle in each of his lower hands, pinched between his thumbs and index fingers.

“Are you sure you’re ready, son? We can still do this another time if you want.”

Micky swallowed hard, his gaze oscillating between the sharp points of the needles and the ink in the hole. His father chuckled at the sight.

“You don’t have to worry about wasting the ink, Mic. It wasn’t much trouble to collect it. Besides, we can also use it to season the meat if you don’t want your tattoos right now.”

But Micky shook his head.

“No. I’ll do it.”

Taking his shirt off, he placed it on the ground in front of his father, before laying on it face-down.

“Okay. I’ll need you to activate Circulation too. The lines will help me draw the symbols at the right spots.”

Following the man’s instructions, Micky took a series of deep breaths, slowly filling his channels up with mana. Percy could tell the boy still wasn’t very used to the spell, but it shouldn’t be that hard to keep it active for a while. As soon as the glowing lines lit up again, he noticed his father dip the needles in the hole by the corner of his eyes. The boy tensed, clenching his hands against the snow as he braced himself for the pain.

It didn’t take long for Percy to feel the cold tips press against his skin. At first, it didn’t hurt that much, the sting barely registering a couple seconds later. The pain built up over the next few minutes, however, as the man moved methodically across the boy’s back, carving one intricate symbol after the other into his flesh.

Even so, it wasn’t a problem for somebody like Percy, considering everything he had experienced over the years. Hell, Elaine’s tattoos had hurt a lot more, his cousin clearly not as experienced as Micky’s father. That said, it was still quite unpleasant for the boy, given how young he was.

‘No… Actually, he’s handling it well too, for his age. Not that surprising, I suppose, considering how tough his everyday life has been…’

“Let me know if it’s too much,” the man said at some point. “We’ll have to take a few breaks anyway, since I doubt you can keep Circulation active for that long.”

***

When Percy next came to, he was still in the same place, though he was sitting this time. He and his family surrounded the dying embers of the campfire, munching on the charred meat as its all-too-familiar aroma permeated the cave.

Admittedly, it didn’t taste quite as bad as the one Tlaloc had prepared for him in the Vault, or the one he had cooked for Micky in the Valley. Whether it was the meat of the strange critter that was more suitable for this, or the boy’s mother who was a more skilled cook, the food was a lot easier to chew, and its acrid flavour was somewhat muted.

Micky’s upper back hurt quite a bit by now. In fact, the boy failed to resist the urge to touch his wounds at some point, his swollen flesh stinging as he brushed over it with his fingers, getting blood all over his lower-left hand.

“Don’t mess with it,” his mother said sternly, grabbing his wrist. “It’ll heal slower if you do.”

Nodding in understanding, the boy finished his meal in silence, before returning to the previous position, clearly not deterred by the pain. Percy hadn’t missed the pride in his father’s eyes, and he honestly shared the sentiment.

‘You were one tough kid, weren’t you, Micky?’

No, not just a tough kid.

Micky had always been like that – in both of his lives. It had been painfully clear when he risked his life to protect his mother and sister… Or when he threw everything in the trash for a chance to land a punch on Mixcoatl’s face… When he nearly rejected Percy’s possession, choosing a warrior’s death over accepting help from who he thought was an enemy… Even after losing his memories, Micky had begged Percy to kill him, unwilling to let Acton feed him a bunch of innocents…

That said, his father seemed to realize this was a bit much for the boy, so he soon offered him a distraction.

“Mic, let me tell you the same story my father told me when he was drawing my tattoos. Atzi, you listen too. This story is part of our heritage – no less important than the Dance. Make sure to pass it down to your own kids in the future.”

“What is it about?” the girl asked.

“It’s about a person. A man who saved our ancestors from the brink of destruction, countless years ago…”

“…The Dying Hero.”